Kelly Jamieson: TamingTara

Her eyes met his, a flame glowing in their amber depths. “I want to grow the best olives,” she said. “I want to grow the best varietals we can grow here in California. I don’t want to just imitate Italy or France, I want to produce a world-class California olive oil.”

“You’ve already won awards for your oil.”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled. “Last year at the Los Angeles County Fair Olive Oils of the World Competition we won a gold medal with our Santa Ynez Estate oil and a silver for our Mission Lemon oil. After a lot of work on my part. Grandpa thought I was crazy, trying new varietals, new ways of pressing the oil. But it paid off.”

“I understand that’s a pretty prestigious competition.”

She nodded. “And our sights are set higher this year.” Pride heated her voice, and damn it if it didn’t turn him on. They were talking about olives , for chrissake, and he was getting a freakin’ hard-on here. Jesus.

Her cheeks flushed and she leaned forward. “I want to do more. I want to produce olives for eating that are more than just tasteless canned black olives. In Europe, they match olives with herbs like rosemary and thyme, and lemons. We’ve started doing that too, and some of our things are selling fantastically. We’ve partnered with a family down south who produces lemons to make our lemon olive oil.

“Twenty, thirty years ago, around the time I was born, my parents both worked here,” she continued, her voice steady. “My grandfather, as you probably know, is my dad’s dad. My father was supposed to take over the business.”

He knew her parents were both dead. Thought about making some kind of sympathetic remark. But Tara kept going.

“He had a vision too, but back then nobody was interested in olive oil. A few Italian restaurants, sure, but that was about it. Now it’s taken off so much. But it’s a tough business.” She grimaced. “A bad year can ruin a whole crop and sink you. Also the food service industry is tough. Supermarket distribution is brutal. Price matters more than taste. On the other hand, we supply to some really good quality restaurants. People come to our retail store—foodies who love good food—but we need to expand our sales. And our products. The world has changed.”

Talking about her work transformed her. The icy witch with sparks of temper in her eyes metamorphosed into a glowing, passionate woman. Her fire and zest were contagious. He felt it and, Christ, it felt good.

He’d come there for one reason only—he needed a job. He didn’t care what it was, as long as they paid him. Olive manufacturing had sounded lame to him, so he had no intention of getting all invested in the business. This was just a short-term strategy for him.

But for a guy whose emotions had been kicked around and stomped on for the last year, it actually felt great to be excited about something.

“Only a few producers bottle the olive oil they grow themselves,” she told him. “We’re one of them. We mill and bottle only our own olives.”

“How do you plan to expand?” His interest sparked higher. “Just through the internet?” That didn’t seem likely to give the kind of growth she wanted.

She shook her head vigorously. “No. I want to expand production. We have ten thousand olive trees right now, but I think we can increase production using some new methods. High density planting and mechanical harvesting. I think that’s going to be the key to our expansion. And if we can sell on the internet and do some work with the supermarket distributors…God! We can do incredible things.”

Her love for the business was obvious. Her knowledge impressed him, not just of her own company but of the entire industry. But a little voice of caution in the back of his head raised all kinds of questions.

This wasn’t the time. Later he’d get answers to his questions. Right now, everything she was telling him fascinated him, and the potential for the business seemed huge. What little he knew about the olive and food business was enough to tell him her instincts were good, her vision inspiring.

She looked at her watch. “Well. You probably want to get going. Grandpa said you’re from San Francisco. Do you have a place to stay here?”

“Yeah, with an old college buddy.”

“That’s good.”

Joe nodded. “It’s been great catching up with him. He’s letting me stay with him until I find a place of my own.”

“You’ll want to wait until you decide if you’re going to stay here in Santa Barbara before you find a place of your own.”

He met her gaze steadily. “Why wouldn’t I want to stay here?”

She held his gaze equally resolutely—for about two seconds. And then her eyes dropped. A rush of pleasure heated his blood. “This is a new business for you. You may decide you don’t like it. You may find it’s not a good fit.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She lifted a brow.

Her challenge hit him like a punch to his gut. He liked a challenge. Business challenges. Strength challenges. Domination and submission challenges.

“Let’s just put our cards on the table,” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t want me here, do you?”

Their eyes met levelly, head on.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”

Her eyes were frosty despite that warm whiskey color. Once again her hostility was palpable. This was one pissed off lady.

“I don’t agree with Grandpa’s decision to hire you,” she said through clenched teeth. “We do not need another manager here.”

Joe nodded. Yeah, he got the message. This was getting more and more complicated. He bit back a sigh. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

She actually could be right about one thing. If he had to go to Tyrone Lockhart about every little decision, he was outta there. No way was he interested in a job where he had no real authority.

Aw, who was he kidding? He was desperate for this job. Any job. If he had no authority, he’d just have to find a way to make things work. He had no fucking choice. At least for a while. He had no intention of staying in Santa Barbara forever, but right now he needed to make some money, needed to restore his credibility. As soon as things died down back in San Francisco, he’d go back and find another job there, where he belonged.

“Well, I’m here,” he said as he stood. He gave her a grim smile, held her gaze without yielding. “Get used to it.” And when once again he saw that glimmer of hesitation, that barest hint of surrender, satisfaction expanded inside him. She wasn’t going to surrender easily or without a fight and he was suddenly looking forward to the battle.

Tara checked her watch. The play party at Le Château started at ten o’clock. Earlier, she hadn’t decided whether she was going to go, but now…she needed to be distracted from the frustration of dealing with both Joe and her grandfather. She needed this outlet, this release.

Mostly she needed to forget the feelings that had built inside her when Joe had left her that afternoon, the hint of warning in his voice and the look of power in his hot eyes that made her shiver and go soft inside.

Because the feelings he evoked in her were just like when she had those shadowy dreams—strong hands, demanding kisses, a hard body pressing into her, wicked, forbidden images of power, pleasure and pain. She closed her eyes against the dark hunger rising inside her, the craving to be pushed, taken to the edge. The dreams had prompted her to seek out the club, to see if she could find the things she dreamed about. A way she could be strong and dominant with men without being labeled a cold-hearted, ball-breaking bitch.