Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

“I have caller ID.”

“Mick!” Dominique rejoined our group, a hint of wood smoke and the chill of the outdoors clinging to her clothes. “Have you heard from Simon? He’s not answering his phone, but after what I saw on the news I’m sure the fan hit the roof and he’s probably still in Washington.”

Her cheeks were bright pink but I didn’t think it was from the cold. Whoever Simon was, he was important enough to trade her standard work attire of black trousers and white blouse for a haute-couture outfit she bought on her last trip to Paris—caramel cashmere sweater with a sexy diagonal neckline, tobacco-colored wool skirt with a side slit, and a striking leather bow belt. She also wore more makeup than usual and there were new russet highlights in her spiky auburn hair.

“Speak of the devil,” Mick said. “Look who just walked in.”

My cousin looked radiant as a lean, wiry man with dark blond hair, the wind-burned skin of a sportsman, and sharp features that reminded me of a hawk strode across the room. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. I wouldn’t have described him as handsome, but there was something mesmerizing in his quicksilver smile and the light in his eyes as he stared at my cousin. The look that passed between them, as though there were no one else in the room, sent a pang through my heart. Dominique was captivated.

“Sorry I’m late, darling,” he said. “Mickey, old man, let me buy you a pint and some champagne for this beautiful lady.”

An Englishman, like Mick. He drummed his fingers lightly on the bar and scanned the crowd as though he were searching for someone. His eyes fell on Kit and me. I heard Kit’s sharp intake of breath, and Dominique suddenly seemed flustered.

“Simon, I’d like to introduce you to your cousin and my friend.” She seemed oblivious to her garbled pronouns. “Lucie Montgomery, Kit Eastman. Meet Simon deWolfe.”

“How do you do?” That dazzling smile again as his eyes, an unusual yellowish green, lingered on me. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure I’d remember if we had.”

“Please join us for a drink.” He took the champagne flute from Mick and handed it to Dominique. Then he picked up his beer. “God, what a bloody awful day.”

“Thank you just the same,” Kit said, “but we were on our way out.”

“Oh, come on, love. Just a quick one.” Simon winked at her and smiled. “We won’t keep you long. Promise.”

Kit dug her elbow into my ribs again. “We really have to go. Don’t we, Lucie?”

“Uh, yes. We do. Nice to meet you, Simon. Good-bye, Mick.”

I kissed my cousin. “Call me,” I said.

She murmured, “I meant to tell you about this. You could have knocked me over with a fender when I met him. I never expected to fall in love again.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said.

Eighteen months ago her fiancé had walked out on her after a messy affair. She’d thrown herself into her work, more than usual, trying to get over him and claiming she was done with men.

“Come on.” Kit tugged my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

We didn’t speak until we reached the parking lot.

“You mind explaining what that was all about?” I asked.

“You were the one who couldn’t wait to get away from Mick, remember?”

“I had my reasons. You were downright rude to Simon deWolfe,” I said. “What’s going on? Do you know him from somewhere?”

“Yeah, the news,” she said. “Remember that comment your cousin made? Do you know who her new boyfriend is?”

“Obviously more than some friend of Mick’s.”

“Tommy Asher’s half brother, that’s who. He’s the muscle guy for Asher Investments. Tommy takes care of him and keeps him on the payroll in return for Simon making sure he’s protected at all times.”

I stopped walking and stared at her. “What do you mean, ‘muscle guy’?”

“Security. Protection. Keeping people Sir Thomas doesn’t want around away. You know, shoo … scat … scram? That kind of protection. From what I hear, Simon’s not someone you want to mess with if you get in his brother’s face. That charm he was oozing in there is only skin deep. He can turn it off like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Ask my colleague David Wildman.”

Olivia Tarrant had said that her boss had “people” out looking for Rebecca last night. If Simon deWolfe handled security for his half brother, then that meant that he had been one of those people.

I thought of those hypnotic yellow green eyes and his captivating way with Dominique. I could easily imagine him flirting with Rebecca—and more. Had Simon deWolfe been with her before she vanished in the Potomac River? And did he know something about where she was now?

Monday morning’s Trib ran a front-page article about Rebecca’s disappearance that was nearly as lurid as the report on Channel 3 the evening before. Somewhere they found a gorgeous color photo of her flashing that siren smile and wearing a skin-tight knit top that hugged her like a lover. Next to her picture was another of a younger, unshaven Sir Thomas in Katmandu with a garland of marigolds around his neck as he posed before leaving for the Everest Base Camp, cocky and confident about the upcoming expedition to the summit. The article took up half a page below the fold and continued inside with more photos—Tommy and Mandy Asher at a hospital ribbon-cutting ceremony and aboard their yacht, the Arbitrage , hoisting drinks for the camera. The headline said it all: MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF TOP ADVISER TO BILLIONAIRE ADVENTURER & PHILANTHROPIST BAFFLES POLICE.

Still no direct reference to the missing Madison wine cooler Asher had intended to return to the White House today. I could imagine the lid the police and the Asher camp were keeping on that information and how much hell would break loose when it leaked out. Kit had kept her word; there was no hint of it in the Trib.

Reading about Rebecca, whose beauty, career, and personality had been thoroughly parsed along with theories about her disappearance, took away my appetite for breakfast. I dumped the eggs I’d made in the trash and finished my coffee as the phone rang. When the display showed Quinn’s number, I answered before the second ring.

“I just got back a few hours ago,” he said. “Frankie told me about your friend. I’m sorry, Lucie. You okay?”

Back from where? He hadn’t mentioned a trip, though he knew I planned to be in D.C. Last winter, after three straight years of working flat out, we finally agreed to take weekends off to recharge our batteries before the season started in the spring. Besides, in one of my more brilliant career moves, I’d hired Frankie Merchant, a part-time employee who had become so indispensable we brought her on full-time to run the tasting room. Before long she took over planning our events calendar and asked for more staff to help as we grew busier. Quinn joked she was probably gunning for his job, maybe even mine. Truth was she could probably handle both of them with one hand tied behind her back.

Still, if either he or I left town, the other one was supposed to be available in case something came up in the barrel room or Frankie needed us. I wondered if Quinn’s trip had been a last minute impulse and he’d decided that Antonio, our new farm manager, could handle things. If that was the case, he should have let me know he was taking off. I still ran the place.

“I’m all right,” I said to him now. “Just trying to deal with everything. I didn’t know you were going out of town. What happened? An emergency?”

“Nope. Just a trip.”

A couple of his former girlfriends lived in the area. I had no idea whether he kept in touch with any of them or dropped by for an occasional visit. Though to be honest, I didn’t want to know.