Tangled Vines (9 page)

And Sam had no doubt the auction would prove to be a triumph for Rutledge Estate wines. Katherine had donated a case of the ‘73 cabernet sauvignon Rutledge Estate Reserve, a vintage that every wine expert had rated as a classic wine, the highest accolade a wine could receive. And it was a vintage that now could be found only in the cellars of private collectors. The last time a single bottle of the ‘73 vintage had been offered at auction, seven years ago, it had sold for five hundred dollars, a phenomenal sum for a California wine. The price for an entire case could end up being in the tens of thousands.

To call that a triumph might be an understatement, Sam conceded.

Beside him, Hugh Townsend murmured, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Sam turned, glancing at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Townsend stood, one arm folded in front of him, propping an elbow while he rubbed fingers across his mouth in a thoughtful pose.

Catching Sam's questioning look, he flicked a finger toward the set. “She threw out most of the introduction and wrote her own. It's superb,” he murmured from behind his hand.

Only then did Sam give his attention to the words Kelly Douglas was saying.

“.... truly can be considered a legend. During Prohibition, while others were replacing their vineyards with orchards, she kept her winery going by making sacramental wines. At the same time, she replanted her vineyards with the finest viniferous cuttings, personally selected and imported from France, always firm in the belief that the great experiment of Prohibition would one day end. A belief that history has proved correct. Ask any connoisseur of California wines about Rutledge Estate, and they will speak, with a trace of awe, about ‘Madam's' wine.” Kelly paused and smiled at Katherine. “I said it to you earlier, but I must repeat myself, because it is truly an honor to have you with us, Madam Rutledge.”

“Thank you, but the pleasure is mine.” Katherine inclined her head briefly, charm radiating from her expression to become part of her inherent dignity.

“Curiosity. The term ‘Madam' – how did that come about?”

“It began years ago.” She dismissed the exact number with a lift of her hand. “When I first came to Rutledge Estate as a bride, the servants referred to me as ‘the young madam,' to differentiate, I'm sure, from my husband's mother, who was still living at the time. Then later, when I returned from France after my husband had died, I was accompanied by Girard Broussard and his young grandson, Claude. Despite the existence of Prohibition in America at the time, Girard had agreed to become the wine master at Rutledge Estate. A post his grandson, Claude, now occupies. Being French, both Girard and Claude addressed me as Madam. It grew from that.”

Kelly was aware that Katherine had been accompanied by her two young sons, Jonathon and Gilbert, the cuttings for the vineyard, and the coffin with her husband's remains inside on her return from France, but she chose not to mention it.

Instead she observed, “I know it's rare for you to leave Napa Valley these days. Is it merely coincidence that both you and Baran Fougere are attending this year's gala auction in New York, or is there truth to the rumors that you are vying with your son Gilbert's winery, The Cloisters, to form a joint venture with the baron's Chateau Noir firm in Napa Valley?”

Katherine smiled pleasantly. “With the presence of so many great chateaux, such as Petrus, Lafite-Rothschild, Moot and Chandon, already in the valley, there are always rumors. However, if you are asking me whether I shall be seeing the baron while I'm in New York, then the answer is yes. Our families have been friends for many years.”

Kelly gave her full marks for so deftly evading the question. Age had not lessened either the sharpness or the quickness of her mind. With less than a minute left, there wasn't time to pursue it.

“It can't be easy for any mother to compete with her son in the same business, whether it's the making of fine wines or anything else. I'm sure the rivalry between you and your son Gilbert is no different.”

Katherine tilted her head to one side and smiled at Kelly with a wide-eyed look. “But the wines of Rutledge Estate have no rivals, Kelly.”

Instinctively Kelly knew that was the perfect note to end the interview on. She turned to the camera. “As I'm sure those who attend tomorrow evening's gala auction will attest. Katherine Rutledge of California's renowned Rutledge Estate, thank you for being with us. It has been a rare treat for everyone.”

