Fool's Gold: Chasing Perfect Part 5

"Just what I've walked to. I've only been in town a couple of weeks. There hasn't been much time."

"You don't get weekends off?"

"I spent my first weekend getting ready for the meeting with the university." She grimaced as she thought of how that morning had been a disaster until Josh had breezed in, spoken a few magic words and saved the day. Not that she was upset to have the contract signed. It was just that he'd made her feel bad at her job. Or maybe she'd done that all by herself.

"Last weekend, I was getting ready for my meetings this week."

"I sense a pattern," he said. "You need to get out more."

Was he offering? She desperately wanted him to be offering. Which was silly, because she would have to say no to any kind of offer from him. The man wasn't good for her sanity. Plus, h.e.l.lo. There'd been a woman waiting in his room the other night. A close-to-naked woman obviously expecting her evening to take a turn for the erotic. Josh was a player and Charity had never understood the rules of the game.

Note to self, she thought. She would look Josh up on the Internet when she got back to her room that night. Any kind of crush should be destroyed by the reality of his personal life.

"I plan to be in Fool's Gold for a long time," she said. "I'll see it all eventually."

He turned two blocks before the sign for the interstate, then headed west. "There are three different wineries growing grapes in the valley," he said, pointing to the acres of vineyards sprawling to the horizon. "Mostly cabernet sauvignon, merlot and cab franc. Some other grapes for blending."

He flashed her a smile. "Which takes us to the limit of my wine knowledge. If you want to know more, they do tours every weekend, starting in a couple of weeks."

As they sped down the highway, Charity could see tiny buds on the bare branches-the promise of grapes to come.

"Most of the wineries were started years ago," he continued. "This whole valley used to grow everything from corn to apples. Gradually the vineyards are taking over. Something about the soil and the weather."

"And money," she said. "For a lot of farmers, there's more profit in grapes. Wine is very big these days."

He glanced at her. "Impressive."

She did her best not to blush. "I did my homework before I moved here." She cleared her throat. "The wineries are closer to town than I realized," she said, turning back to see the mountains rising against the blue sky. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notepad.

"What a great resource. Any company thinking of relocating here needs to be taken on a tour of the area," she said more to herself than him. "This is a great selling point."

There had to be some kind of brochure the town used to promote itself. She made another note to review it when she got back and make sure the wineries and vineyards were prominently mentioned. Maybe look over Pia's schedule. There had to be a wine or grape festival.

"The wineries are just part of it," Josh told her. "There's also hiking and camping in the summer and skiing in the winter. The resort has a five-star restaurant and a cooking school. We get plenty of tourists coming through."

"You know a lot about the area. How long have you been here?" she asked.

"I grew up here. Moved to the area when I was ten."

"That must have been nice," she said enviously. "When I was a kid I dreamed of staying in one place, but my mom liked to travel."

Josh glanced at her. Something questioning flashed through his eyes, then was gone. "Did she say why?"

"She had a lot of reasons. She liked the thrill of a new place. The possibilities. She used to say she was born wanting to move on." Part of the motive to move had always been to escape from anything bad that had happened before, Charity thought. Which was mostly a man, and the end of a relations.h.i.+p.

Charity had loved her mother, but the constant moving around hadn't been easy. Especially because Sandra moved whenever the mood struck her. She didn't care if Charity was only a few weeks from finis.h.i.+ng a semester or a school year. "I grew up being the new girl."

"Was that a problem?"

"I wasn't outgoing. By the time I'd made a few friends and settled in, we were moving again. I felt like I was always scrambling to learn the rules."

"You'll like Fool's Gold."

"I already do. Everyone is so friendly and open."

He made a couple of turns, then they were heading back toward the mountains.

Charity found herself relaxing a little. Being close to Josh wasn't so scary-not if she remembered to keep breathing and ignore the steady hum of awareness that connected them. At least from her side.

A bright red import came toward them. The car was filled with college-aged girls who rolled down the windows and hooted and waved at Josh. He nodded back.

"Fans?" she asked, watching the car zip past.

"Probably."

She risked turning toward him. "It's the bike thing, right?"

His mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile. "Yeah. The bike thing."

"Because you're a famous bike rider?"

"Me and Lance Armstrong."

"So you've ridden in the Tour de France?"

He glanced at her, his humor obvious. "Do you even know what that is?"

"It's, ah, a famous bike race. In France. It's done in parts or stages or legs or something. And there's a yellow jersey."

"Good start." His voice was teasing. "It's stages, by the way."

"I'm not really that into sports. But from what I've heard, you're very impressive."

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

"Do you make a good living at that? The bike riding?"

"You can. Prize money can be substantial. A top rider can pull in over a million."

"Dollars?"

"Tour de France pays in Euros."

"Right." She was feeling a little sick to her stomach.

"Endors.e.m.e.nts bring in the big money. Multimillion dollar deals." He glanced at her. "They pay in dollars. Or yen."

A million here, a million there. Did currency really matter? "So you were successful?"

"A case could be made."

"And worth millions?"

"On a good day."

Because the s.e.xual appeal, incredible body and handsome face weren't enough.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"In the SUV or in Fool's Gold?"

"Either. Both."

"I'm showing you the area because Marsha asked me and I'm in Fool's Gold because I live here. I've retired from racing."

She s.h.i.+fted to face him. "Retired? You're barely in your thirties."

