Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

“Don’t keep the man waiting.”

For the past few months I’d lived a life of total celibacy—not by choice. All of a sudden, one ex-lover spends the night in my bed and the other calls on the phone while he’s there. What are the odds?

“Do you mind?” I hoped Quinn would take the hint and leave.

He had the unfair advantage of being fully dressed while I was naked underneath the quilt. Last night it was erotic. This morning it felt awkward. I was stuck where I was unless I wanted to drag my quilt and my dignity elsewhere.

He crossed his legs. “Not at all. Go right ahead.”

I glared at him, answering the phone in my most brisk, businesslike vineyard owner manner.

“Morning, Mick. You’re calling awfully early. What’s up?”

“Wanted to hear your voice, love. I know you’re an early riser.”

Quinn grinned and I shoved him with my foot. He didn’t budge.

“It’s seven thirty.”

“I know. I’m just off to the stables.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Do you want to tell me what this is about? You didn’t really call just to hear my voice.”

He laughed and Quinn smirked.

“Lucie.” He sounded reproachful. “So suspicious when my intentions are honorable. I found out that you’re invited to the opening of the Asher Collection at the Library of Congress tomorrow. I thought we might go together.”

Fortunately I hadn’t been in the middle of drinking my coffee. He was calling at this hour about a date?

“How did you know I was invited?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Who told you, Mick?” I wasn’t kidding around.

“Simon. We were talking about it when he came over for dinner last night and your name came up. He wondered if you planned to attend since you never formally replied. I took the liberty of saying yes.” He paused. “Told him I was bringing you.”

I felt a chill pass through me. “Why did he specifically ask about me?”

“We were talking about your cousin,” he said. “So naturally your name came up. How about if I pick you up at half-five tomorrow?”

“Mick …”

“Come on, love. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“Tell you tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with right now? Especially since I’m wide awake.”

“I’d rather do it in person.” He paused. “So, five thirty okay?”

He wasn’t going to give up.

“Sure,” I said. “Five thirty.”

When Quinn was upset a muscle worked in his jaw like he was chewing something. He got up off the bed and went over to the window, but not before I saw that muscle twitch.

I hung up. “Well, that was strange.”

“At least I know you’ll be okay Saturday night,” he said. “Mick’ll take care of you. Maybe even all night.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say that.”

“You’re right. That was out of line.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Guess I’d better get home and shower and change. Boss’ll expect me at work as usual, no excuses.”

“You could always shower here.” I let the quilt drop away. “With me.”

He caressed my cheek. “Tempting offer, but no thanks. I gotta talk to Antonio and figure out what we’re going to do today.”

“You mean about the vineyard?” My cheeks burned as I gathered the quilt around me again.

“I mean about you.” He walked to the door and turned around. “See you later.”

His work boots clattered on the stairs. The front door opened and closed, followed by the noise of a car starting.

I lay back against my pillows. More filaments in that web were breaking, and soon it would become unmoored from everything we’d built together.

I was losing Quinn. And I had no idea how to stop it from happening.

Quinn was out in the field when I arrived at the villa an hour later. Frankie gave me one of her all-knowing looks the moment I walked into the kitchen so I realized she’d been clued in about my new bodyguards—though I couldn’t tell whether she knew or guessed that Quinn had taken his assignment to a more intimate level.

“Sleep well?” She handed me a cup of coffee.

“Why am I the last person around here to find out everything?” I said. “Were you part of this scheme of Antonio and Quinn’s?”

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “What scheme?”

“So it was your idea, huh?” I said after a moment.

“It was everyone’s, Lucie. With you staying by yourself in that big house, no alarm, no nothing for security, it just seemed like a good idea to have the guys keeping an eye on things for a while.”

Things. She meant me.

I added sugar and milk to my coffee. “Someone should have told me.”

“You would have nixed it if we did.” She sipped her coffee. “By the way, Books & Crannies called. The book you ordered is in.”

“That was fast. Guess I’ll go into town and pick it up. You need anything while I’m there?”

“All set, thanks.” She eyed me. “What’s wrong?”

“I talked to Quinn. I think he got caught up in the Asher mess. He wouldn’t say, but it sounds like his investors might have backed out on him.”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything, either,” she said. “I found him reading the Trib when I got in this morning, looking like he was ready to put Sir Thomas through the destemmer. His picture is on the front page, looking like Charlton Heston when he played Moses just before he parted the Red Sea. Calm and in control in the face of looming disaster. You’ve got to hand it to the man. How does he do it? Yoga? Meditation? He ought to be a mess.”

“Self-delusion. Where’s that paper?”

“The bar. Calm down, Lucie.”

How many times had she said that to me lately?

“I am calm.” I set down my mug and sloshed coffee on the counter.

Frankie picked up a sponge and wiped up the spill. “Go on. Go and read it. You won’t be happy until you do.”

I found the paper folded so that Tommy Asher stared back at me. Somebody—Quinn, probably—had childishly given him a devil’s horns, a tail, and a pitchfork. But Frankie was right about the photo. Asher looked serene as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Where did he get that kind of chutzpah? Maybe it came from telling the same lies for so long that eventually he believed them and so did everybody around him. I wondered what he saw when he looked in the mirror. Maybe he never looked anymore.

I sat down on one of the sofas by the fireplace and skimmed the article. David Wildman’s byline. Kit’s colleague.

Investors woke up this morning to a potential tsunami in the financial markets as billionaire investment guru Sir Thomas Asher continued to plead for patience while authorities investigate his allegation that Rebecca Natale, Asher’s former star protégée who went missing five days ago and is presumed dead, embezzled millions of dollars from his clients by falsifying trades, creating dummy accounts…

I kept reading. Wildman must have worked Summer Lowe over pretty good, because he knew all about Harlan leaning on Senator Vaughn to make Ian’s hearing go away now that Ian was dead. By the time I finished reading it was clear David Wildman had Tommy Asher in his journalistic crosshairs. I hoped his life insurance was paid up. People who took on Asher Investments seemed to come to a bad end.

Turned out I was more right than I knew when I called Summer Lowe. Her terse voice mail message was a polite version of “Go to hell.”

“You’ve reached Summer. I’m no longer working at the Senate and I’m not taking any calls at this time. Thanks.”

Stunned, I hung up. Harlan and Asher had successfully strong-armed Cameron Vaughn into canceling the hearing—but had they also gone after Summer and made her the scapegoat? Was that supposed to be a lesson to any other Senate or House staffer who decided to probe Thomas Asher Investments? Unless she was also being punished for talking to David Wildman. The information in that article could only have leaked from her. I wondered if she’d talked to him in Vaughn’s Capitol hideaway like she had with me.