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“I apologize for him showing up during work hours. I’ll have a talk with him immediately.” I stalked off, leaving Daniel sputtering behind me. A worker ran past, nodding in respect, calling for the manager to come tend to a watering pipe malfunction. Good, that would keep him well occupied and not in my face, telling me to be kind. Kindness flowed out of me. I’d taken the man into my home out of kindness and Christian generosity. It was not only rude of Philip to assert himself into my tasting barns, but it was unprofessional to distract my workers. He and I would have a talk as soon as I could track him down. The man was never in one place long, but I’d find him. My nose was like that of the Bassett hound we had owned when I was younger.
Sliding behind the wheel of the white and blue golf cart—one of a dozen that we use to move around the vineyard with ease—I took a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow and neck with my handkerchief. I placed my dark glasses back on, plunked my hat back atop my head, and started the cart. With a gullet full of anger, I sped along the dirt lanes, grumbling to myself about the audacity of Philip Greco. My goal…the chalet where I had last seen him sitting under a shade tree in the front yard, enjoying the afternoon lunch break with Bridgette. She too was enamored of Philip, which was also galling, but for reasons that I’d not wished to delve into then, I now felt as if I might. The girl was far too young for him, for starters. Also, I was sure he was a player, as most athletes were, and so he would surely hurt Bridgette, of whom I was quite fond. Also, he walked around with no shoes, a sure sign of a gigolo, which meant that he should stop giggling with her under weeping willows where her boss could see them.
My ire at the man was growing exponentially. Suspecting it would take me hours to find him—he might have even gone to town to pick up his car—I was shocked to hear music flowing from the detached garage as I sped up the drive to my home. Music being used in the broadest of terms. I’d inherited my father’s love for classical music, which Mama had approved of, for she had also loved the fine arts, opera, and ballet. This “music” that Philip listened to cranked up to decibels that would rupture ear drums was far from the calming melodies of Debussy or Brahms.
I parked the cart next to his car, which was parked outside of the garage, the back still holding most of his belongings.
Wincing at the volume of music flowing out of the speakers of his pale yellow Honda Civic, I stalked past the car into the cool recesses of my garage. Philip was nowhere to be seen. Yanking off my sunglasses, I scoured the interior more closely, my sight darting from my daily used cars to the ones that were under cloth covers. Papa’s cars. An older Jaguar 420, a sporty convertible 1973 Triumph, my Maserati, and a ?72 Citroen in mint green. My gaze then flew to the 1958 Cabriolet that Papa had started to refurbish, with me at his side, but never finished, as his health had rapidly declined. It was uncovered and a pair of dirty bare feet could be seen sticking out from under the chassis. How dare he!? How dare the man come into my home, my garage, and uncover something that was not his to even gaze upon?!
I stormed over to the Cabriolet, my sight red with ire, and gave his foot a good swat. I should have kicked him, but I was wearing tan casual business Oxfords, which would hurt if I punted him in the foot.
He cried out in surprise from under the car then rolled out, on Papa’s mechanics creeper, to see me glowering down at him.
“Oh hey, Henry, I didn’t hear you coming. I’m just changing the oil in this beauty. If you give me a minute to pull the plug, then I can—”
“How could you hear a thing with that screaming so loud?” I shouted down at him.
“Oh, sorry, I like it loud. You ain’t into Fallout Boy, I take it?”
The imp. The maddening little shit. He knew what kind of music I enjoyed. We had had a discussion about it on the way to the chalet four long days ago. He had also walked into the library two days ago after dinner when I retired to my favorite room with a glass of wine to destress. He heard one of Chopin’s études playing, wrinkled his nose but sat down across from my favored reading chair anyway to regale me with some story about one of his cousins, a ballerina, who gave up toe dancing to work at the sea lion pool at the Queens zoo where the young miss, and I quote, “fed them fish and taught one to dance to that lemur song from Madagascar just like King Julian.”
“You are not to touch one more thing on this car!” I shouted, my fists balling at my sides. He lay there staring up at me, dirt smeared over his cheek, his tanned arms bare to the world.
“But she needed an oil change bad,” he replied so innocently butter would not melt in his mouth. Yes, I was sure she did, but that was not his job to do. It was mine. And Papa’s. But since Papa was no longer here it…well, it was not his place! “Okay, fine, don’t blow a gasket. I’ll just let her sit here and rust.”
