Seduce Me Sweetly (Heron's Landing Book 1) (4 page)

“Oh, Mr. Danvers! Glad you’re here. Have you met Joy? She just moved here,” Kerry said.

He looked straight at Joy. His voice was gruff as he said, “Yeah, we’ve met.”

Ha, he sure had that right! They’d met and he’d been a dick of the highest order to her for no damn reason. The childish part of her wanted to stomp on his instep and watch him cry, while the other wished she’d worn a nicer bra and put on more mascara.

Stop being stupid and vain,
her brain admonished.
Do you really want to get into Mr. Asshole’s pants? The pants would probably yell at you for being nosy.

Joy, though, wasn’t one to be cowed—especially not by jerk men. Instead, she preferred to needle and rile them until they begged her to stop (okay, that had only happened once, but she enjoyed the thought). She may be girly and had purple hair and loved kittens and cried at episodes of
Undercover Boss
, but she wasn’t a wimp, either.

She shot her hand out. “We have met. How are you today, Mr. Danvers?”

He took her hand with an eyebrow quirk. “Fine,” he replied. “You?”

“Oh, I’m fantastic. I thought I’d do a story on this place. You know, a story written by a
journalist
. That kind of story?”

Oblivious to the undercurrent, Kerry exclaimed, “That’s a great idea! I didn’t know you were a writer, Miss McGuire.”

“Call me Joy. And yes, I am. I’m a very unprincipled, naughty journalist.” She batted her eyelashes at Adam, waiting for him to call her bluff.

Instead, he said nothing for a moment before he turned to Kerry. “We’ll be gone for an hour. Call me on my cell if something comes up.”

“Sounds good. Have fun you two.” Kerry winked and sat back down at her desk, humming merrily as she typed something.

“Ready?” Adam eyed her, liked he was expecting her to renege.

Ha! Fat chance.
“Ready when you are,” she said sweetly.

Making their way outside, she wished she’d put on sunscreen before she’d left. She shaded her eyes against the bright, summer sun. Maybe she’d be okay? It shouldn’t take that long. But then she looked at her pale arms and sighed inwardly. Hopefully Adam the Grump talked quickly and she’d avoid turning into a lobster.

As it turned out, he didn’t talk quickly, but he did walk quickly. She had to almost jog to keep up with his long-legged strides. Why did tall people always do this? Couldn’t they slow down for their shorter peers without losing stock in the tall people’s club? Joy huffed behind him; he glanced back at her but said nothing.

I hope you walk so fast you fall in a ditch
, she thought, slapping at a mosquito.
Asshole.

Once they arrived at the vineyard itself, he stopped, hands in his pockets. He seemed to be taking in the scenery, and she had to admit it was beautiful: River’s Bend sat on bluffs overlooking the river, and the trees were emerald green with summer foliage. The vines themselves didn’t look like they had much on them yet, but she knew nothing about running a vineyard or how to grow grapes.

Eventually, Adam said gruffly, “I guess I’ll start with my granddad buying this piece of land.”

He seemed…uncomfortable. Like he’d never done this before, which was odd, considering he was the owner and Kerry had mentioned he often did the tours. Shrugging inwardly, Joy pulled out her notebook to scribble down quotes and any useful information she could use writing the piece. He may not like journalists—or her being one—but that wasn’t going to stop her from writing what she wanted. First Amendment and all that.

He glanced at her as she wrote down things, explaining the history of River’s Bend and how the vineyard was started. Seventy years ago, Thaddeus Danvers had purchased this land for a dime an acre, and soon discovered it would be an ideal place for a vineyard. His first crops hadn’t yielded much in the way of drinkable wine, but after trying various types of grapes, he ended up making the first batch of red wine that was sold at the World’s Fair.

“Soon, River’s Bend was attracting all kinds of people, including the governor of Missouri at the time. Most people don’t think of the Midwest as ideal wine-making country, but the climate actually works fairly well for grape crops. Soon after River’s Bend, other vineyards were started across the state.”

Joy took notes, nodding every so often. They’d wandered down the paths through the vines, and she didn’t even realize he’d stopped talking until she heard him clear his throat.

“Can I ask what you’re taking notes for?”

She stopped. Looked up. Did he really need to ask? “I want to do a story about this place,” she explained. “And usually when you interview someone, you take notes.”

Adam grimaced at the word “story,” like she’d just told him she was planning on peeing on his plants in front of guests. “I’m sure that’s all well and good, but River’s Bend doesn’t need a story written about it.”

“Why do you say that like I’m going to write a
National Inquirer-
esque story, like ‘Vineyard Owner Keeps Twenty Secret Wives in the Basement!’ or something? You realize not all journalists are creeps, right?”

“Not in my experience.”

Okay, now he was just being a dick. Again. Stuffing her notepad into her shorts pocket, Joy crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the dark soil. “So I’m a creep? Is that what you think from knowing me for less than a day and having a grand total of thirty-minutes worth of conversation with me?”

His eyes widened, like he was surprised she’d fight back. Well, maybe the women in Heron’s Landing didn’t, but Joy McGuire never backed down from a fight. It was one of her better qualities, she thought.

“Look, I own and run this place. I realize I can’t stop you from writing what you want, but I’d ask you not to write a story about River’s Bend,” he said.

“Sure, but only if you tell me why.”

