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  Mine: Because I don’t see them but I feel them.

  His: Huh, is his answer.

  Mine: WTF does huh mean?

  His: I guess lawyers are never wrong. And if you believe that, I have a million dollars I want to sell you for fifty bucks.

  He’s obviously referencing my shirt, telling me he has eyes on me and us. But something still doesn’t feel right, and I discreetly scan, not just for his men, but for the source of my discomfort. An old lady to our right. A cluster of businessmen in deep conversation in the corner. A mid-fifties man by himself in the corner in jeans and a t-shirt. Another cluster of businesspeople. A college-age woman by herself, with headphones on. My gaze shifts to the hostess stand where a fit man in his mid-thirties is flirting with the woman showing people to their tables.

  “The entire town is going to be talking about us now,” Faith announces, drawing my attention back to her.

  “Hopefully they mention my shirt.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure they will. You can’t hiccup and not have it be part of the story.”

  “But you want to live here?”

  “If I gave you that impression, it’s wrong. I love my house, because it was an escape, and my home outside of the winery. But I went to school in L.A. and stayed in L.A. for a reason, beyond my aspirations in art. I never wanted to live here.”

  “And you do want to live in San Francisco?”

  “I do,” she says. “You’re there.”

  “But do you like it? Because if you don’t—”

  “I do,” she repeats. “I really love it there, and I always have. The art. The food. The way it’s a small city but you can still get lost in a crowd. The views. The art.”

  “Always the art. San Fran is a great hub for your craft. Why L.A.?”

  “L.A. had wider opportunities for school, work, and a connection to agents and industry professionals.”

  Our plates arrive and once we’ve tasted our food, and I’ve given the burger the thumbs up Faith is looking for and that it deserves, I focus on what she’s just told me. “You don’t want to be here. That means we need to make sure the winery is self-reliant.”

  “I feel like I should offer Kasey stock.”

  “I suggest you start with a large bonus plan. Make sure he really does handle things when you, or your father, aren’t looking over his shoulder.”

  “I’m sure he will. Of course, he will. But what kind of bonus?”

  “I have several plans I’ve helped clients set up over the years in my briefcase. You can look them over, but I’d suggest feeling him out tonight. We can send him whatever you decide on Monday. But, that said, I would like him to work with Rita on the accounts payable and have our CFO audit the books once a month.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “I’ve seen people get screwed, Faith. And it’s always by people they trust. Additionally, you need someone to play your role.”

  “That’ll be expensive.”

  “The right person will grow revenues and more than pay for themselves. And since you don’t want to sell and you don’t want to work at the winery, the idea is to make it an investment. It pays you profit monthly. And when your art starts generating million-dollar payouts, you spend more money on the winery, and end up with tax write-offs.”

  “I’d love to have that problem,” she says, despite the fact that her inability to see her own success and skill is a product of a past she hasn’t quite escaped.

  But she will.

  “Eighty thousand in a week,” I remind her. “Success isn’t an option. And I get to call you my crazy talented woman.”

  “And I get to call you my arrogant bastard?”

  I laugh. “I told you. Anything but Mr. Rogers. And you forgot that when you were drinking.”

  “I didn’t forget. I saw opportunity.”

  I laugh and our waitress chooses that moment to re-appear and present us with the check, and damn, I want her to go away. Or maybe I just want to take Faith away from this place, and this intrusive little town. I reach for the ticket, and as I hand the waitress my card, I have that same sense of being watched all over again.

  We stand up to leave and my gaze travels toward the sensation, and the man in the corner, sitting at a table, flirting with our waitress, when he’d started out flirting with the hostess. Faith and I start walking and my eyes catch on the tat on his hand: A flag, like the money clip. It’s a long shot, but it could be a connection, and I don’t let long shots go just because they’re hard. I pause and turn back to the table, looking for something I haven’t lost. Faith turns to help me, and my hand settles on Faith’s shoulder, lips near her ear. “Be discreet,” I murmur, and trying not to scare her, I say, “the guy talking to our waitress is familiar, but I can’t place him. Glance over as we exit.”

  She nods, and we start walking, passing through the restaurant and stepping outside. “I’ve never seen him,” she says. “He must be a tourist. Maybe from San Francisco?”

  “Maybe,” I say, opening her door for her, and pulling out my phone.

  I round the trunk and text Beck: If the guy at the corner table isn’t your guy, find out who he is. He has a flag tattoo.

  Once we’re on the road, stopping at FedEx and then the grocery store, the trend of a waxing and waning feeling of being watched continues, as do the references to Faith’s dead mother. By the time we arrive back at the house there is no denying the relief I feel when we step inside and shut the door. And the word in my mind is no longer more—it’s murder. It’s not a good thought, but not one I can risk setting aside. Murder brought me here. Faith kept me here.

  We’re unpacking the groceries when Faith’s phone rings on the counter where it rests. “Josh again,” she says, answering the line, in a short conversation that finishes with, “No. No. No. I’m not. I’m hanging up now.” And she does. “He wants to see my submissions so he can make me second guess my choices and I’m not going to do it.”

