Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

Harper craved those lips. She leaned forward as Ryden closed her eyes, but a shout from her foreman interrupted them.

“Signorina Harper, your next appointment is here.”

Both of them looked in his direction. Harper felt like she was in a trance.

“I’d better leave.” Ryden was breathing heavily.

“Please, stay. I’m going to give a potential customer a tour of the vineyard, and I’d like you to join us.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“After they leave,” Harper said, “I’d like to take you to my home and cook for us.”

“I didn’t know you cook.”

“Then it’s about time we got to know each other.”

*

Once she’d toured the cozy Tuscany farmhouse, Ryden went to sit in the garden with a cold glass of iced tea while Harper jumped under the shower.

She couldn’t get enough of the magnificent panoramic view: the lush, eye-popping green of the vineyard, carved into terraces that cascaded down the side of the mountain to the rich, multi-hued blues of the sea below. The terra-cotta rooftops of a village etched into the cliffs along the distant water’s edge caught the sunlight, while above, a massive flock of seagulls rode the air currents in a spectacular and seemingly choreographed display of aerial acrobatics. Here and there, small plumes of smoke rose from the greenery, where hired hands burned off dead trimmings from the vines. If the planet had one perfect spot where beauty met serenity, this was it.

She heard noise from inside the farmhouse, so she slipped into the kitchen through a side screen door that adjoined the garden. Harper stood hunched over a chopping board, her back turned. She made no sign she’d heard Ryden come in, so Ryden used the opportunity to study her from the doorway.

Not only did Harper look comfortable cooking, she appeared well versed in the fundamentals of Italian cuisine. She’d told Ryden that Italians believed the magic lay in the simplicity and freshness of the ingredients, so tonight’s angel-hair pasta would be accompanied by a sauce made from sun-ripened tomatoes, scallions, basil, olive oil, and regional cheeses.

Captivated, she watched the easy, sensual way Harper moved, fluid grace in every motion, with no wasted step or gesture as she chopped ingredients and tossed them into a wide saucepan. Ryden couldn’t take her eyes off Harper’s ass, perfectly defined by the light linen trousers she’d changed into, and realized for the first time why men spent so much of their life checking out women and thinking about sex.

“Enjoying the view or the smells?” Harper asked, her back still turned.

“Both,” Ryden replied with confidence, actually glad she’d been caught appreciating Harper.

“I’m glad.” Harper looked at her with those penetrating blue eyes.

“Can I do something?” Ryden asked, relieved she could form a sentence in the face of such enticing temptation.

“You’re going to have to be more specific before I answer that.” Harper stared at her mouth.

How could this woman turn her on with just one look or sentence? “Can I help you in the kitchen?” Ryden asked.

“Are you being deliberately vague?”

Her cheeks burned with the insinuation. “I’d like to help you prepare dinner.”

Harper smiled. “You’re fun to tease. Here…” She placed a knife on the counter. “Why don’t you work on the salad?”

Ryden stood next to her, slicing tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and red onion, while Harper cooked.

“Almost ready.” Harper dipped her finger in the sauce and was about to taste it when Ryden stopped her hand.

“Let me,” Ryden said.

Harper let Ryden guide her finger to Ryden’s mouth.

She slowly licked off the sauce, playing her tongue provocatively around Harper’s finger, never taking her eyes off Harper’s. “Delicious,” she whispered.

Harper swallowed.

“You’re fun to tease.” Touché , Ryden thought, with a satisfied smile.

“I love to be teased ,” Harper replied, “in the kitchen and every other room.”

Ryden had to put some space between them before she embarrassed herself. She took a step back. “I’ll set the table.”

They ate at the rough-hewn table by the outdoor fireplace, sitting side by side on a bench that faced the spectacular view. As they talked about Italy and drank Harper’s divine red wine, Ryden found herself torn between staring at the view—spectacular in the setting sun—and Harper’s equally compelling profile, her bronzed skin shining in the amber light, eyes sparkling in pride at her vineyard, and her inviting, lush lips.

After they finished their food and cleared the table, they poured a second glass and returned to sit in comfortable canvas chairs by the fireplace.

“You never told me why that special-edition wine I drank was so important,” Ryden said.

“Pepo—the founder of the vineyard—gave it to me before he died. It was a fifty-five-year-old wine, the first to be produced.”

Ryden gasped. “Oh my G…I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Clearly.” Harper smiled.

“No wonder you got so upset. I thought it was because it was expensive.”

“It was priceless because it was given to me by the only father I ever knew. He was my family.”

Ryden sat there shaking her head. How could she have been so stupid and insensitive?

“Hey, what’s done is done.” Harper touched her hand. “It was about time someone drank it.”

“Maybe, but not me. I can hardly tell the difference between wine and Sprite.”

Harper laughed. “That’s not true.”

“But you know what I mean.” Ryden couldn’t even look at her.

“If it makes you feel any better, I kept the bottle.”

“Should it? Because it doesn’t.”

Harper sat back in the chair. “I guess it was always about the bottle, since I never intended to drink the wine. The bottle is what I looked at whenever I missed home and the grapes. So, now it’s empty.” Harper shrugged. “Only means it’s lighter to carry around.”

“You’re too kind. I’ll have to accept your reasoning since I can’t replace it.”

“I mean it,” Harper said.

“Why did you choose Angelo as a name for your wine?”

“Pepo was obsessed with his dog,” Harper replied, her voice tinged with a bittersweet sadness at the memory. “This house and vineyard have never been without an Angelo, even after he died and I took over.”

Ryden looked around.

“He died a month and a half ago,” Harper explained quietly. “I buried him up there.”

Ryden ached to ease the pain in Harper’s voice. “You must miss him.”

“Like crazy.”

“Will you get another?”

“Of course. I can’t imagine life without a dog.”

“But not yet.”

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“A particular litter?”

Harper shook her head. “I don’t believe in buying expensive certified breeds when the shelter here is full of strays that desperately need a home.”

“I totally agree, especially after having worked for a shelter for the past month. You won’t believe how many people dump their dog because it’s no longer a fuzzy, cute puppy the kids want to play with.”

“It’s ridiculously sad. I don’t see how anyone can decide to get rid of a living creature because it’s no longer convenient. You wouldn’t do that to your child.”

“So the right moment depends on, what?” Ryden asked.

“I just know. The same way I know which dog to pick. It’s a personal moment for me and something I do alone, so that I know the animal is mine and I’m his, no one else in between. It’s silly, I know, but—”

“But you want to know you’ve been chosen. You, exclusively, and without a doubt or hesitation.”