The Villa

kind of instinctive scenting of the air, and the resulting stir of juices.
    "Well, well." She all but purred it, and let her gaze skim down to his mouth, then back again. "Who'd have thought it?"
    "Cut it out." He straightened up, took a step back as a man would on finding himself unexpectedly at the edge of a very long drop. But she simply continued her turn so that their bodies brushed again. And a second step back would have marked him a coward. Or a fool.
    "Don't worry, MacMillan, you're not my type." Big, rough, elemental. "Usually."
    "You're not mine." Sharp, slick, dangerous. "Ever."
    If he'd known her better, he'd have realized such a statement wasn't an insult to her. But a challenge. Her mild, and purely elemental, interest climbed up another level. "Really? What is?"
    "I don't like cocky, aggressive women with fancy edges."
    She grinned. "You will." She turned back to the canes. "We'll break at twelve-thirty." Once again she looked over her shoulder at him. "Compromise. We're going to have to do a lot of it to get through this season."
    "Twelve-thirty." He pulled off his gloves, held them out to her. "Wear these. You'll get blisters on those city-girl hands."
    "Thanks. They're too big."
    "Make do. Tomorrow you bring your own, and you wear a hat. No, not there," he said as she started to clip another cane.
    He moved in behind her again, put his hands over hers and angled the tool correctly.
    And didn't see her slow, satisfied smile.
     
    Despite the gloves, she got the blisters. They were more annoying than painful as she did a quick change for the afternoon in the city. Dressed and polished, she grabbed her briefcase and called out a goodbye as she dashed out the door. During the short drive to MacMillan she ran over her needs and obligations for the rest of the day. She was going to have to pack quite a bit into a very short amount of time.
    She zipped up to the front entrance of the sprawling cedar-and-fieldstone house, gave two quick toots of the horn. He didn't keep her waiting, which pleased her. And he had changed, she noted, so that counted for something. Though the denim shirt and comfortably faded jeans were a long level down from what she considered casual office wear, she decided to tackle his wardrobe later.
    He opened the door of her BMW convertible, scowled at her and the ragtop. "You expect me to fold myself into this little toy?"
    "It's roomier than it looks. Come on, you're on my time now."
    "Couldn't you have driven one of the four-wheels?" he complained as he levered himself into the passenger seat.
    He looked, she thought, like a big, cranky Jack in a very small, spiffy box. "Yes, but I didn't. Besides, I like driving my own car." She proved it, the minute his seat belt was secured, by punching the gas and flying down the drive.
    She liked the glimpses of mountain through the rain. Like shadows behind a silver curtain. And the row upon row of naked vines, waiting, just waiting for sun and warmth to lure them into life again.
    She sped past the MacMillan winery, its faded brick upholstered with vines, its gables proud and stern. It was, to her, a romantic and lovely entrance to the mysteries of the caves it guarded. Inside, as inside the winery at Giambelli, workers would be lifting, twisting the aging bottles of champagne or readying the tasting room if there was a tour or wine club scheduled for the day. Others might be transferring wine from vat to vat as it cleared and clarified.
    There was work, she knew, in the buildings, in the caves, in the plants, even as the vines slept.
    And, she thought, there was work for her in San Francisco.
    She was racing out of the valley like a woman breaking out of jail. Ty wondered if she felt that way.
    "Why is my seat warm?"
    "Your what? Oh." She glanced over, laughing. "Just my little way of warming your ass up, darling. Don't like it?"
    She clicked the button, turned off the heated seat. "Our top priority," she began, "is the centennial campaign. There are a lot of stages, some of which, like the auction earlier this week, are already implemented. Others are still on the drawing board. We're looking for something fresh but that also honors tradition. Something classy and discreet that appeals to our high-end and/or more mature accounts, and something kicky that catches the interest of the younger and/or less affluent market."
    "Yeah, right."
    "Ty, this is something you have to understand the causes and consequences of as well. Selling the wine is