If I Were You
Page 28
Allison leads us towards the stairs and before we follow, Chris pulls me close, blocking her view with his back. “Cold?” he asks, molding me close, and his hand glides up my ribcage, under the shaw, to caress my breast, and tease my already puckered nipple.
“Not anymore,” I confess breathlessly.
“You look beautiful tonight, Sara. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you when the opportunity presents itself.”
When the opportunity presents itself, not when we get back to the room. Control. This is all about control and I’d almost taken his earlier tonight. He didn’t like it and he’s making damn sure I know I’m at his mercy. While I sense how much he needs this control, and I am aroused by this side of him, there is a deep part of me that screams in protest, that will not let go of what I’ve spent five years fighting for — my own control.
“Maybe you should think about what I am going to do to you,” I challenge.
His eyes darken, heat, and he surprises me by leaning down near my ear and whispering, “I’ve been thinking about it since the day I met you.”
I expected some power play, and maybe it is that and more, because my reaction is white hot arousal. My heart races wildly and heat rushes through my blood. When he pulls back and draws my hand into his, leading me toward the stairs, I am aware of the raw masculine power radiating off of him, of my absolute burn for this man. Yes. He has control and I cannot wait to give him more. This is a power play and he’s won.
***
We reach the top of the stairs to be greeted by an older couple who look as if they’re in their mid-sixties. The woman is dressed in a simple blue sheath and the man in black slacks and white button-down collar shirt.
“Chris! It’s so good to see you, son,” the woman says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen my godchild.” She hugs Chris like she is a mother seeing her child for the first time in years, and without question, there are deep ties here.
The man hugs Chris next. “We don’t see you enough, boy.”
Chris pats him on the back and releases him. “I know. I’ll work on that.” He wraps his arm around my waist. “Mike and Katie Wickerman, I’d like you to meet Sara McMillan.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Sara,” Katie beams, offering me her hand. She is pretty with sleek grey hair and a friendly smile.
“Thank you,” I say, sliding my palm against hers. It is warm and so is she. I like her. “I’m excited to be here.”
“Welcome, Sara,” Mike chimes in eagerly. “About time he brings a woman around.”
I blush and shake his hand, but he pulls me close and hugs me. He leans back to inspect me. “Let me look at you. No. No, you don’t look like a wine virgin to me.”
My cheeks heat further and I laugh. “I guess the excellent Cabernet I had in the limo saved me.”
“Broke your cherry, aye?”
I laugh and so does Chris, who pulls me under his arm and leans near my ear. “I thought I did that.”
“Mike!” Katie chides. “She doesn’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor.” She motions us forward. “I have a special tasting room set up for us but we won’t be allowing Mike to taste of the festivities.”
We fall into step behind Katie and Mike. “They like you,” Chris whispers.
“Godchild?”
“They were close friends of my parents and they never had kids of their own.”
I inhale at this announcement, stunned to realize Chris has done more than bring me some place he doesn’t bring other women. This is a piece of his past that I didn’t think he would allow me to see, but he’s let me inside his world, at least this tiny part.
My steps are a little more anxious as we enter a room with a huge wooden table spanning several feet, with a dozen or so chairs on each side. Fruit and cheese trays are displayed in the center of one end of the table.
Chris and I sit side by side and Katie and Mike sit down across from us. Katie is studying me with interest and I tie the shawl around my shoulders, afraid I’ll ruin the ‘virginal’ image I’ve been granted with too much nipple action. “Chris tells us you’ve recently went to work at a gallery in the city?” Katie asks.
“Yes. The Allure Gallery downtown where Chris has a collection for sale. That’s how I met him.”
“I know it well,” Katie comments. “And you were a school teacher before this?”
I’m surprised by how much Chris has shared with her. “I was. I am. My degree is in Art and it’s my true love. We’ll see how the summer works out. My boss says he has high hopes, but seems to think I need to know about wine to truly navigate the art world.”
Mike knocks on the table. “Right he is. Everyone needs to know about wine.”
“Chris doesn’t think so,” I dare to remark.
Katie’s gaze falls on her godson. “Then why does the local gallery serve wine?
“Because this is Napa Valley.”
“Exactly,” she concurs. “Wine and art go together.”
Mike waves at a waiter. “Sounds like the cue to start the sampling. It’ll loosen everyone up.” He winks at me. “That’s when you really get to know someone.”
Chris looks amused. “Good thing I don’t loosen up easily.” He nudges me. “You do though. Are you going to tell us all your secrets over Cabernet?”
