Summer in Napa - By Marina Adair Page 0,114
secured. That had been four days, two patio chairs, and a motorcycle tire ago.
“See,” Frankie said, lowering her rifle to the ground and picking up the cushion from Mr. Sorrento’s old recliner in one hand and a rope in the other. “That wasn’t so bad. Now just come over here and I’ll give you a treat.”
Eyes glued to the nubby avocado-green cushion, the alpaca took a tentative step forward.
“Then you can go to your new house.” Another step. “Where they feed you gourmet hay and mud tires, and there are kids around all the time to play with you.” Step. “And you’ll get to see your family.”
The alpaca stopped, squared its body, and let out an ear-piercing bleat, which sounded like a cross between “wark” and Chewbacca screaming, right before he sank his teeth into the plastic casing and pulled. Hard.
“Sweater-Set!”
“Wark!”
“No—”
The tank split at the seam, and before either could move, a wall of water came crashing down with enough force to topple Sweater-Set into Frankie and send the two of them skidding back several feet.
When Frankie stopped moving and the water had receded into a pool of mud and algae, she shoved the hair out of her eyes and took stock. She was flat on her back, with a stick wedged into her right butt cheek and a drenched Sweater-Set sprawled out over the top of her.
“Move,” she said, shoving at the animal.
“Wark-wark!”
“I warned you! But did you listen?”
Sweater-Set let out an apologetic nicker and dropped his head to Frankie’s chest, his big brown eyes looking up at her through his lashes.
“You could be halfway to Paradise right now,” she cooed, giving him a little rub behind the ears. “Just think, in a few months it will be grooming season and all the ladies will be prancing around in nothing but sheered skin. Plus, you’ll have your family.”
This time the nicker was almost sad, so Frankie, ignoring that he smelled like wet dog and calling a temporary truce, dug both hands in his thick fur and began scratching his cheeks. “Yeah, I get it. Family sucks, but I can’t let you stay here. In a few months I’ll start planting my vines, and you’d eat them.”
Sweater-Set huffed, a burst of hot air hitting Frankie in the face.
“Liar.” Frankie worked her fingers around his temples and into his head. Sweater-Set’s eyes slid closed in ecstasy. “You already cost me a water tank, which I can’t afford to replace, by the way.”
Sweater-Set’s only response was to nuzzle Frankie’s chest and hum loudly.
“So there’s no way I have the budget to keep replacing everything you decide to sink your teeth into.”
Hum. Hum. Hum.
“I hope he bought you dinner first.”
With a groan, Frankie turned her head and, wishing she were standing so she could glare at him without having to shield her eyes, swore. Upside down or not, there was no mistaking the man who was currently towering over her—or the way her stomach gave a lame little flutter when he lifted his mirrored glasses and delivered a heart-stopping wink.
“Afternoon, Francesca,” he said with enough practiced swagger that it made not rolling her eyes impossible.
Nathaniel DeLuca was six-plus feet of solid muscle and smug-male yumminess, and he smelled like sex. He was also extremely Italian, annoying as hell, and for whatever reason, every time he entered Frankie’s space she felt all dainty and feminine. Which pissed her off even more because at one time she’d trusted Nate with her heart and her deepest secret.
And he’d broken them both.
Thank God she had on her ballbuster boots today. Too bad they were currently covered in mud and alpaca fur, and pointing at the sky.
“Go away, Nathaniel,” she said by way of greeting.
Sweater-Set hummed louder, arching into her hand as Frankie scratched down his spine.
“And leave a lady in need?” Nate said, coming forward and squatting down to pluck a maple leaf off of Frankie’s forehead. “Nonna ChiChi would have my ass.”
“I know you’re used to your women poised and proper. But I’ve got this handled.”
“I didn’t know you paid that much attention to my women, but now that you mentioned the difference…” He plucked a branch from her hair and flashed his perfectly straight teeth in her face. His smile, like his personality, was lethal, and his entitled attitude was 100 percent DeLuca. “I won’t have to worry that you’ll cry when I tell you to stop exciting my alpaca and get the hell off my property.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the most wonderful agent in the world, Jill Marsal, who I couldn’t imagine taking this journey without. Thanks to my editors Lindsay Guzzardo and Becky Vinter, for believing in my work and supporting me throughout the process. Lindsay, although I am sad that this is the last book we will collaborate on, I wish you the best of luck in your new venture. And to the entire Montlake team for being so fabulous to work with.
A special thanks to Britt Bury, Hannah Jayne, and Jacee James for all of the brainstorming and plotting and for being amazing friends. And to my coven of Rougers, I am honored to be included in a group with such amazing writers and women!
Finally, to my daughter Thuy and my husband Rocco, for allowing me to follow my dreams and high-fiving me the entire way!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph by Tosh Tanaka, 2012
Marina Adair is a national bestselling author of romance novels. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is the author of Tucker’s Crossing, part of the Sweet Plains series. She lives with her husband and daughter in Northern California.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
Sneak peek: Autumn at the Vineyard
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR