A Touch of Chardonnay Read online

  This bad boy just got an eight-year-old surprise…

  Cultural archeologist Lindsay Reynoso is in a small seaside town in California to evaluate an old mansion. When the home’s owner shows up to “help” the evaluation along, Lindsay is furious. Especially as the owner is former bad-boy tennis star Christopher Brandt…her one-time fling and the father of Lindsay’s son. Only he doesn’t know it.

  As far as Chris is concerned, the old mansion is tied to a past he’s better off leaving behind. He’d rather bulldoze the thing and move on. If only his gorgeous consultant would let him. Even while fighting over the demolition, the chemistry that once brought them together is smoldering stronger than ever.

  But honesty is very important to Chris, and Lindsay has an eight-year-old secret…

  A Touch of

  Chardonnay

  a Love in Wine Country novel

  Pamela Gibson

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover the Love in Wine Country series… A Kiss of Cabernet

  Find your Bliss with these great releases… The Best Man’s Baby

  Her Secret, His Surprise

  Love Him or Leave Him

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Pamela Gibson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Bliss is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit http://www.entangledpublishing.com/category/bliss

  Edited by Wendy Chen

  Cover design by Jessica Cantor

  Cover art by iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-365-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2015

  To my good friend Elizabeth Wells, who understands the importance of family.

  Chapter One

  “It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.”

  —Author Unknown

  Christopher Brandt hated the house. He’d never lived in it, he’d never stayed in it—he didn’t even know he owned it until his father died.

  The house reeked of sadness, its guts splayed into corridors through the chaos of neglect, its windows vacant, like the eyes of the blind.

  It could have been a home, a happy place full of warm memories, if his parents had chosen to live there. They had lived apart, treating their only son like a boomerang, launched from one coast to the other.

  The house was too much of a reminder of the family life he’d always envied. He wanted it demolished, and it would be.

  If she didn’t get in his way.

  He focused his binoculars on the source of his irritation, admiring her shapely legs and the swing of her hips in spite of his annoyance. Long brown hair blew around her face as she walked to the edge of the sea cliff a short distance from the house and raised a hand to shade her eyes, as if searching for something on the horizon.

  What are you looking for, Ms. Archaeologist? I was told you’d be poking around the house today, so why aren’t you here?

  She stepped forward, dislodging a rock that bounced over the rim. He instinctively reached out to grab her.

  Damn it, woman. Don’t you know how close you are to the edge?

  Abruptly, she stepped back and stared up at the house. She was at least four hundred feet away. She couldn’t possibly see him behind the long bank of second-floor windows. Still, it made him uncomfortable to think she might have sensed his presence. He felt like a voyeur, watching from the shadows—definitely not his style.

  Chris snapped shut his binoculars case and brushed dust from his blue blazer. He would wait for her to come up to the house and introduce himself. It wasn’t every day a cultural resource report held up a multimillion-dollar development project.

  He had to find out why it was late—and the reason better be a good one.

  …

  Lindsay Reynoso moved away from the cliff and hoisted the last piece of equipment into the back of her Jeep. Cultural archaeologists couldn’t do their work in the dark, but the sun was still high enough for her to look around the house before calling it a day.

  She had made good progress today. When she finished evaluating the house, she could complete her report and go back home to her son.

  Nobody would call her mother of the year. She’d missed the holiday fund-raiser, both back-to-school nights, and her parent-teacher conference. While living with her parents had provided stability for her eight-year-old son, it was long past time for them to have a home of their own.

  Nicky was growing up fast and he needed his mom in Napa, not traveling all over the country for months at a time.

  She focused on the house in the distance.

  When Sea Cliff Estates selected Lindsay for the cultural resource analysis required by California law last fall, she was thrilled. The fee would be just enough to cap off the amount she needed for a down payment on a condo.

  But to her horror, her contract came back signed by Christopher Brandt, president and CEO of Brandt Development, the parent company.

  Chances were slim she’d see him—most CEOs didn’t go to project sites. But it worried her. How would she keep from slapping that gorgeous face if he dared to show up after rejecting her and their child nine years ago?

  She’d often rehearsed the scene in her mind, how she’d tell him off before announcing that she and Nicky had done just fine without him. But it worried her because she prided herself on maintaining her professionalism, even in stressful situations.

  She unclenched her fists and forced herself to relax. She was worrying unnecessarily.

  “Surf’s up tomorrow. I’ll be incommunicado most of the day.” Luke Townsend, a graduate student and her survey technician, stowed his gear in the battered Volkswagen camper, closed the back, and slid into driver’s seat. “But if you want, I’ll help you survey the house before I go.”