  “Good for you,” I say. “So now I say we pack you up. Where do you want to start?”

  “My closet. My clothes are the most important thing for me to take. And my shoes, of course. A girl has to have her shoes.”

  I’d tell her I’d just buy her all new things, but I’m smarter than that, and her phone rings again anyway. She grimaces and answers it without looking at the caller ID. I walk to the fridge and grab a bottle of water, as she says, “No, Josh. Stop calling.” I’ve just opened my bottle and tilted it back when she snags my shirt and I turn to face her as she says, “Bill. Why are you calling me?” She places the phone on speaker and I join her at the island and set my water bottle down.

  “I’m concerned that I gave you the wrong impression when we talked,” he says. “I wasn’t inferring anything about your mother or father. I simply don’t feel the topic is appropriate between myself and their daughter.”

  “They’re dead,” Faith states flatly.

  “I’m aware of this fact every day of my life. We’re family, Faith. Your father and I found our way to a truce. I’d like to do that with you as well.”

  “No,” Faith says. “I have no interest in reconciling with you and you’ve already proven that you won’t answer my questions.”

  “Not if they’re related to their sexual preferences.”

  “You did have a threesome with them, didn’t you?” She doesn’t give him time to answer. “Why, if you already had sex with both of them, did he get pissed when you had sex with just her?”

  “Our falling out wasn’t about sex.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  “Brother stuff. We’re family, Faith.”

  “Stop saying that,” Faith bites out. “Don’t call me. And don’t call or visit Kasey.”

  He’s silent for several beats. “I have some old photos I just stumbled onto of your father. I’ll drop them by the winery. I think you’ll enjoy them. Maybe we can have coffee.” He softens his voice. “I really hope that you have a change of heart, F
aith.” He hangs up.

  I reach for the phone and ensure the line is disconnected. “He had a threesome with my parents, Nick.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I believe he did. He also wants to buy the winery.”

  “Even if I was willing to sell, which I’m not, I’d never sell to him. You’d think he’d be smart enough to just lie and say he didn’t do the whole ménage thing with my mother and father.”

  “He doesn’t know what you know. That’s obvious. And he knows that right now, you won’t sell to him.”

  “So, he tried to drive me into the ground so I’d be desperate.”

  “Most likely,” I agree. “And it’s a smart guess that he made a deal at the bank to pay someone off for helping him pick it up for a steal.”

  “I will never sell it to him. I’m not going to sell.”

  “But he knows, everyone knows, that you want to paint.”

  “Oh God. You don’t think he bought my work to give me some façade of success so I’d dump the winery, do you?”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t let him downgrade your success. It’s yours. You own it.”

  “Can you do what you do and make sure he didn’t buy those paintings?”

  “Yes. I will. But those sales are your sales. You own them, but if I confirm that he owns the hell you just went through, I’m going to ruin that bastard.”

  “No,” Faith says. “Don’t ruin him. I don’t need justice. I just need him to go away.”

  “Faith—”

  “No, Nick. Promise me.”

  “I’m not going to make that promise, because it would be a lie.”

  “I just want to make this go away.” She grabs my arm and covers my tattoo with her hand. “Revenge: An eye for an eye. That’s you. Not me.” She lets go of my arm. “I’m going to start packing.” She heads out of the kitchen and I don’t immediately follow.

  I text Beck: Bill Winter is trying to get into Faith’s good graces. He’s behind all of this.

  Beck: Agreed. I’m working on it.

  I inhale and press my hands to the counter, the word murder in my head again. Bill might be trying to get into Faith’s good graces now, but as Abel has always said, once a killer, always a killer. Only I’m not my father. I won’t just cause pain. I’ll draw blood and I’ll make sure it’s first blood.

  And I’ll do it for Faith.

  I push off the counter and seek her out, her frustrated groan drawing me toward the front of the house. I find her in the foyer trying to put together one of the boxes we picked up earlier, frustration in her face before she tosses it. “I can’t get the stupid thing together. I’ve been living alone and doing just fine, but now, I cannot get that box together.”

  I walk to her and ignore the box, pulling her to me. “Inferring that I’ve made you weaker?”

  “No. No, that’s not it. I’m sorry.” Her hand goes to my chest. “If anything, your badass-ness has brought out my own.”

  “The eye for an eye revenge thing is a trigger for you. I know that. But he broke laws if he did what we think he did. And if he will go after his own niece, think what he’ll do to others. He deserves to pay.”

  “You’re right. But that means justice, not revenge. To me, they’re defined with different intent.”

  “You’re right. They are. And I might be brutal, sweetheart, but the law is my bitch, and so are your enemies.”

  “I know that. I’m not really upset at you, Nick. I wasn’t even reacting to you. I’m upset to realize my father was someone I didn’t know him to be.”

  “His sex life doesn’t change who he was as a man, Faith.”

  “A little kinky sex doesn’t. I, of all people, know that.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?”

  “He played the victim and that feels like a lie. It’s like I didn’t really know who he was and that is such a deep betrayal. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Not before we meet with Kasey. Can you just please help me with the stupid box?”

