Crazy in Love (3 page)

“All right, Miss Rachael McCoy,” he said with a wink and a show-stopping smile. “Show me the way to your carriage.”

This was going to be the week from hell. Not because she hated the way Cole Turner talked to her, or the way he looked at her.

But because she liked those things too much.

Chapter Four

They drove forever. Okay, they drove thirty minutes southeast, but every bend looked the same—trees, rocks, rivers, wash, rinse and repeat—which made the minutes drag by. Cole thought they’d never reach the winery. The only reason he didn’t demand to be taken back to his room was because Rachael, the beauty he couldn’t figure out, sat beside him.

She was stunning. Soft eyes, dark lashes that batted against pale pink cheeks, and a set of heart-shaped lips that he wanted to press his against. She was thin and toned, yet she didn’t look skeletal, like she’d stab him for a steak.

The thing was, women like Rachael McCoy were usually all over him by now.

He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and it was all her fault. It was only the two of them in that big inn, and she slept a few doors down…close enough that she should’ve been knocking on his door in the middle of the night for a quick romp. Every hour that ticked by, he checked the clock. Listened for footsteps to thump down the hall.

And somehow, every single agonizing hour, he’d been let down. If it wasn’t for the thought of Rachael kicking him out and making a scene—and Rita freaking out for creating yet another problem during the tour—he would’ve knocked on
her
door.

But he hadn’t.

Tonight would be different. Tonight, she’d beg him to come to bed with her. He’d up his game and she’d be putty in his hands.

She veered off the road and drove beneath a large arching sign that read:
StoneMill Winery.
The gravel driveway was long and winding, with vines of grapes lining either side.

“Wonder why they put roses at the end of the vines that way?” he asked, watching out the window as row upon row passed with roses at the head.

“There are diseases that strike grapes from time to time,” Rachael said simply. “Roses are more susceptible to getting those than grapes and serve as an early warning for the winery manager. If the roses are infected, the manager knows to take action. The grapes will be next.”

“That’s crazy.” He leaned his elbow on the door. “How’d you know that?”

“I told you, Lucy’s a friend of mine. We used to be in a book club together in town. We’ve remained close through the years, especially after she approached me about partnering for the Shows at StoneMill Package.”

“What’s that?”

The rows of grapes ended at a huge house—more like a mountain mansion, really—with large, rectangular windows in front. Rachael turned left, and drove around the building, to where parking stalls had been outlined with gigantic pegs of wood.

“She only recently built the amphitheater where you’re performing,” she said, pulling into a stall. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the second musical act, and the one that’s going to really kick off the spring into summer music schedule. Lucy and I decided to partner and give discounted rates for the musicians who stay at the inn. You stay with me, I drop you off and pick you up if you need me to, and you play here.”

She turned off her Rav4 and hopped out. Only after he was alone in the cab, did he really hear what she’d said. She didn’t drive him here because she wanted to, or because he’d asked her. She’d driven him because it was part of the deal with her friend. Part of the show package between the inn and the winery.

She didn’t want to be here.
She didn’t want him.

Gritting his teeth, Cole got out of the SUV and met Rachael at the edge of the lot. They’d parked on a hillside, the spread of the valley opening up below them. Grapes stretched over the land, to the east and west, north and south. In front of the stage, the hillside had been carved away to make room for fans to sit in a horseshoe-shaped grassy area. Below that, where the hill leveled out, hundreds of chairs had been set up in staggered rows. People buzzed about, setting up the stage and speakers, the chairs and security rails. Cole’s crew was unmistakable, dressed in their usual black coats and jeans. They’d have this place suited up for the show in no time.

“Amazing set up, right?” Rachael said.

He nodded, checking out the trees on the hills to the north and south.

“All of this used to be vineyard,” she went on. “Lucy didn’t break ground until last year. The place has come a long way. I helped her with the landscaping over there”—she pointed—“and over there. And the guest shop inside had to be expanded. We worked out the plans for that together over dinner one night.”

“I would’ve thought the inn dominated your hours,” he said. “When did you find the time to help revamp this place?”

