she could always plop a hat on her head.
But not on a special occasion like tonight.
She’d dressed in a black, A-line dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a hem that reached midcalf. The simple style suited her.
Now, the only thing left to do was her hair. For a moment, she considered letting it hang loose—as Sullivan had suggested. But she felt incomplete, exposed. And far too vulnerable for a night like this.
Her dad planned to serve the new blend Lissa had created as a prelude to a bigger unveiling later this month. But with the exclusive guest list of local vintners and wine connoisseurs, Lissa felt this dinner party was critical and her nerves were on edge.
And to add more stress to the evening, her dad had invited that reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine to record everyone’s reaction.
Normally, Lissa preferred to blend into the crowd, to be discreet and unnoticed. But her basic shyness didn’t surface while she was making wine or discussing the vineyard she loved. So, for the first time in years, Lissa had actually primped—a little.
She decided upon a French braid that hung down her back. The style might be a bit more elegant than she was used to, but tonight called for something special, out of the ordinary.
If Eileen were here, she’d insist Lissa put on some makeup. A while back, her sister had given her a monstrous palette of colorful goop for no reason at all, volunteering to help her choose the perfect shades. Unfortunately, Lissa had declined the lesson.
She glanced at the unused palette that sat on the bathroom counter. As klutzy as she was, she’d probably smear on the stuff and look like a clown. Yet a tiny spark of vanity surfaced, and she picked up a tube of lipstick, lifted the lid and rolled out the stick. A pink gloss. She could handle something simple like that.
And what was in this blue tube? Mascara? Maybe a dab would be okay. She unscrewed the top and pulled out the small, curved brush. Leaning toward the bathroom mirror, she stroked the bristles along her lashes.
Gosh, this was tough. And some women fussed with makeup every day. Talk about gluttons for punishment.
Her mouth opened on its own, which seemed to help with her aim. Maybe a little to the left.
Ow! Damn. Right in the eyeball. Ouch. And it stung. By the time she rubbed and blinked, two black smears made her look like a raccoon.
Forget it. Vanity was definitely overrated.
Somehow, she managed to get her face washed, but her eyes still looked a bit dark around the edges. Well, that’s what she got for trying to be somebody else—somebody feminine and attractive.
She looked at her watch. Six forty-five. Oh shoot. People would be arriving any minute. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps—sensible shoes like good old Aunt Clara wore, she supposed—then headed for the kitchen to give her mother a hand.
Donna had hired a caterer for this evening, so there probably wasn’t much left for Lissa to do, other than greet everyone.
Just as she stepped away from the foot of the stairs, a knock sounded, alerting her to the arrival of the first guest. Showtime. She strode across the carpet to the polished hardwood entry and opened the door.
Sullivan stood on the porch, wearing expensivelooking black slacks, a white shirt—open at the collar—and a stylish sports jacket. A GQ cover boy come to life.
He flashed her a playful grin. “You look great this evening, Lissa. Nice dress.”
“Thank you.” Did he really think she looked nice? Or was that just the standard how-do-you-do comment that folks made at dinner parties?
“You did something to your eyes,” he said.
“Yeah. During a moment of weakness, I nearly blinded myself. But it won’t happen again. Come on inside.” She stepped away from the door and led him through the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”
“How about Scotch and water?”
“You’ve got it.”
Within moments, the house began to fill with the local vintners and wine connoisseurs they’d invited. Lissa milled around, making cocktail-hour conversation.
The next doorbell announced the arrival of the last guest, or so Lissa hoped. The reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine had yet to arrive.
Her name was Gretchen, which was all Lissa had been told over the telephone. No one had prepared Lissa for the voluptuous blonde in a traffic-stopping red dress revealed when the door swung open.
The word tacky came to mind, but that wasn’t really true. The blonde merely had a sophisticated style and a healthy dose of self-confidence.
But heck, Lissa would feel confident, too—if she had a face and figure like that.
More than a few men turned to gawk, as the statuesque woman stepped into the foyer. Unable to help herself, Lissa peeked at the woman’s feet, expecting to see high heels. Wow. Those red strappy sandals weren’t exactly stilettos, but they were pretty darn close. They also showed off a pedicure and cherry-red toenail polish.
Lissa glanced at her own size nines. At least the dependable pumps were comfortable. And who needed bunions and foot problems later on? Heck, Sullivan’s Great-aunt Clara probably had gorgeous feet—wrinkled, maybe. But not all crippled up from years of abuse.
Gathering the hostess skills her mom had taught her, Lissa extended a hand and introduced herself to the attractive reporter. “You must be Gretchen Thomas.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you for inviting me.” Gretchen’s lively blue eyes quickly scanned the milling crowd, then landed on Sullivan.
And wouldn’t you know it? The sexy GQ hottie had spotted her, too.
“Who’s that man near the bookcase?” Gretchen asked. “Is he one of the local vintners? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
“He’s a business consultant,” Lissa said.
“Interesting.”
Yes, wasn’t it? Lissa wanted to place the sole of her sensible shoe on the blonde’s shapely backside and boot her out of the house before the reporter and the consultant had a chance to exchange telephone numbers.
But why bother?
Lissa didn’t need a crystal ball or a cup of tea leaves to see how the evening would unfold. She could sense what was coming down the pike.
Well, c’est la vie.
Here today. Gone tomorrow.
Que sera, sera.
With hormones dancing in her eyes, Gretchen threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and made her way toward the only eligible bachelor in the room. Well, the only bachelor in the twenty—to fortysomething range.
One of their guests, Anthony Martinelli, a longtime friend of her father’s and a successful local
