The Marcelli Bride
Page 13

She honestly hadn’t believed anyone could understand what it had been like, but with a few words, he showed her that he got it.
“Tell me what happened,” he said gently.
She hesitated, then the words came tumbling out. “I w-was in the back of the store and walking to the dressing rooms. They grabbed me. I didn’t have time to scream. They put tape on my mouth and tied my hands behind me, then threw me in the back of a van.”
She didn’t want to talk about it, she told herself, but she couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. Somehow she was walking and telling him everything. About the van and how dirty it was, how she’d tried to get to her panic button but couldn’t. About the warehouse and being tied to the chair and scared, so scared, they were going to kill her.
“I tried to get away,” she said. “But there was nowhere to go, and the chair didn’t make things easy. Then I tried to stay calm. I was afraid I was going to throw up, and I didn’t want that. Then the guy in charge showed up. He looked at me and he said—”
She stopped in the middle of the path. Suddenly it was too hard to hold on to her pencils and sketch pad. They dropped to the ground. She rubbed at her still-healing wrists and wished away the rest of the pain.
“What?” Joe asked, his voice more gentle than she’d ever heard it before. “What did he say?”
Oh, God. Tears burned. Weak, stupid tears. She would not give in. Not now.
“I—He said that I wasn’t the one they wanted.” She summoned anger and glared at him. “There. Are you happy? He said not this one. No one cares about this one. I was a mistake. Then they took me back to the mall, dumped me on the loading dock, and drove away.”
Jesus. Joe didn’t know what to say to that. What could anyone say? Darcy stared at him, her expression defiant. She was angry, but it was a thin veneer that could crack at any time, and he sure didn’t want to be around when it did.
Before he could figure out how to respond, she started talking again.
“I love my sister,” she said, her voice shaking. “Lauren is my best friend. She understands me and loves me. I admire her so much. But the thing is…the very worst thing is, sometimes I hate her.” More tears filled Darcy’s eyes. “I hate her because I’m weak and small and jealous. And then I feel so horrible, because I want to be like her and I don’t know how and everyone loves her best. I’m jealous of my own sister. What does that say about me? What?”
The last word came on a sob. Joe felt both trapped and deeply inadequate to the task. What was it about a crying woman that reduced most men to cowards? He wanted to bolt, but he couldn’t, so he did the only thing that made sense to him. He pulled her close and kissed her.
The shock of Joe’s lips on hers was enough to stop Darcy’s tears. One second she’d been in an uncontrolled free fall of self-loathing, and the next she was pressed against a man made entirely of rock, his arms around her body and his mouth very much on hers.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak; she could only react, tilting her head slightly so he could kiss her more. Because it felt good. Better than good.
His lips were an impossible combination of yielding and firm. He held her with just the right amount of possession. Heat surrounded her, melting all the hard edges and drying her tears. She raised her hands to his shoulders and allowed herself to be swept away by the soft pressure.
He didn’t deepen the kiss, but she was okay with that. It had been a long time since she’d wanted a man, so long she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to feel the first fluttering of desire low in her belly. Her breasts went from simply a sticky-out part of her body to exquisitely sensitive, and her legs actually got weak.
When he stepped back, she didn’t know what to say. Embarrassment battled with self-preservation. When in doubt, be a bitch. But before she could say anything to shatter the moment, she caught a glimpse of something dark and powerful in his eyes.
Need.
He hadn’t just kissed her to stop her crying. He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to. The revelation kept her mouth shut and opened her mind to a thousand amazing possibilities.
“Hell,” he muttered.
She nodded in agreement. Talk about a complication.
“I’m—” He shook his head, as if not sure what to say. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Darcy watched him go. When he had disappeared into the grove of trees they’d been heading for in the first place, she picked up her sketch book and pencils and started for the house. Around her, the morning stirred to life. She heard birds and someone driving up to the winery.
What on earth had just happened? She’d spilled her guts to Joe, and then he’d kissed her. Even more amazing, she’d felt it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to engage sexually. The few physical relationships she’d had in her past had all ended badly. It had seemed smarter to not go there again.
But now, with Joe, she found herself anticipating the next time she would see him. Oh, sure, it would be awkward, but they’d get over it. Besides, she would have the thrill of knowing he’d wanted to kiss her. Which made for a very good day.
Joe avoided the house for the next couple of hours, but he knew he couldn’t stay away forever. What the hell had he been thinking? Talk about letting the little head run his life. Darcy was supposed to be under his protection, not in his arms. Was he looking for ways to screw up his career more? Because if he was, he’d found a hell of a good way to do it.
Angry with himself for being an ass, her for being so damn tempting, and the world in general because he was stuck here, he stalked into the house and found Brenna sitting in the kitchen. She had a plate of pasta in front of her and several slices of bread next to her glass of milk.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully when she saw him.
He glanced at the clock. It was barely ten-thirty.