“You don’t find time to help friends…you make time.”

“That was sweet of you.”
Really sweet.
“People in my line of work don’t help with anything unless they’re paid.”

She shook her head. “That’s a pity.”

It really was. There wasn’t a single person Cole could call who’d come to help him if he needed it. Not unless he was going to open up his wallet when the work was through.

He had to admit, they’d done a great job with the place. The sights were spectacular. Just the way the place had been described to him: a music stage in the middle of the Sierras, and somewhere to play beneath the stars. The air smelled clean and sweet, consumed with the fragrant notes of the grapes.

“I’ve never played outside before,” he said, his voice low.

“Really?”

“Playing in the open like this…”
…was going to be something he’d always remember.
He looked up at the pristinely blue sky before starting the trek down the hill on a set of wooden stairs. “It’s how Rita roped me into coming to Blue Lake in the first place, but I didn’t realize what I was getting into. People around here will really pay fifty bucks to sit out in the freezing cold for the night?”

“No, they won’t do that at all.” Rachael followed a few steps behind him. “They’ll pay fifty bucks to sit out in the cold and listen to you play. You’ve got to be good to sell this place out.”

He stopped on a stair halfway down the hillside and turned back. She jolted to a stop, crossing her hands in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Have you heard any of my songs?”

She opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. “I haven’t, but don’t take offense. I don’t listen to rock.”

Fair enough.
“What do you listen to?”

“Country.”

“Shit,” he swiped his hand across his jaw. “Should’ve known.”

“What?” Smirking, she planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t I look like a country girl?”

“I should’ve glanced down.” He pointed to the boot toes poking from beneath the hems of her jeans. “Those boots give it all away, but I was too distracted by the twinkle in your eyes to notice your shoes. Forgive me.”

She groaned and did some serious eye-rolling.

He was going to have to bring his A game to win this one over.

“Who are your favorites?” he asked.

Along the way, he’d probably met a few of her favorite musicians. Dropping names was
not
beneath him. Not if it meant he could finally impress the stone-cold innkeeper.

“Faith Hill, Sugarland, Keith Urban.” She grinned. “I’d sit out here on my ass and get frostbite if it meant I could listen to Keith Urban play live.”

Although the notion was ridiculous, a tiny twinge of jealousy niggled in Cole’s side. Why wouldn’t she be willing to do the same for him? There’d be hundreds of screaming fans here tomorrow night. Hundreds of women who’d gladly get frostbite for him, too.

“What is it about Keith that’ll make you sit out in the cold?” he asked.

“There is no sound in the world like a man playing a guitar—”

Check.

“—and singing his own songs, written straight from the heart.”

Damn it.
He’d tried his hand at writing, and had been told his words fell flat. Apparently, his lyrics lacked emotion.

“How do you know that dreamy Mr. Urban writes his own stuff?”

“I don’t,” Rachael said. “But it feels like he does. That’s what’s missing from musicians today. When I’m watching a concert, I want to feel like I’m witnessing an intimate moment between a man and his guitar.”

Cole erupted with laughter, and covered his hands over his middle.

“What?” She looked like she was going to slug him. “Why are you laughing?”

“You want me to have a passionate moment with a musical instrument, in front of hundreds of screaming fans?”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

His show wasn’t personal. Not really. He didn’t play acoustic or talk to the crowd much, but people had fun at his concerts, they truly did, and that was a personal experience on some level. They smiled and laughed and sang along to really catchy songs.

Rachael didn’t know what she was missing.

“Come to my show tomorrow night,” he pleaded, and damn it, the tone didn’t fit him well. “Or the show Saturday night, if you have plans. You’ll see that I don’t need to get kinky with my guitar to throw one hell of a party.”

She strode past him and continued to descend to the stage. A few of his crewmembers had spotted him, and pointed him out to Rita. Frowning, she tapped her watch. The woman needed a Xanax.