“Hold out for a good year, honey,” Katie whispers conspiratorially. “Make him pay for your confessions.”
I glance at Chris and he smirks. “Name the year and I’ll gladly pay the price.”
“I’m not the one who’s lacking in a confessional,” I remind him. “Maybe we need to get you a case of beer.”
“Not in the Chateau you won’t,” Katie assures us.
Chris leans close. “It’s going to take a whole lot more than a case of beer.”
Yes, I think. It will. I’ve opened up to him, but he hasn’t to me, but I am here, with what amounts to his only family, and again I think — it matters. I don’t allow myself to think about how I’ve gone from an escape to looking for things of consequence or where that may be leading me.
Time becomes inconsequential as I taste wine after wine, nibble cheese, and listen to Mike and Katie tell me stories about how they got started. It only marginally surprises me to learn they met his father through the big Paris 1976 tasting that put them, and Napa Valley, on the wine map.
“Chris’s parents traveled with us for moral support,” Katie explains. “Danielle - Chris’s mother — she was like a guardian angel. I swear that woman had a way of making a person smile, even the Paris locals who didn’t want us Americans in the competition couldn’t resist her charm.”
It’s hard to gauge Chris’s response to Katie’s memories of his mother with him beside me, but I wish I could. Too soon, more wine samples arrive and the conversation shifts. My window into Chris’s family life has, at least for the time being, closed.
With each wine we taste, I listen to stories about how Katie and Mike crafted the flavors down to the soil, the climate and processing. They sprinkle stories of the rich and famous who have visited the Chateau, and acquired each variety.
“Chris is always our number one star, though,” Katie declares.
Chris snorts and sips from his glass. “I’m just-”
“A famous artist,” I finish for him and kiss his cheek.
He runs his hand down my hair and kisses my forehead. “Me,” he says, staring down at me. “I’m just me.”
I smile, feeling the effects of quite a lot of wine. “ Hmmm. Yes. Just you.”
He arches a brow. “What does that mean?”
A waiter approaches, and Katie and Mike chat with him. I lower my voice. “I like ‘just you’.”
Chris’s eyes darken. “Do you now?”
My lips curve. “Yes.”
“He’s just like his mother,” Katie comments, drawing us back into the conversation and we turn to acknowledge her as she adds, “Humble pie, that woman. You’d never know she was an heiress to an empire any more than you’d know Chris is an acclaimed artist.”
“And his father was an arrogant ass,” Mike grumbles, “but I loved the guy.” He pushes to his feet. “Son, that reminds me. I want to give you something before I forget.”
I glance up at Chris, searching his face for a reaction to the comment about his father. He responds to my unspoken question. “He was an arrogant ass, baby.” He strokes my cheek. “Behave. I’ll be back.”
“Of course,” I assure him. “I’ll only be asking Katie to share all your deep, dark secrets.”
His expression tightens. “And she won’t have the answers.”
“Oh, I might have a few tidbits to share,” Katie pipes in playfully.
Chris does not look pleased but he pushes to his feet anyway, and slides into a good-natured grumble to match Mike’s of, “Women,” before he saunters away with his Godfather.
Katie rests her elbow on the table, chin on her palm. “You’re good for him.”
“I…am?”
“Yes. You are. The boy is so damn guarded that it’s worried me, but he’s different with you. Relaxed. It does my heart good to see someone finally breaking through to him. He had a hard time growing up, but I’m sure you know that.”
This little jewel of information has me eager for more. I open my mouth to ask more detail but Allison rushes forward and whispers into Katie’s ear. “Oh dear. Sara dear, I have a problem I need to attend. I’ll be back soon.”
Disappointment fills me. Katie is the only person I may ever know who can share Chris’s secrets, besides Mike, and I don’t see that happening. Suddenly, I’m alone with a tray of cheese and fruit and several glasses of wine. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve emptied the glasses and I know it was a mistake. My head is spinning and I quickly nibble cheeses because, apparently drinking makes me want to eat and calories are of no consequence. In fact, I’m pretty sure wine cancels out calories right about now.
I feel Chris’s return before I see him, a tingling awareness the hum of too much wine in my blood cannot diminish. My gaze lifts to the doorway as he enters, followed by Mike, who looks confused. “Where’s Katie?”
“She had an emergency with a guest I think.”
Mike scowls. “How long has she been gone?”
“Right after you two left.”
“Oh crap,” he grumbles. “I better go check on her.”
