Chapter 9
KARINA
My parents suddenly flank me. “Karina, come. It’s after eleven. We’re leaving now.”
No, no, no. I have to meet Marco. I’ll never get another chance if I go home now.
“Did Pietro leave already?” I ask, looking around as if I’m shocked. “I was just in the restroom for a minute.”
“Yes, he’s gone,” my mother snips. “We need to get to the valet before there’s a line.”
She looks tired—Mom is the type who can only play extrovert for just so long before she suddenly hits a wall. I decide I’m going to use it to my advantage.
“Why don’t you two go ahead? I’m having a good time meeting people with Mercutio, and he can give me a ride home,” I say, hoping it’s not a lie. “Besides, I’m getting married soon. Can’t I have a little fun before the wedding stress kicks in? These are my last days of freedom!”
I hope I’m not laying it on too thick. My parents look at each other and my mother’s lips purse as if she’s going to deny me. My heart sinks. But then my father shrugs and touches her arm placatingly. “Mercutio will keep an eye on her. That should be good enough.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is an absolute first. Way to play the marriage card.
“Thank you!” I practically squeal, giving my dad a rare side-hug. “See you at home.”
As soon as they leave, I meander through the partygoers, on cloud nine, and scout the area for my cousin. He’s easy to find at the bar, sidled up to the edge and deep in flirt with the gorgeous bartender. I tap him on the shoulder.
“Everyone has left but you and me, babysitter.”
He groans quietly, nodding toward the bartender. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
Shrugging, I tell him, “I’d be happy to leave you to it, but I doubt Uncle Sergio—”
“Deal,” he interrupts. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. Scout’s honor. Now go.”
Resisting the urge to kiss him on the cheek, I spin to go but he grabs my wrist. “When I text you that it’s time to leave, though, you better meet me at the valet. Okay? I mean it.”
“Seriously, Merc? I’m a good girl. You have nothing to worry about. I promise.”
For the first time in my life, I have zero intention of keeping my word. Because Marco makes me want to be a bad girl. I’ll be anything he wants if it means we get more time together.
Except for one small problem. I don’t know where we’re meeting. It’s dark beyond the lights of the garden and the main house, and despite the landscaping spotlights, it’s impossible to tell which part of the vineyard I’m meant to seek out. It’s not like the vines are labeled.
I’m lingering over by the tasting room pavilion, staring up at the hills covered in rows of vines, hoping for a sign or even the light of Marco’s cellphone—something, anything that will tell me which way to go—when someone comes up behind me.
“Are you lost?” a woman’s voice says.
Spinning around, feeling caught red-handed, I find the same woman from the bathroom earlier, staring at me expectantly. She’s a little intimidating. Beautiful. Confident.
“Yes? I mean, no. I was just…looking at the vineyard. It’s so…nice,” I babble.
She grins. “It’s your lucky night, then. I’m Candi Gallagher, and I’m a distributor for the winery. I’d love to give you a tour.”
I hesitate. “Um, I’m actually a little short on time right now. I’m meeting someone.”
Candi leans in. “Let me guess. Tall, dark, handsome, and also happens to race cars under the Bellanti name?”
Suddenly, I feel sick. “Wait. Did he ask you to meet him, too?”
“No! Oh gosh, no, nothing like that.” She laughs warmly. “Marco mentioned you earlier. He asked me to give you a personal tour of the noir vines. Karina, right?”
I melt, all my worries dissipating instantly. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course. Follow me.”
Candi leads me to a small gravel path that winds up into the vines.
She seems to know her way around in the dark, but as I hike up my layered skirts, I worry I’m going to put a foot wrong and go tumbling down the steep rows—until a few steps in, when little garden lights turn on and line the path.
Perfect. The sky is clear tonight, too, with an array of bright stars above.
It’s a little magical and my pulse quickens with the excitement of finding out what happens next.
“I would be so lost right now if I’d tried to find my way on my own,” I tell Candi with a laugh, hoping a bit of small talk might ease my nerves.
“Oh, no doubt. This place is like a maze. The vineyards go on for acres and acres.” She turns at the end of a row and stops short. “Here we are!”
Up ahead, a marble fountain with three Roman goddesses spills water into a glowing basin. The flicker of candles on the ground behind it catches my eye. Candi touches my arm.
“Have a good night…” she says, and I’m pretty sure I detect the slightest note of teasing.
“Thank you,” I call after her as she makes her way back through the rows.
“Juliet, come here,” Marco commands, his voice like velvet in the night.
