hell they’re doing. And in some cases, they don’t even seem to care.”
“Please,” I said. “I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. But please, try to take it easy on yourself and the men.”
“Sure,” he said. “Next time someone leaves off a bunghole cap and ruins a barrel of wine worth five grand, I’ll smile and ask if he’ll please pay more attention so it doesn’t happen again. God forbid I should hurt someone’s feelings. Is that what you want?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m glad you can at least give me a straight answer.”
I held his coffee cup with both hands and stared unhappily into it.
“Look,” he said. “Maybe my fuse is a little short because of so many things going wrong. But I just don’t get it. It’s like we’re cursed all the time. Ever since Chance came.”
“You can’t blame it on him.”
“Watch me.”
“It isn’t all his fault. Maybe we tried to expand too fast, too soon,” I said. “A couple of years ago we were able to handle things with just you, me, and Hector. Plus we usually had the same crew of day laborers. Now I don’t recognize anybody since we started competing for workers with all the new vineyards springing up like weeds after rain. They need help, just like we do. We’re all looking for a few good men. The same good men.”
“The ‘few good men’ are working for someone else. We get the bottom of the wine barrel as regular as clockwork.” He held up a hand as if to physically stave off my response. “Okay, I’ve said my piece. And now if we’re done here, you want to wash your greasy hair before the guys show up?”
I ran my fingers along my braid, feeling self-conscious. “You think it looks greasy?”
“You’re the one who said it was. Okay, don’t wash it. It looks fine.”
“Now you’re patronizing me.”
“Believe me, I would never be that stupid.”
“So you think it looks fine, then. Not greasy.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You know, someone once told me that when a woman asks a man what he thinks, all she really wants is to hear her own opinion in a deeper voice. After two years of working with you, I now realize the wisdom of those words.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
He held out his hand and I let him pull me up. Together we walked over to the barrel room and he held the door. As I walked past him, he leaned close to my ear. “You look great, sweetheart, just great.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said, and he laughed.
I undid my braid and went over to the deep sink we used to wash out equipment. “Guess I’ll get this over with.”
I waited for the water to warm up, then ducked my head under the goosenecked faucet.
“What are you doing?” Quinn asked.
I brought my head up to reply and banged it against the lip of the faucet.
“Ow! I’m trying to see if I can knock myself unconscious if I hit my head hard enough.”
“Don’t move.”
“Where am I going to go?”
He came back with one of the chairs we used for winemaker’s dinners and set it down facing away from the sink.
“Have a seat.”
“I can’t wash my hair sitting down like that.”
“That’s why I’m going to wash it. Sit.”
I sat.
His hands were strong and gentle. Almost against my will I could feel myself begin to relax as he massaged my temples and my forehead. His gaze roamed over my face and my body until finally I had to close my eyes so he wouldn’t guess how erotic I found his touch.
It had been nearly one year since we’d each been involved with other people. My relationship had been a torrid, stormy affair with Mick Dunne, an Englishman who lived next door. Quinn had fallen hard for Bonita, the daughter of our previous farm manager, and she had lived up to her name as a stunning beauty. They drifted apart, as Mick and I had done, until finally Bonita moved to California with her mother after Hector died.
But if he had any clue about my feelings as he wrapped the towel around my head and helped me up, he gave no indication.
“How was that?”
“You give great massages.” I unwrapped the towel and began drying my hair, aware that his eyes were fixed on what I was doing. “Thank you. That felt terrific.”
“You, ah, wouldn’t consider…?” He paused. “Never mind.”
My heart began pounding against my ribs. I wouldn’t consider what? Maybe he
“What is it?” I asked.
“Do you think I could borrow your shampoo?”
My shampoo.
“Be my guest. It promotes shine and brings out highlights.”
He grinned and picked it up, tossing it in the air. “Guess I’ll have to switch brands. Mine doesn’t do that.”
“Sit,” I said.
“Oh, come on.” But he sat. Then he said, “Wait a minute.”
He got up and stripped off his shirt, keeping his eyes on mine as he did it. I didn’t often see him bare chested. He looked good.
To be honest, he looked terrific.
He wrapped his fingers around my wrists as I shampooed his hair and massaged his temples, as he had done with me. But this time there were no romantic overtones and we were back to our usual banter.
“You look good from this angle,” he said.
“Upside down?”
“For some people, it’s their best side.”
“Watch it. I control the water and you’re in a vulnerable place. By the way, you do a good job of covering that bald spot.”
He jerked upright, splattering water down the front of my T-shirt and jeans. “What bald spot?”
I laughed and eased him back in the chair. “Calm down. You’ve got more hair than a Chia Pet.”
He chuckled and let me finish rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. When I was done, he sat up and I handed him my towel.
“Sorry it’s so wet. I only brought one.”
“It’s okay.” His eyes held mine. “I don’t mind at all.”
At the far end of the barrel room, the outside door opened and closed. A woman’s voice said, “Knock-knock? Hello?”
“Sorry, we’re closed,” Quinn said. He threw the towel on the workbench and headed toward the front door, trying to pull on his shirt, which had gotten tangled up in itself. I shoved the shampoo under the towel and followed him.
A waiflike blonde with a boyish haircut, jet-black eyebrows, and exotic cheekbones waited by the door, hands in the back pockets of jeans that looked like she’d painted them on. Red high-top sneakers and a bright yellow tank top that didn’t meet the waistline of her jeans. She looked about sixteen. Her gaze traveled from Quinn to me, taking stock of our wet hair and water-stained clothes.
Quinn still hadn’t managed to get his shirt completely untangled. I reached over and tugged on it as our visitor watched, an amused smile creeping into her eyes.
“We’re, ah, definitely closed,” I said.
“I apologize for…interrupting,” she said. “But a blond woman in the other building told me I could find the owner here. And I didn’t come to buy wine.” She zeroed in on me. “Lucie Montgomery?”
