Читать книгу Seduced on the Red Carpet - Ann Christopher - Страница 7

Man, what a day.

Hunter Chambers Jr. edged the pickup onto the road and beneath the cool tunnel created by the elms’ outstretched branches overhead, heading home after a quick trip to the neighbor’s winery. Rolling all the windows down, he enjoyed the rush of air on his overheated face and arms, although the refreshment came at a steep price: now he could smell himself. It wasn’t pretty. Atop the mild funk of clean sweat was the not-so-clean aroma of mud. What a winning combination that was. It was like he’d rolled several miles in the muck rather than merely walked the vines, picked a few bunches of cabernet—almost ready now; another couple days should do it—and carried the load on his head.

Braking as he went into a switchback, he slid the baseball cap back and swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Mistake. Big mistake. A glance in the rearview mirror showed an unfortunate brown streak across his skin, adding to the general pigpen effect.

Nasty.

Just the way he liked it.

There was nothing like a hard day outside from dawn to dusk to make him feel like he’d done something, and the sweat and dirt were badges he wore with honor. You couldn’t grow grapes sitting nice and clean in the airconditioned inside—no, siree. Today had been especially productive, especially grueling, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

Especially since he’d worked off some of the agitation caused by that woman this morning.

Livia Blake—aka Trouble with a capital T.

Having put her out of his mind only through a lot of sweat equity, he wasn’t going to think about her now. No, he wasn’t. He would keep his mind on, ah…he’d keep his mind on…

Oh, yeah. Shower.

Yeah. An emergency shower was in his immediate future; possibly two. And then it’d be time to open a nice bottle of—

Holy shit.

He came out of the curve and had to cut the wheel hard and stomp the break to keep from plowing into a stupid-ass biker stopped on the shoulder. Hell, it wasn’t even the shoulder. Biker and bike were standing on the edge of the road, which was where you hung out when your fondest wish was to be launched three hundred feet into the air and then smashed into roadkill beneath the tires of an oncoming truck.

The biker dropped the bike and jumped aside, way too late, with a shouted “Hey!”

Dumbass. Like he was the reckless one. And Hunter would have been at fault if he’d hit the idiot and culled a weak and clearly stupid member from the herd. Was that fair? Giving the horn a furious honk, he glanced in the side mirror to see if the fool needed help and that was when he realized who it was.

Oh, shit.

It was her. Livia Blake. Trouble.

His gut lurched with a crazy excitement that had nothing to do with playing the Good Samaritan and everything to do with her. Keep going, he told himself, but the damn truck was already reversing as though it’d been caught by an invisible tail hook and reeled in. A smarter man would’ve sent someone back for her, but he and smart hadn’t been on speaking terms since he laid eyes on the woman that morning.

Stopping the truck properly on the shoulder, where all stopped vehicles belonged, he got out and took his time about walking back to her. Like the worst kind of Peeping Tom, he sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that his shades allowed him to study her with something like discretion. Which was shameful, especially for a man who had a mother and a small daughter. Women were not objects, and they should not be ogled. He was ashamed of himself. Truly. Deep down—deep, deep, deep down—in the farthest reaches of his soul, he felt like pond scum for checking her out so thoroughly. God would probably punish him later, and he’d deserve it.

He stared anyway.

That was the funny thing, not that it was really funny. He’d been aware of Livia Blake, of course, and he’d ogled her in the occasional Victoria’s Secret catalog that’d strayed across his path over the years. Certainly he’d seen that cover issue of Sports Illustrated and lusted, but that was in the generic way that all men universally lusted over all the women in that issue. Wow. Sexy models…I wonder what’s in the fridge.

But this…

Seeing her in person was a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, and he wasn’t quite used to it yet. Especially since she’d far exceeded his expectations and was beautiful in addition to intelligent, funny and intriguing.

Having scrambled back onto the road after darting out of the way, she now bent to pick up the bike. Which was the perfect way for him to appreciate the way her shorts highlighted both her round plum of an ass and her long, smooth and shapely brown legs. This was no tiny little five-footer who you’d be afraid of bending and breaking in bed if things got a little too enthusiastic. Oh, no. This was an Amazon who’d wrap those strong thighs around him—a man, he meant, not him—and give as good as she got before demanding more and then more again.

