A Taste of the Untamed

by Susan Stephens

  His PA had called him, but he’d hardly been listening. One of the old-timers at the business meeting he’d been attending had been telling him that Nacho’s visit to London had reminded them all of the old days—when his father had gone tomcatting around Europe, he presumed. Nacho had wanted to defend himself, to protest that that might have been his father’s way but it wasn’t his, but he wouldn’t betray his father. The conversation had taken him back to being a boy, standing tall and proud in front of his parent, and being told that Nacho would be in charge of the family while his father was away.

  It was only at school that he had learned the truth. His parents weren’t the only ones who had been good at keeping secrets. Nacho had kept secrets most of his life.

  ‘You won’t blame your PA for this, will you?’ Grace pressed him.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, frowning as his thoughts snapped back to the present and Grace.

  She nodded her thanks as she continued to walk confidently behind the dog.

  She might have been on a footpath in London rather than a remote trail in the shadow of the Andes.

  How could she know the difference?

  Whatever he thought of Grace arriving in Elias’s place, it was impossible not to rage against her fate.

  ‘The air’s so good here,’ she enthused, oblivious to his thoughts as she sucked in a deep, appreciative breath. ‘It’s like the finest wine: crisp and ripe, laced with the scent of young fruit and fresh blossom.’

  His expression changed. Perfect. A romantic. Wasn’t that all he needed in a business associate? Not that Grace would be around long enough to do business with him. As soon as he could politely get rid of her he would.

  But as the wind kicked up, lifting her glossy blonde hair from her shoulders, he felt exactly the same punch in the gut attraction he’d felt at the wedding.

  Turning towards the mountains, he searched for distraction. The Andes were always a glorious sight—a towering reminder of the majesty of the land entrusted to him. It was a trust that even the most bitter of memories couldn’t alter. The rugged peaks sheltered his vines from the worst of the weather, while the glacier-melt flowing down the slopes of those peaks sweetened the glistening purple grapes.

  And Grace could see none of it …

  Meeting a beautiful young woman in the first flush of her beauty and wanting her, and then barely two years later seeing her like this, was a stinging reminder that nothing in life remained the same.

  ‘Your housekeeper mentioned you had business in South Africa?’ Grace said, obviously in an attempt to get the conversation going again.

  ‘I was there on business,’ he said curtly.

  No wonder Nacho had a reputation for being the most difficult of the Acosta brothers. But Grace thought she could see a reason for it. As the oldest child, responsible for his siblings, Nacho hadn’t had much time for himself. Even on the polo field he was the leader of the pack, with all the responsibility that involved.

  She tried again. ‘I hope my using your family jet didn’t leave you slumming it on a scheduled flight?’

  ‘I’m not that precious, Grace.’

  As she laughed Grace turned her head in the direction of his voice. Another solid blow to the gut hit him when he saw that gaze, so lovely, yet so misty and unfocused, miss his face. He stamped on the feeling it gave him. Grace was his responsibility only while she was here. Once she was gone that was an end of it—and she wouldn’t thank him for his pity.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she called out.

  ‘Battling to keep up,’ he mocked, riding with the reins hanging loose. He had kicked his feet out of the stirrups some way back.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said, marching on.

  ‘You’ll know when I’ve got something to say.’ He stared at her back—the upright stance, the pitch of her head, chin lifted. He couldn’t get over how confident she had become.

  Because she’d had to.

  ‘Just let me know if I’m going too fast for you,’ she mocked.

  She made it hard for him to remain angry for long. In fact she reminded him in some ways of his sister, Lucia. Lucia was always pushing the boundaries, always testing him, and he could see now why the two girls were such good friends.

  ‘I can see you have picked up some very bad habits from Lucia. And as you’re not my sister, and merely work for me—’

  ‘With you,’ she flashed.

  ‘As you’re not my sister,’ he repeated patiently, ‘your privileges do not extend to goading me while you’re here.’

  ‘So you have accepted that I am going to be here for a while?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  This time when she turned her head in his direction he saw the smile hovering round her mouth. His gaze remained on her lips for quite some time.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Nacho?’ she said, turning back again.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, feeling the loss now he had to content himself with a view of the back of her head.

  ‘Will you give me a list of all the places that are out of bounds so I don’t make any more mistakes? In Braille, of course,’ she added, tongue in cheek.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. He wasn’t used to this sort of insubordination. Most people obeyed him gladly. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said, realising that he was going to have to play Grace’s game for the short time she was here. ‘I’ll get a translator for you. Or you could learn my rules by rote, if you prefer.’

  ‘Are you smiling?’ she said. ‘I can’t tell.’

  No. He was learning fast and had kept his voice carefully neutral.

  ‘If this visit is going to be a success,’ she said, bearing out his theory, ‘we’ll both have to make adjustments—won’t we, Nacho?’

  ‘Will we?’ he said.

  The breeze was on Grace’s side. Catching hold of the hem of her flimsy summer dress, it flicked it, giving him a grandstand view of her smooth, tanned legs. Arousal fired inside him, but he instantly damped it down.