The interview had been flawless, and Kelly knew it. That certainty offered some consolation to nerves that were raw from the strain of it.

As soon as they cut to a commercial break, Kelly excused herself and went back to her chair at the anchor desk, leaving Katherine in the capable hands of the hovering Sally O'Malley.

The last remaining minutes of the broadcast were a blur. Kelly didn't remember any of it. She knew she made some appropriate remark when her co-anchor announced to the viewers that she was leaving, moving on to bigger and better things, and plugged her new primetime show for the network. But, for the life of her, she couldn't have repeated it.

While the credits rolled over a shot of the anchor desk, she remained in her chair, smiling and nodding, pretending she was actually listening to the cross-chat of the broadcast team. The instant the lights were killed, Kelly wanted to throw her papers in the air in relief. But she wasn't capable of such an emotional display in public, especially when she didn't want anyone to know what an ordeal the interview had been for her.

She ditched the microphone and headset with more haste than usual, angry and scared after her encounter with Katherine Rutledge. Scared-because twice she had caught herself starting to slouch in the chair, as if somehow that would make her appear less tall, and wanting to avoid eye contact, as if people wouldn't look at her if she didn't look at them. She hated that. She hated being reminded so forcibly of her past. It had nothing to do with who and what she was now. She'd put the past far, far behind her, and she wanted to keep it there.

Without the hot television lights on, the cool of the air conditioner could be felt. Kelly breathed it in, noticing for the first time that the regular studio lights were on. She took a step away from the anchor desk and stiffened.

Hugh hadn't left after the interview was over. He was by the door, waiting for her. Katherine Rutledge and her grandson were with him. Kelly wanted to scream at them to leave. Of course, she couldn't – and didn't.

Instead, she scraped together the remnants of her composure and rebuilt it, layer upon layer, before she walked over to join them.

“I thought you had left already,” Kelly managed to keep any hint of accusation from her voice.

“Katherine wanted to stay and compliment you on your knowledge of the wine industry – and the history of Rutledge Estate,” Hugh explained, smiling almost smugly. “I confess, I failed to inform her before the interview that you were born in Napa Valley.”

“Really?” Katherine studied her with new interest.

“I'm afraid that implies I was also raised in Napa Valley,” Kelly inserted quickly, “I do admit that I have long been fascinated by my place of birth. As for my knowledge of wine, Hugh has a habit of instructing anyone in his company about the finer points of wine and wine making, whether they want to learn or not.”

“You must be an apt pupil.” The remark came from Sam Rutledge.

She turned slightly toward him. “Thank you.” Despite her inner turmoil, Kelly met his eyes straight on, and felt again the unnerving impact of his presence and the ensuing tug of attraction. If he had been anyone other than Sam Rutledge, she might have explored the latter, tested the strength of it to see if it went beyond the physical. As it was, Kelly had no choice but to try to ignore it.

“Kelly is more than an apt pupil,” Hugh interposed. “She is NBC's new rising star. In fact, as of this moment, she is officially on the network's payroll as host of a prime-time magazine-style show.”

“Congratulations.” Sam held out his hand and waited for her to accept it.

“Thank you.” She let her hand rest in his, but only briefly.

Kelly Douglas was an attractive woman, something he had noticed before, just as he had noticed the lacy feminine garment she wore beneath that tailored jacket. But it was the wariness behind her facade of composure that aroused his curiosity. And his interest.

“We mustn't keep you, Miss Douglas,” Katherine remarked, to Kelly's relief. “I merely wanted to compliment you on the interview. We shall look forward to seeing you again sometime in the future.”

“You will,” Hugh said. “Kelly will be at the reception tonight.”

“I may be late, Hugh,” Kelly warned. “The crew has a cake for me, and probably a few other surprises as well.”

“Late or not, I'll expect you there. Consider it an order from your new boss.”

“Yes.” She smiled stiffly, unable to think of a single way out of it.

“Until tonight, Miss Douglas,” Sam murmured when they took their leave from her.

