in her voice said it all. She was tired of being stereotyped and dismissed on the basis of her looks, tired of being treated like a china doll that could break and ruin the franchise. She was a strong, capable woman, and she wanted him to see that about her, to acknowledge it.
That pride tugged at his heart. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
“I know you’re not,” he said softly. “And if the truck gets a flat, you can change that for me, okay?”
That got her. A sudden laugh lit up her face and it was every bit as breathtaking as a vivid red sunset on the ocean’s horizon or sunlight hitting a rainbow. He started to laugh with her, but halfway through the maneuver his throat seized up and he could only stare, wishing she’d release him from whatever spell she’d spun around him.
“You’re just being nice because you know I’m going to try and get you fired.”
He floundered, trying to get his voice back online. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t told her that he was one of the Chambers that owned the winery, or why he’d given her his old nickname, J.R. for junior, rather than his real name, other than the idea of her trying to get his parents to fire him was hilarious.
This woman…she did things to him.
“Can we go now?”
“Yeah.” Her smile faded, probably because she’d seen—she had to see—how she intrigued him, how he wanted her. There were lots of things he was good at, but controlling his reactions to her didn’t seem to be one of them. Their touching hands became a fulcrum, the ground zero of a growing wave of heat that would ignite a fire capable of torching all these surrounding elms if they weren’t careful. “Can I have my hand back now?”
“Yeah,” he said, meaning it, and his brain sent the command to his hand: let go.
It took three or four beats after that for his hand to obey.
He stood, flustered, and she stood, clearing her throat. They didn’t look at each other. This unspoken signal made them look in other directions while he loaded the bike in the truck’s bed and she gathered up the helmet and her pack. They got in and he started the engine. No eye contact. They buckled up, staring out of their respective windows.
It didn’t matter. The damage had already been done and the air between them vibrated and sizzled accordingly, reminding him of the crackling energy created by the light sabers in the Star Wars movies. Which wasn’t a good sign.
He put the truck in gear and gripped the wheel with palms that were now wet like the rest of him but for an entirely different reason.
Drive, man. Keep your trap shut and drive. The sooner she’s out of your truck, the better.
Don’t say anything stupid.
“Livia?”
There was all kinds of yearning in his hoarse voice but it didn’t seem to reach her. She kept her head resolutely turned toward her window and didn’t answer.
“Are we developing a problem here?”
“No,” she said flatly.
Right.
Recognizing the lie for what it was, he drove off toward the winery.
Okay, girl, Livia told herself. Okay. This is not a big deal. There’re only a few miles to go back to the winery and you’ll be safe there. Not that you’re in danger or anything. Physical danger, that was. Just ignore the sexy man because you’re not here in Napa for a hookup or any other kind of romantic adventure. Stare out your window and think about what you need to pack for the shoot in Mexico at the end of the month.
She thought hard, possibly damaging her discombobulated brain in the process.
What did she need? Mexico was hot, right, so she’d need—what?
Oh, wait. Sunscreen. Good! Good start! Great job ignoring the sexy man!
Yes. She could do this. She’d need sunscreen, and she’d also need—
“Are you cold?” he asked, adjusting the vents.
Damn. Was he doing that on purpose or what? Was his voice always this velvety rasp that crept its way under her skin—when he wasn’t barking at her, that was? And why was he being so thoughtful and considerate all of the sudden when she knew darn well he’d already written her off as a Tinseltown flake with a worthless job flashing pretty smiles at the cameras for big money?
Why did his presence tie her belly up in crazy little knots?
He was dirty like a field hand, for God’s sake! Dirty, grouchy and arrogant. What was so thrilling about that? True, he wore a Negro League baseball cap—the black background with red lettering of the Indianapolis Clowns—so he couldn’t be all bad, but he was definitely mostly bad. So why was he making her unravel like a ninth-grader crushing on the prom king? Why did the musky scent of him and the indecipherable light in his golden eyes turn her into a quivering pool of mush?
At least he’d stopped touching her. Thank goodness for small favors.
“Ah, no,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thanks.”
They rode in silence for a way, which was good. Using the least amount of words possible seemed to be his thing, so as long as she kept quiet and didn’t babble or engage him in any way, this whole disconcerting interlude between them could pass without further incident.
Nice. She had a workable plan.
“What exactly do you do at the winery?” she asked.
He hesitated, keeping his eyes on the road. “I grow the grapes. And I make the wine.”
A lightbulb went off over her head. She’d known this guy was way too intelligent to dig irrigation ditches or some such all day, despite his appearance.
“Oh. So you’re a viticulturist and enologist?”
His jaw hit his lap with surprise and he glanced over, all wide-eyed astonishment. “Yeah.”
Annoyance warred with dark triumph inside her gut. So he was surprised she knew a couple multisyllable words, was he? Did he think she was too dumb and clueless to do a little reading about a vineyard before she showed up at one? Bozo.
“Keep your eyes on the road, please,” she snapped. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to kill me with this truck.”
He jerked his gaze back to the road. “Sorry. Not many people know the words.”
“Well, I’m not like many people, am I?” She didn’t bother keeping the ice out of her voice; she wasn’t ready to accept his apology just yet.
“No.” A muscle ticked in the back of his jaw. “You sure as hell aren’t.”
“So you’re a scientist. Did you go to UC Davis? I know they’ve got a program there—”
“No.” The edge of his lip curled, as though he was fighting
