Storm of Visions Read Free

end of the long bar, Michelle explained to the newest arrivals, two recently returned marines, “It’s twenty dollars to taste the wine, but we refund that amount if you buy a bottle.” Leaning forward, she placed two glasses on the counter, and the Blue Oak logo on the crest of her right breast strained at her thin blue T-shirt.
    The guys’ eyes glazed over, and they dug out their wallets without a hint of protest.
    Jacqueline grinned. She swore the vintner hired his female help by the size of their chests and how well they used them. How Jacqueline, with her B-cups, had gotten the job, she did not know. Maybe because the vintner’s wife had wandered through during the interview and it had been politic to employ the woman with the little boobies. Probably because Jacqueline was twenty-two and levelheaded, the kind of worker who could keep the tasting room under control, and did. Certainly because she was tall and long-legged, and smiled like Miss America accepting the crown.
    It was a character flaw created by a mother who nagged at her to smile until it was easier to give in than fight.
    But she could never fill a Blue Oaks T-shirt the way Michelle did.
    A party of six finished their tasting and left, muttering about the heat.
    They were right. Spring had come with a vengeance, and the temperature had been unrelenting, like an upwelling of hell.
    Jacqueline lifted her shoulder-length hair off her neck and wished for a breeze.
    An upwelling of hell.
    Hell . . .
    The world took on a sepia tint, and the word echoed in her mind, a soft, foreboding whisper. . . .
    Hot. Explosively hot. Flames spurting . . .
    Hell.
    Hell.
    Jacqueline’s breath slowed. Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, clad in fingerless leather gloves, curled into her hair. She stood, frozen in place, caught by a vision that clawed its way up from deep inside her, overwhelming her, taking her somewhere she did not wish to go.
    Then she faintly heard the sound of water dripping, and a cold gust of air brushed the back of her neck.
    She snapped back to the moment, to the tasting room, to her job behind the counter serving wine to a dozen thirsty tourists, to Michelle’s voice whispering, “Dibs, Jacquie. He’s divine. Dibs. Dibs!”
    What could have pulled Michelle’s attention away from the buff young marines?
    Jacqueline glanced at the guy who stood in the doorway—and froze in wary appreciation.
    He was a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight: long and lean, narrow hips wrapped in fitted, faded denim, and a black silk T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He stood aggressively, with his arms held away from his body, like a bullfighter prepared to face the final challenge.
    No wonder Michelle was impressed. He was her kind of guy. He was trouble.
    Jacqueline had had enough trouble in her life. She dropped her hair, flexed her hands to rid them of the betraying stiffness, and in an undertone, said, “He’s all yours.”
    “That’s right, sweetheart. Because I called dibs, and don’t you forget it.” Raising her voice, Michelle called, “Come in, sir, and take your place at the counter. There’s always room for another connoisseur of fine wines.”
    Two of the older ladies glanced back, did a double take, and moved aside to let him in. Because they might be schoolteachers, and married, but when a guy walked like Mr. Aggressive, like a stalker on a mission, he commanded adulation.
    They were glad to give it to him.
    Michelle gave her speech about the tasting fee and the refund, and almost vibrated with excitement as Mr. Aggressive put his twenty on the counter. She poured a generous glass of the first cabernet sauvignon, and avidly watched as he swirled it, his gaze on the brilliant garnet in the glass. Without even trying, Mr. Aggressive demanded the notice of everyone in the tasting room. He was one of those guys, filling the space, taking the oxygen, putting his stamp on the place, the hour, the atmosphere.
    Unbidden, Jacqueline’s