Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs by Sharon Hamilton Page B

her destiny was here in this valley. It wasn’t North Carolina. It wasn’t San Diego. Jameson wove his fingers through hers as they walked, he wanted to remind her that this was not only her future, but his and Charlotte’s futures too.
    Zapparelli Winery loomed above the hills like a giant copper and stucco crystal. The green patina on roofs of the two main grand halls, connected by the tasting room and restaurant overlooking the Dry Creek Valley, made the whole site look like an old Italian villa—a very expensive Italian villa fit for a king. Amy explained that Zapparelli was known to the community as a good guy, often underwriting events benefiting the schools, women’s groups and other non-profit enterprises, but a vampire of a businessman when it came to protecting his own. The fact that he’d never contributed to the Police Benevolent Association, a sore spot to several of the retired officers on her father’s force, made their interest in the adjoining property more keen.
    “We think his attitude stems from his college years in San Francisco,” said Amy.
    “So that would spill over to the military?” Jameson asked as they climbed the enormous white steps to the tasting and showroom.
    “No evidence of that yet,” answered Zak. “If he only knew how much safer he’d be if we were his neighbors. Unofficially, of course.”
    “Of course,” Jameson agreed.
    A large pool lined with colorful pergolas, private dressing rooms, called them invitingly. Not a soul was in the water, Lizzie noted. Sparse use of the lounge chairs and tables by tourists with floppy hats and large sunglasses was also a surprise to her.
    Zak pulled open the heavy glass and metal doors, and it took several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkened foyer and tasting bar beyond.
    “You gotta see this, Lizzie.” Amy yanked her arm and dragged her down to the right, past the bar, and into a glass-enclosed case housing memorabilia from Mr. Zapparelli’s recent zombie hit movie. A complete bloody costume, with severed head balanced on the zombie’s right hip, looked like it would jump right through the glass and decimate the tourist population. Lizzie noticed mothers hiding their children’s eyes from the spectacle.
    The director had started doing Spaghetti Westerns, and props, scripts and golden statues were displayed along the side of the tasting bar. There were easily ten movies Lizzie recognized represented.
    “Oh my gosh!” Amy pointed across the room to the corner. Standing in front of a “No Smoking” sign was the director himself, just like she’d seen in movie magazines. His salt and pepper hair flew out uncontrollably in all directions, little tufts seeking higher ground at the sides so that they looked like tiny wings. His dark-rimmed glasses reflected the flame coming from a match he held to the end of a very long cigar. He puffed profusely until the tip became bright red and glowing. With his bushy eyebrows, his focus on the tiny flame, Lizzie thought he looked like the devil himself.
    Jameson whispered to Zak, but his voice carried all the way through the bar area and Lizzie cringed.
    “Thought this was a no smoking place.”
    “I guess it depends on who is smoking,” Zak whispered back.
    Lizzie stood behind Jameson for cover as the director noticed their group and came over. He was much larger in real life than the pictures had made him out to be.
    “So I’m guessing this is your first time here,” Zapparelli said to Jameson. He didn’t extend his hand nor introduce himself, and Lizzie wasn’t sure if it was a greeting or a reprimand.
    “Yessir.”
    Zapparelli narrowed his eyes to a squint. “Military?”
    “Yessir. Navy, sir.”
    The director gave him an up and down, shrugged and walked away. At the entrance to the winery store, he turned and motioned for them to follow him. “Come on over here. I want to show you something.”
    They followed the rotund gentleman. He walked nimbly up the spiral