"It's a young man's sport."

How young? Retired? That didn't seem possible. She wondered if he'd been injured. Not that she would ask. It seemed too personal.

"What do you do now?"

"This and that. I keep busy. I have a few things going on in the area."

They were back in town. Josh drove around the lake. There were small hotels, a couple of B&Bs, restaurants and vacation homes. Across the street were the boutiques, a bakery and an open, gra.s.sy park.

"Angelo's has great Italian food," he said, pointing to the entrance to a large restaurant. "Margaritaville has the best Mexican food."

"Named after the Jimmy Buffet song?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Avoid the extra shot with the margaritas unless you're a professional. It'll knock you on your b.u.t.t."

"Thanks for the tip. I'm more a single gla.s.s of wine kind of girl."

He mentioned several other restaurants, a couple of bars and the drive-in with the best fries and shakes anywhere. All of which made her happy she'd taken the job in Fool's Gold. If only she'd been able to grow up in a place like this, she thought wistfully. But her mother would have hated everything about the town. Especially the close ties.

Her mother liked to come and go as she pleased, always looking for new adventures-especially where men were concerned. Charity had learned early not to expect any one guy to stick around for long. They were always moving through, too.

She'd vowed her life would be different. That she would find someone special, get married and be with that person forever. So far, she hadn't been very successful in that department but she was determined to keep trying.

Rather than dwell on her sucky love life, she asked, "Did you ever have any bike races in town?"

"No. There was some talk, but nothing was arranged." He glanced out the window.

"What about a charity event? To raise money for kids?"

"I don't ride anymore."

"At all?"

He shook his head.

She thought he would continue to circle the large lake, but instead he made a few turns and before she realized where they were, he'd pulled up in front of City Hall. Their time together had ended abruptly, as if she'd done something wrong.

When he didn't turn off the engine, she got the hint.

"Thanks for the tour," she said, feeling awkward. "I appreciate you taking the time."

"No problem."

She hesitated, wanting to say something else, then got out of the SUV. He drove off without a word.

She stood on the sidewalk, staring after him. What had just happened? What had she said? She felt oddly guilty and wasn't sure why.

"Because the hormones weren't enough of a complication," she murmured with a sigh.

THE NIGHT WAS COOL, the sky clear. There wasn't any moonlight to illuminate the road, but that didn't bother Josh. He knew every b.u.mp, every curve. There was no danger from other riders because he rode alone. He had to. It was the only way to work through his issues.

As he headed up the incline, he pedaled harder, faster, wanting to increase his heart rate, wanting to feel the blood pumping through his body, wanting to exhaust himself so maybe, just maybe, he would sleep.

The darkness surrounded him. At this speed the only sound was the wind in his ears and the tires on the pavement. His skin was cold, his s.h.i.+rt wet with sweat. Goggles protected his eyes, the helmet was snug on his head. He sped over the top of the hill and onto the straight five-mile stretch that led back to town.

This was the only part of his ride he didn't like. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep his mind busy, so he had time to think. To remember.

Without wanting to, he was back in Italy, at the MilanSan Remo, or as the Italians referred to it, la Cla.s.sica di Primavera. The Spring Cla.s.sic.

A sprinter's dream race, but deadly for the sprinter who wasn't prepared for the hills. It was one of the longest single-day races. Two hundred and ninety-eight kilometers, or one hundred and eighty-five miles. That year Josh had been in the best shape of his life. He couldn't lose.

Maybe that's what had gone wrong, he thought grimly as he rode faster and faster. The G.o.ds had decided such arrogance had to be punished. Only he hadn't been the one struck down.

A bike race was all about sensation. The sound of the crowd, of the peloton-the pack of racers-and of the bike. The feel of the road. The burn of muscles, the ache of a chest sucking in air. A racer was either ready or not. It came down to talent, skill, determination and luck.

He'd always been lucky. In life, in love-or at least in l.u.s.t-and in racing. That day he'd been luckiest of all.

That's what the photographs showed. As fate, or luck, would have it, someone had been taking a series of pictures of the race just as the crash had occurred. There, in single-frame clarity, was the sequence. The first bike to go down, the second.

Josh hadn't been in the lead. He'd been holding back deliberately, letting the others exhaust themselves.

Frank had been young, early twenties, his first year racing professionally. Josh had done his best to mentor the kid, to help him out. Their coach had told Frank to do whatever Josh did and he wouldn't get into trouble.

Their coach had been wrong.

The still photographs didn't capture the sound of the moments, he thought as he rode faster. The first guy to go down had been on Josh's right. Josh had felt more than heard what had happened. He'd sensed the uneasiness in the pack and had reacted instinctively, going left then right in an effort to break away. He'd only thought about himself. In that second, he'd forgotten about Frank. About the inexperienced kid who would do what he did. Or die trying.

They'd been going around forty-two miles an hour. At that speed, any mistake was a disaster. The pictures showed the bike next to Frank's slamming into him. Frank had lost control and gone flying into the air. He'd hit the pavement, going forty miles an hour. His spine severed, his heart still pumping blood through ripped arteries, and he'd died in seconds.

Josh didn't remember what had made him look back, breaking one of the firmest rules of racing. Never look back. He'd seen Frank go flying with an unexpected grace, had-for a single second-seen the fear in his eyes. Then the body of his friend had hit the ground.