Chloe Blake - A Taste Of Desire

Bouncing another rock against the wall, he rebuked himself for those thoughts. Nicole Parks was working for his father. No matter how intriguing she was, he had to make sure that she didn’t succeed.

His soot-covered fingertips swiped at a rock, uncovering a glint of silver. He dug out the small rectangular shape, rubbed it, popped off the top then closed it shut. A lighter. He weighed it in his hand and flipped it around, using his thumbs to clear the dirt. An engraved D became visible. Clutching the lighter hard in his palm, he pulled his fist to his lips and closed his eyes as if in prayer.

He slipped it into his pocket, slapped his hands on his cargo pants, grabbed his shotgun and left the forsaken structure. His four-legged companion loped ahead of him as his boots trod hard through the brush of the surrounding forest, his shotgun in one hand and a small bouquet of wildflowers in the other. The dog waited for him at their destination, a small gravesite with two markers.

He placed the flowers on the graves, and they mingled with the dead petals of the previous bouquet.

Thunder cracked overhead. Clouds had darkened and gathered, suggesting a storm, the quick and fierce kind that Rio Grande was famous for.

They turned back, moving quickly, he and the dog noticing the mass evacuation of the forest inhabitants. Raising his gun, he shot and missed a large brown rabbit when it bounced high in the air. Even the dog couldn’t catch it. Clearing the trees, the pair moved swiftly toward the wine cellar, a high stone structure with a wide wooden door. Just before they entered, the dog barked and turned toward the vastness of the untended plantation. Destin cocked his gun, listening. He heard a car approach in the distance.

* * *

Spectacular. The word resonated over and over in Nicole Parks’s mind as she looked out over the countryside of Rio Grande and navigated the winding mountain road in her rental SUV. Elliot had offered to hire her a driver, but she enjoyed the freedom that renting a car gave her. According to her GPS, she was just twenty minutes outside of Porto Alegre and about ten minutes from the Dechamps winery.

Miles and miles of exuberant nature grew out from the knolls and stretched far into the distance. She eased up on the gas pedal so she could take longer glimpses at waterfalls, rushing streams and small canyons—areas completely undisturbed by human intervention.

In contrast, each cliff-side wind of the road allowed a peek into the valley at the multicolored box homes of the favelas. They sat one on top of the other, climbing up the bottom of the mountain like steps and sprawling around the city like a horseshoe. From what she’d read, the favelas were riddled with crime. From her vantage point, they seemed calm and beautiful.

On the map, the digital dot of her car looked like it was marching up and over a cliff. She had to be close. Yet there were no road markers, and the farther she got up the mountain, the denser the overgrowth of vegetation became, so much so that the sun had to fight to get through. She wondered if anyone would find her if she mysteriously disappeared; she hadn’t passed a car or seen a soul for miles.

Minutes later her GPS spoke in a soothing, robotic tone over the radio and air conditioner, telling her to turn right in a quarter mile. She crept farther and farther forward, trying to spot a gate or a gap in the greenery. There was nothing—but then she saw it, a spike with a tarnished brass top wound by dirt and vines. A driveway marker, perhaps? She nosed her SUV through the brush, and sure enough, it gave way. A jagged road became visible, and she followed it until the overgrowth became like a wall. She rolled to a stop, excited to explore before Elliot arrived.

She checked her appearance in the rearview: makeup still intact, ponytail smooth, white button-down shirt tucked into a burgundy pencil skirt. She let out a nervous yelp when her phone rang on the seat next to her. Surprised that she still had reception in the middle of nowhere, she placed a hand over her racing heart and lifted the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“You made it?” She pictured Senior Global Real Estate Advisor Gustavo Escarra swiveling around in his giant leather desk chair overlooking Central Park.

“Hey, boss. Yeah, I’m at the winery now. Elliot Dechamps is meeting me here in a few minutes.”

Nicole filled Gus in on her dinner the night before. “They seem eager to get rid of the place.” Silence. “Hello? Gus?” She sighed, wondering if the call had dropped.

“Nicole?”

“I’m here. You cut out for a second.”

“I said, how does the place look?” Gus asked.

“I haven’t gone in yet, but it’s already an overgrown mess. We may have to persuade the client to spend some money landscaping. I’m talking bulldozers, the works.”

“Well, this might be worth it. We’re going to have to get appraisals on everything from the irrigation pipes to the number of dead vines. And quickly. We have a lot of interested buyers who want to see this place immediately.”

“I’m on it.”

“And I don’t have to tell you that your promotion will be waiting here when you close this deal.”

“Consider it done,” Nicole said nonchalantly. But she began to feel that rush of a potential sale, and her new life with a big office and a kid in her lap dangled in front of her. “Oh, and say hi to Don for me. What’s he working on, by the way?”

Gustavo chuckled, always finding the rivalry between Nicole and Don amusing. Don was a smooth-talking Chi-town native who liked to pitch himself against Nicole’s New York street swag. “Don is taking care of a celebrity home sale. I’ll tell him you said hello.”

Nicole’s eyes lit up. Celebrities were the worst clients! “Just so you know, I am going to rub this in his face.”

“Have at it,” Gustavo said. She could hear him smile, and her skin pricked with more than just excitement. She’d learned much from Gustavo and she admired him, probably a little more than she should.

Okay, she had a crush on her boss.

He was about ten years older and stood over six feet tall with a nice body. And he looked great in a suit. Well groomed, handsome, and of course, wealthy—with a few homes around the globe.

He was perfect. Everything she wanted in a man.

And married to some former Miss Universe pageant winner who was also the mother of his three beautiful children.

Whatever. My Gustavo is out there. Somewhere. Right?

The question brought up images of Destin. She couldn’t tell if he was a player or a perfect gentleman. Was he a chauvinist or a boyish joker? One thing was certain: he was damaged goods. And as much as he tried to mask it, those moments when his eyes had darkened during their discussion about the land spoke volumes.

Again she told herself that her interest in him was derived from pity. She’d lost family too. Except she’d gone back to her hotel room after dinner and found herself thinking of Destin’s intense blue gaze and his mischievous smile. She liked his size and saw herself in the crook of his arm. What would his beard feel like against her cheek when he kissed her?

Get a grip! No. She refused to be attracted to him. Broken men couldn’t be fixed. She’d tried and failed too many times. She was thankful he wasn’t interested in the sale of the land. She doubted she’d see him again.

But still, she wondered if he’d made love to Thereza that night, and felt the smallest twinge of jealousy at the thought.

Grabbing her keys and the old black-and-white picture of the Dechamps winery, Nicole jumped out of the SUV to search for an entrance. The formidable vegetation gave no hint of a door. For all she knew, she was at the wall of Jurassic Park. Her small heels sank into the dirt and she worked to pull them out, her skirt hindering her movements, only to have them sink back in.