He got to his feet, gave me a long hard look, and picked up the canvas cover that had been over the car. With a flourish, he threw it back over the Cabriolet, spun to face me, and folded his arms over his chest. My sight darted down to the smudge of grease across the tight red material over his pectoral where a small Gladiators logo set.
“Thank you,” I snapped and pointed a finger at his car. “Can you turn that off? We need to talk,” I yelled. He blew out a breath but did as asked, walking to his car to cut the music. Silence filled the area, a blessed quietude that helped calm my temper. “Now, please come inside out of the glaring sun.”
“You know, if you’re mad about me and Bridgette having lunch on the lawn, all you got to do is say so,” he said as he sauntered back into the cool confines of the garage. “I mean, I ain’t sure what would get your knickers in such a knot, but I seen you glaring at us through your office window. I don’t think it should matter where an employee spends her lunch hour but probably you got rules about commoners being seen on the front yard.”
My mouth fell open. He stopped a mere foot in front of me, a bristled bantam rooster ready to spar with the bigger cock in the chicken yard. The man had cheek, and temerity, that I could not deny.
“You are speaking stupidly,” I stuttered, shocked at such a crass assumption. “Commoner? Who would…why would I even think such a thing? Bridgette is a trusted employee. Do you…my God, what kind of person would even…she is allowed to eat wherever she wishes, but you should not be coming on to her!”
Now it was time for him to gape. “Coming on to…I never did anything like that. She’s a nice girl who was trying to teach me some fancy manner shit so that when I sat down to eat at your fancy ass table with all them fancy ass utensils, I’d know which fancy ass spoon to use for the fancy ass soup!” My ire fizzled out like a trick candle atop a birthday cake. “Yeah, exactly. Like I’d want to come on to a girl who ain’t much older than my cousin Maria, the ballerina who works with seals now, remember?”
“Oui, I do remember. I just…” I had no idea what to say or do next. To say he had brought me up short was an understatement.
“Bridgette has been really nice to me, just like everyone else here…aside from you.” With that, he gave me a poke in the chest. “Even Barney warmed up to me after I introduced him to The Nanny because everyone loves Fran and Niles, but you,” another poke which I simply blinked at, “you’re always being so aloof like your shit don’t stink, and hell, maybe it don’t, but I wager it does. Why don’t you stop riding me like a fucking French jockey or whatever they’re called?”
“They’re called a jockey,” I managed to cough out as he stared up at me with a fire in his gaze that was making me stiffen in my pants.
“Oh. I thought it might be le horse rider or something. Anyways, stop riding me like a horse unless you plan to really ride me—”
At that moment, I impulsively slammed myself into him. A flash of surprise overtook his features, for just a second, and then it was gone. The muggy air in the garage grew hotter, stickier, and far too moist. We came together with such force that Philip staggered back into the Cabriolet as our mouths melded. I grabbed his tight ass as he shoved his dirty fingers into my hair. His tongue slipped into my mouth, stroking mine as his fingers fisted and tugged softly, pulling a grunt from me that made him growl into the kiss. I hoisted him up, placing that bubble butt of his onto the front fender of Papa’s car, uncaring if a grommet on the cover scratched the paint. It needed a new coat of fire engine red, anyway. He was a feisty kisser, his tongue seeking out every corner of my mouth as he pulled at my hair to turn my head this way and that. I lapped at his lips, panting, hard as a piston, my thoughts clouded by lust.
“Fucking sexy French vampires,” he huffed as I nibbled my way from his mouth to his neck.
“You can only kill us by driving a baguette through our hearts,” I replied as I licked his throat, reveling in the rasp of his dark whiskers over my taste buds.
His chuckle warmed me. I smiled against his jugular, my cock straining to be freed from my slacks. Then, as suddenly as the moment arrived, it ended, as someone gave the horn on the Honda sitting outside the garage two quick honks.
I stumbled away from Philip, face growing red, erection evident, and threw a glance at the open door of the garage. There stood Barnaby, his face a mask of professional manservant calm, as his sight lingered on the far wall where Papa’s tools lay covered in dust.
“I am sorry to interrupt your discussions on horsepower versus torque, sir, but the dock inspector is here,” Barnaby announced as I shoved at my dick, to no avail. There was no hiding my arousal. Philip’s either, as he slid down to his feet and then cleared his throat before heading to the workbench.
“Yes, of course, the dock inspector.” I shook off the embarrassment and, saying nothing more to my guest, walked out of the garage with my head held high. “Say nothing,” I muttered to Barnaby as I hustled past him.
