He gathered himself together and stood. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she could see him extending a hand to her. “Here, let me help you.”
She took it. His palm was warm, his grip tight and reassuring. She scrambled to her feet, but when she put weight on her right ankle, it was agony. “Ouch!”
He appeared at her side, encouraging her to lean on him. “Sprain or something worse?”
She shook her head. “Twisted. It will be okay.” She tried to move away from his side but couldn’t put weight on her foot.
“C’mon.” He tugged her down to sit beside him. “My shins are going to be black-and-blue from fighting with the chair. And I hit my knee when I fell, so I’m not up to carrying you at the moment. May I offer you some floor?”
Not a bad offer; the hardwood was cool but rather comfortable. She picked a spot that kept her legs from touching his and propped her back against one of the cabinets. After withdrawing her hand from his, she instantly regretted the loss of his warmth.
The room was dark and still. Shadows pressed in, but they created a cocoon, wrapping the two of them together against the outside world. Without sight, her other senses sharpened. Her ears picked up his soft breaths. And her nose, trained to distinguish slight variations in wine aromas, inhaled lemongrass and basil and something else she could define as only warm, clean skin. Her pulse thudded in her veins.
All she had to do was move her hand slightly to the left and it would brush his, perhaps be enveloped again in his comforting strength. And maybe he would use that excuse to pull her closer and she could let her fingers trace in the dark what she had been afraid to explore with her gaze in the light: the smooth bronzed skin over defined biceps, the dark hair dusting his chest before it narrowed to a trail that disappeared below the drawstring of his sweatpants...
He cleared his throat, and her mind jumped back to reality. “That makes three surprises about this place so far,” he said. “Four, if I count you. The elevator works despite looking like a museum piece, the secret hallway isn’t real estate fiction, and the lights turn off on their own. And it’s only my first night.”
“That’s St. Isadore. I learned something new every day. No matter how long I worked here.”
He turned toward her, but she couldn’t read his expression in the dim light. “What did you do here anyway? Especially if Custer was the winemaker.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “Casper. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“Great. You owe me a story, might as well be a good one.”
She huffed. “Fine.” But there was no need to go into the details with him. “I was Linus’s live-in personal assistant. Jill-of-all-trades, I suppose you could call me. As long as I did what he needed me to do, my time was my own, and I spent it making wine. The previous winemaker agreed to mentor me—” She was proud her voice didn’t crack. Casper’s abrupt departure for one of the premier wineries in the country accompanied by his curt dismissal of her talent still smarted “—and I experimented on my own with blends and methods.”
“If you’re a winemaker, why be a personal assistant? Find a job making wine.”
She pressed her lips together. Her reasons for being at St. Isadore were personal and tangled and messy—although not as personal and tangled and messy as the gossip spread by others. Including the gossip spread by Casper, who ensured her reputation as an innovative winemaker was ruined. And from what she knew of Evan Fletcher, he would have zero idea why she cared so much.
She settled on: “The grapes aren’t the same somewhere else.” She heard his intake of breath as he prepared to speak, and she cut him off. “Don’t ever say that a grape is just a grape. Not around here.”
She didn’t need light to see his eye roll. “Despite what you’re thinking, I’m not some dense tech guy. I was going to ask why St. Isadore’s vines are so special. I own them, after all.”
They’re special because they’re mine. But saying that out loud would take explanations about her tangled family history she didn’t want to give, along with admitting how she allowed others to take advantage of her good faith. And she doubted he would be fobbed off with a few vague sentences. The tech guy definitely wasn’t dense—well, except for maybe his muscles. “What makes them special? The terroir.”
“The terror?”
She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? You know what terroir is.”
“Yes. A little. Actually, let’s say no.”
“Terroir is the concept that the specific conditions of where the grapes are grown—the soil, the wind, the sun, the elevation—affect the wine’s flavor.”
He nodded. “Terroir makes the vines unique.”
She smiled. “Which means the wine made from them is unique. There’s more to it, of course, but that’s the nutshell.” Then she sobered. “I guess this means the rumors are right.”
“What rumors?”
“About you.”
“Me? What are they saying?” Was it her imagination, or had he leaned closer to her? Then she felt his breath on her cheek and understood he was all too real. Pinpricks of awareness flared on her skin.
She swallowed. “Nothing, really. Nothing bad. They say you bought St. Isadore only to tear it down and sell it off piece by piece.”
“They,” he emphasized the word as he shifted away from her, “have no idea why I bought this place.”
It was weird to miss someone’s breath near your ear, right? But she did. “Why else would a superrich tech dude buy a winery that’s seen better days? Unless maybe as a tax shelter. I’m not familiar with how those work. But either way, it’s obvious you didn’t buy St. Isadore because you have an affinity for viticulture. So why did you buy it?”
The brooding silence only increased the arctic temperature in the room. He finally spoke. “St. Isadore is a business. I buy and run businesses.”