I move toward him, my whole body already tingling. He’s sitting on a blanket spread in the grass. There are lit candles lined up along one side and a picnic basket and bottle of wine in the center. He reaches for my hand and holds on to it as I sit beside him. Is this a dream?
“I noticed you didn’t get to eat any real food earlier.” He gestures to the basket.
“Those appetizers were pretty real,” I try to joke. “But I do prefer a sit-down meal. And I can always eat, to be honest.”
Marco laughs. “A woman after my own heart. I’m the same.”
He opens the basket and names each dish as he sets it on the blanket: there’s homemade rigatoni with sausage in a light cream sauce, buttery slices of toasted semolina bread, and a simple salad dressed in olive oil, lemon, and sea salt. The wine is, of course, a Bellanti vintage.
“Wow,” is all I can say. “This is perfect.”
He fills me a plate and makes one for himself, then pours the wine into stemless glasses—so we won’t spill, he says.
We dive in, Marco eating with gusto, me slightly less so. I feel self-conscious stuffing myself in front of him, and I’m also worried about getting food on my dress. But he notices.
“Is the food okay?” he asks. “I can get you something else—”
“No, it’s incredible. I love it,” I tell him.
“Quindi mangia a sazietà, bella,” he says with a wink.
So eat your fill, beautiful.
He scoops a pile of noodles onto his fork and takes a big bite, waving his other hand in a circle to indicate that I’m to follow his lead.
“Okay.” I laugh and do the same, trying to let go of my nerves.
We settle into eating quietly, taking in the cool calm of the late night, the orchestra’s music still audible from far below us. It’s peaceful and easy out here with Marco next to me. For once I’m not being watched or measured up or chastised for chewing too loudly.
“This is nice,” I say after a while, when I’m down to just the wine in my glass.
“Mm,” Marco agrees as he finishes packing up the dishes. Closing up the basket, he leans back on his elbows, stretching out beside me, and says, “The man you were with tonight—Pietro. The race car driver. I’m assuming he’s not your brother.”
I clear my throat, not wanting to answer. “No, he’s not. We’re not related.”
He makes a sound. “So then…”
This night will be ruined if I don’t stop this line of conversation in its tracks. “He’s a family friend. We sponsor his car.” There. That’s not even a lie. Before he can ask anything else, I quickly continue, “Tell me about these noir grapes.”
Marco considers, and then says, “How much do you know about wine?”
“Zero,” I tell him. “Do these make black wine?”
He laughs. “They make pinot noir. Have you heard of it?”
Now I’m laughing, too. “Yeah. Okay. Noir grapes. That makes sense.”
After explaining that he’s not the resident genius of the grapevines—apparently his sister-in-law Frankie is, though when I try to draw him out about the rest of his family he steers the conversation back to the winemaking—I get a brief but informative rundown of how the whole winery operates.
Planting to harvesting, pressing, and aging, and then, finally, bottling.
At which point there may be even more aging, depending on the wine.
It’s all new to me, so I ask a lot of questions. Marco answers them graciously.
“Sounds like quite a process,” I tell him.
“It is.”
“You must love it. The way you talk about it, it sounds like…magic.”
He turns onto his side to look at me. “Maybe. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like it. But racing is what I love. The speed, the adrenaline, the…freedom. It’s like flying. That’s magic.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I admit. “I barely drive around Napa.”
He smiles. “Every race is like my first time all over again. When that starting gun goes off, I feel like I’m going into battle. It’s a high like no other. Well…almost no other.”
Marco reaches over to cup my face, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. When our eyes lock in the candlelight, I feel my whole body go hot. I think I know exactly what kind of other high he’s talking about, and I wonder if he suspects the truth about me—that I’m a virgin.
“I should stop talking,” he says quietly. “I’m probably boring you.”
“Never. And besides, there’s nothing you can say that would make me want you any less.”
My heart skips a beat at my own boldness, and Marco’s face grows dark with an expression I’ve never seen before.
It’s almost predatory, as if he could swallow me whole.
Is this what raw desire looks like? His hand moves around to the back of my head, and he draws my face close to his.
My body goes on high alert, my skin begging for his touch.
“So what do you love, bella?” he asks, his breath warm against my mouth.
“This,” I say.
I close the gap between us with my lips parted, and I’m instantly consumed by the fire in his kiss. It’s different this time. The pleasure is more intense, more encompassing, as if it has a life of its own. This passion could break me, tear me in half before it puts me back together.