Trust No One

Prologue

Napa Valley, California

Time is up. Time is up, hooted the owl from high in the oak tree.

Hidden behind the tall stack of wooden kegs emblazoned with a hawk in flight, the logo of Hawke’s Landing vineyard, the old man awaited his rendezvous with destiny.

The owl has my number, he whispered with a heavy sense of impending doom.

According to folklore, if the owl called to you, death was near. Not that he was a big believer in superstitions, which were nothing more than hype to control the masses, but he knew what fate had in store for him. Already he could hear the soft, ethereal flutter of angels’ wings calling him home.

Determined to enjoy his final minutes, he watched as the night stole over the hills, silently cloaking each long row of grapes in shadows until the entire vineyard was dark. The sky above the valley he loved was slowly transformed from crisp blue to amber-gold. With the cooling temperatures brought by the setting sun, the loamy smell of the earth mingled with the sweet-sour scent of fermenting grapes. In the rhododendron bushes, a full chorus of crickets tuned up the way they had every evening since he’d been a toddler.

Gian Hawke sat in his wheelchair and gazed out over Hawke’s Landing. His home. The only place he’d ever lived. The only thing on earth he had ever truly loved.

He depressed the electric button and the wheelchair lurched across the uneven ground. The muffled whir of the powerful motor annoyed him as it always did. The sound reminded him of how helpless he’d become. He took the path toward the swimming pool, then stopped.

Was someone sneaking up behind him again? Since the stroke he couldn’t turn his head to glance over his shoulder. He was forced to wait, listening for any suspicious noise behind him. Nothing except the crickets.

If I had my life to do over, he whispered, wheeling himself forward again, reminiscing. I’d still live in this valley—right here at Hawke’s Landing.

But what would you do differently? questioned an inner voice.

"I would have taken both my sons, he said without hesitation. My boys."

He was talking to himself, but he was certain someone was eavesdropping. He no longer had a moment’s privacy. Someone was always hovering now, stealthily spying on him, believing he was too ill to realize what was happening.

What do you care? he muttered as he halted and gazed at the swimming pool across the wide, undulating lawn that had been recently installed.

It was an infinity pool with a hidden edge that made it seem as if the water dropped over the side into the vineyard. His son Elliott had hired some highfalutin landscape architect to design the pool and redesign the surrounding gardens. The whole thing was an abomination as far as Gian was concerned. What had been wrong with the oval pool and clusters of rose bushes that had been there when he was a child?

Not a damned thing!

Except that Elliott was driven—obsessed might be a better word—to bring the vineyard into the new millennium. Computerized systems. A designer web site.

Nothing defines the Hawke family except our sparkling wine, Gian said. It’s better than any of the French champagnes.

Staring at the dark water reflecting the moonlight in shimmering ribbons, he silently acknowledged the world was changing more rapidly than he could have imagined.

He stilled, certain he heard a noise in the rhododendron bushes behind him. He knew they were dogging his every step, but this time he had a plan. He knew exactly how to get rid of them forever.

Chapter One

Three weeks later:

the Amazon jungle

Brody Hawke hunkered down in the mire of silt and reeds lining the bank of the river. He’d been in this muddy tributary of the Amazon for nearly eight hours, and he was so bored he could hardly concentrate.

Get a grip, he muttered under his breath. A wandering mind is as deadly as a bullet.

Brody forced himself to watch the traffic on the river for the boatload of terrorists their informants claimed were coming here. A variety of watercraft chugged by him, and each time he hid, dropping under the water and holding his breath until the boat went by. Hours passed, one long minute at a time without any sign of the terrorists.

Brody cursed, wondering if all this waiting would make him lose his edge. He thrived on action, danger. Waiting day after day wasn’t his style, but he supposed it came with the territory. So far, his missions had been fast-paced. This time was different, and he’d damned well better adjust his mind set.

He went off duty, saying, catch you later to the man who relieved him. Like a panther, he silently and quickly stole his way between shacks built along the river bank. Finally, he reached the lean-to they used as a safe house.

The ceiling in the grass shack wasn’t high enough for him to stand up straight. He bent over and peeled off his wet suit. As he stripped, he noticed the letter on his cot. He stared down at the envelope and wondered who would write him. His mother was dead, and he had no close relatives.

