Chapter 8
Dazzling Sonoma sunshine woke Alana. The sounds of the ranch staff going about their business drifted up through her bedroom window. She pulled on a blouse and jeans and headed down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. No matter how many times she made the trip to Paris, her body still revolted and required a few days before she could settle into the time change when she returned to California.
She carried her mug out into the bright morning. A good dose of light first thing in the day was supposed to help the body adjust. And it might help her jet lag, but as she took in the bustle of the ranch staff, a hollow feeling crept into her chest. Nothing had yet made her feel comfortable at the ranch. Though people were kind and polite, their sidelong glances and the way they stopped their conversations midsentence when she approached reminded her that she was an outsider.
For the first few days of her trip, Paris had been a great antidote to her frustrations with the ranch. Marcel had surprised her with a party at his family’s chateau, had hired her favorite jazz quartet to entertain them late into the night. She’d seen friends she hadn’t seen in months. He’d even arranged for Popov to come to the party after his final performance of La Bohème. When the Ukrainian tenor stepped up to sing “All of Me” with the jazz musicians, it brought her to tears. Dancing in Marcel’s arms, surrounded by friends and transported by Popov’s rich voice, she should’ve felt she was in heaven. But everything was beginning to feel off-kilter.
And before the week was out, Marcel had again pressured her to move to France. It irritated her that he thought she could just slip into his life, as if she had nothing of her own that anchored her to the States.
Marcel had even teased her about the ranch. He was a city boy. Except for brief visits to his family’s chateau near Reims, he preferred the pace and sophistication of Paris. He might’ve understood if she’d been considering a place near Manhattan, but to live in the remote countryside of California? The closest city was San Francisco. It was beautiful, but to Marcel San Francisco was provincial, and Alana was fairly certain he didn’t consider it a real city.
Late one afternoon as she’d sat drinking espresso at her favorite cafe in Paris, the streets seemed crowded and the chatter didn’t hold its usual allure.
Something had changed.
Paris was likely the same as it had been just weeks before. And Marcel, he was the same charming, carefree and sublimely sexy man she knew him to be. Until she’d met Matt, until he’d stirred feelings that haunted her, she’d thought the easy, no-strings relationship she had with Marcel was enough. And when Marcel had poked fun at her for considering giving life at Tavonesi Ranch a go, she found herself sticking up for the ranch, stumbling over explanations about the people, the programs, the pesky neighbors and even the windmill.
Before she’d left, Marcel had dangled the lure of the big party celebrating the renovation of Versailles. He’d bought tickets for all her friends and rented a villa nearby for the after-party. She couldn’t resist. She’d had a new gown fitted while she was in Paris, a sleek Elie Saab that even she had to admit made her look like a dark-haired angel. Now she’d have to find the right shoes to go with it. They’d have to be purchased online; she certainly wasn’t going to find them in the little town near the ranch.
But for the first time in a very long time, it wasn’t erotic images of Marcel that lit her dreams at night. The hands that caressed her and made her thrash and call for more were Matt Darrington’s. But she’d barely touched the guy and he had a kid, so her feelings made no sense.
Maybe she’d read one too many vampire novels lately. The blistering heat she felt when Matt rocked her in her dreams felt more like possession than imagination, as though she’d walked into an alien land where a spell had been cast over her.
She sipped her coffee and looked out over the hills. Wavering fingers of mist rose from the valley south of the barn, rising toward the warmth of the sun. She tipped her face into the light and closed her eyes. But the sun didn’t dispel the images from her dreams.
Who was she kidding? Matt was just plain hot and sexy, and she was primed for a new lover. And while that was true, the magic-spell idea was easier to swallow.
The feelings that her brief encounters with him had fired upset her carefree world and brought her prejudices about relationships into fine focus.
She’d had a series of relationships with men that she’d cut off before they’d gotten serious. Keeping a bit of distance allowed her to be in control.
Her parents’ horrid divorce and their ongoing dramas had made her wary of what people called love and had soured her on the whole idea of marriage. Even though her dad and stepmom had a good relationship and had since the beginning, those early years of watching her parents’ marriage slowly disintegrate had left a scar.
She’d never let herself fall in love, wasn’t sure she believed in it. Years of therapy hadn’t convinced her to give marriage or a serious relationship of any sort a go.
But lately her friends had been marrying. Marcel had played that card, dangled that fact in front of her as if it would somehow make his propositions more appealing. But she just didn’t believe that coupling was worth what a woman had to give up to make it happen.
A horn beeped, and she opened her eyes and waved at a ranch hand driving up the hill in one of the electric golf carts they used to carry supplies around the property. She waved him past and then headed down the path to check on the progress of the butterfly garden.
A willow overhung the glassy surface of the pond. As it was every morning before the afternoon winds from the coast kicked in, the air was calm and still.
She sat on the bench next to the tree and breathed in the lush scent of lavender and honeysuckle that grew up the hillside behind her. The perfumed air enveloped her, and she felt her shoulders relax. She closed her eyes and drifted in the bliss of the honeyed scents and the gentle song of birds as they went about their day. She loved lavender. The gown she’d just bought was the color of lavender blossoms right after the first bloom. She imagined the look on Matt’s face if he were to see her in such a gown instead of the sensible pants and long-sleeved shirts she wore at the ranch. He would look fabulous in a tux; he had the right shoulders for it. Well, he had the right shoulders for anything. Maybe she should go to a game and see what he looked like in his uniform. It couldn’t hurt just to look. She could call Alex’s wife, Jackie, and drive in with her. They were due for a girl’s afternoon out. Maybe they could even fit in some shoe shopping, although Jackie wasn’t much for shopping of any sort. She could—
“Miss Tavonesi?”
