I drew myself up. “Are you calling me a show-off?”
Knifing a hand though those wild curls, he shook his head, much the same way Diablo shook his mane. “No, no.Iam the show-off.”
Then he chuckled. “My mother, she tells me that all the time.”
With the mention of his mother, my sanity returned. “I should have been more careful with Tesoro. Are you sure she’s all right?”
Pulling away, he grabbed Tesoro’s reins and knelt. Marco ran his hands down the horse’s legs, pausing at times to check something out. Knowing how those hands felt, I shivered as I watched.
“She is fine,” he pronounced, jumping to his feet. “And you are fine also?”
The crisp inquiry brought us back to the employer-employee relationship. “Yes, yes, nothing broken.” I shook out a leg as if to prove it. Talk about being stupid. I must have looked crazy.
Looking away, Marco studied the horizon. “Do you wish to go back or can we continue? It’s only a little way.”
So there was a destination? This wasn’t a wild joy ride? “Of course. Let’s continue.”
Capturing Tesoro’s reins, he helped get me back into the saddle by lacing both hands below me. Stepping into that pocket, I vaulted up and somehow made it with one try. My backside complained but what could I do about that? A hot bath was all I wanted right now. But no way would I complain.
This was all part of the job. I held the worn leather reins in my hands.
What did he want to show me? At a much slower pace, we found another path that led to a road. The mist had cleared and eventually we came to row after row of vines that stretched forever. “Oh my goodness. Is this your vineyard?”
Looking very pleased, he pulled up next to me. “Some of it, yes. Come.” Sliding from his saddle, he led Diablo to one of the rows, where the grapes were dark purple. Dismounting, I followed. We left the horses to graze and I followed him down one of the rows. The rich smell of grapes was almost intoxicating.
His long fingers skimmed the vines until he stopped and gently tugged off a few grapes. “A taste?” Marco held them up to me.
I hesitated. These grapes might be coated with insecticides. As if he read my mind, Marco said, “Don’t worry. The sprinkler system traveled over this field very early this morning.”
Good enough for me. He seemed so eager to have me taste them. I popped one into my mouth. His eyes on me, I bit down. Flavor exploded in my mouth. Now, I was a woman who bought whatever wine was on sale that week. The taste of Marco’s grapes made all my taste buds stand up and plead for more. I’d never tasted anything like this grape.
The sounds of appreciation coming from my mouth brought a smile from Marco. He was as delighted as a little boy on Christmas morning. “So you like my grapes?” He waited.
“They taste amazing.”
His eyes swept the vineyard with pride. “This is only one of my vineyards. But this vine?” His eyes traveled along the gnarled row with affection. “This is one of the wines I will serve at the party.”
“But these grapes won’t be wine by next weekend, right?” I tried to get my mind around what he was saying.
“Oh, no, Profesora. No.” And he grinned as if I’d said the most ridiculous thing. “These grapes won’t be harvested until late August or September. Fine wines have to be aged. That is what my guests will taste. Wine perfected by age in my casks.”
Okay then. The sun was rising higher. One glance at my watch told me that I’d stayed too long. “This has been delightful but I have to get back for class, Your Majesty.”
“Call me Marco,” he said in a husky tone I’d never heard before. “When we are in private. Marco, please.”
The words sent heat blazing through me. I pushed back my tangled hair. “What will your mother say?” The words were out before I thought. Not unusual for me.
“Christina…” He paused, his eyes flicked over me while I savored the sound of my name on his lips, much as I’ve savored his grapes. “May I call you Christina, Profesora?”
My name on this man’s tongue turned my legs to pasta. The cooked kind. “Okay. I guess so.” My voice came out as foggy as the field we’d traveled this morning.
“Christina,” he said again, as if he were enjoying my name, “my mother knows well that I am the king of the castle.”
Well, it didn’t even occur to me to remind him that the phrase was a time-worn cliché and how I did hate clichés. “I’m such a mess.” Ducking my head, I ran my fingers through my hair to untangle the knots.
Marco’s hand lifted as if he wanted to help. Our eyes met. The sun beat down. His hand dropped. Turning, I stumbled toward Tesoro.
Both quiet, we rode home through the fields that had almost been my undoing. I wouldn’t trust myself to be alone with Marco again.