  “Of course.” I kiss her temple, my lips lingering there, because damn it, it’s like she was talking about me. And it feels like she has that kitchen knife in her hand again and she just plunged it in my chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Faith

  I don’t like who you are here…

  Nick’s words play in my head the entire afternoon as we box up my belongings for the move to San Francisco. Namely because there isn’t much to do or that I want to take with me, most certainly not how I act and feel here. All I want are my clothes and shoes, and basic items I use every day. Nick notices too.

  “You know,” he says, about an hour into packing my bedroom, “you can take anything you want. You can take everything if you want.”

  “I’m taking what matters,” I assure him, holding up a pair of pink panties. “See?”

  I successfully distract him and we move on to the living area and make the rounds from there. The entire time, he builds the boxes and tries to overstuff them, and I pull things back out. Time gets away from us and it’s nearly sunset and time to get ready for dinner when it hits me that I haven’t packed a box of random items like gloves and scarves I keep in the closet. Afraid I’ll forget again, I rush to the bedroom and the closet. Grabbing a decorative wooden container where I have various accessories stored, I stick it in an empty box in the center of the small room.

  I rotate to leave and find Nick leaning in the archway, his hair half around his face, and half tied at his nape. His blue eyes are stark. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You aren’t taking anything with you, Faith. It’s as if you aren’t committed to leaving or rather, staying with me.” There is a hint of vulnerability in his voice, his eyes, that Nick Rogers doesn’t allow anyone to see. But he does let me now. He lets me see that I could hurt him the way he could hurt me.

  And I am instantly in front of him, my hand settling on his chest. “I am committed,” I assure him. “I want to be with you.”

  “Then why do you read like someone packing for a vacation and planning to come back home?”

  “Because you’re looking for one thing, and not seeing what’s really going on.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I just don’t feel connected to anything here. Only my studio.”

  “You bought this house. You designed it.”

  “Because I needed something of my own.”

  “And now you’re accepting something that’s mine.”

  “No. It’s not like that. I don’t want your place to look like mine.”

  “It’s not my place anymore. It’s ours and I’ve never wanted to share my home with anyone and I have zero hesitation in this. I need to know you feel the same.”

  His cellphone rings and he draws in a breath, breathing out. “Why do our phones ring at the worst possible times?” And when I would expect him to ignore the call, he doesn’t, which tells me he’s the one shutting down now, withdrawing.

  “Nick,” I say, but he’s already looking at his caller ID with a frown.

  “Rita. This is an odd time for her to call.” He answers the line. “Rita?” He listens a moment. “Kasey?” he asks, and after a pause, “Right. She’s standing right here. She’ll call him.” He ends the connection and offers me his phone. “Call him. There’s a problem.”

  “I guess I don’t know where my phone is,” I say, punching in Kasey’s number and the minute it rings, he answers.

  “Faith?” Kasey asks.

  “Yes. Sorry. I was—”

  “We have several busted water lines in the west vineyard. It’s bad. I’m trying to get someone out here, but struggling at this hour.”

  “How bad is bad?”

  “It’s flowing from numerous locations and flowing isn’t even an appropriate description. Gushing is more like it. If we don’t get someone out here soon, it’s a total loss.”

  My stomach knots. “We’ll be right there.”


  “Faith, I don’t know if we can save it even if we get someone out here,” he adds, pretty much repeating what he’s just said but obviously trying to prepare me for what he feels is the inevitable: We’ve already lost the west side.

  “Do what you can,” I say, ending the call. “We need to go there. There are several broken—”

  “I heard,” Nick says. “Grab your purse and phone. We’ll go now.”

  I head into the bathroom, grab my purse, and hunt for my phone that I can’t find. Frustrated I shout, “I can’t find my phone!” and Nick appears in the bathroom, holding it. “Oh, thank God,” I breathe out, racing toward him and grab it. “This is bad, Nick. He can’t get anyone out there.”

  “You drive,” he says, handing me the car keys. “Let me make some calls.”

  “Thank you,” I say, nodding, and it’s less than a minute later when we’re in the car and he’s already on the phone. “Rita. Be a superwoman right now. We have several broken water lines in the west vineyard. Pay whatever you have to get help out there now.” There is a pause. “I should have known. Yes. Call me.” He ends the call and glances over at me. “She already knew and is already looking. And the woman is magic. She’ll get us help.” He’s already dialing again. “Beck,” he says. “Do you know what’s happening?” He listens for a few beats. “Right. I’ll find out if it’s intentional once we’re there, but get fucking cameras on the vines. I want every inch of the property covered.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He hangs up.

  That knot in my stomach doubles in size. “You think this is payback for us winning in court.”

  “I’d bet my bank account on it, sweetheart. Beck has the cameras in place that we discussed, and men here locally watching the place, but he didn’t have eyes on the vines.”

  “I’m sure that didn’t feel important,” I say, turning us down the main road leading to the vineyard. “Why would it be? Until it is, obviously.”

  “Aside from us winning in court,” he says. “You shut your uncle down today.”

  “Why would he do this? This isn’t squeezing me financially. This is destroying the vines that produce profit for the winery we’re assuming he wants to own. It doesn’t make sense.”