Susan Mallery - Seductive One

She couldn’t tell from his tone if he thought that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I try to keep my business life and personal life separate,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “We have a lot of history. Between working together after all this time and our past, it was probably just one of those things.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Damn. That was not the answer she wanted. She wanted their close encounter of the intimate kind to have meant something to him. If the passion was still alive, didn’t that mean that other things from their past could be lurking under the surface? Did she want that?

“Women frequently view me as a sex object, so what happened tonight isn’t a surprise.”

She laughed. “Excuse me?”

He smiled confidently. “Women want me.”

“As in there’s a herd of them roaming the world, lusting after your person?”

“The women in my office think I have a great butt. Maggie told me.”

“I’m amazed there’s room for you and your ego in the same room.”

“Hey, I didn’t make this up. I’m just passing along the information.”

“As I hate being part of a crowd, I’ll do my best to rein in my baser instincts.”

“Don’t do it on my account.”

She wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or more teasing. Not that she wasn’t tempted, but she’d already played with fire once this evening. She should probably stop while she was unscathed and give thanks that she got off easy.

She stood. “It’s time for me to head home. I’ll leave you to deal with your fan club.”

“What if I made you president? You’d be great at the job.”

“Only if it paid enough to make a dent in my loan to you.”

He rose and followed her to the car. Once there, he opened the door and she slid inside. She rolled down the window, then closed the door.

He leaned close and touched her cheek. “It just happened,” he said. “We’re adults. We can handle it.”

She nodded. The truth was she didn’t know if she could handle it, but she didn’t have much choice.

He grinned. “It was a hell of a party.”

“Hey, I know how to show a guy a good time.” She started the engine. “See you, Nic.”

“Drive safely.”

He straightened and stepped back. She put the car in gear and headed down the driveway. Toward home. Yet she felt as if she’d left a part of herself behind.

Brenna stood beside the truck and randomly picked up bunches of Cabernet grapes. After inspecting the color to make sure they had ripened evenly, she picked off a grape and tasted the fruit.

The foreman of the picking crew watched her. She let the rich flavors settle on her tongue, then swallowed.

“Just right,” she said.

Ramón smiled. “I told you. Wait one more day and the grapes will be perfect.”

She grinned. “You said wait one more day because you were still working at Wild Sea.”

He shrugged. “Nic wanted more handpicked than he’d first said.”

Brenna would like to think that was her influence, but she had her doubts. Nic’s idea of a perfect vineyard would be one that was completely mechanized. Imagine the profit margin if no human ever had to get involved in the process from planting to slapping the label on the bottle.

Not that she planned to tell him any of that to his face. She still owed him for what he’d told her the night of the party. That her grandfather wasn’t crazy enough to leave the winery to a stranger.

Nic’s words made sense and she clung to them with all her strength. So far they’d allowed her to relax enough to get on with her life. Not that she had much choice in that.

She waved the truck in and stepped back to let it drive into the courtyard, where dozens of workers stood ready to unload the baskets of grapes. While Ramón discussed the yield per acre, she made notes. The sun was high in the sky, the afternoon warm. Perfect harvesting weather. The seven-day forecast didn’t show any rain. If that held true, they could be finished with the Cabs by next Wednesday. This was turning out to be a very good year.

Humming to herself, she pulled several baskets off the truck, then climbed onto the flatbed and picked several clusters of grapes from baskets toward the front. The dark purple color made her smile. Ramón’s crew knew their business.

“How ever much you’re paying him it’s too much,” her grandfather called as he came around the corner of the winery.

Brenna jumped off the truck. She hadn’t seen her grandfather since the party the previous Saturday. Work had kept her busy. It wasn’t as if she was actually avoiding him…well, not too much.

As her grandfather picked a handful of grapes from the baskets being carried inside, she braced herself for the inevitable criticism. Lorenzo Marcelli was all backslapping good humor with Ramón, but Brenna wasn’t fooled. He would taste the grapes and then turn on her with one complaint or another.

“Good harvest,” he said mildly.

She nodded.

“We’ll bottle more this year than we did last year.”

She nodded again.

“You dishonored the family. Last Saturday was about your sisters. You brought an enemy into this house and turned all the attention on yourself.”

Brenna didn’t know what to say to that. The accusation was so unfair that words failed her. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t finished with her.

“Do you know who that boy is? Do you know what his family did to us?”

For a second Brenna was so caught up in Nic being called a boy that she didn’t catch the rest of it. But when her grandfather’s words sank in, she threw down her clipboard and planted her hands on her hips.

“I know exactly who Nicholas Giovanni is, Grandfather. Not only did I grow up next door to him, but you’ve told us all the story of the great grapevine scandal so many times, I could recite it in my sleep. And you know what? I don’t care.”

Her grandfather flinched.

She narrowed her gaze. “Here’s a news flash for you. Ten years ago I fell in love with Nic. Yup, me. One of your precious granddaughters, flesh of your own flesh. We met and started dating.”

She hesitated, then decided it was best not to mention that she and Nic had been lovers. Her grandfather probably wanted to hear about that as much as she wanted to hear about him and Grandma Tessa doing the wild thing.

“We talked about wine and life and I really cared about him. In fact, I almost married him. And you know what? The heavens didn’t open. The sky didn’t fall. The feud is long over, and it’s time for all of us to move on.”

Her grandfather’s expression turned thunderous. “How dare you tell me this? You go behind my back and see the son of my enemy? You disrespect the family so much?”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “Don’t you get it? No one cares about that but you.”