The man’s voice startled her. She focused but couldn’t quite recall the ranch worker’s name. She’d been trying to memorize everyone’s names, to fit them with faces and jobs, but a week in Paris and jet lag had erased most of what she’d tucked away.
“We’re going to set up for the camp games in the east orchard,” the man said. “Peg wants to know if you want one shade tent or two.”
She felt her brain freeze up. It was a simple question, and the man in front of her was waiting for a simple answer. But it was just one more example of how foreign everything about her life here was. She took a sip of her coffee. More was always better when it came to parties, wasn’t it?
“Two,” she said, attempting to sound definitive.
“Great. Maybe even a tent down here, near the pond?”
“Sure,” Alana replied, wondering why he wasn’t asking Peg. Surely it was her job to handle those sorts of things?
Alana had the sneaking suspicion that Peg’s questions were part of a plot to involve Alana further in ranch life. It hadn’t escaped her that since she’d returned, the staff seemed more worried about the ranch’s future. Even she could tell they were trying too hard to make everything appear to run smoothly. She didn’t blame them. It was a beautiful place and a great community. Too bad she felt like she was walking through a film set, even on good days.
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nbsp; “See you at the games?” The man gave a jaunty tip of his straw cowboy hat.
She hadn’t known she’d be expected to attend the games. “Aren’t they for the kids?”
“Oh, no, Miss Tavonesi, we all play—kids, staff, parents. It’s a tradition. The winner gets to choose the charade teams for campfire night.”
Just what she needed—charades.
“Thank you, um...” She looked for a name tag, but his jacket covered it. It was obvious she didn’t remember his name, even though she’d seen the man every day since she’d been on the ranch.
“Gustavo.”
“Gustavo. Thank you. What time do these games start?”
“After the barbecue lunch.” He eyed her woven, multi-colored Missoni blouse. “The ranch team wears white shirts,” he said with a kindly nod before he turned and headed along the path to the east orchard.
She fingered her designer blouse. It’d been her last purchase before leaving for Orly. Games with staff and kids. Tents and barbecues and windmills. Paris felt much more than six thousand miles away.
She returned to the house to change.
Three cups of coffee and the prospect of playing games didn’t prevent her from falling asleep fully clothed on her bed. She tried to resist the tug of drowsiness, but sleep lapped thorough her like a sweet drug and pulled her into a welcoming darkness. She floated, weightless, as a light dawned along the horizon. She stood at the edge of a fence, dressed in the gown she’d had fitted in Paris. The delicate silk caught the breeze and skimmed against the curves of her body. She looked up. Matt walked toward her on the other side of the fence. They stood in a stadium and though she could see the thousands of people in the ballpark, there was no sound. Matt moved in slow motion, the white cloth of his uniform hugging his body and accentuating his muscles as he prowled toward her.
As he came closer, he raised his hand in greeting and the hunger in his eyes held her gaze.
She couldn’t move.
Her body felt heavy, as if she were drugged. When he reached her, he ran his hand along her shoulder and dropped the strap of her gown. It fell to the crook of her elbow and snagged on the fence. A smoldering look came into his eyes, and a wicked smile curved his lips. He pressed his torso against the fence and bent down to her, tracking fire with his mouth along her shoulder and slowly, ever so slowly, up the nape of her neck. His hands rose and cradled her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. She felt the searing heat of his lips against her chilled skin as he traced the line of her jaw with his mouth. His lips found hers, and a shock of desire burst in her, burning, almost painful, when she met his lips with the heat of her own. The fence dissolved, and he pulled her against the hard planes of his chest. A low, hungry moan escaped him. He moved his hand to cup her breast through the thin silk of her gown. Ignoring the people in the stadium, she reached to his waist and pulled his shirt from his pants. She ran her hands up the muscles of his chest, felt him go hard against her hip. Very hard. Wordlessly he lifted her and lowered her to the red dirt and white chalked lines at their feet. His hands tore at her gown, and it fell away. He ran his fingers to the top of her thigh—
“Alana?”
Isobel’s voice drifted to her as if wafting in on a breeze through a dark tunnel.
Alana burrowed deeper into the bed and sought Matt’s lips, but only darkness and a thin shaft of distant light met her.
“Alana?”
Isobel’s voice had the sound of alarm.
Alana dragged her eyes open. Though she loved jet-lag-induced dreams, coming out of them always hurt. Coming out of this one hurt in ways she didn’t want to consider.
“Just a minute, Isobel.” Alana pushed herself to sitting and blinked away the sponginess behind her eyes.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be roused,” Isobel said from where she stood in the doorway. “I brought you a tray. You missed the barbecue.” She put the tray on the table just inside the door.
“Have the games started?” Alana said as she stretched her arms over her head. Perhaps she wouldn’t be a total good-for-nothing.
“In ten minutes. You should eat something. I brought sliced fruit. It always helped Señora Tavonesi with her jet lag.”
She thanked Isobel, wolfed down the strawberries and cantaloupe, then rummaged in the armoire for a white shirt. As she tugged her best T-shirt over her head, she felt Matt’s hands on her body and cursed him under her breath.
She didn’t like to be crept up on, not even in her dreams. But maybe she’d make an exception for Matt, for the delicious heat that flooded her when his lips plundered hers. She closed her eyes, remembering, then she shook her head. No, she’d made up her mind. The man was best kept off limits.
Well, off limits for anything more than a fantasy. And maybe a fling. A fling might sate the desire he’d stirred, and then she could get him out of her mind.
But a relationship with him couldn’t go anywhere. A little girl was in the mix. Even Alana knew such a relationship wasn’t to be taken lightly. And if she were to be really honest, she didn’t need a fling in her life right now either. With Marcel and the ranch and the damned windmill... no, she didn’t need any more distractions, and Matt Darrington would be one hell of a distraction.