The cab swung up to the curb on Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of the entrance to Trump Tower.

Kelly paid the fare, adding a tip, and stepped out into the warm summer night. She paused, her glance lifting to the marble-and-glass showplace that soared sixty-eight stories into the air.

She fought off the last-minute qualms. She had dressed carefully for the party, telling herself it was important that she make the right impression, given her new status as host of a network show, and Hugh's formidable guest list. That was a lie. The smart, sophisticated clothes gave her confidence. Who could feel vulnerable in a Calvin Klein original?

The swing coat was antique gold satin, full cut with dolman sleeves and a stand-up collar. She wore it over a short dress of dark gold lace that was both eye-catching and chicly simple. Two-inch heels in a softer, subtler shade of gold and a waterfall of gold-mounted white stones at her ears provided the finishing touches of invulnerability.

Thus armored, Kelly entered the tower lobby, its walls and floors swathed in apricot-colored marble. A cascading fountain immediately drowned out all sounds of the city. Security directed her to the bank of private elevators that led to the exclusive apartments stacked above the shopping atrium on the building's lower floors. The ride to the sixtieth floor was, fortunately, a swift one.

Outside Hugh's apartment, which was really two redesigned into one, Kelly could hear the muted sounds of the party, already in progress. She took a deep, steadying breath and rang the bell.

Within seconds the door was opened by a jacketed member of the staff Hugh had hired for the occasion. Recognition registered quickly in his glance. “Good evening, Miss Douglas.” He swung the door wider and stepped back to admit her.

“Good evening.” Kelly surrendered her coat to him, slipping the chain to her narrow evening bag onto her shoulder before gravitating to the focus of the party noise.

She paused inside the living room that stretched some forty-two feet long. Glass walled the length of one entire side, the sheer drapes pulled back to show off the city's nocturnal glitter. There was no doubt the apartment was pure New York, modern in design and spirit, an island of serenity and order yet never denying the energy of the city beyond the glass.

Though the apartment was far from serene at the moment, Kelly thought as she scanned the living room where the majority of the guests were gathered, some sitting, more standing, clusters forming and breaking to reform again in a new blend. It was an artful mix of society and celebrity, politicians and power brokers, the wealthy and the well-connected, and – of course the vintners, elevated by the wine mystique to the status of demigods in certain circles, such as this one.

A white-jacketed waiter presented a tray of smoked salmon and spinach canapés to her. Kelly refused politely and he moved on. A second later, Hugh spotted her and came over, brushing her cheek with a kiss.

“You are late,” he said into her hair. She wore it down, thick and full about her face, tumbling in stylized disarray about her shoulders.

“Which is better than never,” she reminded him.

“Probably. How was the farewell party and the cake?”

“The cake was good, but the male stripper who popped out of it was better.” Kelly smiled, pretending there hadn't been moments when her face was redder than her hair. “The guys on the crew insisted he was a wide receiver on waiver from the New York Jets, but they couldn't fool me. One look and I knew he wasn't.”

“How did you determine that?” Hugh turned a curious and amused look on her.

“It was easy,” she insisted. “I may not know much about football, but I know a tight end when I see one.”

He laughed, then caught the eye of a passing waiter and summoned him over. “Something to drink?”

“No wine?” She saw not a single stemmed glass on the tray.

Hugh raised an eyebrow at her question. “With this group? Hardly. No matter what wine I might have chosen, I would offend nearly everyone here. And I definitely didn't want to exhaust my cellar by turning this into a wine-tasting affair. Mixed drinks were the only safe and practical alternative.”

“And very politic.”

“Very,” he confirmed with his usual attractive arrogance.

“Sparkling water with a lime twist,” she told the waiter. “Whatever brand you have will be fine.” He bowed and left. “So tell me,” she said as she leaned closer to Hugh, lowering her voice and sweeping the guests with another searching glance, on guard against the moment when she encountered Katherine Rutledge and her grandson again, “who is here that I should know and don't?”