Her hands clenched and unclenched. “You plan to keep St. Isadore going as a winery? Produce wine? Distribute it? Not develop the land?”
“That’s why I bought it. As a going business.” He huffed. “If I can make it one.”
Butterfly wings of hope fluttered in her chest. St. Isadore wouldn’t be torn down. Its vineyards wouldn’t be sold and destroyed.
Maybe the dream that had sustained her since childhood wasn’t gone for good. Maybe she could save her family’s legacy. Oh, Evan wouldn’t agree to the same arrangement she’d had with Linus, nor would she dream of proposing it. She trusted Linus—wrongly, as it turned out—because he had been like a grandfather to her, and Evan...was anything but grandfatherly. And look how that had turned out. She’d worked her butt off and received little in tangible reward except for bottles of wine she had to sneak in and liberate.
Marguerite tried to search Evan’s gaze. But despite her eyes having long ago adjusted to the lack of illumination, she couldn’t read him. She stood up, using the cabinet handles and countertop as leverage, and walked-hopped across the kitchen to the far wall, where she located the switch. Bright, hot light bathed the room as she turned back to him.
He was blinking rapidly. “You could have warned me before you did that.”
“Sorry. I will next time.”
“Next time? Are you planning on making this a regular thing?”
She nodded. “You’re going to hire me.”
He blinked again, but she doubted the glare was the cause this time. “Excuse me?”
“You need me.”
He ran his gaze up and down her figure, and his mouth curved into a teasing grin. “We just met. A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
She balled her hands on her hips. “You need me to help you bring St. Isadore back up to speed. You said it yourself—most of the staff is gone.”
He narrowed his gaze. “I already have an assistant.”
She smiled, a long, slow smile. “I’
m not going to be your assistant. I’m going to be your winemaker.”
* * *
This was the strangest night of Evan’s life so far. And that included when an ex-girlfriend had persuaded him to attend a private séance at the Winchester Mystery House. The last few hours had delivered far more surprises than that evening had.
But it had also been one of the more intriguing nights of his life. And exciting, even though he didn’t want to examine the physical side of his reaction to Marguerite too closely. Yes, he had a tendency to fall hard when dark eyes that spoke more eloquently than words ever could were involved. But this night, for all its surprises, made one thing clear: Pia wasn’t wrong.
He was in uncharted waters. He might have bitten off more than even his vaunted business skills and reliable intuition could handle. And if he failed, his plan to solve Nico’s problems would disappear down the drain like the remnants of Marguerite’s wine.
But was Marguerite the life preserver he needed?
“First, you’re a thief—” He held up his hand to stop the protest forming on her lips. Her plump, lush lips. “Fine. You weren’t stealing. But you agreed you were trespassing.”
“Because I thought you were going to tear down St. Isadore. Look, if I’m an actual thief, would I take the bottles worth gazillions of dollars that are sitting untouched in the cellar or the ‘unmarked swill,’ as you put it?”
He’d made the same point to himself earlier. “Then you said you were the personal assistant to the previous owner. But the business was about to go under. Why should I turn it over it you?” The one thing he did understand about wineries was the winemaker was a key role in its success or failure.
“It’s true St. Isadore didn’t live up to its potential. Linus didn’t believe in introducing new technologies, no matter how hard we tried to change his mind. But I worked here for eight years. I know the winery. I know the vines. Above all, I know what St. Isadore is capable of becoming.” She raised her eyebrows. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have anyone else.”
“I can hire someone.”
She shrugged. “You could. But they won’t have my experience or specific knowledge of this place.” She smiled, and he could swear the light in the kitchen increased by one hundred watts. “Besides, your brother likes my wine.”
She probably meant the last as a joke, but it was a strong argument in her favor. Evan was still figuring out who Nico was, but he knew one thing: his brother was a wine savant, whether he came by it genetically or thanks to growing up with their Italian grandparents and their ever-present bottle of wine at the dinner table. Nico had a palate that sommeliers at Michelin-starred restaurants would envy.
And a chip on his shoulder big enough to be seen from the International Space Station, but Evan would find the key to removing it. Somehow.
His gut told him Marguerite wasn’t lying. It was evident she cared about St. Isadore. She would be as invested in the winery’s success as he was. And his instincts hadn’t betrayed him yet. “As it so happens, I do need to hire someone—”
“At the going market rate. Benefits included. And a contract. A signed contract.”
He bit back his smile. “You didn’t let me finish. Yes, St. Isadore needs a winemaker. But I need someone to ensure the winery is able to hold a prestigious event in six months.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Six months?”
“I’m hosting the opening kickoff for the Global Leader Summit here.”
“Global Leader Summit...wait. I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that where CEOs and world leaders get together for a week of secret meetings and when it’s over, the public finds out Amazon agreed to buy Disney?”
“Amazon and Disney remain separate companies, but yes. The event will put St. Isadore on the map if it goes well.”
She nodded. “And if it doesn’t, you face-plant in front of some of the world’s most powerful people.”