The return address on the typewritten envelope wasn’t the least bit familiar. St. Helena, California. He didn’t know anyone in California. Hell, he hadn’t been in that crazy state except for the six months he’d spent in San Diego for SEAL training.

Who would be sending him a letter?

He ripped the envelope open and pulled out two sheets of paper. The letter had been written on a computer he noticed. He read the opening line, then dropped onto the cot, dazed.

Dear Son.

He scanned the first page of the letter from the man who claimed to be his father. The poor bastard was certifiable, Brody assured himself. His father had died in an automobile accident when Brody had been three.

Yo, Hawke! You’re losing it.

Brody looked up and saw another SEAL had entered the hut. He hadn’t heard him come in. Cuidad del Este was a haven for terrorists, drug lords, and every other kind of criminal. Letting his guard down was crazy.

Jake Wilder shrugged out of his sweat soaked T-shirt, then used it to wipe off the charcoal smudged on his face for camouflage. Whatcha got there? Jake asked. A love letter from your main squeeze?

Nah, it’s from some nut.

Brody flipped over the second page without reading it, intending to wad up the letter and toss it into the corner with the rest of the trash. A photograph taped to the back page caught his eye.

Son of a bitch! he cursed between clenched teeth.

Jake leaned over his shoulder and looked at the picture, too. Hey, you can be hosed off and taken out in public, Hawke. Who’d have guessed?

Brody was too stunned to respond to Jake’s ribbing. The man in the photograph could have been Brody—except he wasn’t. He had the same thick, dark hair, angular jaw, and cleft chin. The same piercing blue eyes beneath straight brows.

The shot showed the man from the shoulders up, making it impossible to know if he was six-three. Judging from the breadth of his shoulders, Brody assumed the man was that tall, maybe taller.

Wait a minute! Jake pointed at the man’s right eyebrow. That isn’t you. He doesn’t have a scar.

Brody reached up and touched his eyebrow. He vividly recalled the fight, even though it had been more than twenty years ago. He’d been seven at the time and terrified of the school bully. Because he was slight and small for his age, Brody had been easy to pick on. He knew if he didn’t stand up for himself he would go through life an underdog, a punching bag for every bully.

He hadn’t won the fight, but he’d held his own and came away with nothing more than a cut above his eye that had gushed blood. A badge of courage. And a rite of passage even though he’d been very young.

He and his mother had moved from town to town, never staying long in one place, so Brody was forced to prove himself over and over. The first fight—the one that had caused the scar—had given him courage. He began to win more fights than he lost.

He never became a bully even when he had a growth spurt and became much taller and more solidly built than other boys his age. To the contrary, his early experiences sent him to the underdog’s corner to take on bullies even when he wasn’t directly threatened.

The scar wouldn’t be visible today if his mother had taken him for stitches. But she barely had enough money for food, so going to a doctor had been out of the question. Be brave, she’d said, the way she always did when he needed comfort. You’re my stand-up guy, remember?

Brody never would have traded the small scar that bisected the outer edge of his brow, lifting it slightly. Who would want to look as perfect and happy as the guy in the picture? Brody liked the slightly menacing expression the scar gave him. Women jokingly said it made him look dangerous, which was closer to the truth than they suspected, considering his occupation.

Who’s the guy in the photo? Jake asked, breaking into his thoughts. He’s a dead ringer for you. Black hair. Blue eyes. Same crazy dent in the chin.

Damned if I know.

Brody turned over the page and read the rest of the letter while Jake walked across the small shack and pulled a Coke out of the metal cabinet. Brody barely heard Jake pop the tab on the warm soda. His eyes were riveted on the words: This is your twin brother.

Twin brother? he whispered.

He stared down at the photograph and thought of his mother, wondering just a little. Had the woman he adored, the only person he’d ever loved, kept a secret from him?

Brody had asked her countless times about his father. Linda Hawke always had given the same terse explanation. His father had died in a car crash. When he’d asked for details about his father, her stock reply had been, I can’t talk about him. It hurts too much.

Slowly, taking in every word, he reread the letter. At the bottom was a typewritten signature, Giancarlo Hawke. Beneath it was a single line scrawled in pen. The writing was so difficult to read that Brody had to stare at it for a minute before he deciphered it.

Son, come right away. I need your help. My enemies are closing in. Trust no one.