Chris hasn’t spoken and I really can’t read him. My head is too fuzzy. He saunters over to me and squats down in front of me, moving my chair to face him.
His hand settles on my leg. “You need to get some air?”
“Air would be good,” I confirm and he helps me to my feet and I study his face, cursing the wine I’ve drank. His happy mood has faded, and there is an edge to him I haven’t seen tonight. Whatever he and Mike talked about, it’s stolen my light-hearted artist.
I touch his cheek. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls me close, and his hand slides behind my neck, and sets off alarms. His dark side is back in full force. “You see too much, Sara.”
“And you, Chris, don’t let me see enough.”
He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. We are frozen in place, and I am lost in his stormy stare, his turbulent mood radiating off of me. When he takes my hand to lead me toward the room’s back door, my footing is unsteady. Wine and Chris do not mix well, I think, and it is the one thought I cling to as we exit into a garden. Wine and Chris do not mix. Why? I intend to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Even with too much wine in my system, and his hand still firmly wrapped around mine, I feel Chris closing off, erecting walls around him as we exit through a side door of the Chateau. We cross a small brick walkway to a wooden bridge that arches over a large pond. The night is upon us, and glowing orange lanterns dangle from poles mounted in the wooden rails, the stars above us dotting the black, cloudless canvas. I inhale the hot air; the cool breeze I’d hoped for to clear my head is nowhere to be found. The stuffy night is suffocating, as is the tension humming off of Chris.
He leads me down the wooden bridge toward a gazebo, and my nostrils flare with the sweet scent of roses. These flowers are haunting me everywhere I go. I can see the greenery entwining the wooden overhang, delicate buds clinging to the leaves. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. That is what Rebecca felt for the man she’d been writing about. That is how Chris makes me feel.
Halfway down the walkway, I stumble and Chris reaches around and catches me, his strong arms circling my waist, my hand resting on his chest.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Fine.” I don’t look at him. This is the second time in a week he’s had to right my drunken footing and it’s embarrassing. I haven’t drunk too much since the day of my mother’s funeral.
Once we’re under the gazebo, he leans on the railing and I almost expect him to set me away from him. Relief washes over me when he pulls me into his arms and folds me against him. I settle my hand on his chest, over his heart, the soft thrum beating against my palm. The buzz in my head irritates me, clouding my ability to gauge Chris’s mood accurately.
“What’s upset you?”
“Who says I’m upset?”
“Me.”
“Not anymore,” I confess breathlessly.
“You look beautiful tonight, Sara. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you when the opportunity presents itself.”
When the opportunity presents itself, not when we get back to the room. Control. This is all about control and I’d almost taken his earlier tonight. He didn’t like it and he’s making damn sure I know I’m at his mercy. While I sense how much he needs this control, and I am aroused by this side of him, there is a deep part of me that screams in protest, that will not let go of what I’ve spent five years fighting for — my own control.
“Maybe you should think about what I am going to do to you,” I challenge.
His eyes darken, heat, and he surprises me by leaning down near my ear and whispering, “I’ve been thinking about it since the day I met you.”
I expected some power play, and maybe it is that and more, because my reaction is white hot arousal. My heart races wildly and heat rushes through my blood. When he pulls back and draws my hand into his, leading me toward the stairs, I am aware of the raw masculine power radiating off of him, of my absolute burn for this man. Yes. He has control and I cannot wait to give him more. This is a power play and he’s won.
***
We reach the top of the stairs to be greeted by an older couple who look as if they’re in their mid-sixties. The woman is dressed in a simple blue sheath and the man in black slacks and white button-down collar shirt.
“Chris! It’s so good to see you, son,” the woman says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen my godchild.” She hugs Chris like she is a mother seeing her child for the first time in years, and without question, there are deep ties here.
The man hugs Chris next. “We don’t see you enough, boy.”
Chris pats him on the back and releases him. “I know. I’ll work on that.” He wraps his arm around my waist. “Mike and Katie Wickerman, I’d like you to meet Sara McMillan.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Sara,” Katie beams, offering me her hand. She is pretty with sleek grey hair and a friendly smile.
“Thank you,” I say, sliding my palm against hers. It is warm and so is she. I like her. “I’m excited to be here.”
“Welcome, Sara,” Mike chimes in eagerly. “About time he brings a woman around.”
I blush and shake his hand, but he pulls me close and hugs me. He leans back to inspect me. “Let me look at you. No. No, you don’t look like a wine virgin to me.”
My cheeks heat further and I laugh. “I guess the excellent Cabernet I had in the limo saved me.”
