Dynasties: The Ashtons. Maureen Child

be doing differently, Dixie? Hurting less? Fixing things so your aunt doesn’t hurt?”

      “Don’t forget the part about keeping my mother from hurting, too.” The shape of his hands woke a visceral memory, a wordless surge of feeling that tangled past and present. She swallowed. “I said it was stupid.”

      “According to you, feelings are never stupid. They just are. It’s what we do about them that matters.”

      “I could have sworn you never listened to my preaching.”

      Cole smiled that half up, half down smile without answering.

      Dixie felt the impact low in her belly. Her heartbeat picked up as the present turned compelling, wiping out the whispers from the past. Desire bit, sharp and sweet. Her lips parted.

      His gaze dipped there, lingered. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and the look on his face was unmistakable. He was going to kiss her…and she wanted that, wanted the taste and heat of him.

      He dropped his hands and stepped back, his smile lost.

      The disappointment was as disorienting as his sudden retreat. She put a hand on her stomach as if she could ease the sense of loss that way and tried to sound amused. “What was that? An attack of nobility, or common sense?”

      He snorted. “You think I know?” He turned away, heading for the door. “This was a dumb idea. Enjoy the wine and chocolate and carry on with the nail painting. I’m leaving before I forget Sheila entirely.”

      “Cole.”

      He paused but didn’t look at her.

      “I was the one who switched the dial to another channel, not you. You…what you did helped.”

      He glanced back at her, conflicted emotions chasing over his face before he got it smoothed out. “Does this mean I’m invited to your next sleepover?”

      “Not likely,” she said dryly.

      “Good. Because the next time I visit you at night, I won’t be planning to sleep.”

      After the door closed behind him, Hulk came over, voicing his protest at being abandoned. “Don’t come complaining to me,” Dixie muttered, contradicting her words by picking him up and rubbing behind his ears. “At least you got stroked for a while. I didn’t.”

      Which she ought to feel a lot better about, dammit.

       Chapter Five

      Louret’s cellars had been a disappointment to Dixie when Cole first showed them to her. She’d hoped for earthen-floored caves or something appropriately dungeonlike. Instead, the barrels and bottles were aged in perfectly ordinary underground rooms with high-tech climate control and lousy lighting.

      Lousy from her perspective, that is. To a winemaker, the dim lighting was necessary, as was strict control of temperature and humidity. But her imaginings would have made such a cool setting for Eli’s painting…well, she thought, studying the barrels from her vantage point on the cement floor, you work with what you’ve got.

      The barrels themselves were interesting. She’d use lots of browns in the painting, she decided. Earth tones would suit Eli and suggest Louret’s old-fashioned, hands-on approach while evoking the earth the grapes sprang from.

      And gold for Caroline’s painting, she decided, staring dreamily into space. Hints of brown to tie it to the earth and Eli’s painting, touches of blue for the sky, and lots of gold—pale, glowing gold, like the sunlight that joins earth and sky.

      Oh, yes. She’d use Eli and the barrels for the earth the vines were grown in, Caroline for the golden sunshine that made the grapes rich. For the end product, the wine itself…maybe a group picture? The family gathered around the dinner table, talking and interacting, their wineglasses catching the glow of sunset.

      Set it outside then? And what about—

      “Sorry I’m late,” Eli’s deep voice said from behind her.

      “That’s okay,” she said, picking up her sketch pad and rising. “I don’t think I’ll draw you here, after all.”

      Uncertainty, she’d noticed, looked a lot like a scowl when it settled on Eli’s face. “You aren’t going to paint me with the barrels?”

      “No, I’m definitely putting you against the barrels. But I’ve got photos for that. Today I need to draw you. Outside, I think. I need a peek at your bones. Strong light and shadows will help me get that.” She gave him a smile as she passed, heading for the stairs.

      After a moment she heard him following her up.

      “You want to draw me outside, but you’re not painting me outside.”

      “I use the photos for technical accuracy. Drawing helps me learn you. I don’t know a subject until I’ve sketched him or her.”

      Eli looked pained. “I don’t see why you need to use my face at all, but you don’t have to, uh, know me to paint it.”

      She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the top of the stairs, mischief in her voice. “Oh, but I want more than your face for the painting. I want a bit of your soul.”

      He muttered something it was probably just as well she didn’t catch. She was grinning as they stepped out the side door. “This will do.” The light was good, strong and slanting. She got a charcoal pencil from her fanny pack and opened her sketch pad.

      Eli squinted at the sunshine, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Better get him talking so he’d forget what she was up to. “Tell me about oaking,” she said, her charcoal flying over the page. “I gather it’s somewhat controversial?”

      “More a matter of taste. Most people like some degree of oak. Heavy oaking can mask the subtleties of a really good red, but that’s poor winemaking.”

      “What about whites? You’re aging your new chardonnay in oak barrels.” Needs to be heavier around the jaw, she decided, and darkened that line. “Is that standard?”

      He shrugged. “Some use steel vats. We won’t.”

      She had the definite impression he didn’t think much of the winemakers who used steel. “Was that your decision or your mother’s? With the new wine being named for her, I’d guess she had some input.”

      “Mostly mine. Mom likes the vanilla notes from oaking, though, so it was fine with her.”

      She flipped to a new page, shifted to get a different angle, and started another sketch. “And whose idea was the new chardonnay?”

      “Cole’s.” He looked directly at her. “I thought you knew that.”

      “Okay, so I’m fishing.” She frowned at the sketch. Something was off. The zygomatic arches? No, something about the way they related to his forehead. Dixie studied his brow line intently. “You missed your cue. You’re supposed to discreetly fill me in on him without my having to ask.”

      He chuckled. It was an unexpected sound, coming from a man who tended toward angry or dour. “It’s damned disconcerting to have you stare at me that way when you’re talking about my brother. What did you want to know?”

      She looked at him reproachfully and repeated, “Without my having to ask.”

      “Well, he’s not seeing anyone right now, and he thinks you’re hot.”

      “Mmm.” Damn. It was his left eye—she’d set it too close to the bridge of the nose. Try again. She flipped to a new page. “I’m trying to come up with a modest way of saying, ‘I know.’”

      Again the low chuckle. “I think so, too. When I asked him if he’d staked a claim already—”

      “You