A Taste Of Desire

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.

Exasperated, she opened the back of the car and rummaged through her tote bag for her flip-flops, but found only her blazer and wallet. She’d really misjudged this little adventure. Shoving her keys and phone in her bag, she slung it over her shoulder, stepped carefully around the other side of the car and squeezed herself through an opening between two large palm trees.

Nicole definitely wasn’t in New York anymore. Dead leaves rustled, something chirped overhead and the trees seemed to bend toward her. She freaked, moving forward as fast as she could, following a natural path, dodging twigs coming at her head and swatting at leaves that scraped her arms. She stumbled forward into a clearing, caught herself and then squinted up at her surroundings. She recognized the skeletal remnants of the winery instantly.

She held up the black-and-white picture, locating the main house, and studied the photo before dropping her arm. The fire had taken half of the front building. Rooms were roofless and exposed. She noticed the other vine-covered buildings that were spread out farther back—burned, crumbling and neglected. Behind them in the far distance were rows upon rows of gnarled and broken grapevines. The massive trees in the picture, now decayed chunks in the ground, must have been how the flames traveled from one building to the next.

During her summer in France, she’d enjoyed waking early to help with the harvest, walking between the vines, breaking for a four-course lunch feast with her host family. Love and laughter were served with the pinot noir. This place hadn’t seen that in a long time. It was desolate, scarily so.

She snapped some pictures on her phone, noticing in one the dark sky in the corner. Tipping her head back, she saw clouds race by—some dark and thick, others white as cotton balls—but the sun seemed to scare them away. The surrounding trees swayed hard, then stopped. The air smelled like fall leaves. It was a bluebird day, hot as hell, though. She swore the humidity was getting thicker.

She took in the seclusion of the plantation—a great selling point. Again, the trees rustled and a loud thud startled her, as if something heavy had fallen, and it occurred to her that she was in a foreign country, in the wilderness, alone. She listened carefully for people or, God forbid, animals. Being a city kid, she was tough, but wild things were not her forte.

She turned to go back to the car, suddenly aware of a large shadow rising overhead. Thunder cracked, and the darkened sky flashed with lightning. A droplet, followed by a few more, fell on Nicole’s head and shoulders. She lunged forward to find her path back to the car, catching her heel in the already-soft ground. The sky became darker still, and the clouds unleashed. Her ears filled with the rush of the water within the surrounding trees, and rain pelted her eyes. She again tried to move forward, but her exit path had disappeared in the downpour.

A dog barked from not too far away. Through the rain, she could see its black-and-caramel form standing alert inside the open doorway of a small shack. A shack with a roof!

She wanted to run there, but what if the dog wasn’t friendly? Or had rabies? The dog barked again and took off into the rain. She rushed forward toward the open door, her heels sliding all over the place, but she pushed on. Breathless and soaked, she felt the cool air on her skin as she made it inside the shadowed doorway. She swiped at her eyes, blinking rapidly, and ran straight into a body.

The scream she let out could only be described as bloodcurdling. She shoved her back against the wall and focused on a dark silhouette across from her. The figure moved into a shaft of light.

Her breath caught when she recognized Destin’s concerned blue eyes.

“Destin! Oh, my God, you scared me.”

“Nicole! What the...are you all right? That fallen branch didn’t get a piece of you, did it?” His voice sounded melodic over the pounding of the rain, and it took her a second to register that he had asked her a question.

“I—I don’t think so.” She didn’t even know one had fallen near her.

“May I?” Without hesitating, he stepped closer, his head bent toward hers, and ran light fingers from her neck over her shoulder, carefully scanning for nicks and scrapes. She shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

She watched his every movement, silently noting his perfectly straight nose and full lips. Michelangelo himself could have carved his cheekbones. His gaze stopped at the V of her soaked white shirt. He looked up and quickly stepped back.

“I don’t think you’re injured!” he shouted as the rain increased.

She slumped against the wall and tried to steady her breathing. Her lungs felt heavy with moist air. “What are you doing here? I thought you were heading to France.”

The thunder crack was deafening, and lightning streaked the sky. Destin shook his head. “Not in this weather. I came to make sure the drains were open—if not, the cellar could flood. What are you doing here?”

“I’m meeting Elliot.”

Destin shook his head rapidly. “I spoke to my brother this morning. He was going to call you to cancel.”

Nicole lifted her phone. Sure enough, a voicemail symbol popped up.

“I’ll leave. Just let me catch my breath. My heart is racing. It’s so humid,” she said, pulling at her shirt, wincing when she saw one of her buttons pop off and hit the ground. Quickly she pinched her shirt over her cleavage. When she looked up, Destin’s gaze darted away. He cleared his throat.

“You can’t drive in this, Nicole. You don’t know these roads.”

Just then, a streak of wet fur came bursting into the doorway, and the dog shook water all over them both. Nicole jumped and let a loud shriek. On shaky legs, she stepped away and heard an audible snap. Just as her heel gave way and her body lurched toward the floor, she was suddenly airborne and hoisted into strong arms.

