Excerpt of Name Your Price by Barbara McCauley

He should have seen it coming.

Trace had known, of course, that she was in town. He'd heard her name whispered behind his back on more than one occasion in the past few days, had heard the murmurs and seen the fleeting glances flashed in his direction. Becca Marshall returning to Napa Valley was like rich compost to the gossip-mongers, and the grapevine was sending out runners and suckers as if it were April instead of December.

Trace pursed his lips, knew that the fruit of that vine would most certainly be sour.

He still wasn't sure what had snagged his attention to the linen-draped table inside the little main street café. Maybe the tumble of thick, coffee-dark hair against the white turtleneck she wore, or maybe the familiar slash of high cheekbones and straight nose. Maybe even the graceful gesture of her long fingers as she spoke to another person who was just out of his line of sight.

No, it was none of those things, he thought as he stared at Becca. Because before he'd stopped on the sidewalk, before he'd glanced across the street, before he'd spotted her through the restaurant window, he'd simply known she was there. As surely as the scent of cinnamon and spices drifting from Katie's Country Bakery, as surely as the persistent ring of the handheld bell from the Santa Claus around the corner, as surely as the promise of rain on the cool evening air, he'd felt her presence.

The realization brought with it a flash of dark anger, but he quickly tamped down the emotion. It didn't matter one damn bit if she'd come back. The past was the past. Ancient history. Hell, they'd both been kids back then. He'd just turned twenty-one, she'd been twenty. He'd teased her she couldn't even legally drink. She'd teased him that he was an old man.

With all that had happened in the past few months, his father's murder, his half-sister's arrest and confession, the family altercations and feuds — God knew on more than one occasion he'd certainly felt like an old man.

And now Becca.

He stepped under the black-cloth awning of a closed antique store and stared through the café window, noted that the five years that had passed since he'd last seen Becca had been good to her. The soft shine of colored Christmas lights decorating the restaurant window gave her skin an ethereal glow and lit her wide, thickly lashed eyes. Eyes the color of rich, golden-brown velvet, he remembered. Just one of the many memories associated with Becca. The throaty sound of her laugh, the heat of her long, smooth body sliding over his, the honey taste of her lips.

A taste now bitter with betrayal.

An icy breeze slid under the leather jacket he wore, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering in his gut. He'd come to town to have dinner with his sister, for God's sake, not take a trip down memory lane.

He watched Becca's lips curve into a smile, saw the flash of dimple in her cheek. Grinding his teeth, he stepped back onto the sidewalk and crossed the street. * * *

The sound of sleigh bells and the clomp of hooves on asphalt greeted Becca when she walked out of the restaurant into the cool night air. She watched a horse- drawn carriage pass by on the street, smiled at the driver when he lifted his top hat to her. Bundled in coats and hats, the man and woman in the rear seat waved and shouted a holiday greeting.

Christmas in Napa Valley had always been a magical time of year. Twinkling lights on every store-front, the animated reindeer and Santa on the roof of McIntye Hardware, the giant decorated tree in the center of Old Town. She breathed in the scent of pine and woodsmoke and crisp night air.

It felt good to be home.

Slipping her hands into her coat pockets, she walked down the sidewalk and took it all in. A few of the businesses had changed since she'd left five years ago. Emily's Bed and Linen was now The Blushing Bride bridal salon, Old Town Vintage Gifts was now Très Chic Fashion and Britwell's Tea Shop had expanded into a restaurant.

Change was inevitable, of course. You could fight it, you could deny it, you could even walk away from it. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stop it.

Change was simply life.

The sound of music and a bell ringing drew Becca to a storefront of a small gift shop, and she paused to watch a two-foot-tall dancing snowman in the window. He wore a burgundy and deep green jeweled jester hat and vest and shook a tiny bell to the tune of "Jingle Bell Rock." A little redheaded girl standing inside the store laughed and pointed excitedly at the animated snowman.

Thank goodness there were at least a few things that didn't change, she thought, watching the excitement in the child's eyes. She'd felt that rush of excitement once, had felt that same joy.

Turning, she bumped into a man, felt his hands reach out and steady her.

"I'm so —"

She froze.

Oh dear God.

Even in the dim light, she knew the man's eyes were bottle- green, knew his hair was sandy-brown. Knew that he had a one-inch scar over his left eyebrow, the repercussion of a tree-climbing incident when he was eleven years old. Brow furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, he stared down at her with narrowed eyes.

"Hello, Becca."

Trace.

She'd known there was a strong possibility she might run into him while she was in Napa, though she'd certainly never imagined she would literally run into him. She'd spent weeks preparing herself for this moment, visualized herself remaining calm, composed. In control. She'd scripted exactly what she would say, exactly how she would smile. She'd even practiced the tone of her voice.

A tone that sounded nothing like the faint gasp she'd just uttered.

"Trace." She finally managed to whisper his name.

His hands still held her arms and she fought back the bubble of panic rising in her throat. Even through her coat, she felt the heat radiate from his body and seep into her skin. Her heart jackhammered against her ribs, reverberated in her head. How ridiculous she'd been to think she could have ever prepared herself to face him again.

How stupid.

When he finally dropped his hands away and stepped back, she managed to drag much needed air into her lungs. "I — I'm sorry," she said breathlessly. "I didn't see you."

"I heard you were back."

Afraid he might see how badly her hands were shaking, she thrust them deep into her pockets. "I'm here on a shoot for Ivy Glen Cellars."

"I heard that, too."

"Oh." She really wasn't surprised. The wine business in Napa was a close-knit community. She couldn't help but wonder what else he'd heard. And how much of it was true.

"How — how are you?" How trite and ridiculous the question sounded, Becca thought, but it seemed to be the best she could do at the moment.

"Fine. And you?"

"I'm good."

"It's been a long time, Becca."

Five years, she nearly said, but simply nodded instead. She noticed the fine lines around the corners of his eyes, the strong, square cut of his jaw, the hard set of his mouth, and was surprised at how the years had matured his handsome features. He'd once dazzled her with his boyish charm and crooked smile, but there was nothing welcoming in this man's expression.

A shiver coursed through her as she held his gaze. One thing hadn't changed, she thought with despair. He still made her knees weak. Still made her pulse flutter. Still made her yearn.

She was aware of the cars driving past, heard the bell still ringing from the gift store window, but her surroundings had a fuzzy, distant quality to them. Only Trace felt in focus, and her senses were sharply aware of every familiar detail. The broad stretch of shoulders, the dark slash of his brow, the slight crook in his nose.