Love in the Vineyard (The Tavonesi Series Book 7) by Pamela Aares

away.
    She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to meet his gaze. Was sure she wouldn’t know how to meet whatever she saw there. A chill skittered through her, and she shivered.
    He stepped back and took off his jacket, wrapped it around her shoulders over her flimsy windbreaker.
    And his scent rose from the cloth, teasing and taunting her.
    “I have to cry uncle,” she said, meeting his gaze from under her lashes. She hoped he couldn’t read the blush of misery and uncertainty and near unbridled wanting that crept up her throat.
    He tilted his head. “Uncle?”
    A nervous laugh escaped her. “You don’t cry uncle in Italy?”
    He shook his head.
    “It’s a child’s game. You say uncle when you’ve had enough. Or in this case, when you can’t go on.”
     

     
    He shouldn’t have kissed her. He knew from her shocked reaction that someone had hurt her. Some man had hurt her. He’d guessed earlier but hadn’t felt right about asking. Blast her stupid rules. No, not her rules; he’d gone along. They’d served him as well, still did. He wanted— needed —to know that if she cared for him it wasn’t because of his money. She wore designer tennis shoes, had the vocabulary of someone well educated, and they’d met at a high-end charity event, so the gap he sensed between them probably wasn’t that big. But he wasn’t ready to reveal himself, not yet. Besides, after what he’d just done, he had no right to ask her to change their agreement, to give up something that she obviously felt protected her.
    “Tasha, I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s my fault, not yours,” she said. “I should’ve said something earlier. I’m not in shape for an outing like this.”
    Evidently she didn’t want to talk about the kiss. Fine. He didn’t know what he could’ve said anyway. That he’d gotten carried away? That he barely had control of his impulses when he was around her? That he wanted to kiss her again?
    And he should’ve paid more attention, should’ve seen that she was struggling on the trail. But she’d seemed strong. And he’d been distracted by the beauty of the place, by the beauty of the woman. And by the wanting she fired in him that he’d worked hard to shove down. Until the kiss.
    He put his hands to her shoulders. “It’s not about fault.”
    Her pupils dilated, and he felt her stiffen under his hands. He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back, hoping that the gesture would make her feel safer, less trapped.
    “I invited you; you’re my guest, my responsibility. I should’ve thought this trip out better. I’m truly sorry.”
    He was sorry he’d invited her for an outing that was out of her league. But was he really sorry about the kiss? He’d be lying if he told himself he was. And lying if he didn’t admit he wanted to kiss her again. The gentlemanly side of him, the side of him that had sisters and knew he wouldn’t want them to be afraid, to be challenged beyond their boundaries, fought to keep his desire in check.
    She tugged the jacket around her shoulders. “It may not be about fault, but it’s my stubbornness that kept me from saying anything.”
    It didn’t look like stubbornness to him. He detected fear. And he felt bad for his part in conjuring such an awful emotion.
    She sat down on the ground and tugged off a shoe, peeling back her sock with a grimace.
    He winced when he saw the blisters. “I have moleskin,” he said.
    She looked up at him like he’d said he had eye of newt.
    “Moleskin. It’s for blisters.” He fumbled the package out of the front pocket of his pack, moving swiftly, as if a minute more would make a difference.
    She tugged off her other shoe. “I hope you have a lot of it.”
    He did. Coco had stuck an extra packet of the soft padding into his pack at the last minute. She knew something of women and shoes, that sassy sister of his. He’d have to thank her. But for now he needed to help Tasha patch up her feet. It wasn’t like he could carry