Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(77)

After Natasha saw Tyler into bed, she went into the kitchen and made a cup of chamomile tea. She dreaded sleep and the dreams it might bring. The nightmare of the past few days was bad enough. Her employee had embezzled funds, the man who’d cracked her heart open to love—who also happened to be her boss—thought she was a thief, and a man who’d seared ugly fears into her soul so many years ago, fears she still battled every day, was about to lay claim to her son.

But worse than all those challenges combined was the drag of sadness that threatened to engulf her. She’d known all along that a future with Adrian was impossible. At least she’d always known it in her head. But now? Now she knew it in her heart.





Chapter Twenty-Three



ADRIAN DOWNED A SECOND ESPRESSO AND then drove to the vineyard. All morning he’d rerun his conversation with Natasha at the ballgame in his head. Why hadn’t she accepted his forgiveness? The money didn’t matter. He knew she’d had a good reason to do something so drastic.

He had to see her, to smooth things over. To convince her that he’d help—now and in the future—with whatever it was that had forced her to take the funds.

He parked next to the Casa gift shop. With long, impatient strides he reached the greenhouse. She wasn’t in her office. He checked his watch. Nine fifteen. She never came in late.

Enrique entered the greenhouse with a wheelbarrow full of dirt.

“Have you seen Natasha?”

“No, Mr. Tavonesi.”

The man’s searching gaze made Adrian uncomfortable.

“That’s good-looking soil,” Adrian said, turning his attention to the wheelbarrow.

“Casa compost. Best I’ve ever worked with.”

When Adrian looked up, Enrique was still staring.

“What?” He hated to be stared at.

“There’s something you should know, sir.”

“I’ll be back later today,” Adrian said as he headed for the door. He wasn’t in any mood to discuss business right then. He had to find Natasha.

“It’s about Se?ora Raley.”

Adrian stopped. Pivoted.

“What is it?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to be curt, but his nerves were on edge.





As Adrian drove to Natasha’s, he fought down his urge to be angry—jealous?—that Natasha had confided in Enrique but not him. Natasha’s car was parked in front of her apartment. Adrian pulled in behind it.

When she answered his knock, her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“But I want to talk to you.” His voice was tight with restrained emotion. Normally he loved the way she stood up to him, the way she didn’t defer to him just because he was her boss. But not now. “I spoke with Enrique.”

Her eyes widened. “He shouldn’t have told you.” She motioned him inside. Her stiff posture said more than words could.

“You should’ve told me something as important as this.”

“His grandmother could die. Surely you can understand the urgency.”

Adrian wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. “His grandmother? What does Enrique’s grandmother have to do with anything?”

“If you prosecute him and he goes to prison, there’s no one to help her. And if they flee to Colombia, he’ll be killed by the drug cartel. And then she’ll die. Her blood would be on your hands.”

“Prosecute Enrique? Why would I do that? And what does Colombia have to do with anything?” He touched a hand to her arm, and she flinched. “I’m talking about the man that’s stalking you, threatening you.”

Her face paled and went blank. Evidently the conversation he’d had with Enrique wasn’t the one she’d surmised they’d had. He felt like he’d entered a play in the second or third act.

“Natasha, take a breath. It’ll be all right. We can sort this out.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“The man threatening you?”

“No, Enrique. This whole thing is my fault. He never would have had access to your accounts if I hadn’t given it to him. But without him, I couldn’t do the damned job.”

Suddenly he understood that she was talking about the missing funds. “Enrique took the money?”

She crossed her arms and hugged her elbows in tight, as if holding back her emotions.

“See what happens when you try to control people? You think you can just sail in and adjust them, like… like they were puppets in your grand scheme. Well, that doesn’t work.” Anger had edged into her voice. She pointed her finger at him. “You can’t make choices for others.”

She wasn’t holding back now. But he’d rather hear her angry than sad.

“None of us would’ve been in this situation if it weren’t for you forcing me into this job. I can’t read. I can’t do accounts.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have dissociative dyslexia.” She put her hands to her hips as if squaring for a fight. “Numbers and words swim off the page. Especially when I’m upset.” Her chin went up. “I can’t read, Adrian.”

Her words landed in his brain and shot straight to his heart. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.