That got a reaction. It was still subtle—the man didn’t seem like he was capable of gobs of intense emotion—but she still noticed it. It was a little tick in his jaw, and a narrowing of the eyes. It made him look dark and brooding, and even though she still wanted to stomp on his foot, she also found herself intrigued despite herself.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he replied in clipped tones. “Now, do you want to finish this tour, or should we head back?”

Joy almost pulled her notepad out just to spite him, but based on his thunderous expression, she decided not to push her luck. He could very well throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his lair for that kind of a stunt. Which, really, sounded kind of amazing for a story.

“Show me the way, sir,” she said with a flourish. He snorted, but continued on.

As Adam talked about winemaking and the grapes and even the fertilizer, she had to admit that she wasn’t the least bit bored. The man seemed to come alive as he talked: it was that alone that kept her listening. She’d never been the type of person to listen to someone talk for a long stretch of time—she had the attention span of a squirrel most days—but as she followed Adam along, she drank in every word.

It almost helped that the man himself was attractive. She wouldn’t deny it: he was handsome, and if he weren’t a dick, she’d climb him like a tree. She hadn’t gotten laid in months—not since Jeremy dumped her—and her libido had been whining to her for a while. But her heart remained sore and the cracks hadn’t healed yet, and she’d been determined to keep her pants on to avoid any more heartbreak. She’d never been good about separating sex and love, and the last thing she needed right now was more pain and anguish when it came to a man.

Joy was still a writer, though, and she always enjoyed watching people. She watched as Adam bent down and showed her the little buds that would somehow turn into grapes come August. His dark hair tended to get in his eyes, and he brushed it away without even noticing it. His hands were tan, the fingers long and the nails well groomed, and she noticed that he still wore a wedding band. Grace had told her he’d lost his wife, and at the memory, she felt a sudden surge of sympathy for him.

He was too young to lose a spouse; they couldn’t have been married for long. She watched him as he rose, seemingly unaware of where her mind had gone. She wondered how he’d met his wife, if they’d wanted to have kids, if he ever thought he’d marry again.

And then she shook her head, as it wasn’t any of her business anyway. She had a tendency to be rather nosy—came with the territory of being a writer—and if given a morsel of a good story, she wanted to follow it to the bitter end like a bloodhound. But this wasn’t a good story: it was Adam’s life.

“Your shoulders are all red,” he pointed out abruptly. “Probably should’ve put on sunscreen.”

Okay, it was his life, but he was still a dick. She looked at her shoulders—shit, he was right. She was sunburned.

“I hate you, sun!” she said with fist raised.

Adam looked beyond into the vineyard, and then started back to the main building without explanation.

“Hey, are we done? You didn’t even show me those vines over there.” She hurried to catch up.

“The tour doesn’t include the entire vineyard. And I have work to do.”

Joy scrunched her nose at his back. “‘I have work to do,’” she muttered under her breath. “Probably working on pulling that stick out of his ass.”

If he heard her, he made no sign of it. She sighed, feeling the sting of her sunburn already. Chicago wasn’t really a place to get a tan, so she should’ve known better than to go outside in full-sun for more than five seconds. She could hear her mom’s voice in her head, admonishing her.
You’ll get skin cancer doing that! Remember Aunt Marta and her moles that spread all over her back?

How could she forget Aunt Marta’s moles? She shuddered.

She wondered if Adam had any moles on his back. Probably not. He seemed like he’d never allow himself something so human. And then that thought inevitably led to what he’d look like without his shirt, and how muscular his back—and front—would be. Would he have hair on his chest, or did he do a little waxing down here in the boonies? She imagined he’d have a bit of a happy trail, leading down to the ultimate prize—

Whoa, do not go there
, she told herself sternly.
You cannot, will not, under any circumstances, get it on with this asshole.
Her mind was stern, but her libido kept up the whining, anyway. Couldn’t she just have tiny, measly little fling? Just a grab and go without getting all entangled?

As Adam opened the door for her, his gaze on her face, she knew the answer to that: nope, she’d probably fall for him and end up begging him to marry her. Mostly because she was the queen of poor decisions in regards to men. Look at Jeremy: she’d known he was questionable from the start, but she’d thought she could fix him. Love him enough to transform him, like Jane Eyre did for Rochester. Beauty and the beast and true love conquers all. But then Jeremy had boned her best friend and said he’d gotten bored with her—his fiancée!—and now look where she was: twenty-nine, single, and lusting after a guy who’d insulted her multiple times.

“Did you have a good time?” Kerry asked brightly before gasping. “Oh no, you got sunburned!”

Was everyone in town going to point this out to her? Joy had to bite her tongue to avoid saying something snarky. “Yeah, looks like it. I’m used to it by now.” She shrugged.

“It looks pretty bad, though. I hope it doesn’t blister.”

Joy looked at her shoulders: definitely red, but not as red as that one time at band camp that had resulted in a patch of blisters all over her shoulders. That had been a real treat.

“Well, I better get going,” she began, but that was when Adam held up a hand.

“Wait here just a second.” Before Joy could respond—was he bringing her a souvenir bottle of wine?—he walked off into what she assumed were the vineyard’s offices.

“He sure is a peach,” she said with an eye roll. “How do you put up with him?”

Kerry smiled. “I know he doesn’t have the best manners, but he’s a good man. Works really hard on this place. And I know he’s been concerned about keeping it going, lately.”

That was interesting news, and the nosy bloodhound in Joy perked up immediately. Was the vineyard hurting? Maybe even closing? Was that why Adam had the manners of a caveman?