  “I can do it myself. Thanks for offering.”

  “Geez, Lindsay. You take on too much.”

  Lindsay shook her head, her lips twitching into a smile. “Did you finish that last quadrant?”

  “I sure did. It was totally clean. No more habitation sites, no trash pits, no arrowheads…nothing. It looks like the only Native American dwelling site is the one we excavated near the road in the northeast quadrant last fall.”

  “Good news for the owner,” said Lindsay. “With all the earlier delays, he’s probably beside himself to get started.”

  She wondered if he still had a temper. When she’d first known Chris, he’d been kind of sweet, the object of a serious crush on her part. But when he became a tennis pro, his tantr
ums became legendary. Hopefully she wouldn’t find out.

  Lindsay waved good-bye to Luke and shifted her focus back to the mansion. Perched on a cliff on the Sonoma Coast north of San Francisco, it was a perfect example of Spanish colonial revival architecture. Its classic lines included a red tiled roof, heavy stucco walls, and ornate wrought iron balconies. The house should be preserved, with or without historical significance. Her report could recommend as much, but ultimately that decision would be up to officials in the town of Santa Marta.

  Grabbing her field pack, Lindsay started toward the building. She stopped to look out to sea, awed by the power of waves crashing over large rocks jutting out of the water in the distance. She was born and raised in the Napa Valley, where vineyards and world-class wines drew thousands of tourists each year. But the sea had always fascinated her.

  Wild yellow mustard grew nearly waist-high in what had once been a vineyard flanking the front driveway. She fought her way through it to the wooden, nail-studded front door. An uneasy feeling swept over her. She stepped back and stood very still. Was someone watching her? She often worked by herself and wasn’t skittish, but today the sensation that she wasn’t alone made her flesh prickle.

  Nana Reynoso would know what it meant. Her grandmother claimed to have “the sight” and often made pronouncements based on old wives’ tales, aching joints, or feelings.

  “Is someone there?” she called out. Only the high-pitched squeals of seagulls and the pounding surf below the cliff answered her.

  Feeling foolish over her bout with nerves, Lindsay swallowed and inserted the key in the lock. Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped into a narrow entry hall. It was dark and cool, giving her a moment to think about how she was going to proceed.

  The light from the afternoon sun barely illuminated this area, so Lindsay took out her flashlight. Red carpeting once covered a carved staircase. Pieces of it were still in place, but most had rotted off, exposing wood underneath.

  She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of a worn stair. The wood had been painted white, as had the banister that disappeared into a dark cavern leading upward. At the left side of the staircase was a curved doorway leading into a dim room with a low plastered ceiling.

  She saw an enormous fireplace in the center of the far wall and flashed her light into the cavernous interior. Scanning the area above the mantel, she searched for a fan-shaped sun or some other ornamental bas-relief that might identify the architect. Even with the flashlight, it was too dim to see embedded detail.

  Spying two empty wooden crates, she stacked one on top of the other and carefully climbed on top. She moved her hand back and forth over rough stucco where an indentation might have been painted over. No design.

  “Lose something?”

  Lindsay screeched and lost her balance. A pair of strong arms caught and steadied her, breaking her fall and lifting her from the boxes.

  Her heart thudded as she fought for composure, aware that the arms still held her. She turned and looked up into the long-lashed blue eyes of the one man she never wanted to see again.

  The smell of cotton and something faintly spicy teased her nose before his arms moved from her waist up to her shoulders and then dropped to his sides, as if reluctant to let her go.

  “I’m sorry I scared you. I was upstairs and saw you heading this way. I’m Chris Brandt, owner of the Sea Cliff project.” He extended his hand.

  Lindsay inhaled and brought herself under control. “And I’m Lindsay Reynoso, your cultural resource consultant.” His hand was warm and firm. She looked directly into his eyes, daring him to acknowledge her.

  He tilted his head. “Have we met? I know this sounds like a pickup line, but you seem familiar.”

  He doesn’t remember her? What a complete jerk. Nicky was better off without him.

  Nine years had gone by. If the tabloids were to be believed, his excessive drinking and partying produced all kinds of bad behavior, and he’d gone through women like a hypochondriac goes through pills.

  She gritted her teeth, getting her anger under control. “It does sound like a pickup line.” She pulled her hand free and hid it behind her back, shaking her fingers like she’d touched something hot. Maybe it was just as well he didn’t remember. Rehashing the past would be awkward.