  ‘Do you remember when we first met in Cornwall?’ she said, pulling his attention back to her hips as she strode along. ‘You had just arrived for that polo match on the beach. You rolled down the window of that monster Jeep, and—’

  ‘And what, Grace?’ he pressed, seeing her cheeks had flushed bright red. A very masculine hunger filled him at the thought that she had wanted him back then.

  ‘I was just wondering if you remembered, that’s all,’ she said casually, closing the topic with a flick of her wrist.

  He remembered.

  When Grace fell silent it gave them both a chance to think back. She broke the silence first. ‘I could see you properly then.’

  Very cleverly, she gave him no clue as to whether that had been good or bad. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t changed—’

  ‘Hard luck,’ she flashed.

  How was it possible to ignore a woman like this? Or ignore the way she made him feel? No woman had made him laugh in what seemed like forever. He was glad the so-called appeal of the Acosta brothers was lost on Grace, and he would be happy if he never had to hear again in his life that he looked like his father. His gaze returned to Grace’s slender hips, swaying to a rhythm that was all her own. One thing was certain: if this banter between them was a ruse to keep his interest, she had succeeded where many had failed.

  ‘I was over-awed by you,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you were so famous and seemed so aloof. And even compared to the other polo players you were huge—and so confident.’

  ‘And at the wedding?’

  ‘You frightened me half to death,’ she admitted bluntly.

  He laughed for the second time in who knew how many years. ‘So how do you feel about meeting me again, Grace?’

  ‘Well, at least I can’t see you this time,’ she said.

  Laughter was becoming a habit he would have to break if he
was to retain his title as the hard man of the Acostas. ‘And does that help?’

  ‘It certainly does,’ she said.

  It was a good, brave answer, but he was suspicious and couldn’t resist asking, ‘So, are you here to pick up where we left off?’

  ‘As I recall,’ she countered, ‘when we met at the wedding I was the one to leave.’

  Correct. ‘Touché, Señorita Lundström.’

  A blast of white-hot lust ripped through him when she angled her head as if to cast him a flirtatious glance—though of course she could do no such thing. He liked this verbal jousting. He liked the way Grace stood up for herself. And he liked Grace. A lot.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she called back to him. ‘You’ve gone very quiet …’

  ‘I’m enjoying the day,’ he said, thinking it wise to confine himself, as the British so often did, to talk of the weather.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ she agreed, stretching out her arms.

  Her arms were beautiful—slender and lightly tanned. Grace was beautiful. He only wished she could see how beautiful the day was—but that was a ridiculous investment of concern on his part. As was his growing admiration for Grace. Far better he got this conversation back to business, where Grace was sure to fall short and disappoint him. Then he could send her packing, and that would be the end of a fantasy where he changed from a hard, unfeeling man into the sort of hero Grace might admire.

  ‘Buddy’s certainly enjoying the weather,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, good,’ he said without enthusiasm.

  He stared at the dog. The dog stared back at him. He loved animals, and they normally gravitated towards him—but not this one. The big dog’s loyalty was firmly fixed in stone. Nacho’s attention switched back to Grace. From the back you wouldn’t know anything had changed about her. Life could be very cruel sometimes, but that didn’t change the facts. What the hell had Elias been thinking? What use was a blind sommelier?

  ‘So, tell me about your job, Grace,’ he said, starting to seethe as he thought about how he’d been duped by the wily old wine importer. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘What do you mean, how does it work?’ she said without breaking stride. ‘I might be blind, but I can still taste and smell.’

  ‘And what about the clarity of the wine?’ he pressed with increasing impatience. ‘What about the sediment—the colour, the viscosity?’

  ‘The colour I have to take on trust, when people describe it to me, but like most people I can detect sediment on my tongue. And I wouldn’t expect to be offered thin or cloudy wine by anyone who took their wine seriously.’

  Was that a dig at him? ‘You seem very confident.’

  ‘That’s for you to judge when we hold the tastings.’

  ‘We haven’t got that far yet,’ he reminded her, wondering if he had ever encountered this much resistance from a woman.

  His gaze swept over her again. Subduing Grace would give him the greatest pleasure. And was something he would most certainly resist. He knew all about the long-term consequences resulting from impulsive actions, and he had no intention of travelling down that road again.

  ‘Why else would I be here if not to taste your wine?’ she said. ‘Elias can’t wait to get my verdict—and not just on your wines but on the way you produce them too.’

  He heard the dip in her voice. Was she holding him to ransom so she could stay and do her job? The thought of being judged by Grace was anathema to him, but her employer, Elias, was not only one of the most respected voices in the wine industry, he was the biggest distributor in Europe. Nacho needed him. Bottom line? He couldn’t risk offending Elias. But Grace had neither the experience nor the wisdom for this work. How could she match a man like Elias, who had a lifetime devoted to the development of top-quality wine?

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she called back. ‘And I understand the reasons why you want to send me home. I apologise again if I don’t fit the mould of expert you were expecting, but you should know I take my work extremely seriously and I’m very good at it—which is why Elias trusts me to do this job. Why don’t you wait until you’ve seen me in action before you act as judge and jury and send me home?’

