Too Close to the Sun Read Free Page A

had decamped to France. The whole
episode was so unseemly and embarrassing and she hated even to
think of it. Such a classic tale: a young lady, the daughter of a
small Sonoma vintner, who, the morning after, regretted what she
had done. Started to think it hadn't been her choice at all. Ugly
accusations flew from her father, and veiled threats, and Ava
hastily cobbled together a face-saving solution. She wrote a
massive check to charity in the family's name and packed Max off to
the Haut-Medoc, claiming a long-planned apprenticeship.
    She shut her eyes. Why was there so little of
the father in the son? Where was Porter's caution, his
thoughtfulness, his good sense? True, Max had many natural gifts.
He was intelligent and nice-looking and didn't lack for confidence
or charm. But there was a wildness to him that frightened Ava and
made her worry for the future.
    And now of course there was the problem of
Suncrest. She knew that the most prudent course would be for her to
continue to run the winery. Yet, though it made her feel horribly
guilty to admit it, she was done with it— done . She'd had
enough of marketing strategies and distribution agreements and
P&L statements. She could play the vintner no longer. It was a
role she was handed against her will and she'd hated it from the
moment she walked onstage.
    Of course, the other option was to sell it to
Will Henley and GPG. Suncrest would survive if she did, though
probably not in a form of which Porter would have approved. Those
buyout firms changed businesses—she was a savvy enough
businesswoman to understand that. But sometimes it was hard to
believe Suncrest would fare any better in Max's hands.
    Ava abruptly set down her glass. "Shall we
have lunch?" she asked, and swept toward the sun-drenched terrace
beyond the French doors without waiting for Jean-Luc's answer.
"I've asked Mrs. Finchley to lay a table for us in the
pergola."
    Jean-Luc looked confused. "Didn't Max's
flight land two hours ago? Shouldn't we wait for him to get here to
eat?"
    "Oh no, let's not." Ava knew her son well
enough to know it was unwise to wait for him for anything.
    *
    Ninety miles south of his mother's intimate
lunch with Jean-Luc Boursault, Maximilian Winsted was doing some
entertaining of his own. He stood at the foot of a San Francisco
Airport Marriott queen-size bed, puffing on a Gauloises cigarette
and eyeing Ariane, Air France flight attendant, First Class. Her
bodacious Parisian self was draped across the bed, the top half of
her uniform strewn all over the industrial-strength blue carpet
alongside her bra and pumps and pantyhose. She was giggling so
much, she kept spilling her champagne on her breasts, where it ran
across her nipples and only made her laugh harder. At this rate,
Max didn't think it'd be a huge challenge getting off the bottom
half of her uniform, too.
    Vive la France!
    He chuckled, took a last gulp of his own
bubbly and stubbed out his cigarette. Bet Rory never got a
stewardess into bed, or Bucky either, that tool. They didn't have
anywhere near his charm. Sure, he'd had to spend most of the
ten-hour flight from Paris standing at the rear of the cabin
flirting and telling stories, but now he was going to get his
reward: Ariane's full roster of private First Class favors.
    I can still top them , he told himself.
So what if Rory was graduating from Yale Law and Bucky was in med
school? Max Winsted was still the biggest stud from Napa High,
class of '97, and he was about to get even bigger.
    "Viens!" The arm holding the champagne
glass motioned him to come closer. Her bright red lipsticked mouth
smiled, her big dark eyes teased. "Viens jouer, Max!"
    "Let me just shut the drapes." After eighteen
months of French food and French pastries and French wine, Max
suspected he'd look better in the dark.
    Since his shirt was already off, he sucked in
his stomach before he walked to the windows, double-thick to keep
out the roar of the 101 freeway six stories below. He was