Page 120 of What Doesn't Kill Her

“You’re nothing but a great big boy.”

“I know.” He slid his arm around her waist. “I can’t wait to show you how big.”

She sighed as if he was a trial and smiled because she enjoyed him so much, and he cherished her so dearly. Maybe tomorrow she would die from the bullet in her brain or a new bullet from an assassin, but today, she was with Max.

He led her toward the far buildings that marked the boundary between the rows and rows of vines, heavy with grapes, and the expanse of lawn, house, tasting room and bed-and-breakfast. “Here and now, do you sense a threat? Anyone at the winery who seems...out of place? Someone we employ?”

She understood him perfectly. “You’re talking about Arthur Waldberg and his cohorts.”

“Yes.” Max seemed relieved that they agreed on this. “Their credentials were impeccable, but they were all so desperately eager to please, so oddly obsequious.”

“They really want these jobs. And why? They’re fabulous at what they do. They could work anywhere. Anywhere in the world.”

Isolated by their distance from the bustle and the clamor, only the barn, one hundred years old and painted a traditional red, and the blending shed, a metal-sided cellar dug into the ground then built up over two stories to accommodate great tall casks, remained apart from the wedding bustle. “Arthur keeps calling them young,” Max said. “Young? The youngest is, I’d say, in his late thirties.”

“When you’re Arthur’s age, people in their thirties are young.” But she knew Max had a point.

Max used his key to open the door and ushered her down the steps and inside.

Kellen took a deep breath. The scent of fermenting wine, heady, musky, now familiar, perfumed the cool air.

Huge barrels lined either side of the tall space. A wooden sign hung on each metal spigot stating the grape varietal within. Two long narrow tables were placed end to end down the center of the space, and clean glasses rested upside down on a crowded plastic drying rack. Plastic buckets, blue, orange and white, sat beneath each spigot to catch any overflow.

The lights were off.

Max left them off, and his voice grew hushed. “Did Arthur ever answer my question about where these people were from?”

“No. Yes. Sort of. I think what you wanted to know was whereheknew them from, because they all seem similar. They’re from different countries, different backgrounds, yet they seem as if they’ve lived in the same place for a long time.”

The blending shed was tranquil: no relatives, no winery guests, no staff, no children. No voices. Kellen could feel herself taking shape again, becoming comfortable in her own skin, content with the day and the company.

“They’re so bright-eyed, as if they’re seeing the world for the first time, and nervous, which isn’t terribly unusual. When I meet new employees, they frequently need to be put at ease. They don’t know what I’m like, whether they need to be worried for their livelihoods or if I’m one of those guys with wandering hands.” He viewed her, his brown eyes serious and stern. “Just for the record, the only place my hands will wander is all over you.”

“That works for me.” She had never had a doubt. She had met enough of the sleazy guys in the military to recognize that Max was not one of them.

“Arthur’s people feel more...desperate, I guess is the word. I couldn’t figure them out.” For all that Max didn’t have her gift for analysis, he still worked to understand people. “In light of what happened to you up in those mountains, I find everything about them slightly disturbing.”

“Then we’re agreed. They feel off, out of place, as if they’re hiding secrets we can’t afford to ignore. It can’t be Arthur himself. He wasn’t in the woods with us. He couldn’t have been and accomplished what he’s accomplished here.” She ran through the Rolodex of characters in her mind. “His people don’t seem ruthless—maybe Mateo Courtemanche—but I think every one of them is willing to do anything that Arthur asks, no matter how heinous. If, in a few short weeks, Arthur can reorganize this entire winery and plan a wedding, he’s capable of plotting an assassination.”

“Damn it!” Max slapped the table with his palm. “I didn’t want to suspect them. I like them. They’re efficient. With Arthur and his people here I can take time to—” He caught himself like he didn’t mean to say so much.

“Take time to what?” What was Max doing he didn’t want her to know?

“Make love to my bride.”

She checked out the sturdiness of the first long table, then lifted herself up on it. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

“Damn it,” he said more softly. Then, “I thought with all the guests arriving, someone would try to slip into the winery with them and we’d have another attempt that would reveal—”

“Max!” She gathered her thoughts. “Are you saying you’ve been using our wedding to trap an assassin?”

“Unsuccessfully!”

“And me as an unsuspecting target?”

“I’ve been watching over you!”

She stared at him in astonishment. “I’m flabbergasted. That’s so...so...”

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