Chapter 25
Char stared frozenly out the window of Savvy’s car during the short drive home, only vaguely aware of her sisters’ chatter up front. The stillness of her body belied her emotions, whipping through her like an out of control tilt-a-wheel.
The satisfaction of winning the female division of the race filled a big black hole inside, in a way that no amount of chocolate ever could.
But Ryder’s team had lost its chance, partly because of the lingering effects of a brushfire on Ryder’s lungs, but also because of a dredged-up story of Papa’s involvement in a long-ago migrant camp fire. Angrily, she brushed away the tears that stung her eyes. If there was one thing she should have learned in her turbulent life, it was how to take the bad with the good. Even with all the awful stuff that had happened in the last twenty-four hours—Dan getting punched over Papa’s reputation, the pro-eagle protestors stealing the scene at the race, Ryder’s DNF—she’d somehow found the stamina to win that race. No one, not the spectators on the side lines—not even her sisters—knew how much psychic energy she’d had to muster to marshal enough physical strength to do that, after everything else she’d been through. That was the kind of deep-rooted power that was invisible. Character wasn’t dependent on what anyone else thought. It had nothing to do with having blond hair, blue eyes, and a father worth millions.
She’d always told herself she didn’t need a man. Today’s victory was proof.
Thank goodness. Because clearly, making love hadn’t affected Ryder the way it had affected her. If it had, he should be able to accept anything Papa had done without punishing her, shouldn’t he? But no. This morning, he’d destroyed her fragile bliss by shunning her compassion in the middle of the race.
She closed her eyes to try to clear her head. What exactly had she been expecting of Ryder, once he found out about Papa’s connection to the migrant camp? Anger? Yes. Recriminations? Of course. But after all that, she’d hoped he would understand her reluctance to ruin their chance at a relationship before it even started.
But to forgive Papa for killing his father? Forgive her for covering it up? If it weren’t so serious, it would be laughable. What kind of man could forgive all that?
No one. Not even a movie star–fireman.
Then and there, Char squared her shoulders and resolved to let go.
Last night in the vineyard, she’d made a fool of herself over something as inconsequential as romantic love. She let her guard down this one time and almost got caught. And with an actor, no less! She couldn’t let that happen again. Ever. She couldn’t afford to put her heart in harm’s way again.
At home, back in her room, she changed clothes and made a phone call. She needed to return to her original focal point.
“Bill? I need you. Can you meet me at the El Valle Avenue property?”
“Sure. Let’s see here. Will next Tuesday afternoon work? I don’t have anything between three and four. . . .”
“Tuesday? Actually, I meant, like, now.”
Crickets.
“I—I’m with a client. All the way over on Redwood . . .”
“I’m prepared to make an offer. Today.”
Char couldn’t put it off any longer. Even if she had to go get a second job and a mortgage in her own name. She couldn’t gamble on waiting until next week, when the challenge would be over and Ryder—win or lose—might make off with her building. He might have taken her heart. But she wouldn’t let him take her purpose.
“I think I can break away.”
“Thanks. Oh, one more thing,” she said, remembering her car was still up at Diablo. “Can you stop by my place and pick me up? It’s on your way. Just follow Redwood to Dry Creek—”
“I don’t need directions,” said Bill. “Everybody knows where Domaine St. Pierre is.”
All Ryder needed was a nice, long nap. Instead, he dragged himself to the ball field in time to pick up the twins, then stopped at home just long enough for a quick shower before setting out to retrieve Char’s car.
He was sapped. But a few days without running or answering fire calls and he’d be good to go.
His mom harangued him about going back out. Then the boys argued like the teenagers they were when they found out Ryder wasn’t going to let either of them anywhere near Char’s Mercedes.
“Aw, c’mon, Ry! Just let us drive part of the way.”
“I’ll let you drive my Range Rover next time you come down to LA,” he bargained.
“Here,” he added, tossing his keys into the air. “Whoever catches these can drive the truck back to Domaine St. Pierre.”
The Mercedes was forgotten as the twins tangled for the chance to helm Ryder’s beloved old pickup. A surge of gratitude swelled through him. The boys’ acceptance of him as a father substitute had gone a long way toward getting them all through the past seven years. He’d be sure to follow up on his promise during their next trip to SoCal.
Brian won the key toss. “You guys know where Char’s place is. Take this,” he said, handing Ben some cash, “and do me a favor. Stop by that dry cleaner—the one on Trancas—and pick up my tux. Then go get yourselves some sandwiches. Grab one for me, too. I have some business to take care of at Char’s winery, but it won’t take long. Come get me when you’re done.”
Ryder hit the button on Char’s key fob, and her rose perfume enveloped him as he slid onto the smooth leather seat and started the German engine humming.
A quick glance at the high-tech dash and he was on his way.
Highway 29 was an easy shot through the valley, even minus the sedan’s superb handling. That gave him ample time to take a closer look around the luxe, cream-colored interior.
From beneath some crisp fliers promoting the challenge peeked something feminine and familiar: the ivory sweater Char had been wearing last night. It was only a scrap of wool, but it awakened something powerful deep inside Ryder. Visions of their lovemaking came rushing back to him. Char’s lush mouth. Her dainty breasts. Her voice, calling out his name when they came together.
His fingers itched to touch the sweater that had touched her skin, but something—propriety? good judgment?—kept his hands glued to the steering wheel. That innocent-looking piece of nothingness was more than just a sweater. It was endowed with a magic that sent his thoughts reeling, his blood pumping.
He caved, of course, carefully drawing the material out from under the fliers with his free hand. As he fingered its texture, he noticed the earth-colored smudge tarnishing a cuff.
The recollection of her sweet curves, still so fresh in his mind, tempted him further, and he gathered the material to his nose. The smell of Eden came rushing back, and he closed his eyes as long as he dared while driving, savoring it. When he touched the soft yarn to his cheek, he felt himself rising against his will beneath the steering wheel.
Disgust sent his fingers flying apart as if scalded. The ball of fluff slumped onto his groin. One glimpse of her sweater tenting his hard-on only made things worse.
But curiosity wouldn’t leave him alone. Ryder might know Char’s body. But he barely knew her mind at all.
What kind of music did she listen to? He touched a button, and his all-time favorite pop station—from way back in high school—came on. Another was programmed to talk radio whose political leanings meshed with his.
Char. If you’d just been honest with me.
But what if she had? What if she’d told him the camp fire was her dad’s fault, before she’d taken him on that after-hours tour of the vineyard?
He never would have touched her; that was for damn sure.
Was that what he wanted? Did he really wish last night had never happened?