In a fateful move that made this one of the luckiest days of his life, she’d worn a stretchy little tank top–type thing in white. White! Which, out here in the late afternoon sunlight, was really something to see. Maybe that top looked fine in a dressing room, but she’d apparently been riding that bike hard—lucky bike—and she was nice and sweaty. Wet and sweaty. And, as every man in the world knew, white top plus sweaty woman equals a spectacular view of breasts.

No doubt she’d die if she knew it, but he could see…Jesus, he could see everything. Rounded breasts just saggy enough for him to see that they were hers and not some pair purchased via installment plan from a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Dark areolae, pointy nipples, the thrilling valley between. Then all that bounty gave way to a narrow waist and curved hips. Anyone who thought all supermodels were bony anorexics with no hips, butt or breasts had never laid eyes on this fantastic creature; no wonder she got millions just for showing up and smiling.

She was one tall drink of water, and he wanted to lower his head and drink.

The face was even better, if that was possible. All the makeup was gone now, not that she’d been wearing much to begin with, replaced with the damp glow of a healthy woman who’d gotten some good exercise. Her hair was up, damp around the edges with curling strands skimming her neck. Those hazel eyes glittered with fire, and her pouty lips were ripe for kissing.

She looked, in short, as though she’d spent a thoroughly satisfying afternoon in bed, and this view of her was definitely not the sort of thing he needed burned into his brain if he wanted to ignore and then forget her.

“You.” She kicked the stand down on the mountain bike, hung the helmet from the handlebars, planted her feet wide and jammed her hands on her hips. “I should have known. You’re a menace on the road, you know that?”

His blood, he was beginning to discover, flowed a little faster when she was around, and his skin felt a little warmer. It wasn’t his imagination and it wasn’t just his generalized appreciation of a beautiful woman. There was something about this woman that made his heart pound, something intriguing in those bright eyes that he longed to explore.

“I like to drive on the road,” he told her. “That’s what it’s for. Not loitering and admiring the scenery.”

“I wasn’t admiring the scenery, genius. I have a flat tire.”

Yeah, he’d seen that already. He stooped to examine the tire in question, mostly because it brought him much closer to her. Close enough to admire the smoothness of her skin, the attitude in her expression and to smell the clean, earthy musk of her.

Mistake. Big mistake.

And yet, when he stood again, he edged even closer, within kissing distance, if that sort of thing had been on his mind. Only the bike separated them, and God knew they were both tall enough to lean over the bike.

“You and your flat tire should be on the shoulder so you don’t get hit.”

“That’s where we were headed when you and your monster truck almost plowed us down.” Here she paused to give him a pointed and disdainful once-over. “What have you been doing, anyway?”

“Working in the fields,” he told her, unabashed. No doubt she’d never in her life raised her pretty little manicured hands for anything other than to signal for another glass of champagne. “That’s what we do here at the winery.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Shower much?”

Oh, she was funny. Stripping off his shades so she could see what he was doing, he gave her the kind of look-see she’d just given him, only his was quite a bit more lingering and appreciative. Her cheeks colored accordingly, but she didn’t drop that haughty chin by so much as an inch.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

Giving him a killing glare, she reached for her little pack on the ground and unzipped it. “Thanks for making sure I wasn’t killed when I dove out of the way of your speeding death machine. Kindly leave me in peace while I patch this defective Chambers Winery bike tire.”

What? Patch? Her?

To his astonishment, she withdrew a repair kit and actually looked like she knew what to do with it, which really screwed with his preconceived notions of her as a partying airhead with nothing inside her skull but marshmallow fluff. But, of course, it’d only taken one look into this woman’s keen hazel eyes for him to know that there was way more to her than what he could see on the outside.

He’d have to stop misjudging her and give her a chance.

Maybe.

If only he didn’t have such fierce reactions to everything about her.

“There’s nothing defective at the Chambers Winery, including the bikes. You must have ridden over a nail or something,” he informed her gruffly. “And I’ll do that for you.”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s the least I can—”

“No, thanks. I can do it.”

Yeah, he could see that. The sight of her, tired, dusty, sweaty and proud as she stooped beside the tire, was really doing a number on him. It was a terrible time to discover that he was a caveman at heart, but she shouldn’t have to fix that tire, and he was incapable of standing by with his thumb up his ass watching while she did it.

He could do it for her. He wanted to do it for her. An irritating voice inside his head was egging him on, pushing him to prove to her that, even though he wasn’t a Hollywood millionaire with flashy cars and a plane, he was strong and capable, and if she needed help while she was here on his land, then he was the one she could rely on.

