Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(16)

Right.

“Forgive me for being late. I was…” He appeared to be searching for a word. His Italian accent made him sound like someone out of a movie. She tipped her head to study him. So maybe she wasn’t the only one who sometimes couldn’t marshal words to her beck and call.

“I was detained,” he finally said and held out his hand. “Adrian.” He grinned. “The impostor musketeer formerly known as Dumas.”

A simple grin shouldn’t shoot heat straight to her belly, so of course it did. She was way out of practice in the realm that involved men. Heck, she’d never been in practice. She’d had relationships with exactly three guys. Well, Eddie didn’t count as a relationship, even though she’d had sex with him. Sex that she’d regretted five minutes after he’d slid off her with a menacing look in his eyes. Eddie had put her off men for years, planted fear when he’d planted his fists. And her two other failed experiences hadn’t done anything to heal those fears.

She battled back her maudlin memories and shook his hand.

He placed his other hand over hers. “Tasha.” His velvet-smooth voice could charm a cobra. “Is it Tasha?”

No. No. No. No. She was not feeling heat charge through her body just from the touch of his hands. She was not melting at a simple touch and the purr of a smooth voice.

“Yes.”

Her pulse hammered. And her mouth went dry. He wasn’t Eddie, and she’d be okay. Her pulse hammered faster. Anxiety ripped through her. She wouldn’t be okay. Maybe she should run. She hadn’t counted on being afraid. Maybe she should tell him she’d changed her mind. Maybe—

He released her hand and sat in the chair next to hers.

“I have eight sisters. You have nothing to fear from me. I’ve been trained well.”

Damn, he was perceptive. She hadn’t counted on that either. Or maybe her anxiety was closer to the surface than she’d hoped. Damn, maybe her hands were clammy. She drew them away and wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. It was cool, the liquid long gone, and the ceramic had absorbed the temperature of the chilly spring day. But neither the mug nor the chill did anything to cool the heated charge storming her senses.

He removed his sunglasses and laid them on the table.

She looked into his eyes. They crinkled at the corners with his smile. Maybe a walk in a garden would be okay. He didn’t look like an aggressive man. But then, they often didn’t. Hadn’t she just heard a horror story from one of the other women at Inspire? About a husband turning violent the day after the young woman had said I do?

“Adrian.” She repeated his name, hoping she didn’t sound like the moron she was feeling herself to be. “It must be wonderful to have sisters, Adrian.” She said his name slowly. It gave her time to think.

She didn’t want to share details about her life. Didn’t want him to know she lived in a homeless shelter. Didn’t want him to know the shame that nagged her day and night. And she sure didn’t want him to know where to find her. What if he turned out to be like Eddie? Looks and behaviors could be so deceiving.

But somehow, deep down, she also wanted to trust him—at least enough to enjoy a fine spring day. Enough to flex the relationship muscle that Mary had pointed out needed to be flexed before it withered away, maybe forever. She was tired of living an impoverished emotional life. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the party—she’d forgotten her troubles for a few brief hours. Had fun for the first time in longer than she could remember. Dancing with him had revived the part of her that wanted to live. To laugh. To resurrect the playful spirit that had survived in spite of her horrific childhood.

In a flash, she knew how she wanted to play the day.

“I have reasons for what I’m about to ask of you,” she said, trying to steady her voice and not let her fears get the best of her. “Reasons I’m not free to share right now.”

He sat forward in his chair, his gaze steady on hers.

Suddenly self-conscious, she lowered her gaze to the table.

He fingered his sunglasses, and she couldn’t help but notice his hands—big, tanned, strong looking and well manicured. A rich man’s hands. She resisted the impulse to pull her own hands below the table and sit on them. Hers were callused, and she almost never got the dirt from gardening out from under her cuticles and nails.

“I’d like to try an experiment.” She forced the words out before the cowardice blooming in her throat swallowed them up. Forced her chin up too. “That is, if you’re willing.” He watched her face as she took in a breath. “I’d like to keep to your friend Parker’s rules from the masquerade—that we don’t reveal details about our particular identities.” She bit her lip and then tried on a smile. “I’d like to extend our game just a bit longer. I’m liking the mystery.”





Tasha was more beautiful than Adrian remembered.

And just as skittish.

Whatever she was hiding, the continued anonymity she was proposing suited him just fine. He liked the idea of being seen as an everyday man, just another guy living in Sonoma. And he liked a woman who could ask for what she wanted.

“I’ll play,” Adrian answered. “But just exactly what rules are you suggesting we follow?”

He had to admit her proposal added an edge of raciness to the day, an edge of challenge and the allure of fantasy. Maybe she wasn’t afraid, as he’d first thought she was. And maybe, like him, she too wanted to be liked for who she was in this time. In this moment.