Not that he would admit that. “So, if you want to stay at St. Isadore for longer than six months? Make sure the event is flawless.”
Her chin jutted into the air. “Six months puts us before harvest. The winery has a bare-bones staff at the moment, so we need to hire more people immediately. At good salaries with excellent benefits. And if you want a flawless event, you need to hire a flawless event planner. Luckily, I know the best one in wine country.”
“I believe in compensating my teams very well. But in return, the only acceptable outcome is success.”
“I know what I’m doing.” Besides, your event will be a good dress rehearsal for the annual harvest dinner, which will make or break St. Isadore’s reputation under your ownership.”
“Harvest dinner?” He searched his memory of the buyer’s paperwork and came up blank.
“It’s a winery tradition, has been for over a century. Tickets go for hundreds of dollars. We debut the new wines and it’s heavily covered by the industry press. You will definitely need someone who understands St. Isadore.” She assessed him from under thick eyelashes and held out her right hand. “Deal?”
He closed the distance between them and shook. “Deal.”
This close, he could see her eyes were several shades of blue, from almost navy on the rim to the color of afternoon sky nearer the pupil. She pushed a lock of hair off her cheek, and he caught the strawberry scent. This was either going to be one of the smartest hiring decisions he’d made or it might sink him. Personally.
“I guarantee you’ll be pleased,” she said. Was it his imagination or did she linger on the last word? A wicked light danced in her gaze as it met and held his. “Here’s to a mutually successful outcome.”
He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. To taste her mouth and see if wickedness had a flavor. Feel her open beneath him, inviting him in. See if her lips and tongue were as playful as the words they formed.
He owed a huge debt of gratitude to whoever first came up with sweatpants and made them loose enough to avoid possible embarrassment.
A cell phone rang and she jumped. He blinked, the sound dumping a bucket of cold water on his overheated imagination. “I...don’t have my phone with me.”
“It’s mine.” She pulled an older model cell from the back pocket of her jeans and glanced at the screen. “Oh, no. I can’t believe I forgot.” She answered the phone. “Hey, Aracely.”
Whoever was on the other end was not happy. And did not let Marguerite get a word in. Evan walked to the sink, ostensibly to pour himself a glass a water. And to let the rest of him catch up with the change in the atmosphere. Yes, his libido wanted to kiss her. But his intellect said he needed to employ her. And the two actions did not, would not mix.
Marguerite finished her conversation and hung up. “That’s my ride. She’ll be here in a few minutes.” She put her phone away and turned to face him. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning? Nine o’clock at the winery offices?”
“Make it noon. Get some sleep.”
“Noon, it is.” She hesitated for a second, then seemed to think better of what she was going to say. Instead, she gave him a half wave. “See you then.” She ran-walked out of the kitchen, his gaze following her until she disappeared.
His instincts never failed him.
He only hoped it was his business instincts that had hired her, not something more primal.
Three
“If I were a ledger no one can find, where would I be?” Marguerite tapped her finger on her chin as she stood in the doorway of Linus’s old office at the winery. Her gaze wandered over shelves that needing dusting and the collection of paperweights, still where Linus had left them, on top of the ornate mahogany desk. Marguerite had barely slept after she said goodbye to Evan the night before, so her vision was a bit blurry. But she didn’t need it. She could describe every inch of the room in detail even if she wore a blindfold.
It was harder than she
thought to cross the threshold. Not that she thought she would find the ledger in the room. The last time she’d been in the office, it was to pack all the winery’s business records under the watchful eyes of Linus’s grand-nephews. The ledger had been missing then, although Marguerite had been too shell-shocked by grief to give it more than a cursory thought. Later, of course, she’d realized without it she had no proof of her deal with Linus.
Marguerite willed the moisture forming in her eyes to go away. She’d never known her grandparents, and Linus had been the closest thing to one she’d ever had. She still missed him. She probably always would. But he had also been her boss. And now his office was hers. She sat down in the immense leather chair behind the desk, ignoring the chill that climbed up her spine and settled on the back of her neck at hearing the upholstery creak, like it had all those times Linus had leaned forward to catch Marguerite’s eye and solemnly impart a line of wisdom.
She shook her head. The office needed redecorating. The past would be the first thing to go.
“Good morning. The security guard said you were here.”
She jumped and looked up. Evan stood in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the jamb, his arms casually folded. She almost didn’t recognize him, dressed in the Northern California business casual uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. A part of her missed being able to feast her eyes on his rather glorious pecs and well-defined abs, but the crisp dark blue shirt provided its own visual pleasures, contrasting with his tanned skin and wavy dark hair.
Any lack of sleep from last night’s encounter didn’t show on his face, making Marguerite all too aware of her own tired appearance. His smile was warm, reminding her of how much she’d wanted to flirt with him the night before and how she had failed at it—luckily. Workplace romances were Not a Good Thing.
She offered a quick prayer of gratitude that she’d remembered to put on mascara before leaving for the winery.
Who's the Boss Now? Page 3