Crazy, huh?

Insanity. But he still squatted on the other side of that tire, stared at her startled face through the spokes and put his hand on top of hers where it rested on the rubber treads. Something sparked a shiver across his skin. He told himself it was the cooling sweat on his body but that was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told, even to himself. The contact between their flesh tied him up in knots. That, and the wary turbulence in the depths of those astonishing hazel eyes.

“I’ll either do this for you or take you back to the bike rental. Your choice, Livia.” Her tightening jaw reminded him of his manners. “Please.”

“I’m not a spoiled diva.”

The stubborn insistence in her voice said it all. She was tired of being stereotyped and dismissed on the basis of her looks, tired of being treated like a china doll that could break and ruin the franchise. She was a strong, capable woman, and she wanted him to see that about her, to acknowledge it.

That pride tugged at his heart. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“I know you’re not,” he said softly. “And if the truck gets a flat, you can change that for me, okay?”

That got her. A sudden laugh lit up her face and it was every bit as breathtaking as a vivid red sunset on the ocean’s horizon or sunlight hitting a rainbow. He started to laugh with her, but halfway through the maneuver his throat seized up and he could only stare, wishing she’d release him from whatever spell she’d spun around him.

“You’re just being nice because you know I’m going to try and get you fired.”

He floundered, trying to get his voice back online. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t told her that he was one of the Chambers that owned the winery, or why he’d given her his old nickname, J.R. for junior, rather than his real name, other than the idea of her trying to get his parents to fire him was hilarious.

This woman…she did things to him.

“Can we go now?”

“Yeah.” Her smile faded, probably because she’d seen—she had to see—how she intrigued him, how he wanted her. There were lots of things he was good at, but controlling his reactions to her didn’t seem to be one of them. Their touching hands became a fulcrum, the ground zero of a growing wave of heat that would ignite a fire capable of torching all these surrounding elms if they weren’t careful. “Can I have my hand back now?”

“Yeah,” he said, meaning it, and his brain sent the command to his hand: let go.

It took three or four beats after that for his hand to obey.

He stood, flustered, and she stood, clearing her throat. They didn’t look at each other. This unspoken signal made them look in other directions while he loaded the bike in the truck’s bed and she gathered up the helmet and her pack. They got in and he started the engine. No eye contact. They buckled up, staring out of their respective windows.

It didn’t matter. The damage had already been done and the air between them vibrated and sizzled accordingly, reminding him of the crackling energy created by the light sabers in the Star Wars movies. Which wasn’t a good sign.

He put the truck in gear and gripped the wheel with palms that were now wet like the rest of him but for an entirely different reason.

Drive, man. Keep your trap shut and drive. The sooner she’s out of your truck, the better.

Don’t say anything stupid.

“Livia?”

There was all kinds of yearning in his hoarse voice but it didn’t seem to reach her. She kept her head resolutely turned toward her window and didn’t answer.

“Are we developing a problem here?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Right.

Recognizing the lie for what it was, he drove off toward the winery.

Okay, girl, Livia told herself. Okay. This is not a big deal. There’re only a few miles to go back to the winery and you’ll be safe there. Not that you’re in danger or anything. Physical danger, that was. Just ignore the sexy man because you’re not here in Napa for a hookup or any other kind of romantic adventure. Stare out your window and think about what you need to pack for the shoot in Mexico at the end of the month.

She thought hard, possibly damaging her discombobulated brain in the process.

What did she need? Mexico was hot, right, so she’d need—what?

Oh, wait. Sunscreen. Good! Good start! Great job ignoring the sexy man!

Yes. She could do this. She’d need sunscreen, and she’d also need—

“Are you cold?” he asked, adjusting the vents.

Damn. Was he doing that on purpose or what? Was his voice always this velvety rasp that crept its way under her skin—when he wasn’t barking at her, that was? And why was he being so thoughtful and considerate all of the sudden when she knew darn well he’d already written her off as a Tinseltown flake with a worthless job flashing pretty smiles at the cameras for big money?

Why did his presence tie her belly up in crazy little knots?

He was dirty like a field hand, for God’s sake! Dirty, grouchy and arrogant. What was so thrilling about that? True, he wore a Negro League baseball cap—the black background with red lettering of the Indianapolis Clowns—so he couldn’t be all bad, but he was definitely mostly bad. So why was he making her unravel like a ninth-grader crushing on the prom king? Why did the musky scent of him and the indecipherable light in his golden eyes turn her into a quivering pool of mush?