He smiled almost smugly and perused the group. “This gathering could be fodder for an Agatha Christie novel – were the dear lady still alive.” His side glance touched her. “This little soiree of mine has lured not only Katherine Rutledge and Baron Fougere here, but also Gil Rutledge. The plot, as they say, thickens.”

“Assuming it doesn't blow up in your face.”

“What an interesting thought,” he replied. “Too bad they are being so very civilized about it.”

“You are hopeless, Hugh.” But she laughed softly all the same.

“I know.” The waiter returned with Kelly's drink. Hugh neatly plucked it from the tray and handed it to her. “Do you know Gil Rutledge?”

“I know of him.” Which was true. “Where is he?”

“Over there.” Hugh nodded discreetly at a silver-haired man chatting with two other guests off to the side. “Come, I'll introduce you.”

With a hand at her elbow he steered her through the gathering toward Gil Rutledge. If Kelly hadn't known he was Katherine's son, she wasn't sure she would have seen the resemblance. But it was there – in the mane of silver hair, and in his features, which were classically handsome, as hers were classically beautiful. Kelly knew Gil had to be somewhere in his sixties, but, like his mother, the years rested lightly on his shoulders. And he had Katherine's blue eyes as well, eyes that could probably turn icy hot with displeasure as easily as they could radiate warmth and charm.

But the dissimilarities were more obvious. He didn't possess Katherine's dignity, her hint of reserve, or that aura of supreme authority. Gil Rutledge was more outgoing; he had dash, a subtle hint of flamboyance, and an abundance of charm. It flashed through his smile, through his face, when he observed their approach.

Unable to resist, Kelly smiled back, understanding thoroughly why Gil Rutledge's reputation as a marketing genius exceeded that as a vintner.

He gave Hugh no opportunity to introduce them as he reached for her hand. “Miss Douglas.” The instant she gave him her hand, he carried it to his lips, the gesture absolutely natural, with no trace of affectation. “I had the enormous, pleasure of seeing you on television earlier this evening.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Rutledge.” Kelly briefly wondered what his reaction to her interview with Katherine had been, but it was hardly polite to ask.

“And you are too modest,” Gil chided lightly, continuing to hold her hand, now engulfing her long fingers with both hands. “And the name is Gil.”

“Kelly.” She returned the courtesy.

“Kelly.” He smiled. “Obviously I'm not the only one who recognized your talent, or the network wouldn't have snapped you up for their new show.”

“Much of that I owe to Hugh.”

“Don't believe her,” Hugh inserted.

“I don't,” he replied and half turned, one hand dropping away to direct her attention to the man on his left. “Kelly, I want you to meet my son, Clay.”

The sheer force of Gil's personality had prevented Kelly from noticing the man at his side. Movie-star handsome was her initial impression of Clay Rutledge, from the top of his dark blond hair to the tips of his highly polished Italian shoes. He had a deep California tan, lazy blue eyes – bedroom eyes – and a mouth that could only be described as sensual. There was no doubt he had his father's charm, but there was a different quality to it, less expansive and more intimate.

“Mr. Rutledge.” Smiling faintly, Kelly offered her hand to him after his father released it.

“Clay. I insist.” He took it, but he didn't carry it to his lips as his father had done. He simply held it, the pressure of his fingers warm, more personal.

“Clay.” She saw the way his glance skimmed her face. And the frank appreciation in his eyes.

There was a time, not that long ago, when she would have been flattered by his attention, when her head might have been turned by his smile, his look, or his touch. Working in television, especially in New York, she had been exposed to too many politicians, too many celebrities and bureaucrats who would flirt and flatter, use any means to get what they wanted. She was much wiser to such things now, and she deftly withdrew her hand.

“Congratulations on your new show,” Clay offered. “Now that I've met you, I will definitely make a point to watch it.”

To Clay, every woman he met was a challenge. They were an obsession with him, or rather, the conquest of them was. When he had first observed the approach of this slim, statuesque woman, noticed the reddish highlights that gleamed from her silky hair, the hunting instincts had risen, and he had tensed like a thoroughbred at the starting line.