Victoria Anderson allowed the glider to rock her back and forth as she gazed up at Napa Valley’s moonlit sky. It was nearly three in the morning and not a sound could be heard around the Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast or in the adjacent vineyard. Even the noisy crickets had settled down for the night.

Earlier the light breeze had carried the sugary smell of ripe grapes and the sounds of people taking part in the crush. Years ago, the grapes were crushed by people standing barefoot in the vats and stomping on the grapes. A few small vineyards still practiced the centuries-old tradition, but most had come into the modern age and used machines.

Why can’t you sleep, Tori? she asked herself. Why?

How many times had she awakened in the dead of night, a debilitating sense of loneliness and betrayal overwhelming her? When would she finally be able to put the past behind her? She surveyed the stars winking down at her. As usual, they didn’t have an answer.

The Labrador retriever at her feet sighed, a heavy, almost snorting sound. She reached down to calm him with a reassuring hand. How many nights had Piny arisen to keep her company? Too many to count.

She gazed down at her left hand, and a shaft of starlight sparked off the pear-shaped diamond. It was a stunning engagement ring, the type most people gawked at, making Tori uncomfortable.

Oh, Piny, I have to return this ring, she said out loud. I can’t marry Elliott.

Why had she ever thought she could? Even though it had been nearly five years since Connor had died, marrying again was out of the question.

She had been drawn to Elliott Hawke’s steadfastness, his sense of honor, his commitment to his family. He was everything she wanted in a man—yet something was missing. It wasn’t fair to either of them to pretend this was a temporary phase. Even a good man like Elliott couldn’t heal her emotional scars.

Maybe guilt is keeping me awake, she whispered, still petting the dog. I should never have accepted the ring in the first place.

As the dog’s silky fur passed beneath her fingertips, the telephone in the carriage house rang. She stifled a shudder of alarm. Telephone calls in the middle of the night didn’t necessarily mean bad news she reassured herself.

She raced across the grass to the French doors that led into her small cottage. On the fifth ring, she snatched the receiver out of its cradle, stricken with anxiety—remembering another night, another telephone call.

H-h-hello, she managed to mumble breathlessly.

Tori, did I wake you? Elliott Hawke’s voice was low and huskier than usual.

I wasn’t asleep.

You told me you had trouble sleeping, he responded, his voice lower still.

She wondered if his comment wasn’t a backhanded way of criticizing her for never having slept with him. Despite the ring on her finger, Tori had held back, never truly allowing herself to emotionally—or physically—commit.

I was sitting outside with Piny, she told him.

I had the feeling you would be awake.

It had been two days since she’d heard from Elliott. He’d been angry with her for postponing their wedding—again. If Elliott was still upset, he didn’t sound it. In fact, he seemed troubled, which probably accounted for a call so late at night.

She hesitated, not wanting to tell him over the telephone she couldn’t marry him. She owed it to him to discuss this in person.

My father—Elliott’s voice became nothing more than a whisper—he’s dead.

Oh, no! she cried, a surge of guilt hitting her. She’d been selfishly thinking about her own problems. Elliott’s father had suffered a debilitating stroke more than a year ago. He’d been confined to a wheelchair, a shadow of the man he’d once been. What happened?

A beat of silence, then, He accidentally fell into the swimming pool.

In his wheelchair?

There was a long pause. Yes. It was dark. He must have misjudged the distance.

Oh, my God, she cried. How terrible.

She listened, sympathizing with Elliott’s loss. Although Elliott’s relationship with his father had been troubled, Elliott had idolized Giancarlo Hawke. A domineering man known in the wine country for his ruthlessness, Gian had made more than his share of enemies. Still, he was Elliott’s father, his only parent.

She had often mused about their upbringings. Both had lost their mothers at a very early age and had been raised by their fathers. There the similarities ended.

Tori’s father was a warm, loving man who’d done his best to be both mother and father to her. Gian Hawke had left Elliott to be raised by the housekeeper, giving his son little time and less love.

Now Elliott would become head of the prestigious Hawke’s Landing Vineyards. He would have to assume a mantle of leadership, which would be daunting to someone twice his age. The heaviness in Elliott’s voice told her that he realized what awaited him and the burden he would have to carry without his father.

It’ll be hard to manage without him, Elliott admitted.

You can do it, darling. You’ve been running things since your father’s stroke.

True, he said, his tone weary, lacking his usual self-confidence.

Do you want me to come over?

No, he responded without hesitation. I’m all right.