“I follow tradition. I listen to the counsel of those wiser than me. Something you could learn from. Already you have one husband who leaves you. Nearly thirty years old and what do you have to show for your life?”

Brenna felt as if he’d slapped her. She took a step back. But he wasn’t done with her.

“You disappoint me, Brenna. I can find nothing to be proud of. Not with you. Not anymore.”

She told herself he was going for the cheap shot, but that didn’t make his words hurt any less. Her throat burned and her chest tightened. When exactly did one become grown-up enough to hear the words “I’m disappointed in you” and not want to crawl under a rock?

She picked up the clipboard and headed for the house.

“Where are you going?” her grandfather asked.

“Away from you.”

“No. You will stay. I asked Joe to come out and see the grapes as they came in today. Ah, there he is.”

Brenna looked up and saw her brother heading toward them. Joe glanced from her to Lorenzo, as if sensing tension.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” her grandfather said. “The Cabernet grapes are just ripe. We will produce a beautiful wine.”

“I saw some guys out picking today,” Joe said. “It looks like hard work.”

“It is.” Brenna said. “Want to volunteer to join the crew?”

“Not me. I’m on vacation.”

Her grandfather motioned to the vines by the winery. “Come. We will walk and I will tell you how we take grapes and make the best wine anywhere. Brenna, you come, too.”

She wasn’t sure if this was another form of torture or her grandfather’s way of saying he forgave her. As she didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong, she wasn’t thrilled with either alternative.

They headed east to where the Cabs were being picked.

“See there?” her grandfather said. “We still pick by hand for our best grapes. The rest are harvested by machine. Not the old way, but the cost of the labor is so high.” He shrugged. “We have to make compromises.”

Brenna clenched her teeth. Right. Talk to Joe about compromises and talk to her about betrayal.

“How do you know which grapes deserve hand-picking?” Joe asked.

“It’s all about quality,” her grandfather said. “The history of the vines. What we have made before.”

“There are several factors,” Brenna told him. “Yield per ton, for example. Some grapes produce more juice; some are sweeter, more tart. Some blend better; some stand on their own. It can change from year to year, but our most consistent quality vines get the best treatment. Those vines produce the premium wines, the Reserves. Hand-picking means we pick only the best, ripest grapes. The machines pretty much grab everything, so there’s less control.”

Joe wore a loose T-shirt over his jeans. He tugged on the crew neck.

“It’s hot,” he said. “Is that good?”

“Warm and dry.” Brenna kicked at the loose earth. “We pray for warm and dry during harvest. Before that, it’s a balance. Too little sun and the grapes won’t ripen. Too much and they burn, overripen, or produce too much sugar. We need rain for irrigation, but not so much that there isn’t sun and the plants get mold.”

Joe glanced around at the vines. “It’s a lot of work. To be honest, I don’t get the whole wine thing. I’m more of a beer drinker myself.”

Brenna grinned when her grandfather’s mouth pinched as if he’d just tasted a lemon.

“You will learn to appreciate the subtleties of wine.”

Joe shrugged. “I’m not a real subtle guy. A good steak and a beer is more to my taste.”

Her grandfather seemed unamused. “You see all that we have created here. Can’t you feel the pull of the soil? This is where you belong, Joe. This is your heritage. This could all be yours if you were only to ask.”

Brenna froze. Nic had been wrong. Her grandfather was that crazy.

Oh, it hurt. She’d known this could happen. The discovery of a long-lost brother had been one of the reasons she’d started Four Sisters. But to have her grandfather spell it out like that-right in front of her, as if he didn’t care that he was ripping out her heart…

Without saying anything, she turned and walked back toward the winery. Her grandfather didn’t say a word. No doubt with Joe there, he wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

Lorenzo turned to watch Brenna go. She walked stiffly, as if her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. He’d seen her pain when he’d spoken of Joe inheriting. Seen it, felt it, and regretted it. But he had no choice.

His grandson shoved his hands into his pockets. “So you’d leave all this to me. Just like that?”

“Maybe not ‘just like that.’ You would have to be interested.”

“Brenna said the place is worth about forty million.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Perhaps a little less, perhaps a little more.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of money.” Joe stared at the vines.

“So you could be interested?”

“What about your granddaughters?”

“They would be provided for. A nice settlement.”

“But not this.”

“No.”

Joe turned to him. Lorenzo tried to read his face, but the young man’s expression didn’t give away his thoughts.

“Doesn’t Brenna love this place?”

Lorenzo brushed off the information with a flick of his hand. “She is a woman. This land, this heritage, it must be in the hands of a male heir.”

Joe snorted. “Has anyone told you what century we’re in?”

He smiled. “I am very aware of the passage of time. That is part of the problem.” His smile faded as he continued to watch Brenna move away.

“Women can’t be trusted,” he said, more to himself than to his grandson. “They marry. They move away. They no longer care about what is important.”

“You’re not talking about Brenna. She loves this place.”

“Now. But before?” He shrugged. “She left as if we all meant nothing. And for what?”

She’d disappeared as if she had never been. He remembered how he’d waited for her to realize that the juice of the grapes flowed through her body like blood. That she was one with the land. But no. Instead she’d devoted herself to her husband. And last week. He sighed heavily. A Giovanni, here? His father would never have permitted it. Lorenzo himself had dishonored the memory of his father by letting that boy stay and dine with his family on a night of celebration.