“I hope you do watch,” she replied easily. “The more viewers, the higher the ratings. And the more chance the show has of being a success.”

“I have the feeling it will be a huge success.” He smiled faintly, as if there was something known only to him.

“Certainly everyone involved will be working toward that end.” She acknowledged his remark with another smile.

He recognized the reserve in her eyes and her smile. Yet it was the intensity beneath all that bland composure, the hint of strength that intrigued him. He made a few more comments, idly and deceptively probing, trying to draw her out, always searching for some opening through her pride, her vanity, her career, or her romantic notions, and always watching for the signs that would tell him the best approach.

Clay never expected to succeed on the first encounter, always operating on the assumption there would be others at some later point. When Hugh Townsend took Kelly's arm, asking for them to be excused so she could meet some of his other guests, Clay didn't offer any protest, not even a polite one.

Instead he watched her walk away, mentally assessing the few things he'd learned about her. “She's a sharp, very intelligent woman.”

Beside him, his father made a sound in his throat, disputing that, and raised the glass of Chivas and water to his mouth, muttering behind it, “Katherine handled her easily enough.” He was still seething from Katherine's remark that the wines of Rutledge Estate had no rivals.

“Speaking of Madam, where is she?”

“Over there. Holding court,” Gil Rutledge added with a definite undertone of sarcasm as he tipped the rim of his glass, indicating the woman across the room.

Clay turned slightly, following the line of his father's vision, and easily located his grandmother. She stood near the room's center, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, her chin elevated a degree or two while she addressed the small group plainly hanging on her every word.

Most women as they grew older weighted themselves down with magnificent jewels to distract the eye from their telltale wrinkles. Not Katherine. Other than the South Sea pearls at her ears and the diamonds in her wedding rings, she wore none.

Nor was she overdressed, as were some at the party Clay could mention. A floral scarf in soft shades of aqua, rose, and amethyst draped her throat and trailed down her back in long, diaphanous folds, like a train. Her dress was in the same floral chiffon, falling in a slender column to a handkerchief hem, the points nearly brushing the floor. The effect was pure elegance.

Privately Clay saluted her. But only privately.

“You can bet she thinks she has the deal with the baron in her pocket,” Gil muttered.

“Doesn't she?” Clay countered dryly.

“Not after I've met with him, she won't.” He took a sip of the Scotch, then lowered his glass, his expression grim and determined. “All I have to do is open his eyes to a few facts.”

“Such as?”

“There's already a glut of overpriced prestige wines on the market. A market, I might add, that is already depressed. To successfully launch a new one will require aggressive marketing, and an experienced sales force. We have everything in place: the organization, the facilities, and the experience. She doesn't; her operation her volume, is too small. Not only that, she's ninety years old. She can't live much longer. And without her, there is no Rutledge Estate.

“You're forgetting Sam.”

He scoffed at that. “He's as spineless as his father. Katherine-and only Katherine-runs Rutledge Estate, and she runs it her way. She doesn't tolerate any interference, any arguments, or any ideas except her own. That company is family owned in name only. As I learned years ago,” he declared bitterly, his fingers tightening around his glass.

“I know.” Clay nodded absently. He'd heard it all before.

“All he had to do was buy grapes from other vineyards, but she wouldn't let him. Rutledge wine would only be made from Rutledge grapes.” He remembered her words as vividly as if they had been uttered yesterday. “We were losing all those sales, all that profit that we were supposed to be sharing, but she wouldn't listen to me. Not even when I suggested bottling the wine under a different label. Other wineries do it all the time, but she wouldn't. Not Katherine.”

Gil paused, the memories rushing back, and the anger with them. “Dear God, there was one year when it rained constantly before the grapes were ready to pick. She sold off every bit of them rather than risk making a wine that might have been inferior. One entire vintage gone. And Jonathon agreed with her. He always agreed with her.”