She said good night, promising to help during the next few days when he would have to plan the funeral and make arrangements for the hordes of friends and relatives who would descend on the wine country for the services.

Walking to the open window, she saw a light on in Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast. It was her father’s second floor suite, she realized with a start. What was he doing up so early?

She rushed out of the carriage house and across the grounds. On the wooden stairs leading up to the second floor entrance to her father’s suite, Tori tread lightly, not wanting to awaken the guests. She tapped softly.

The door swung open, and her father appeared larger than life as he always did. Lou Edwards was handsome despite a hairline that had receded so long ago she couldn’t remember when he didn’t have a bald crown with lush gray hair along the sides. He had intelligent green eyes that matched hers and an air of youthfulness, even though he was in his late fifties.

You heard? he asked.

She stepped into the room, responding in a low voice, Elliott just called me. Gian’s had an accident. He drowned. She turned to her father so she could see his face in the dim amber light coming from the Tiffany lamp on his desk. How did you find out?

Moxie phoned me.

Moxie? She couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice. Moxie had been her father’s editor-in-chief when he’d been a reporter with the San Francisco Herald. Her father had taken an early retirement five years ago to purchase the Silver Moon Bed and Breakfast. Why?

The wire service picked it up. Gian Hawke’s death could have been an accident—her father shrugged, noncommittal, his reporter’s persona in place—but there are strong indications it was murder.

Chapter Two

This had better be important. Elliott Hawke dropped into the chair beside his third cousin, Rachel. His father had been dead less than forty-eight hours, but the family attorney, Fred Wickerson, had insisted on meeting with the family.

Were you supervising the sorting? Rachel asked.

Yes, and it’s worse than I thought. Much worse.

He looked into his cousin’s dark eyes and saw her concern mirrored his. The Hawkes’ grew most of their own grape in a good year and bought as few as possible from other growers. A hard rain had scarred many of the best Chardonnay grapes they used in blending their sparkling wines, making the skins too tough to use. When he’d overseen the sorting of the grapes they’d harvested, he’d discovered the situation was even worse than he’d feared.

When do you want me to start buying? Rachel asked, her voice too low to carry. She gathered her long, black hair around her fist, the way she often did when she was thinking. As the buyer for the vineyard, it was her responsibility to purchase grapes when there was a shortage, not an easy job, considering most of the vineyards already had contracts.

First thing tomorrow. Be cagey. Don’t let anyone know how bad it is.

You’ve got it. Rachel smoothed her hair across her shoulder, letting it fall across a full breast. Leaning closer, she whispered, What’s this meeting all about?

I haven’t a clue.

Elliott inhaled a breath, letting his mind wander. Tori, he thought, smiling inwardly. She would make the perfect wife. He wanted someone to share his life, and the enormous burden of leading the Hawke family.

As much as he enjoyed the winery, Elliott found an extended family with conflicting interests and personalities overwhelming at times. Not only was Tori intelligent, she was good with people.

Having her at his side while he took over the family business would be reassuring. Since telling Tori about his father’s death, she’d thrown herself into helping with the funeral arrangements. He’d hardly seen her. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was avoiding him.

Elliott, Rachel. Tito Barzini waved as he entered the room.

Uncle Tito sat in the leather chair beside the huge oak desk. His son Lorenzo swaggered in next. Father and son looked exactly alike except for the difference age played. Tall and dark-haired with lively brown eyes and perpetual smiles, the Barzinis weren’t much help when it came to running the business. Uncle Tito had married Gina Hawke, Elliott’s father’s twin sister, thus inheriting a small vineyard. It was all he could handle.

With cash reserves at an all time low and more grapes ruined than Elliott had anticipated, he was going to need a lot of luck to keep Hawke’s Landing in the black. He could no longer ignore the Corelli brothers’ takeover threats. He could rely on Rachel, he knew, but other than his cousin, there wasn’t much family to support him.

They’re like leeches, he decided as a few other members of the extended family filed in and found seats. Likable leeches, but leeches nonetheless. His relatives lived the high life in a valley where wine was king and Hawke’s Landing was a jewel in the crown.

Am I late? Aunt Gina swanned into the room, making an entrance as usual.

His father’s twin sister was a drama queen, Elliott thought as she smiled at him. Although her hair had turned silver some years ago, her eyes were like his father’s—cobalt blue and glacial. Elliott looked at the same eyes each morning in the mirror, but he liked to think his were warmer, more sincere.

