LITMIR.BIZ

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hall. “Apparently the Courtlands’ party was something else. Boatloads of Champagne, British royalty, a famous Vegas singer...” He leaned down and poured a glass from one of the barrels, this wine a light magenta. “Dionysus is known for instigating a frenzied madness among the celebrants. He’s all about extreme self-gratification and things can and do go very wrong.”

      She and Dionysus would have been best buddies when she was younger, she was pretty sure. “And...things went wrong, I presume?”

      He leaned down to pour a second glass. “Apparently Janine was in love with the Courtlands’ head winemaker, not her husband. During the celebration they lost their heads and were found down here in flagrante delicto by Ralf.”

      Her jaw dropped. “No way.”

      He nodded. “Ralf stabbed the winemaker and his wife to death with an ornate dagger.”

      Oh, my God. Her huge mistake with Jordan Lane fresh in her mind, she stood there gaping at him. “That’s awful.”

      He shrugged. “Some would say Janine Courtland got her due.”

      A buzzing sound filled her ears. “Sometimes things aren’t so black-and-white.”

      “And sometimes they are.” His voice had taken on a dark intensity, his gaze on hers. “Wouldn’t you put cheating in that category?”

      Obviously yes. Watching her father destroy her mother with his affair with a local farmer’s wife had been devastating for her entire family. But what had happened with Jordan had shaken her. He had lied to her and told her he was divorced. But should she have seen past the lies? Seen the signs?

      She licked suddenly dry lips, realized he was waiting for her response. “I agree,” she nodded. “There is no excuse for infidelity.”

      He led her to another room, where he poured two more glasses of a richer-looking red. Alex tried to shake off the darkness that had invaded her. “Any particular reason the reds are down here?”

      He pointed to the gravel lining the earth floor. “They’re the premium wines. Keeping them down here, where the humidity is high and the barrels rest on the earth, preserves as much of the wine as we can.” He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the barrel. “If we get three hundred bottles from this one, we’ll still lose a liter and a half along the way.”

      “That much?”

      He nodded. “Winemakers like to call it the Angel’s Share.”

      She smiled. “I love that.”

      “Very apt, no?”

      They took the wine back to the dining room and sat at the ornately carved showpiece of a bar. “So where was she murdered?”

      His mouth tipped up on one side. “In the last barrel room we visited.”

      “And whose ghost is supposed to be down here?”

      “Janine’s. Apparently she paces the cellar demanding to be brought back to life. She considers the whole situation unjust.” He shrugged. “I say apparently, because I haven’t heard or seen her since I’ve been here.”

      Thank God for that. Her breath left her in a whoosh. “Time to drink.”

      “Alexandra Anderson,” Gabe drawled slowly, studying her face. “You aren’t afraid of ghosts, are you?”

      She waved her hand in the air. “Let’s just say they’re not one of my favorite things.”

      “Interesting.” He lowered his tall, lean frame onto the stool beside her and slid a glass across the bar. “We’ll start with the lightest ones. First the Zinfandel.”

      She took a sip. “Too fruity.”

      “Lots of people find that.”

      Next came the Pinot Noir. It was better. Smoky, maybe? She wrinkled her nose. “Too light.”

      His mouth quirked. “What are you, Goldilocks?”

      She smiled. “Next?”

      He pushed the second-deepest-toned red toward her. She took a sip. This time the smoother, richer tone of the wine curled itself around her tongue in a mellow greeting she was fully on board with. “Mmm. This one is good.”

      “I should hope so.” Humor darkened his eyes. “It’s our gold-medal award-winning Merlot.”

      She took another sip. It really was good. Rich, smooth and so easy to drink... A warm glow began to spread through her body as the combined effect of the different wines and a lack of sleep hit her. She pushed her empty glass toward him. “Next.”

      “Easy, tiger. You still have two more to go.”

      “Two?”

      “Our Devil’s Peak is behind the bar. Just getting it labeled.” He flashed her one of those schoolteacher looks of his. “What did you notice about the last wine?”

      She frowned. “I dunno. It’s heavier but still soft.”

      “Exactly. Merlots are softer and fruitier than a Cab, yet display many of the same aromas and flavors—black cherry, currant, cedar and green olive. You can even have mint, tobacco and tea-leaf tones in them.”

      She snorted. “Green olives? You don’t actually believe all that mumbo jumbo, do you? I mean, have you ever tasted green olive in a wine?”

      “Sì.” He gave her a condescending look. “I have.”

      She surveyed the twist of his lips with an inner growl. He was so smug. So confident. She wondered what it would take to knock him off his peg. To kiss him again, except this time ruffle that deep, dark packaging and see what happened.

      Which couldn’t happen, given their agreement. But fun to think about nonetheless...

      “And this one?” She summoned her best dutiful-schoolgirl look. “Must be a Cab.”

      He nodded. “From 2006. Our best year. Try it.”

      She tasted it. It was rich and dark and so good she wanted to eat it up. “That is a wine.”

      “The king of all reds, infatti. Cabs are the world’s most sought-after grape—they take five to ten years to achieve an optimal flavor, and they’re worth every minute of it.” He gestured toward her glass. “You should taste plum, cherry, blackberry and a hint of tobacco in that one.”

      She frowned. “I’ll take your word for it.”

      “Lex,” he said darkly. “Focus. You aren’t going to get a feel for this unless you try.”

      She took another sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. “Maybe the spice?”

      “Not spice, tobacco.”

      “I can’t taste it.”

      His lips moved but no sound came out. He looked as though he was counting to five. Was he counting to five?

      “Gabe...”

      He shook his head and waved a hand at her, as if he’d given up. She pouted. Really? Could it be this hard?

      He walked around the bar and pulled out a bottle without a label. “Now for The Devil’s Peak.”

      She perked up. This was what it was all about.

      He poured them some. She pulled her glass toward her lips. “Lex—” He muttered a curse and came around the bar. “You don’t drink wine like you’re slinging beer. You savor it.”

      “That’s pretentious garbage.”

      He grabbed her wrist and pulled the glass away from her mouth. “It’s not pretentious garbage, it’s how to drink wine. First,” he instructed, guiding her wrist in a smooth, circular movement, “you swirl it in the glass to smell the bouquet. It’s important to get that first scent of the flavor

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