The Sparkling One

either an idiot or had never been through a divorce. She alternated between blinding rage and numbing depression-not that she liked either state. She wanted to feel normal again.

She wanted not to be fighting with Katie.

She still felt badly about what had happened last week. While she didn’t agree with her sister’s stand, she understood why Katie was worried about her. In truth, she kind of liked her concern, which meant not talking to her was really stupid. But calling meant admitting Katie might be right, and Brenna hardly wanted to have that conversation.

The truth was, she missed her sister, and now that Francesca had contacted Jeff and arranged to meet him, Brenna was having second thoughts. Did she really want her ex-husband to come on to her twin?

Rather than dwell on the mess that was her life, Brenna raised her face toward the sun and breathed in the sweet spring air. It was May-a busy month at the vineyard. Training had begun a week ago in the southernmost fields.

Speaking of which…she squatted down to examine the vines more closely, then fingered the sturdy plant. Already green leaves covered all the new growth and much of the old. Tiny clusters of flowers danced in the afternoon breeze. Green tendrils found their way toward the sun.

“Not for long,” she said, tugging on one tendril, then pulling it free of the stem.

Training the vines was both an art and a science. Each plant produced an excess of leaves, flowers, and new growth. Skilled workers came through and stripped off what wasn’t needed, leaving the most healthy and strong growth to produce the best grapes. If too much was removed, the harvest would be small and disappointing. Not enough removed, and the grapes wouldn’t grow and ripen as well as they could. Sun and air needed to flow through the vineyard, rolling across like a wave from the sea.

Brenna straightened and arched her aching back. They were well into their first week of training, and she had the sore muscles to prove it. The ache was like an old friend-almost forgotten, but still a bit of a lingering memory. She knew that Grandpa Lorenzo had insisted on the manual labor to test her determination. Brenna wasn’t worried; she refused to fail.

She touched another leaf. Here in the southern part of central California, frost wasn’t an issue, but it could cause damage in their northern vineyards. Every day she spoke to the managers there as she slowly returned to the rhythm of the vineyards.

She headed toward the property line. For the past couple of weeks she walked a different portion of the land to refamiliarize herself with what had once been her entire world. When she allowed herself to consider all she’d lost by marrying Jeff, she wanted to raise her fists to the sky and demand justice. Unfortunately she had no one to blame but herself. She had chosen what seemed like the safe path because any other was out of the question. Unfortunately she’d chosen a selfish man who had taken advantage of her devotion and left her with nothing to show for giving away her very soul.

She reached the edge of the property and checked on the railings. The posts sat securely in the ground. She was about to return to the east fields when she saw someone walking toward her. Someone on the other side of the fence. The evil, Wild Sea Vineyard side.

She wanted to run for cover for a number of reasons, one of which being that she was dressed like a day hire, the second being the fact that she’d gained five pounds in the past six or seven weeks. The combination of self-pity and the Grands’ cooking had done nothing good for her hips and thighs.

The third and perhaps most important reason was that he was the last person on the planet she wanted to see when she wasn’t at her best.

But there was no way she could escape. Not without seeming like an idiot. Brenna figured she’d done enough of that in the past nine years without continuing the pattern. So she squared her shoulders, took a breath for luck, and turned to face the man her grandfather thought of as the devil incarnate.

Nicholas Giovanni. Nic to his friends.

At one time Brenna had known him well enough to call him Nic. She’d called him a lot of other things, too, depending on her mood and the circumstances. Sometimes he’d laughed, sometimes they’d fought, and sometimes they’d simply lost themselves in sensual lovemaking that had left them both breathless.

The sun was in her eyes, making it difficult to see details. She saw a tall, powerful silhouette walking toward her. The man from her past had always dominated the landscape. Too arrogant, too handsome, too many things. It was pathetic to think that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven there had only been two men in her life. She really needed to get out more.

She hadn’t seen Nic in nine years, and she didn’t doubt time had been kind to him. Sure enough, as he approached, she saw that he looked good enough to be served with marinara and some fresh focaccia bread.

The passing years had added a few lines around his dark brown eyes, which only made them more appealing when they crinkled as he smiled that easy smile that had once kept her up nights. Stubble darkened his jaw, making him look dangerous and incredibly sexy. His clothes were as worn as hers, but somehow they looked better on him. Wasn’t that always the way?

“I heard you were back,” he announced when he came to a stop by the fence that separated their property.

That was it-five words and a welcoming smile. As if he wasn’t angry. As if the past didn’t matter. And then she realized it probably didn’t. Based on Jeff’s treatment of her, she hadn’t made an impact on him, and they’d been married for years. Why would she have been more than an uninteresting blip on Nic’s radar screen?

“I’m working the vines,” she said, because saying why she was back was simply too depressing. Besides, while there might be acres between houses, this was still a small community. She didn’t doubt that word of her divorce had spread quickly. Except if she didn’t say she was getting a divorce, he might think she thought he didn’t know and that she was hiding the fact. Which would make her look stupid.

Her mind whirled around a couple more times before she decided to face things head on and blurted, “I’m getting a divorce.”

Nic’s steady gaze never left her face, which was a good thing, because she could feel every one of those additional five pounds clinging to her thighs like Francesca’s padding. Unfortunately her padding didn’t unzip and was probably there to stay.

“I heard. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Of course, she thought, wanting to smack herself in the head. After all this time, why would Nic give a damn?

“It’s going to be a good year,” he said. “We’re expecting our largest harvest ever.”

“Still in the volume business, Nic?” She mentally winced. Okay, she’d just turned into a bitch queen. Time to tone it down.

His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “We’re still in the wine business. The market is changing. Elitist boutique wineries are being gobbled up by large, successful companies. Like mine.”

Her worry, depression, and ill-temper faded. No need to tone it down. Not if Nic was going to fight back.

“Elitist?” she repeated. “You’re proud of the quantity you produce. Here at Marcelli, we worry more about the quality of the harvest. There’s a reason every reserve we’ve produced has been a winner at competition.”

“In the end it will come down to economic survival. I’m confident of mine. What about you?”

“Oh, you’ll survive. Some people will even like what you produce. But you’ll never make anything special or significant. What you have is mass produced with so much mechanization that the grapes can go from bud to bottle without being touched by a single hand. Kind of like making a cola drink.”

He took a step toward her. Tension crackled in the air. “The Hendersons are throwing in the towel. I bought them out last week.”

She hadn’t known. Regret filled her. As much as she hated to admit it, Nic was right. The economic climate was changing. Small vineyards were being lost, or bought up.

“Like a circling vulture looking for carrion,” she said easily. “Are you going to keep the grapes or replant? You need the Cab Franc for blending,” she continued before he could speak. “Of course, their vineyards aren’t as tidy as