“I can’t believe you kept this from me for nearly five years. Why?”
Cori didn’t answer, just stared down at her hands. How could she shut off her emotions like that?
“You got your thrills with me and paid the price.” Purposefully, he pushed. “What? I’m not even good enough for an explanation?”
Her head shot up, eyes shadowed in the moonlight. “Good enough?”
“Don’t pretend. I was just the field hand to you. A distraction you couldn’t tell your family about.” He struggled to slow down, but the words came out anyway. “Was it fun to slum around? Was it thrilling enough for you? Was it?” Blake grabbed Cori’s shoulders, needing her to admit she’d used him. “Are you ready for another dip on the wild side?”
Instead of waiting for an answer, he brought his mouth down on hers. A second later Blake jumped back to his side of the truck.
What had he done?
Dear Reader,
Have you ever experienced the Sonoma County wine country? If you have, you may have stumbled across one of the smaller, family-run wineries, met the owner (grower/winemaker), his wife (tasting-room hostess) and his teenage son (souvenir-stand clerk). It takes a dedicated family to make a privately owned winery prosper. Cori Sinclair belongs to one such family, the Messinas, whose winery has found some measure of success and expanded beyond a tasting room in their driveway.
Cori dreams of escaping the all-consuming commitment her family’s winery requires and wants to prove herself on her own terms. She doesn’t plan to fall in love with Blake Austin, a man in search of family and stability, whose career hinges on the support of Cori’s grandfather, Salvatore Messina, and staying in Sonoma. When Cori finally achieves her independence, it’s not as satisfying as she’d hoped. Coming home, Cori must face Blake, the man she left behind, the man she still loves, the man whose career she could destroy—if she tells her family the truth about Michael’s father.
I hope you enjoy Cori and Blake’s story. I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at P.O. Box 2596, Turlock, CA 95381 or through my Web site at www.MelindaCurtis.net.
Enjoy!
Melinda Curtis
Michael’s Father
Melinda Curtis
With much love and thanks to…
My patient and supportive family (Curt, Mason, Colby, Chelsea, Mom, Dad, Paul and John), who don’t mind waiting for calls to be returned or suffering through pizza and bagged salad instead of home cooking.
Brian and Andrea Skonovd, who shared their vineyard growing stories and advice. Any mistakes are mine alone.
Lori Green, Karen Johnson and Sigal Kremer, for encouragement, reading time and promotion ideas.
Valleyrose, the Sacramento chapter of RWA, who helped me put all the pieces together.
Susan Floyd, Anna Adams and Jennifer LaBrecque, fellow authors who shared laughter, tears and dreams. Do Believe, ladies!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PROLOGUE
“YOU ARE not pregnant!” Salvatore Messina railed at his granddaughter’s announcement.
Cori Sinclair had never seen him so angry. And growing up in a household with three generations of Italians, she’d seen plenty of her grandfather’s anger. Suddenly, she regretted blurting out her plight just before her college graduation.
Out in the hallway, the voices of eager Stanford graduates rang through the air. Inside Cori’s room, Salvatore Messina’s Italian loafers marched a stormy cadence across the beige industrial carpet. Her grandfather’s stride was still as strong and obstinate as the eighty-year-old man himself. Standing over six feet, olive-skinned, with lightning silver hair and black eyes and dressed in unwrinkled charcoal slacks and matching jacket, Salvatore overwhelmed the small room.
“This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen to us,” he proclaimed, adding something under his breath she didn’t quite catch.
Shrinking into a corner of a worn red couch, Cori tugged at the hem of her short, blue dress, forcing a weak laugh past her parched throat. Clearly, her grandfather assumed she was as invincible as he saw himself.
“It could happen to anyone.” Even to those who used condoms. Cori represented that rare statistic where the latex had failed.
When her grandfather didn’t immediately answer, Cori gathered her tattered courage and looked at him. His jaw was clenched as tightly as his fists. With relief, Cori realized his cast-iron gaze and frown were directed at the black graduation robe hanging above the couch she sat on.
She breathed deeply before swallowing what was left of her pride and apologizing, but just then a wave of nausea hit, sending Cori stumbling for the little private bathroom. This was a humbling experience she was starting to get used to.
As she pulled her head out of the toilet minutes later, a large, gnarled hand dropped to her shoulder, then tentatively stroked Cori’s spine. She took a deep breath, moved by the uncharacteristic display of affection. He removed his hand and she shivered, trying to find the strength to stand and face her problems.
The hand returned, lifting her and cleansing her face and neck with a wet cloth, demonstrating a gentleness Cori would never have expected from her grandfather. Eyes closed, she sighed and rested her head on her forearm.
This is how families are supposed to act.
For the first time in weeks, Cori’s spirits rose. Everything was going to be okay.
“You should have told me sooner,” her grandfather said quietly.
He couldn’t know how she’d agonized over how to tell her conservative, Italian family, and the baby’s father, about her predicament. Or how she’d watched her dreams of independence, which had seemed so close, slip away.
“It’s not too late to correct this.”
Cori gasped and lifted her head gingerly, not sure what she’d heard. Her gaze collided with her grandfather’s cold, black eyes and she realized he was proposing the unthinkable.
He wants me to have an abortion.
Footsteps and joyful conversation moved past Cori’s dorm room, heading toward the commencement ceremony. This wasn’t one of the lighthearted practical jokes her grandfather was known to pull on her. If there’d been anything left in Cori’s stomach, she would have given it up.
Unexpectedly, his dark eyes fell to the floor. “You’ll marry the boy.”
Cori’s heart sank, pulled by the combined weight of relief and dread. Relief because she’d misunderstood him, and dread because her grandfather’s statement made it sound as if a resolution were simple.