She followed his gaze. “Hey, I’m eating for the team. Don’t you dare get coffee,” she ordered when he started toward the pot.
“What? If you can’t have any, no one else gets to?” he asked as he poured himself a mug.
“Exactly. Oh, man. It’s great, isn’t it?”
He took a long, slow drink. “Not bad.”
She groaned. “Pig.” Then she stabbed several pieces of penne and chewed on them.
“You’ll be able to drink coffee soon,” he told her.
“Not if I’m breast-feeding. And I plan to, for at least a while. I mean I think I can have a little, but it won’t be the same. I miss my pot of coffee. And wine. And pretty much everything else I had to give up. This had better be an amazing baby, because if it’s not, I’m writing a letter of complaint.”
“I can’t wait to see who you mail it to.”
She grinned. “I’m Catholic, big guy. I have access to spiritual management you can only dream about.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He pulled out a chair and settled across from her. “Is this a late breakfast or an early lunch?”
“It’s my meal in between. I’ve been starving for days. Not sure why. Maybe the baby’s having a growth spurt. Do they do that?”
“Do I look like I know?”
“Not especially. I brought you something.” She pointed to the stack of books on the table. “Since you’re stuck here for a while I thought you’d like a chance to find enlightenment.”
He glanced at the books and saw several of them were textbooks on wine making and grape growing.
This was Brenna—subtle as an explosion. Too bad he wasn’t interested in playing the game.
“Not for me,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Joe. You could look them over. Read a few pages. You might find yourself fascinated.”
“Brenna, don’t push me on this.”
“Why not? I’m pregnant. It’s not as if you can threaten me physically. Besides, it’s time you accepted who you are—a Marcelli. Wine is cool.”
He swore under his breath, then pushed to his feet. “I’m not interested and I’m never going to be interested. Not in this place, the land, or the wine. Just so we’re all clear on the subject. This isn’t my home, and you’re not my family.”
A flick of movement caught his attention. He turned and saw Grandma Tessa standing in the doorway that led to the dining room. Her eyes were wide and filled with pain.
Perfect, Joe thought grimly. The day was going just perfect.
He hesitated, not sure what to say, then he figured there weren’t any words and he stalked out of the house.
Darcy wandered through the various rooms of the winery. Although Brenna had given a very detailed tour, she couldn’t remember what all the equipment was for. The various barrels were marked, but not in any language she recognized. She supposed there was a code that explained what was inside, when it had been put in the barrel, and maybe even when it was supposed to come out.
All so interesting, she thought, breathing in the thick scent of grapes and wine and something yeasty—almost like bread. She found herself wanting to know more about the process and how the decisions were made.
“So you’re intrigued.”
She turned and found Grandpa Lorenzo standing behind her. “I’ll admit it,” she told him with a smile. “I didn’t realize how much I didn’t know about wine until I got here. I don’t drink it much at home, and when I go out, someone else usually picks.”
“Without wine, there can’t be life,” the elderly man told her. “Come. I will show you.”
He leaned heavily on his cane as he led the way into another room filled with large, stainless steel vats.
“The white wines,” he said. “Chardonnays and blends. Different kinds of barrels give a different taste.”
“But how can metal give a taste at all?” she asked.
“You are right. The wine is different because it doesn’t have the flavors of the wood. We play tricks with the grapes. We tease them and coax them. Sometimes they listen, sometimes they do not. Like children. We know what is best, but there are times everyone has to learn on his own.”
He led her into a room filled with all kinds of equipment and a narrow conveyor belt that looked like a snake. “We bottle here. You will come and watch. It’s very interesting. Brenna can’t stand to be here. She says the treatment is too hard on the wine and it makes her sad to see it battered.”
He pointed out where the barrels were emptied and how the liquid flowed into the bottles. Labels were applied, corks pushed in, then sealed with foil coverings.
“So many things can go wrong,” Lorenzo told her. “The bottles don’t move, the wine doesn’t pour, the labels are crooked. But we persevere and then we have this….”
He opened a door, and she saw cases of wine nearly stacked to the ceiling. They were everywhere, leaving only enough space for a small table, a phone, and an intercom.
“My retreat,” he said. “When I want to be alone. I like the room when it’s like this—crowded before the trucks come to take the wine away. In a few days it will be empty. I spend my afternoons out here. Tessa worries about me. I’m too old to be alone.” He touched the intercom. “I call her from here. It buzzes in the kitchen. But still she worries. An old woman.”
Darcy heard the love in his voice, and it made her feel warm inside. They had to have been married fifty or sixty years, yet there was still caring, still affection.
“You’re very lucky,” she said.
“You would think so, eh, but look at this.” He opened one of the cases and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. He pointed at the label. “The same one for too many years. But can we get a new one? No. Brenna brings me designs. They’re so bad. Animals and flowers. We are Marcelli Wines. We have a proud tradition.”