  He was taller than she recalled and still had an athletic build and a smile that could warm a room. His coffee-colored hair still grew in funny cowlicks. She had a sudden memory of its thickness under her palms while he…

  Unwelcome heat spread from her stomach to her thighs. Looking away, Lindsay moved back toward the fireplace. How could he affect her after all these years?

  He followed her. “What are you doing?”

  She swallowed and tamped down the old memory that stained her cheeks, furious that it had even surfaced. Fortunately the room was dark. “I was checking for a bas-relief on the wall over the mantelpiece.”

  “Why?”

  She modulated her tone and answered the question, willing herself to remain professional, despite dormant anger that wanted to bubble to the surface.

  “Some architects used them as a signature. My great-grandfather used an Aztec sun to identify his buildings. Others used a fleur-de-lis or a geometrical pattern.”

  “Your great-grandfather was an architect?” The inflection in his voice made it sound like an accusation, rather than a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me guess. You think he designed this house,” he said, a hint of irritation entering his voice. “You are holding up my project because you can’t bear to see one of his houses torn down. Do I have that right?”

  “No. You don’t.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared him down. “My ancestor didn’t do any work in California.”

  “Then why isn’t the report finished?”

  “I’ll explain if you’ll refrain from jumping to conclusions, Mr. Brandt.”

  Silence filled the air between them.

  He grinned, his eyes full of mischief. “Am I?”

  “Yes,” she hissed. Damn, but that grin still grabbed her.

  He sighed. “Let’s start over.” He pulled the two crates close together and sat down, patting the other. Lindsay sat. “I’m here about the report.”

  “I guessed that.”

  “Is it finished?”

  “No.” She turned to face him, careful to keep her knees from touching his. “I was going to call your project manager tomorrow. I need some additional time to complete the historical resource section of the environmental impact report. That’s the evaluation of this house and grounds.”

  “I don’t understand. The house is a mess. It’s going to be torn down.”

  She looked down, but could still feel his gaze on her. “There are a few unusual features I want to track down that might make it worthy of National Register listing.”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  “The corners of the roof tilt up. That’s very unusual for this style. Maybe you can tell me more about the house, as long as you’re here.”

  He stood abruptly and took a few steps away. “A roof? You’re holding up a multimillion-dollar development project because of a roof?” He shook his head. “We’ve already had enough delays. How long do you think it will take to track down this ‘mystery’ and get on with it? And no, I can’t help you with the house. I don’t know anything about it.”

  Odd. The title report said it had been the Brandt family home for generations. Would he lie about that? To get the house demolished faster?

  Her defensive edge was back. “I still have to do a complete examination of the house, the outbuildings, and the grounds. I need a few more weeks.”

  He crossed his arms. “I want the report handed over to the Planning Department by the end of next week. It’s already late. The bank will pull my funding if I don’t start construction. I need my permits, and I can’t get them without your report.”

  She jumped up and stood in front of him, fis
ts clenching. “I’m not recommending anything until I do a proper evaluation. If you’re in such a hurry, send someone to help me in the morning.”

  They stood toe to toe, neither one willing to be the first to move away. Chris sighed and reached up to dab at Lindsay’s cheek with a crumpled tissue.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m wiping dirt off your cheek. That dirt streak makes you look like a waif. It’s making it hard for me to chew you out.” He stuffed the tissue in his pocket, the grin back.

  She looked down and shifted from one foot to the other. They were too close. His body heat was making her remember things she had long forgotten, and it irritated her even more.

  “I’ll help you myself. What time should I be here?”

  He wants to help? But then he might remember and she was already close to giving him the earful she’d been saving up for years…a sure way to get herself fired.

  “I can’t come before nine. I promised a couple of little kids I’d take them to breakfast.” He grinned. “I don’t know if you have any kids, Ms. Reynoso, but if you do you’ll understand how important it is to keep a promise.”

  She stilled. Are these his kids?

  “Nine is fine,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to disappoint your children.”

  “Oh, they’re not mine. I don’t have any children. They belong to my friend Tony.”

  He got up to leave. “Don’t stay here too long. The only thing keeping this house together is the termites’ holding hands. I don’t want any injury claims.”

  She stared at his retreating back, astounded by his remark. If he was worried about a promise to children, maybe he’d changed. And he’d said he had no children of his own.

  He paused just before reaching the entry hall. “Are you sure we haven’t worked on another project before?”

  “I’m sure.”

  For him, their one encounter had been a drunken one-night stand. For her, it had been life-changing.

  She heard the door close and lowered herself to the crate.

  It infuriated her that he didn’t know her, that the existence of his child didn’t matter enough to acknowledge him or even recognize her name.