“Whoa,” Destin said, his lips inches from hers. “I got you.”

Chapter 5

“Welcome to the wine cellar,” he gritted out, quickly descending the stairs with her cradled in his arms. “Let’s take a look at that ankle.” Destin gently set her down on a bench next to a long sturdy table, slipped off her shoe and bent over her already swollen ankle. Her gaze darted around the disorganized room, then landed on her savior—in a black long-sleeved Henley with the top three buttons undone, a light smattering of dark chest hair peeking out, cargo pants and hard-worn boots. His damp hair curled and spiked around his ears. She itched to smooth it down.

He pushed up his sleeves, and she watched his forearm muscles flex. She wondered if he worked out, then mentally shook her head. Those weren’t gym-honed muscles. He was a vintner. A farmer. Working shirtless in the sun. Doing manly stuff like lifting barrels and digging ditches. At least, he used to.

She got a little overwhelmed at how very male he looked squatting in front of her. Then he touched her, his large hands gentle as he ran his thumb around the swelling, testing and pushing at the tender skin.

Any pain was overshadowed by the rush of heat that suddenly strained between her legs. The unexpected sensations had her lifting her foot away slightly. He raised his head but kept hold and lifted his other palm to her calf for support.

“Does this hurt?” His brows were high with worry.

What could she say? No, but could you please run your hands all over my body?

“No, but—” She hissed. “Oww,” she said when Destin bent her ankle inward. She wiggled her toes, testing that it wasn’t broken. And became more and more embarrassed that he was staring at her foot so intently. Thank God her pedicure was still intact.

“Just a sprain, I think,” he said, lowering her foot to the floor. Carefully, he placed her shoe back on and she winced, but not from pain—the heel of her shoe had completely broken off.

“Uh! My Jimmy Choos,” Nicole whined, then instantly regretted sounding like a Kardashian. But those were expensive. Calm down, she told herself. She could get them fixed on 57th Street. Ira wasn’t just a cobbler; he was a magician. She’d need the broken heel, though.

The wet mongrel that had started this mess chose that moment to walk by, and he was chewing on something small and cone shaped. The scruffy mutt lowered himself onto the concrete floor and chomped down, right into her heel. Nicole’s eyes widened, and she began snapping her fingers.

“No! Drop it! Come here. Come here!”

He lifted and cocked his head, then ignored her and proceeded to tear at the leather.

Still crouched, Destin twisted around. “Looks like Magnus likes Jimmy Choos, too.” He chuckled, and the sensual sound brought Nicole out of her haze. But before she knew what was happening, Destin slipped off her other shoe, tore off the heel with his bare hand and tossed it right between Magnus’s paws.

“Now your shoes will be even heights. We’ll get you another pair,” he said with a smirk as her jaw fell open. Suddenly everything was just too much. She should put this guy in his place. She should put Elliot in his place! She should bill this little visit by the hour. She should—

Destin stood abruptly, his hand on his hips and his pelvis right in her line of sight. She blinked. What was she thinking?

“I don’t have any ice,” he murmured as he looked around the room. “You’ll just have to keep it elevated.” Sliding another bench close to her, he propped up her leg. She focused on keeping her skirt down as it bunched up to midthigh, the rip in the fabric straining wide. “How does that feel?”

“It’s fine. Really...” As in really attractive, maybe even more so in his casual clothes than he’d been in a jacket last night. His face was all angular planes and strong jaw. That perfect brow remained in a frown, unsatisfied. He stepped around her and disappeared through a door she hadn’t noticed.

She took a moment to scan her surroundings. Empty light sockets dominated the walls, but a few strategically placed bulbs illuminated the room with a soft warmth. Stone walls and high ceilings were accented by long archways and dusty cherrywood beams.

The wine cellar was in her files, but there was no mention of it being in working order. She assumed it had been above ground and destroyed. Across the room, white sheets were draped over other furniture. The ghostly round outlines suggested bar tables that probably once sat in a lounge area. Glass display cabinets were empty. Oil lamps sat unused on the shelves, and wires poked from the ceiling, suggesting a chandelier had hung over the table at one time.

Sitting and dining rooms in a wine cellar weren’t uncommon, especially in new wineries. They could have had tastings there, or offered tours and events. The winery in Bordeaux hosted weddings in their cask room.

She leaned against the lip of the dining table and ran a hand over the smooth wood. Could the furnished cellar be a selling point? Maybe, depending on who the client was. It could be a storage room, a novelty playroom of some sort, even a fun office space. She could come up with a ton of ideas.

She made a mental note to ask Destin if he was planning on keeping the furniture.

Scrapes and shuffles behind her echoed from the open doorway to her left. Bracing herself on her arms, she leaned over and peered over the threshold. The large chamber accommodated stacked oak barrels and a wall lined with black corked bottles. Nicole felt a shiver of excitement. The cask room—where the wines matured in oak barrels before bottling.