  Was he that obvious? And as for seeing Grace in action—

  Kill those thoughts. Being much younger than he was, and his sister’s best friend, meant Grace occupied a very privileged position—not that she would ever know that.

  Her dog had slowed as they approached the white picket fence marking the boundary of the guest cottage, and as Grace reached out at fence height in answer to some unseen tension on the guide dog’s harness she said, ‘Thank you for escorting us home, but we can take it from here …’

  She was dismissing him? His gaze hardened. What if he wasn’t ready to go?

  Those thoughts were turned on their head by the sight of Grace tracing each blunt tip of the fence with her fingertips as she made her way to the gate. Her independence and her vulnerability touched him somewhere deep.

  Having reached the gate, she was feeling for the latch. A shiver coursed down his spine at the thought of the darkness surrounding her. His instinct was always to protect and defend, so he dismounted—only to be dismissed with a blithe, ‘See you later, Nacho …’

  ‘I’ll see you in,’ he argued firmly. Grace was on foreign soil, and the little he knew about blindness said familiarity was everything where confidence and safety were concerned.

  Opening the gate, he walked ahead of her to the front door. They’d talked the whole way, he realised, and yet his head was still full of questions: How long were you ill? Did your sight fade quickly or slowly? How long did it take you to regain your confidence? How long have you had the dog? How much can you see—if anything?

  ‘It’s very chivalrous of you, Nacho,’ she said, pressing back against the door as if to keep him out, ‘but it’s really not necessary. I can manage perfectly well on my own from here.’

  ‘Please allow me to decide what is and isn’t necessary,’ he said, and reaching past her opened the front door. He didn’t play second in command to anyone. He’d taken the lead all his life and that was how it would stay.

  ‘Goodbye, Nacho.’

  Before he knew what was happening Grace had felt the gap between him and the door and had slipped through it with the dog at her heels.

  The door closed.

  So she had no more need of him? Good. He should be pleased.

  He wasn’t pleased.

  Springing back onto his horse, he wheeled it round and galloped off.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE WAS still overheated from his exchange with Grace when he got back to the hacienda. The call he made to Elias would be straightforward. All he had to do was explain that Grace would be on the next flight home, and that if Elias couldn’t provide an acceptable replacement Nacho would have no alternative but to look elsewhere for an expert to evaluate his wine. His hope was that it might be possible to keep Elias on board as a distributor and find an expert in whom they could both place their trust.

  He should have known life was never that simple …

  A coward? He had never been called a coward before by anyone—let alone by an elderly wine merchant.

  A misogynist? Okay. Maybe he’d been called that a few times.

  Safe to say, the conversation with Elias didn’t go well.

  Was Nacho referring to his Grace? Elias asked. Did Nacho dare to condemn Grace before even giving her a chance to prove herself?

  All this was said on a rising cadence of wrath.

  Was Nacho bigoted? Was he prejudiced against visually challenged individuals? Or was he frightened to put his wines to the test by a true expert, perhaps? Should Elias be seriously concerned? Did Elias even have time for this nonsense?

  And Nacho’s answer …?

  He subscribed to none of the above. He was the least prejudiced individual he knew.

  He handled Elias coolly, remembering that the last time he had given free rein to his feeli
ngs the day had ended in tragedy.

  ‘Give Grace a chance,’ Elias insisted. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

  What did he have to lose? He could be looking for another expert while Grace did as much as she could do, he reasoned.

  Having allowed Elias sufficient time to vent his anger, he ended the call with a reassurance that for Elias’s sake he would give Grace another few days.

  ‘That’s too kind of you, I’m sure,’ Elias snapped, and he cut the line—but not before Nacho heard the want and need in the other man’s voice. They both needed something from the other, so for now Grace was staying.

  And so the games begin, he thought as he stowed the phone. But, however intriguing he found Grace, he would send her home before intrigue turned to something more. If he had learned anything from the past it was that women could appear strong and then disappoint in ways that led to disaster.

  Dismounting his horse at the gate of the cottage where Grace was staying, Nacho lashed the reins to the fence. Striding up the path, he rapped firmly on the door. The dog answered with a bark. Steadying his breathing, Nacho heard Grace’s murmured thanks to Buddy in a voice that was gentle and affectionate, and then he heard her footsteps crossing the room to open the door.

  ‘Nacho,’ she said, in a very different tone from the one she’d used for the dog as she swung the door wide.

  ‘You knew it was me?’

  Coming straight from his call to Elias, Nacho was strung tight as a drum.

  Sensing this, Grace lifted her chin. ‘I will always know when it’s you. Your horse has a distinctive stride. And the way you knock on the door is quite unique. I’m surprised it’s still standing. And I could feel your tension a mile away—’

  ‘My what?’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘So, what can I do for you, Nacho?’

  No other woman spoke to him like this—with the possible exception of his sister, Lucia. Was this aloof attitude some defence mechanism Grace had perfected since going blind? Did she push everyone away now?