“Tempting offer, but I don’t think so.” Rachael craned her neck around as she continued a few steps ahead. “I went to Prince’s concert in 2003 and partied like it was 1999. That’s partying in the present and past all at the same time—it was really overwhelming, as you can imagine.” She sped her pace, her ponytail swinging behind her like a silky golden pendulum. “I’m interested in seeing a concert that’s going to strike me as private. Like I’m witnessing something I wasn’t meant to see, you know? I want to see something real.”

“Well you’re in luck. My concert is as real as you’re going to get it.”

As if on cue, fireworks went off from each end of the stage. The explosions were overwhelming, popping and booming as cannons shot one round after another. Either something went wrong, or the people in the front rows were going to be deaf from the racket. Gasping, Rachael covered her ears and ducked.

Out of instinct, he covered his hands over her head and hollered at Bronx. “Shut ‘em off!”

Gold fireworks continued to spew from the cannons. The sound was deafening, crackling and shooting, howling into the cold morning air.

“Bronx! Kill it!”

Finally, a few ear-piercing seconds later, the fireworks ended and the thundering quieted.

Rachael straightened, eyeing Cole’s hands that hovered protectively over her shoulders. Her eyes went wide, as if she hadn’t expected him to shield her, to protect her. Hell, he didn’t expect it either. Over something as stupid as fireworks? Lame with another helping of numbskull, please!

“Fireworks?” She winced. “Let me guess…you’re going to have a smoke machine, too.”

“Fog machine,” Rita interrupted before Cole could argue. “It’s not legal to have smoke on the stage anymore, though we would have it if we could get away with it.”

“Excellent.” Rachael smiled, her lips forming a tight line. “Can’t wait for the show!”

As she walked down the final stairs and in front of the stage, Rita said, “Great, see you then!”

“She was being sarcastic.” Cole couldn’t take his eyes off Rachael as she talked to a group of winery staff. “Even if she had no other plans and we gave her free tickets, that woman still wouldn’t come.”

It bothered him to hell and back.

“Who? Oh.” Rita squinted, and then waved in Rachael’s direction. “Don’t let the innkeeper tie you up. You need to focus so you don’t have a repeat of Houston.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

How could he move on and forget about that disaster if Rita kept bringing it up? She wanted him to stay in Blue Lake for a few days to recoup, to rest up, to recharge and regain focus before heading to Lake Tahoe. To do that, he had to forget the Houston tour stop ever happened.

“Cole Turner?” someone said from behind him.

He spun around. The woman who’d approached him was petite, with short, curly red hair and green eyes. Her skin was pale, and freckles dotted her cheeks. She was Lucille Ball and Shirley Temple’s love child…if they could’ve had one.

“I’m Lucy Stone, owner of StoneMill Winery,” she said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She put her hand over her heart, and blushed. “I’m a huge fan. I mean,
huge
. I think I have a 6’0’’ cardboard cutout of you at home. What am I talking about, I don’t think I do, I
know
so.” She shook her head. “I’m not a stalker, don’t worry; I won it as a gift at a bachelorette party. I don’t know why I’m rambling, this isn’t normally like me. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Now
this
was the reaction he’d been wanting from his sexy innkeeper.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy.” He took her hand in his. It was cold and starting to tremble. “Thanks for allowing me to play here.”

“Are you kidding?” She giggled. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Now Lucy,” Rita said, using her business voice, “the grass over here will be for the higher-priced tickets, is that correct? I’d like you to show me where the heaters are going to be placed around the venue.”

As the two ladies droned about business, Cole remembered Rachael had said that she and the owner of this place were friends.

“You know Rachael McCoy, is that right?”

Lucy paused mid-sentence and turned her full attention to Cole. “She’s one of my best friends. Is she treating you well at the inn?”

“Actually, I was wanting to get her a little something for being so cordial to me last night, letting me check in early and all.”
Oh, the plan was forming perfectly.
“If I gave you two VIP, backstage tickets to my show tomorrow night, would you bring her?”

“Absolutely!” Lucy’s green eyes lit up. “I’d love to take you up on that, but I don’t think it’d be right for me to take the ticket, seeing as I own the place. Maybe you could—”