At least he’d stopped touching her. Thank goodness for small favors.

“Ah, no,” she said, clearing her throat. “Thanks.”

They rode in silence for a way, which was good. Using the least amount of words possible seemed to be his thing, so as long as she kept quiet and didn’t babble or engage him in any way, this whole disconcerting interlude between them could pass without further incident.

Nice. She had a workable plan.

“What exactly do you do at the winery?” she asked.

He hesitated, keeping his eyes on the road. “I grow the grapes. And I make the wine.”

A lightbulb went off over her head. She’d known this guy was way too intelligent to dig irrigation ditches or some such all day, despite his appearance.

“Oh. So you’re a viticulturist and enologist?”

His jaw hit his lap with surprise and he glanced over, all wide-eyed astonishment. “Yeah.”

Annoyance warred with dark triumph inside her gut. So he was surprised she knew a couple multisyllable words, was he? Did he think she was too dumb and clueless to do a little reading about a vineyard before she showed up at one? Bozo.

“Keep your eyes on the road, please,” she snapped. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to kill me with this truck.”

He jerked his gaze back to the road. “Sorry. Not many people know the words.”

“Well, I’m not like many people, am I?” She didn’t bother keeping the ice out of her voice; she wasn’t ready to accept his apology just yet.

“No.” A muscle ticked in the back of his jaw. “You sure as hell aren’t.”

“So you’re a scientist. Did you go to UC Davis? I know they’ve got a program there—”

“No.” The edge of his lip curled, as though he was fighting a smile. “I went to Washington State.”

“So how long have you been working here?”

He paused. “Long time.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it true that you can tell when the grapes are ripe by squeezing them and seeing if the juice makes a little star-shaped pattern?”

His brows crept toward his hairline. They drove a good several hundred feet before he answered, “Yep.”

Irritated all over again, she glared at the side of his face. “Feel free to jump in anytime and tell me some fun facts about making wine. Maybe we could carry on a conversation.”

“I doubt there’s anything I could say that you don’t already know.”

“What a great ambassador for the Chambers Winery you are,” she muttered. “I can hardly wait to go back home and give this place a one-star rating on all the review sites.”

They rolled up to a stop sign just then and he took the opportunity to stare into her eyes with what seemed like bewilderment and sincerity. “Livia,” he said tiredly, “at this point, I’m just trying to keep my head from exploding off my shoulders.”

Well, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Was that an insult? A compliment?

Stymied, she snapped her mouth shut, crossed her arms over her chest and kept her head turned toward the window. See? She knew she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Why’d she let her weird fascination with this guy overwhelm her good sense? They were oil and water, in case she still hadn’t gotten it through her thick head, and any conversation between them was impossible, notwithstanding all her best intentions.

Luckily, they’d arrived. Driving past the tasteful stone sign that read Chambers Winery, he pulled up to the crowded bike rental stand and put the car in Park.

“Thanks for the ride,” she snapped. Desperate to get out of his truck and be done with him, forever, she snatched her pack off the floor and reached for the door handle. “I can get the bike myself—”

“Here.” Something soft tapped her on the arm and she looked over her shoulder to discover that he’d produced a clean powder-blue Chambers Winery T-shirt from somewhere. “Put this on.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You’re cold,” he insisted.

Cold? Did he not see her sweat-slicked face? “Are you crazy?” she began, but then he gave her chest a pointed once-over and she glanced down with dawning understanding.

Oh, God. Everything—everything!—was on display down there; she might as well have photographed her girls and posted them on the nearest billboard. Cheeks burning with humiliation, she snatched the shirt and jerked it on, taking two attempts to get her right arm into its sleeve.

“You could have mentioned that earlier,” she snarled when her head emerged.

He shrugged. “I couldn’t resist the view.”

Would it be wrong to scratch his eyes out? The local police would understand given the circumstances, right? And why did she still feel this strong connection to him and, worse, the driving need to understand what went on behind the honey-colored crystal of his eyes?

“I can’t get a read on you.” It wasn’t the wisest confession she’d ever made but she couldn’t hold it back. “I can’t figure out if you’re the world’s biggest jerk or a great guy.”

Renewed heat swallowed up his amusement and that smirk disappeared, giving way to naked intensity that had her belly fluttering and her toes curling.

“Does it matter to you which one I am, Sweet Livie?”

“No,” she lied. “It doesn’t matter to me at all.”