Kelly Jamieson: TamingTara

What the hell was she going to do? She blinked at the prickle in her eyes, angry at herself for the weakness of tears.

“Smarten up,” she muttered to herself. “You need to think.”

She slumped in her chair, her head falling back, eyes closed. Her heart was still thumping crazily, her stomach tight. This was so bad. Everything she’d worked so hard for over the last seven years—longer than that, really, even before she’d come to work there full-time—was all for nothing. When her parents had died, her world had been ripped apart, the one constant Santa Ynez Olives and the knowledge that her parents were going to run the company one day. And with them gone, she had to do it.

She sat up straight, eyes flying open, and slammed her palms flat on her desk. Damn him. Damn him. Whoever this Mr. Hot Shot MBA was, he wouldn’t have a clue. Nobody—well, nobody other than Grandpa—knew this business like she did. This was more than a business. This was her life.

She stood and strode over to the credenza, poured a cup of coffee from the thermos sitting there and inhaled the scent of Karma Coffee. The steam and rich, dark aroma soothed her, although she probably didn’t need any more caffeine. Her nerves were pretty much shredded already.

The way the knock on her door jolted her was proof of that, and her mouth went dry. She set down the cup and smoothed damp palms down her skirt, looking down at the bland black suit she wore. She wasn’t a professional shopper like her sister Sasha. Santa Barbara was a casual city, and since the business was a family-run, earthy kind of business, there was no need to dress up. Grandpa, although he’d become a businessman, was an olive farmer at heart and was more likely to be wearing worn corduroy pants and a plaid shirt than a suit and tie.

She turned as her grandfather entered her office followed by another man whose commanding presence drew her eyes immediately. Grandpa had probably been over six feet tall in his youth, maybe now an inch or two less, but the man behind him was a good four inches taller than him. Maybe Grandpa’s slightly stooped shoulders and thinning white hair made the other man appear all virile, dominant male. Or maybe he just…was. An expensive-looking suit fit his wide shoulders to perfection, with a snowy white shirt and silky striped tie beneath the jacket.

Tara cast one last glum look down at her frumpy suit and strode across the carpeted floor, hand outstretched, hoping she appeared confident and in control on the outside because inside she was shivering like a kid at the beach in December.

“Tara, this is Joe Scaletta. Joe, my granddaughter, Tara Lockhart.”

Joe Scaletta took her hand in a firm grip, a very firm grip, and shook it.

She looked up at him. She too was tall, five seven, with her heels maybe five nine, putting her on an even level with Grandpa and most other men, but Joe was taller. His almost-black hair fell over a deeply tanned forehead. Long thick lashes and nicely straight eyebrows framed coffee-dark eyes. When his full, chiseled lips smiled, two grooves appeared in each cheek. Masculine, annoyingly appealing dimples.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said in a deep, rich voice. Confidence and strength radiated off him like heat and she felt pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze, the aura of power he gave off and the hint of arrogance. She held his gaze, but then couldn’t do it, dropping her eyes to where their hands were clasped, only for the space of one, maybe two heartbeats, before looking back up at him. His eyes narrowed minutely and her insides trembled.

“Um…” Heat washed over her. Then she remembered who this guy was and she firmed her mouth. “Likewise. Come in. Please, have a seat.”

Grandpa had drilled good manners into them at an early age, with all the parties he’d hosted over the years at his home and at the country club and all the charity events and social functions they’d been forced to attend. So she could be as polite as a Santa Barbara society hostess. A chilly society hostess.

Grandpa and Joe each took a chair. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” she inquired.

“I’d love some,” Joe said. “It smells incredible.”

“It’s Guatemalan.” She moved to the credenza. God. Why had she said such an inane thing? Like he’d care. “What do you take in your coffee?”

“Just black.”

She nodded in reluctant approval.

“None for me, thanks,” her grandfather said. “That coffee you drink could strip paint.”

She smiled stiffly at Joe. “Grandpa doesn’t share my taste in coffee. I hope it’s okay for you.”

“I love good coffee,” he replied easily, flashing those dimples. He lifted his cup. “And this is really good.”

He was sucking up. Mr. Hot-shot-MBA-suck-up. Go for it, buddy. See if it helped.

“Tara will tell you a bit about the company today,” Tyrone said. “Monday she’ll show you the store and the ranch.”

“I’m too busy to go to the ranch on Monday,” Tara snapped.

Joe sat back in his chair. Her icy eyes were shooting arrows at him and her voice could have frozen the cup of coffee he held. He’d become so attuned to people’s responses, so used to looking for it, he knew what he’d seen earlier when she greeted him, but now… Interesting.

“Move things around.” Tyrone’s voice hardened. “I expect you to bring Joe up to speed with everything he needs to know.”

She snorted. “In one day?”

Tyrone sighed. “Of course not.” He shot Tara a warning glare.

She pressed her lips together, then lifted her coffee mug to her mouth.

Joe’s gaze moved back and forth between Tyrone and his granddaughter as he worked to keep his face neutral in the face of their obvious discord. A rock materialized in his gut. What had he walked into here?

He sipped his coffee and studied the granddaughter.

Thick honey-colored hair hung in shiny waves to her shoulders and long bangs skimmed eyes amazingly like Tyrone’s—amber-gold, like a cat’s, now snapping with intelligence, annoyance and defiance. Her nose was small and straight above a mouth that he could picture softening…Whoa. He mentally gave his head a shake. Don’t go there, buddy. This was business, just business, and although he’d glimpsed something in her that struck a chord, she was not even close to his type.

Jesus, get a grip, man. Since he was lucky to have this job, he’d better keep his mind firmly on business. He focused on what she was saying.

“I have three meetings Monday morning,” she said in a crisp, business-like tone. “First with the manager of our retail store, then with two web page designers, one at ten o’clock, one at eleven. I sent out an RFP for updating our website and I’ve been meeting with some of the top contenders.”

He nodded.

“I’ll see if I can move my afternoon meetings so we can drive out to the ranch.” She flashed a searing look at Tyrone.

“Sounds good.” Joe smiled at her grudging offer. She didn’t smile back. Great. Just great. The tension in the office was as thick as San Francisco fog and there was nothing good about that.

Tyrone rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you two to get on with it.” His amber eyes were sharp as they slid to look at Joe. “Come see me Monday, when you get back from the ranch.”

“Sure.”

Tyrone walked out, leaving them alone in the office. Joe shifted his gaze back to the woman across the desk from him.

God. That mouth. It conjured up images of—Jesus, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from thinking about her in ways that were completely inappropriate, like her on her knees, his cock sliding between those lush lips. Right now, though, her arms were folded across her buttoned-up chest and her glossy, full lips were pressed together in a way that suggested a hot temper. A temper that belied the intriguing flicker he’d seen in her eyes when they’d shaken hands.