Gian and Gina. The Hawke twins. Both were intelligent and good-looking and self-absorbed. His closest relatives, Elliott thought. Now, Aunt Gina was the only one he had left, but they’d never been fond of each other.

Fred Wickerson walked into the library without making eye contact with Elliott. The older man gazed at the leather bound books lining the walls as he put his Hermes briefcase on the mahogany desk where generations of Hawke men had conducted business.

Still not meeting Elliott’s gaze, the attorney announced, Tomorrow, I am going to file Gian’s will.

In the silence following this announcement, the family all looked at each other. There would be the usual bequests to loyal workers and servants, but the bulk of the estate would pass to Gian’s only son, Elliott.

Is there a problem with the coroner’s report? Tito asked.

Although his father’s death had obviously been an accident, there was the usual gossip. Did Giancarlo Hawke kill himself, or was he murdered? Speculation wouldn’t cease until the coroner filed his report.

This has nothing to do with the report, but I’m afraid Gian’s will may add to the speculation about his death.

What are you talking about? Elliott knew he sounded uncharacteristically short-tempered, but he couldn’t help it.

The attorney faced him, his blue eyes troubled. Besides minor bequests to Maria and a few other servants, your father left ten percent of Hawke’s Landing to Aldo Abruzzo.

That’s ridiculous! cried Aunt Gina. It’s bad enough that he made such an unqualified man cellar master—

Aldo earned it, Elliott cut her off. He doesn’t need a degree to blend sparkling wines.

Gian left another ten percent to you, Gina.

That’s all my brother left me? she screamed, hell in her eyes. "Are you positive?"

Two witnesses signed the will.

Gina Barzini closed her eyes, all the color draining from her face.

The rest of Gian’s estate goes to you, Elliott. The attorney took a second to straighten his tie, then he cleared his throat. You … and your brother, Brody.

Brother! Elliott vaulted out of his chair. What in hell are you talking about!

The only sound in the room was Elliott’s agitated breathing and the tick-tick of the old wooden clock on the shelf. Something twisted in Elliott’s chest, and he knew the truth before the attorney spoke again.

You have a twin brother.

A juggernaut of sheer panic siphoned the breath from his lungs. Elliott barely felt Rachel pull him back into his seat. I can’t believe it. Why didn’t Father tell me?

Gian didn’t want to tell anyone, Fred responded. You know how he was. He just recently told me.

What about my mother? he asked, the muscles in his throat so tight he could barely speak. His father had insisted his mother was dead and had dumped him on the housekeeper, Maria. If she died the way father claimed, who raised this-this … brother?

Your mother took him, the attorney informed him solemnly. She passed away two and a half years ago of cancer.

Elliott attempted to distill his feelings down to one emotion. He was confused, betrayed, hurt, but most of all he was furious. Furious he’d gone through life not knowing his mother.

Now it was too late.

Rachel spoke up. How can some jerk who doesn’t know squat about vineyards waltz in here and claim half of Hawke’s Landing?

He isn’t waltzing in here. Gian sent for him.

A stiff silence followed this announcement. Even Aunt Gina, who never failed to let everyone know how she felt just stared at the attorney.

For an instant, Elliott saw himself as a six-year-old kid walking row after row of vines, following his father and listening to him explaining in detail the steps in making a sparkling wine that was really champagne except that the fucking French had the exclusive right to use the word. He longed to be out playing with the other children whose parents worked at Hawke’s Landing, but he wouldn’t have dared leave his father’s side. Years and years of similar incidents paraded through his mind.

He’d done his best. Of all the sons of the great vintners in the valley, Elliott knew he was the envy of every father. Except his own.

Trying to get a grip on his smoldering anger and bone-deep sense of betrayal, Elliott considered his options. He didn’t have the money to buy out this brother. He couldn’t imagine sharing Hawke’s Landing—what was rightfully his—with someone who knew zip about the business.

What’s my brother like?

I have a little information on him, the attorney replied, picking up the folder on his desk. He withdrew a photograph that had been blown up to eight by ten.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Uncle Tito crossed himself.

The man in the photograph had a ruthless, almost sinister expression, on his face, emphasized by the small scar that slightly lifted one eyebrow. His deep blue eyes appeared world weary and threatening.