“Broke your cherry, aye?”
I laugh and so does Chris, who pulls me under his arm and leans near my ear. “I thought I did that.”
“Mike!” Katie chides. “She doesn’t know you well enough to get your sense of humor.” She motions us forward. “I have a special tasting room set up for us but we won’t be allowing Mike to taste of the festivities.”
We fall into step behind Katie and Mike. “They like you,” Chris whispers.
“Godchild?”
“They were close friends of my parents and they never had kids of their own.”
I inhale at this announcement, stunned to realize Chris has done more than bring me some place he doesn’t bring other women. This is a piece of his past that I didn’t think he would allow me to see, but he’s let me inside his world, at least this tiny part.
My steps are a little more anxious as we enter a room with a huge wooden table spanning several feet, with a dozen or so chairs on each side. Fruit and cheese trays are displayed in the center of one end of the table.
Chris and I sit side by side and Katie and Mike sit down across from us. Katie is studying me with interest and I tie the shawl around my shoulders, afraid I’ll ruin the ‘virginal’ image I’ve been granted with too much nipple action. “Chris tells us you’ve recently went to work at a gallery in the city?” Katie asks.
“Yes. The Allure Gallery downtown where Chris has a collection for sale. That’s how I met him.”
“I know it well,” Katie comments. “And you were a school teacher before this?”
I’m surprised by how much Chris has shared with her. “I was. I am. My degree is in Art and it’s my true love. We’ll see how the summer works out. My boss says he has high hopes, but seems to think I need to know about wine to truly navigate the art world.”
Mike knocks on the table. “Right he is. Everyone needs to know about wine.”
“Chris doesn’t think so,” I dare to remark.
Katie’s gaze falls on her godson. “Then why does the local gallery serve wine?
“Because this is Napa Valley.”
“Exactly,” she concurs. “Wine and art go together.”
Mike waves at a waiter. “Sounds like the cue to start the sampling. It’ll loosen everyone up.” He winks at me. “That’s when you really get to know someone.”
Chris looks amused. “Good thing I don’t loosen up easily.” He nudges me. “You do though. Are you going to tell us all your secrets over Cabernet?”
“Hold out for a good year, honey,” Katie whispers conspiratorially. “Make him pay for your confessions.”
I glance at Chris and he smirks. “Name the year and I’ll gladly pay the price.”
“I’m not the one who’s lacking in a confessional,” I remind him. “Maybe we need to get you a case of beer.”
“Not in the Chateau you won’t,” Katie assures us.
Chris leans close. “It’s going to take a whole lot more than a case of beer.”
Yes, I think. It will. I’ve opened up to him, but he hasn’t to me, but I am here, with what amounts to his only family, and again I think — it matters. I don’t allow myself to think about how I’ve gone from an escape to looking for things of consequence or where that may be leading me.
Time becomes inconsequential as I taste wine after wine, nibble cheese, and listen to Mike and Katie tell me stories about how they got started. It only marginally surprises me to learn they met his father through the big Paris 1976 tasting that put them, and Napa Valley, on the wine map.
“Chris’s parents traveled with us for moral support,” Katie explains. “Danielle - Chris’s mother — she was like a guardian angel. I swear that woman had a way of making a person smile, even the Paris locals who didn’t want us Americans in the competition couldn’t resist her charm.”
It’s hard to gauge Chris’s response to Katie’s memories of his mother with him beside me, but I wish I could. Too soon, more wine samples arrive and the conversation shifts. My window into Chris’s family life has, at least for the time being, closed.
With each wine we taste, I listen to stories about how Katie and Mike crafted the flavors down to the soil, the climate and processing. They sprinkle stories of the rich and famous who have visited the Chateau, and acquired each variety.
“Chris is always our number one star, though,” Katie declares.
Chris snorts and sips from his glass. “I’m just-”
“A famous artist,” I finish for him and kiss his cheek.
He runs his hand down my hair and kisses my forehead. “Me,” he says, staring down at me. “I’m just me.”
I smile, feeling the effects of quite a lot of wine. “ Hmmm. Yes. Just you.”
He arches a brow. “What does that mean?”
A waiter approaches, and Katie and Mike chat with him. I lower my voice. “I like ‘just you’.”
Chris’s eyes darken. “Do you now?”
My lips curve. “Yes.”
“He’s just like his mother,” Katie comments, drawing us back into the conversation and we turn to acknowledge her as she adds, “Humble pie, that woman. You’d never know she was an heiress to an empire any more than you’d know Chris is an acclaimed artist.”