She twisted farther, trying to see the expanse, only to be met with a wall of chilled air. Goosebumps tightened her skin, and she started to pull back but stopped when she noticed one barrel was standing upright and away from the rest. A spigot was tapped into the top, a small empty wine glass off to the side. PH strips were strewn on the spigot lid.

During her time in France, Nicole had participated in many batch tests where acidity levels were checked before fermentation and again at bottling time. Titration kits were preferred, but PH strips were good for a quick read. Could there be wine in there still? Since the fire had happened four years ago, she supposed there could be several batches about to reach maturity.

Nicole’s brain began running through the property file she’d read over several times. Nowhere did the asset sheet mention viable wines. She was sure of it. Everything on the property should have been calculated into the property value. She made a mental note to check again.

She heard Destin’s boots before she saw him. Unaware he was being watched, he walked to a corner of the room and then tapped a few buttons on a wall panel. A fine mist—so fine you could barely see it—lifted from three or four tiny sprinklers placed strategically around the casks.

No way. She’d heard of the innovative cooling system designed to control humidity, but had never seen it in action.

Oh, yeah. There was wine in there. Lots and lots of wine.

With his back still to her, Destin bent over and placed his hand in the mist, waving his fingers to catch the temperature. Her thoughts jumbled a bit. She was unable to do anything but stare. Her gaze ran over his back.

She whipped herself to a proper sitting position. What was happening—had it been that long since she’d been with a man? Her last boyfriend had been eight months ago. And now she was laid up underground in another country with a French wine lover.

Why was she thinking about this? Was this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome?

Destin shut the door behind her. He presented several wool blankets, and with those gentle hands, he tucked a folded mound under her ankle. Then he unfolded another and, shaking it out high into the air, let it float down over her body.

“There, you’re still a bit damp. These will keep you warm,” Destin said, tucking the fabric around her legs, making a cocoon from her upper body down and around her feet. Subtle scents of laundered wool filled her nose, again giving her the feeling that those blankets hadn’t remained there untouched for four years. The cellar was a valid asset.

But all thoughts were erased when he stroked her thigh with his palm.

She found herself slightly lifted onto one side as he wrapped her in the blanket like a burrito. He made painstaking efforts to tuck her in, leaning over her body, bunching the blanket under her legs and behind her back. His soft hair brushed her nose, and the clean scent had her insides dancing.

She was achingly aware of the man in front of her. She didn’t move on account of his handiwork, but the most intimate part of her was screaming to get out.

It was unlike her, this physical reaction to someone she barely knew, and yet here she was, lusting after his body like a teenager who’d just hit puberty. Honestly, she’d seen plenty of hot men. Had slept with...well, who was counting, but she was in her late thirties and dated maybe one or two guys a year, which equated to...oh, God. Well, she’d seen a man before, anyway, and this one was average.

He lowered himself onto another bench across from her, glancing at the dog before bring his blue eyes up to hers.

Okay. He wasn’t average.

“Thank you. Again. I, uh... I’m a little embarrassed,” Nicole said, searching for conversation, hoping to distract herself from his allure.

“Don’t be. I’m just glad you’re all right. You could have gotten stuck on the roads. Are you warm enough?”

“Yes. These are bulletproof,” she joked, pulling her arms out and tucking the blanket under her armpits. “I’m already getting hot.”

“Good. The temperature stays pretty cool down here, so being wet isn’t a good idea. Trust me. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten stuck in here.” Destin looked around, as if trying to think of things to say.

After a long moment, Nicole spoke on autopilot. “So, this is the wine cellar.”

His nod was slow, and he had a sad look in his eyes. “This was the wine cellar.”

Her heart twisted. “You have a lot of furniture down here. Did you do tours?”

“We had plans for tours and tastings, as well as a sustainable dining experience in the future. Everything was to be farm to table, from the wine to the produce—we had just started a garden. My neighbor, Bruno, has a free-range animal farm. He would have provided the meat.”

“Free range?”

“Meaning they have shelter but no cages. He has acres, and the animals roam freely within his land borders.” He chuckled. “They’ve been known to get spooked and break out on days like this. After a particularly bad storm, we found a herd of his cows grazing on our lawn.”

Nicole thought of New York during a storm. The subways slowed, cabs were impossible to find and umbrellas were instruments of death to pedestrians who couldn’t bob and weave. Maybe being in a wine cellar with a handsome man wasn’t so bad, especially when he laughed like that.

“How often do these storms happen?”

“Four to six times a year, I’d say—mostly when the seasons change. Nina, my wife, was good at planning for disasters. Hence the blankets.” His gaze stayed on the table for a minute. Then he jumped up and grabbed a leather backpack from the floor. He took out a wrapped sandwich. “How about some food? It’s a Bauru—roast beef, tomato, mozzarella and pickles on French bread. A classic Brazilian sandwich. We can share.”

She hadn’t realized she was hungry until he mentioned food. “Sounds delicious. Do you always carry lunch in your bag?”