Chapter 1
The wind from the ocean blew through Terra’s long black hair as she drove north up the Pacific Coast Highway in her Miata convertible.
The car was already six years old, a reminder of better times in her career and her life. Back in Los Angeles the little car was too slow to keep up with the city’s infamous freeway traffic, and it exposed her to exhaust fumes on the rare days that she drove with the top down. Today, with LA already a distant memory in her rearview mirror and the overwhelming beauty of the central California coastline surrounding her, she was glad again that she had bought it.
Her destination was just south of Monterey, five hours north of LA, for a job interview as a “project manager” for Solacia Cellars, an organic winery. As Terra pulled up to the security gate, she reflected on the fact that she had just driven more than 300 miles and still had no idea what type of projects she might be managing. She hoped she wouldn’t end up picking grapes.
The gate lifted automatically for her and she drove through, wondering whether it opened for any total stranger who pulled up. If it did, she thought, then what was the point of having it?
Or perhaps someone was expecting her.
Inside the high fence that surrounded the property, the road wound downhill toward the ocean and led to a four-story house built in contemporary style with entire walls made of glass. Behind it, pine trees gave off a woodsy scent, and the blue Pacific framed the house as if in a painting. She thought she heard waves crashing in the distance as she turned off the car and got out.
The door chime was answered by an intercom, and at last someone asked her for her name. “Terra Foster,” she replied.
“Be there in a few,” the man’s voice said.
While she waited, Terra tried to decide whether the man behind the speaker was the same man she spoke with on the phone yesterday. She had been checking the online classifieds on her break after the lunch rush at the trendy LA restaurant where she worked waiting tables when she saw the ad and e-mailed her resume.
Within half an hour a man had called back to set up an interview, and she had decided it was time for a job change. The restaurant’s hipster clientele tipped generously, especially when she wore a short skirt to work, but waitressing was exhausting, and she was tired of being stared at and hit on by middle-aged men so doughy and self-absorbed that she wouldn’t have slept with a single one of them even if he had paid her.
The door opened and she stood before a tall man with trendy Bollé sunglasses casually pushed up into his thick, copper-brown hair. She briefly met his eyes, which were piercing blue, before letting her gaze descend and take in the rest of him: a dazzling white polo shirt covering well-muscled shoulders, plaid madras shorts, strong tanned legs, and brown leather fisherman’s sandals on his feet. He looked about age thirty, but something in his expression told her he was older than that.
“Terra, good to meet you. I’m Rafe Jackson.” He extended his hand. When she accepted it, she felt a flash of warmth run up her elbow, down the center of her body, and end up between her legs. She blushed and averted her eyes.
He seemed to sense the effect he had on her. “Excuse my lack of formality,” he said, his eyes sweeping her body and noting her interview clothes. “I can’t resist working outdoors when the weather is good, which is most of the time here. Please come this way.”
She walked behind him and sneaked a glance at his athletic butt as he led her to a patio ringed by a low stone wall. An enormous tree grew in the center and provided deep, cool shade in the heat of the day. The view of the ocean was stunning.
Rafe held a chair for her to sit down and then stepped over to a fully equipped wet bar located under an awning. “Something to drink, Terra?”
She weighed the offer against her limited employment options and settled on a
The wind from the ocean blew through Terra’s long black hair as she drove north up the Pacific Coast Highway in her Miata convertible.
The car was already six years old, a reminder of better times in her career and her life. Back in Los Angeles the little car was too slow to keep up with the city’s infamous freeway traffic, and it exposed her to exhaust fumes on the rare days that she drove with the top down. Today, with LA already a distant memory in her rearview mirror and the overwhelming beauty of the central California coastline surrounding her, she was glad again that she had bought it.
Her destination was just south of Monterey, five hours north of LA, for a job interview as a “project manager” for Solacia Cellars, an organic winery. As Terra pulled up to the security gate, she reflected on the fact that she had just driven more than 300 miles and still had no idea what type of projects she might be managing. She hoped she wouldn’t end up picking grapes.
The gate lifted automatically for her and she drove through, wondering whether it opened for any total stranger who pulled up. If it did, she thought, then what was the point of having it?
Or perhaps someone was expecting her.
Inside the high fence that surrounded the property, the road wound downhill toward the ocean and led to a four-story house built in contemporary style with entire walls made of glass. Behind it, pine trees gave off a woodsy scent, and the blue Pacific framed the house as if in a painting. She thought she heard waves crashing in the distance as she turned off the car and got out.
The door chime was answered by an intercom, and at last someone asked her for her name. “Terra Foster,” she replied.
“Be there in a few,” the man’s voice said.
While she waited, Terra tried to decide whether the man behind the speaker was the same man she spoke with on the phone yesterday. She had been checking the online classifieds on her break after the lunch rush at the trendy LA restaurant where she worked waiting tables when she saw the ad and e-mailed her resume.
Within half an hour a man had called back to set up an interview, and she had decided it was time for a job change. The restaurant’s hipster clientele tipped generously, especially when she wore a short skirt to work, but waitressing was exhausting, and she was tired of being stared at and hit on by middle-aged men so doughy and self-absorbed that she wouldn’t have slept with a single one of them even if he had paid her.
The door opened and she stood before a tall man with trendy Bollé sunglasses casually pushed up into his thick, copper-brown hair. She briefly met his eyes, which were piercing blue, before letting her gaze descend and take in the rest of him: a dazzling white polo shirt covering well-muscled shoulders, plaid madras shorts, strong tanned legs, and brown leather fisherman’s sandals on his feet. He looked about age thirty, but something in his expression told her he was older than that.
“Terra, good to meet you. I’m Rafe Jackson.” He extended his hand. When she accepted it, she felt a flash of warmth run up her elbow, down the center of her body, and end up between her legs. She blushed and averted her eyes.
He seemed to sense the effect he had on her. “Excuse my lack of formality,” he said, his eyes sweeping her body and noting her interview clothes. “I can’t resist working outdoors when the weather is good, which is most of the time here. Please come this way.”
She walked behind him and sneaked a glance at his athletic butt as he led her to a patio ringed by a low stone wall. An enormous tree grew in the center and provided deep, cool shade in the heat of the day. The view of the ocean was stunning.
Rafe held a chair for her to sit down and then stepped over to a fully equipped wet bar located under an awning. “Something to drink, Terra?”
She weighed the offer against her limited employment options and settled on a
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