More than a Mistress

"It's beautiful," she'd said, and then added, impulsively, "Why don't we fix up the house and use it for weekends?"

"Don't be foolish, Alex," Carl had replied brusquely. "Peregrine isn't a toy, it's a business venture."

He was right, of course. That was why she was selling it. Alex sighed, tucked her hands into the pockets of her linen trousers and began walking. Okay, maybe it was silly but she didn't want to hand Peregrine over to a faceless entity. It was why she'd insisted on a meeting.

"But it isn't done," her senior attorney had said, the same way she imagined he'd have said, "My God, Ms. Thorpe, there's an alligator swimming in your bathtub."

"Why isn't it?" Alex had replied politely, and the men had rushed in with explanations that ranged from the logical to the absurd, but it had all come down to the same thing.

Her father would not have permitted it, and neither would Carl.

"My father is dead," Alex had said. "And Carl Stuart is no longer my husband."

And so, here she was, walking the dusty rows of the vineyards, looking at the grapevines as if she knew something about them when she didn't know anything, heading toward the Victorian farmhouse for a meeting with a man who'd probably been told he'd have to endure fifteen minutes of idiotic fluff, if he wanted the purchase to go through.

Alex paused at the end of the row of grapevines, where she'd left her shoes, and put them on. She didn't know why, but she felt uncertain. It was a new feeling, and she didn't like it. She'd felt this way only once before, after she'd bid on Travis.

She frowned, straightened her shoulders and walked up the rise. This was not the time to let her thoughts wander. She'd never see Travis again. What she had to concentrate on now was the man waiting for her at the house.

What would she say to him? What would she ask? She didn't even know his name, or his function. In her determination to face down her advisor and her attorneys, she'd forgotten to ask them any of the things she should have. He represented the buyer. That was all she knew.

One of her lawyers would be present at this meeting, of course, but she didn't want to let him do all the talking. She wanted to participate. She was a good judge of people; she could ask questions that would give her some insight into this unknown buyer's intentions because, silly or not, she wanted Peregrine to have the best possible stewardship.

Alex smoothed back her hair. The breeze had teased the strands loose from the knot her hairdresser had secured at her nape this morning. Glancing down, she saw that her toes, exposed in her Italian sandals, were faintly gritty from her walk.

"A good beginning, Alex," she muttered—and came to a dead stop.

There was a car in the driveway, parked alongside her rented sedan. Her attorney drove a black Cadillac and this car was black. But it was a Porsche. Her heart banged against her ribs. Travis drove a black Porsche.

Alex laughed. California was awash in black Porsches. Anyway, what would a cowboy want with a vineyard?

Her cellular phone rang just as she reached the porch. She plucked it from her shoulder-bag and heard her attorney's voice.

"Ms. Thorpe, forgive me, but I'm afraid I'm going to be delayed."

Alex sighed, opened the screen door and stepped into the slate-floored foyer.

"Delayed? For how long?"

"Actually, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make it at all. I tried calling you—"

"Never mind. We'll just have to reschedule."

"Well, if you'd be interested in a suggestion..." She smiled at his new caution. "Certainly."

"You might wish to go ahead and hear what Mr. Baron has to say."

She felt the blood drain to her toes. "Who?"

"Mr. Baron. Travis Baron. I didn't realize you two were already acquainted, Ms. Thorpe, but Mr. Baron tells me that you're old friends."

"Old friends," Alex said, in a strangled whisper.

"It was the only thing I could think of telling him," low male voice said.

Alex jerked around. Travis stood in the entrance to the living room. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and those boots. Those cowboy boots...

"Alex? You are old friends, aren't you?"

She looked into the deep green eyes of the man she'd been dreaming about. They were not friends, and surely not old ones. They weren't even lovers. Not even she was naive enough to think that one long day spent in bed made a man and a woman into lovers.

"Alex?"

Alex licked her lips. "Yes," she said, into the phone, "yes, we're ...we're old friends, Mr. Baron and I."

Travis smiled. She tried not to think of how his mouth tilted when he smiled, and how it had felt against her own.

"Good," her attorney said. ,"Fine. Just listen to what Mr. Baron has to say. Don't agree to anything, of course."