“And his father was an arrogant ass,” Mike grumbles, “but I loved the guy.” He pushes to his feet. “Son, that reminds me. I want to give you something before I forget.”
I glance up at Chris, searching his face for a reaction to the comment about his father. He responds to my unspoken question. “He was an arrogant ass, baby.” He strokes my cheek. “Behave. I’ll be back.”
“Of course,” I assure him. “I’ll only be asking Katie to share all your deep, dark secrets.”
His expression tightens. “And she won’t have the answers.”
“Oh, I might have a few tidbits to share,” Katie pipes in playfully.
Chris does not look pleased but he pushes to his feet anyway, and slides into a good-natured grumble to match Mike’s of, “Women,” before he saunters away with his Godfather.
Katie rests her elbow on the table, chin on her palm. “You’re good for him.”
“I…am?”
“Yes. You are. The boy is so damn guarded that it’s worried me, but he’s different with you. Relaxed. It does my heart good to see someone finally breaking through to him. He had a hard time growing up, but I’m sure you know that.”
This little jewel of information has me eager for more. I open my mouth to ask more detail but Allison rushes forward and whispers into Katie’s ear. “Oh dear. Sara dear, I have a problem I need to attend. I’ll be back soon.”
Disappointment fills me. Katie is the only person I may ever know who can share Chris’s secrets, besides Mike, and I don’t see that happening. Suddenly, I’m alone with a tray of cheese and fruit and several glasses of wine. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve emptied the glasses and I know it was a mistake. My head is spinning and I quickly nibble cheeses because, apparently drinking makes me want to eat and calories are of no consequence. In fact, I’m pretty sure wine cancels out calories right about now.
I feel Chris’s return before I see him, a tingling awareness the hum of too much wine in my blood cannot diminish. My gaze lifts to the doorway as he enters, followed by Mike, who looks confused. “Where’s Katie?”
“She had an emergency with a guest I think.”
Mike scowls. “How long has she been gone?”
“Right after you two left.”
“Oh crap,” he grumbles. “I better go check on her.”
Chris hasn’t spoken and I really can’t read him. My head is too fuzzy. He saunters over to me and squats down in front of me, moving my chair to face him.
His hand settles on my leg. “You need to get some air?”
“Air would be good,” I confirm and he helps me to my feet and I study his face, cursing the wine I’ve drank. His happy mood has faded, and there is an edge to him I haven’t seen tonight. Whatever he and Mike talked about, it’s stolen my light-hearted artist.
I touch his cheek. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls me close, and his hand slides behind my neck, and sets off alarms. His dark side is back in full force. “You see too much, Sara.”
“And you, Chris, don’t let me see enough.”
He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. We are frozen in place, and I am lost in his stormy stare, his turbulent mood radiating off of me. When he takes my hand to lead me toward the room’s back door, my footing is unsteady. Wine and Chris do not mix well, I think, and it is the one thought I cling to as we exit into a garden. Wine and Chris do not mix. Why? I intend to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Even with too much wine in my system, and his hand still firmly wrapped around mine, I feel Chris closing off, erecting walls around him as we exit through a side door of the Chateau. We cross a small brick walkway to a wooden bridge that arches over a large pond. The night is upon us, and glowing orange lanterns dangle from poles mounted in the wooden rails, the stars above us dotting the black, cloudless canvas. I inhale the hot air; the cool breeze I’d hoped for to clear my head is nowhere to be found. The stuffy night is suffocating, as is the tension humming off of Chris.
He leads me down the wooden bridge toward a gazebo, and my nostrils flare with the sweet scent of roses. These flowers are haunting me everywhere I go. I can see the greenery entwining the wooden overhang, delicate buds clinging to the leaves. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. That is what Rebecca felt for the man she’d been writing about. That is how Chris makes me feel.
Halfway down the walkway, I stumble and Chris reaches around and catches me, his strong arms circling my waist, my hand resting on his chest.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Fine.” I don’t look at him. This is the second time in a week he’s had to right my drunken footing and it’s embarrassing. I haven’t drunk too much since the day of my mother’s funeral.
Once we’re under the gazebo, he leans on the railing and I almost expect him to set me away from him. Relief washes over me when he pulls me into his arms and folds me against him. I settle my hand on his chest, over his heart, the soft thrum beating against my palm. The buzz in my head irritates me, clouding my ability to gauge Chris’s mood accurately.
“What’s upset you?”
“Who says I’m upset?”
“Me.”
