Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

I said shakily, “It’s Pinot Noir.”

“Christ,” he said again. “You’re lucky you didn’t set the woods on fire. The drought’s turned everything into a tinderbox. Are you okay, love?” He touched my hair. “You’re hair’s singed, too. Maybe we should get you to a doctor.”

The last time he called me “love” was before the accident.

“I’m fine.” The places where the embers burned my arms and legs throbbed. My dress had torn when I fell; the pinholes from the places the sparks had landed looked like an attack of moths. I winced as I tucked my misshapen leg under me so it was invisible. God help me, not a sprained ankle, too. “I lost my cane.” My voice sounded far away.

“I’ll find it in a second.” He pulled me to him and cradled me in his arms. “You look like you’re going to pass out. Let me call Ross Greenwood and get you over to see him.”

“No, don’t! I’m fine.” I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the torchlight gilding his deeply tanned skin and dark hair, turning him into a godlike burnished statue, as perfect and beautiful as he’d always been. He was too close, this was too familiar.

His kiss was swift and fierce, tasting oddly of wine and fire, blurring my senses and eroding my resolve. He wore the same musky cologne, now mingled with the scent of something charred. I kissed him back. His hand closed around my throat as he pulled me deeper into him. His hands started to move as we stayed locked in that eternal kiss. Then I tasted salt, from tears. The beginning of redemption.

What I didn’t know was whether it was his or mine.

“Somebody lose this?”

Greg and I broke apart as swiftly and combustibly as we’d come together. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and tried to sit up, groaning as more pain shot through my ankle. Quinn Santori stood silhouetted against the torchlight, holding my cane like a javelin.

“Evenin’, folks. Didn’t mean to, ah, interrupt you.” He held out the cane. “Lucie, this is yours, isn’t it? You all right?”

“She fell,” Greg sounded tense. “She tripped and took a torch down with her. I caught her as she fell.”

“Holy shit.” I couldn’t see Quinn’s face in the darkness, but he sounded genuinely disturbed.

“I’m fine.” He handed me my cane and as I half-rose to take it, my ankle buckled. For the second time Greg caught me again. I noticed that he was still shirtless.

“Like hell you are,” he said. “She’s got burns on her arms and legs. Scorched hair, too. I managed to extinguish everything with my shirt but I think she ought to see Doc Greenwood.”

“Who needs to see Doc Greenwood?” Eli, out of breath like he’d been running hard, showed up with Mia at his elbow. “Lucie!” he said. “What the hell happened?”

“I tripped over a tree root in the dark,” I said. “Calm down. It’s nothing serious.”

Though I couldn’t see Mia’s face either, the anger in her voice was palpable. I wasn’t the one she was worried about. “Greg! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’re going to be late for work if we don’t leave now. You heard Lucie, she’s fine .”

“I don’t think Lucie can walk, Mia.” Greg calmly pulled on his shirt. To me he said, “What’d you do, sprain your ankle?”

“I think it’s just twisted. I’ll put ice on it. Really, I’m okay.”

“Will you listen ? You’ll never make it to the studio in time! You can’t keep showing up late.” Mia, agitated, now seemed near to tears. “We need to go!”

He stood up and folded his arms across his chest, fixing Mia in his stare. Then he said so softly that the hair on the back of my neck prickled, “I’ve got it under control, baby. I don’t need you telling me what to do. Understand?”

I watched the flickering torchlight next to us lash tiger stripes across his face. His eyes glittered and the muscles in his neck were thick as ropes.

There was a long moment of silence before Mia stammered, “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

He smiled coldly. “I thought so.”

There was a new flash of fire across from me and I jumped. Quinn had struck a match, lighting one of his ever-present cigars. “Well, if Lucie can’t walk,” he said laconically between puffs, ignoring the tension that hung in the air like fog, “I’ll get the Gator and run her back to the house.”

“If you can get her to the parking lot, I’ll drive her home.” Eli seemed relieved to change the subject. “She and I need to talk about something.”

“I guess I’ll take off, then,” Greg said. To Mia he added in a curt voice, “Let’s go.”

After the others left, I was alone with my brother. “You mind telling me what that was all about?” He sounded mad.

I’d learned, over the years, to keep my cool when Eli lost his. It annoyed the hell out of him. “I was on my way over to the Ruins looking for you when I tripped over a tree root. Apparently Greg was walking down the path behind me so he caught me as I fell. And the torch, thank God.”

“Well, let me tell you, from what I saw it looked like a replay of your X-rated sessions at the Ruins. What were you doing, half undressed like that?”

“We weren’t doing anything. Mind your own business, Eli.”

It was Quinn who carried me to the Gator, a low two-seater vehicle that looked like a cross between a golf cart and a tractor. We used it for getting around the vineyard and, with a wagon attached to the back, for hauling brush, lugs, and equipment. As he set me down on the cracked leather seat, my torn dress fell open revealing my bad leg. Though he acted like he hadn’t noticed, I knew he’d seen how twisted and deformed it was. I held the fabric together as we jounced along the rutted path toward the winery parking lot. The glowing end of the cigar danced next to me in the darkness.

I suppose the main reason I hate being pitied—by Quinn or Eli or anybody—is because it’s an emotion propelled by relief rather than empathy at someone else’s plight and thank God it didn’t happen to you. It’s a cold cousin to sympathy.

When we got to the deserted parking lot where Eli waited in the Jaguar, Quinn said, “Stay right where you are. I’ll get you.”

“I can manage.”

He slid out of his seat. “Stop being a martyr, will you, and stay put. I said I’ll get you.”

He deposited me in the passenger seat next to my brother. “See you tomorrow. ’Night, Eli.”

Eli called Brandi on his phone as we drove back to the house. “No, honey…the second I get home…sweetheart, of course…absolutely…not staying one minute longer…okay, angel…” He blew kisses into the phone and snapped it shut. I glanced at him but he stared resolutely ahead at the well-known road. “You and I need to have a talk, Luce. Unfortunately it has to be tonight and, as you heard, I’m already overdue at home. Brandi likes me to massage her feet before she falls asleep. She’s retaining fluid in her ankles. So let’s get this over with as soon as we get back to the house.”

“We don’t have to talk tonight,” I said, as the saccharin cloud enveloping him began to evaporate and he pulled into the driveway. “Call off Erica and Austin, Eli.”

“That’s not an option.” His voice was frosty. “Do I need to carry you into the house?”

“No.”

“It’s like a damn oven in here, babe,” he complained when we were inside. “How come you didn’t leave the air on? Don’t tell me you roasted like this in France for two years. And what happened to the clock?”

“The air-conditioning broke and we can’t afford to fix it right now,” I said. “And I sold the clock to Mac Macdonald.”