ocean-blue eyes could caress, but Randy had a way of looking at a woman—any woman—like she’d been created just for him on God’s best day.
“What’re you doing, Lucie?” He set his heavy-duty gloves on the workbench and took off his leather jacket. I couldn’t help staring. Looked like he’d added another tattoo, this one around his muscular left bicep. Lightning bolts.
“I’m trying to figure out where I can get about thirty more flashlights in the next few hours,” I said.
“You could buy ’em in a store,” he said with an easy smile, “like most folks do.”
“They sell them in stores?”
His eyes flashed appreciatively as he laughed. “What’s the rush, needing so many?”
“We need to put them around the boundaries of the Chardonnay and Riesling blocks so they can be seen in the dark. I’ll be driving to every hardware store in two counties before I’m through.”
“I’m supposed to be moving that shipment you got from Seely’s, but if you need to, I can help here instead,” he offered. “Long’s I have enough time to set up for your party tonight.”
I liked the lilt in his voice.
“That’d be great. I could really use a hand,” I said. “We’ll worry about the plants later.”
The sound of furious fiddling came from somewhere near his belt. He pulled a mobile phone out of the pocket of tight-fitting jeans and squinted at the display.
“’Scuse me. I gotta take this. Be right back.” He flipped the phone open, cutting off the tune. “Hey, darling. Been thinking about you.”
I could see him outside through the window, pacing back and forth as he talked to his lady friend. When he returned, I was struggling with a balky flashlight, trying to unscrew it so I could remove the dead batteries.
“I got that.” His fingertips brushed mine and he opened it like the threads had been greased. “There you go.”
His frank, wolfish eyes held mine, flustering me so the flashlight slipped through my fingers. It hit the floor and the batteries ejected like torpedoes. He winked and reached down for them, clearly enjoying the sight of my face turning the color of a hot chili pepper.
“So what’s that song on your phone?” I needed to divert his attention.
“‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia.’ Charlie Daniels.” He grinned and set the batteries on the workbench.
“You playing it tonight?” I gave up and smiled back at him. That much flirtatious charm ought to be illegal.
“We don’t got a fiddler,” he said. “And we’re nowhere near as good as old Charlie. Besides, we’re country rock ’n’ roll, not redneck. But we are gonna play ‘Georgia on My Mind.’” Another sly wink. “By way of saying thanks.”
I laughed. “Good career move.”
Georgia Greenwood had wanted Southern Comfort to play at the vineyard tonight at the black-tie fund-raiser, which we were hosting for the local free clinic. The band didn’t have the polished sound I would have chosen for this well-heeled philanthropic crowd, but Georgia’s husband, Ross, the doctor who once saved my life and now ran the clinic, was paying the bill. He adored his wife. What Georgia wanted, Georgia usually got.
Randy and I divided up the hardware stores and headed in opposite directions.
The errand didn’t take as long as I’d reckoned, even though we bought out two stores. When we got back, he came out to the fields to help me. While I attached temperature sensors to the wooden trellis posts, he dug shallow holes and stuck the flashlights in them so the light pointed skyward.
“You sure this is gonna work? A helicopter?” He was on one knee, tamping the earth around the last flashlight. “Kind of seems like burning green wood for kindling, if you ask me.”
“The alternative is a pair of wings,” I said. “It has to work.”
Randy smiled his slow, lazy smile again. “I hope so for your sake. You been working like a dog to get this place running good again ever since your pa died.”
“Thanks. I’m trying to.”
He stood up and stripped off his work gloves, banging them against a post to loosen the dirt. “If you’re all set here, I’m gonna head over to the barn and get my things for tonight.”
I knew he meant the old hay barn, which we let him use for band practice. The nearby cows and horses didn’t seem to mind the loud music the way his neighbors used to. In return he worked a few extra hours for us off the clock.
“You and Quinn finish down at the new fields today?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I nailed up a bunch of ‘Keep Out’ signs when Quinn took off to talk to your pilot. I’m glad that spraying chore is over with. Nothing’s gonna live in that dirt with what that dude put in it.”
“No bugs, at least,” I said. “The vines won’t mind.”
“People mind. That stuff can kill you dead.”
“It’ll dissipate in three days under those plastic tarps,” I said, “but I agree with you. It’s nasty.”
He shook his head. “Can’t figure out why it doesn’t kill the vines, if it kills everything else. Anyway, have yourself a good one, Lucie. See you later.”
The fund-raiser for the Patowmack Free Clinic had originally been planned as an outdoor garden party. We were holding it over at the Ruins, the burned-out red brick tenant house we’d converted into a stage for plays, concerts, and wine events. More than a century ago the house had been a hideout for Colonel John Singleton Mosby, the Confederacy’s legendary guerrilla commander, known as the Gray Ghost. Along with his group of Partisan Rangers, Mosby terrorized Union soldiers in our neck of the woods with surprise raids on their supplies and horses. The tenant house had been one of his many bolt holes until soldiers in blue coats burned it one winter night, trying to flush him out.
Evening gown notwithstanding, the fund-raiser was all work for me, with the ominous distraction of Quinn’s regular phone calls reporting on the tumbling temperatures in the fields. As soon as possible I left the catering staff to clean up and joined him at the winery.
“How ’bout we take that candy-cane car of yours out for a spin to see what’s happening up close?” he said. “At least we’ll be warm when we’re sitting in it.”
“No making fun of my car or you can check those vines in the Gator,” I told him.
I’d bought the red-and-white-striped Mini Cooper convertible from a friend after taking it for a test drive through the vineyard, where it easily navigated the narrow space between the rows of vines. It was the perfect car for zipping through the fields, though I’d learned to slow down on the corners after wrecking the side mirrors one too many times. Tonight the heater alone made it worth the price. The only way to keep warm if you were out in the Gator—which looked like a tractor bred with a golf cart—was by laying your hands on the engine hood.
“Damn, it’s cold,” Quinn said as he got in to the Mini.
“I hope we can pull this off.” I started the car. “We’ve had it if the fruit freezes.”
“Talking about freezing, Jennifer Seely called from the nursery while you were at the fund-raiser, all bent out of shape. She dropped off a shipment of bedding plants at the winery this afternoon. Said Randy was supposed to take care of them. She wanted to make sure he’d moved them inside tonight or they’ll die. I couldn’t find ’em. Did you do something with them?”
“No, and Randy didn’t, either. He helped me buy the flashlights and then stuck around to set them up. Maybe Sera did. It was her plant order. Everything she wanted for the border gardens next to the villa and the baskets and wine casks in the courtyard.”
“Well, somebody took care of them. There was nothing on the crush pad.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “How did the party go?”
“Fine, until the end.” I shifted into third as we motored down the dirt service road. “Harry Dye got loaded and decided to give Georgia Greenwood a piece of his mind.”
Quinn picked up the thermos I’d filled with coffee and chuckled in the darkness. “Good for Harry. She had it coming. Every vineyard owner around here hates her guts. She’ll shut us all down if she gets elected in November and takes that dumbass plan of hers to Richmond.”
“First she has to win the primary,” I said. “It’s not a sure thing.”
“She’s picking up votes,” he said darkly, pouring coffee into the plastic thermos cap. “She could win.”