Apprehension surged through Elliott. The guy looked meaner than Hitler, but he was a dead ringer for Elliott—right down to the cleft in his chin.

Brody is a Navy SEAL who’s an expert in antiterrorism. He’d just finished SEAL training when Desert Storm broke out. He was one of six SEALs who swam two miles from a submarine to the beach and set off a series of explosions. The diversion tied up an entire Iraqi division and kept Hussein guessing where the real strike would begin.

Maybe he’ll be content to play war the rest of his life and leave us alone. Elliott said this with as much bravado as he could muster. He hated to admit it, but his brother’s credentials intimidated him.

Sounds like he’s walking testosterone to me, Rachel quipped, backing him up the way she often did.

Fred ignored their pitiful attempt at humor. Brody is known as a ‘meateater,’ the best of the SEALs. His records say he’s killed six terrorists, four of them with his bare hands. He’s—

Did my father know all this? Elliott cut in, fairly sure of the answer.

The attorney nodded slowly.

Anger spiked in Elliott, coursing white-hot through his blood. It was a moment before words came to him. His voice pinched, his throat tight, he said, A trained killer. I’ll bet my father just loved it.

The attorney continued in a monotone as if his flat voice could defuse the situation. I expect Brody to turn up here soon.

A fierce, primitive stab of fury knifed through Elliott. He had worked his whole life to head the Hawke empire, struggling each day to please a man who refused to be satisfied. This was the final blow, he reflected.

Gian Hawke had done the impossible. He’d found a way to torture Elliott from the grave.

Tori drove into the parking lot behind her office. Her graphics arts firm was still small, and she couldn’t afford a full time secretary. Not only did this give her an opportunity to see if she had any messages, this stop was another way to dodge Elliott.

Hordes of friends and relatives had descended on Hawke’s Landing for the funeral. With so much going on and so many people around, she hadn’t wanted to pull Elliott aside and deliver more bad news by returning his ring.

Tori was startled to see a stretch limousine idling in the lot. Assuming it was being rented by a tourist visiting the vineyards who’d stopped to pick up a gourmet picnic at the Corner Deli, she parked and hurried around the car on the way to the staircase leading up to her second floor office.

Victoria Anderson? called a male voice.

She stopped and turned to see a young man emerging from the back of the limo. Short with a full head of chestnut hair that was brushed back with a slight wave, the man was dressed in Chinos and a band collar shirt the color of mustard.

Are you looking for me? Tori asked.

The man whipped off wraparound shades and extended his hand, Yes. I’m Kevin J. Puth.

The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it.

Kevin Puth, he repeated.

His tone was casual, but she knew he expected her to recognize his name. She tried for a welcoming smile, saying, Let’s go up to my office.

I’m a friend of Adam Thorlefson’s, he told her on the way up the stairs.

She’d hit a home run by designing the label for Adam’s Bellmark Abbey, the vineyard the software mogul had purchased several years ago. Her graphic arts firm specialized in wine labels, and the success of the Bellmark design had put her on the map in a small but important way for a fledgling firm.

Unlocking the door to her office, she recalled why Kevin’s name seemed so familiar. Known on Wall Street as Mr. Dot-Com, the young man had made his fortune by launching dot-com businesses, taking them public, then selling out for millions. The IPO companies had yet to make a nickel, the investors lost their shirts, but Kevin Puth had parlayed his on-line ventures into more money than he knew how to spend.

He followed her inside, saying, I need you to design a label as soon as possible.

She dropped her purse on the desk, noticing the message light blinking. A lot depends on what type of wine you’ll be producing.

I’m thinking of something with a hint of mystery. A Marsanne or Viognier.

She silently acknowledged he’d done his homework. A flock of new wineries had invaded the area, but most of them had no hope of competing with larger, better known producers. Kevin had chosen to define himself with one of the different grapes from the Rhone region of France that were just beginning to be produced locally.

Good idea. I’ll be able to design something with a little cache. Standing out from the crowd is becoming more and more of a challenge.

I’m not worried.

What a pompous nerd, she thought. Whatever he believed, he considered to be fact and expected everyone else to accept his view.

You realize that about ninety percent of the wine purchased in this country is bought in supermarkets by women? When he nodded, she continued, They usually stand back, scan the shelves, and pick up a bottle with an appealing label.

"That’s why rabbits, frogs, and flowers have been