Susan Mallery - The Sassy One

“Because I wanted to.”

Good answer, he thought as his gaze settled on her lush mouth.

“Tell me what you do,” she said. “I saw a very nice office with lots of room, but no clues.”

“I run Security International. We’re based here in Santa Barbara, although we operate all over the world.”

“What kind of security?”

“Personal. We provide bodyguards on a temporary or full-time basis. We have a security consulting division, and we will train other people’s bodyguards.”

She looked startled. “Like the movie?”

He knew which one she meant. “My people get fired for sleeping with a client.”

“That seems harsh.”

“They’re paid to stay alert, not get lucky.”

“Any famous clients?”

“Yes.”

She waited expectantly, then laughed. “You’re not going to give me any names.”

“Not even a hint.”

“That really big guy back at the office. Jason. He’s one of your bodyguards?”

Sam nodded.

“He wouldn’t exactly blend in.”

“Sometimes that’s not what the client wants.”

“Everybody armed?”

“Sure.”

“Even you?”

He gave her a slow smile. “Especially me.”

She picked up her wine. “Even now?”

“Want to see?”

Francesca was willing to bet Sam hadn’t spent more than fifteen minutes without a woman circling in his orbit. Her specifications had been clear-she would throw herself at the first eligible, attractive guy she ran into. She’d thought the situation might be nerve-racking and awkward; she hadn’t considered she would be a bush-league rookie playing with the pros.

“I’m not sure you want to flash the staff,” she said. “This is an upscale restaurant, and they frown on that sort of thing.”

She sipped her wine, which actually wasn’t bad. Not that she would be telling her sister.

“Afraid?” he asked. “The safety’s on.”

As if they were talking about the gun. “I’m cautious and sensible. Not afraid.” She put the glass down. “How long have you been in the security business?”

“All my life. My grandfather founded the company.”

She knew all about family concerns. “Any siblings to share the responsibility?”

“No.” He shrugged. “My father died when I was a kid. My mom passed away a few years ago, though we were never close. Now there’s just my grandfather and myself.”

The waiter appeared and set their salads in front of them. Francesca stared at the artful arrangement of baby greens, apple slices, blue cheese, and walnuts. Her mind whirled with possibilities.

Married? No. That wasn’t an option. Her luck couldn’t be that bad. There was no way the first guy she’d been attracted to in the past three years could be-

“You’re not married, are you?” she blurted.

Sam paused in the act of bringing his fork to his mouth. He set the utensil down.

She braced herself for a joke or teasing, or something snide. Instead his expression turned serious. “I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner if I were married or involved.”

Relief blended with the flavor of the cheese. “Okay.”

“And you? Any current or former Mr. Marcellis floating around?”

“No. Actually, Marcelli is my maiden name. But I was married several years ago. He passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “You must have married young.”

“At eighteen. Right on time, according to my rather twisted family’s expectations.” She speared a slice of apple. “I come from an Irish-Italian family. Very large, very traditional. We’re supposed to marry young and procreate with abandon.”

“Kids?”

She bit back a smile. “Not that I know about.”

He chuckled. “I had an ill-fated marriage. I was all of twenty-two, off in Europe, out of college, and on my own. We didn’t make it to our first anniversary.” He shrugged. “We were both too young. No kids, which is good. Divorce is tough on them.”

“I agree.”

He picked up his wine. “Enough serious conversation. Do you plan to seduce me later?”

If Francesca had been drinking, she would have spit. All promises and plans made in the presence of her sisters aside, this was a first date. She might want to throw herself in the deep end, but not in the first hour.

She was reasonably certain Sam was teasing, but just in case there was a grain of truth to the question, she decided on the most sensible, mature course of action.

She ignored it.

“Has your company always been based in Santa Barbara?” she asked.

Sam chuckled. “Chicken.”

“Cluck cluck. Now graciously accept the change in subject, please.”

“Okay. My grandfather had a branch office in Los Angeles for a while, but the base of operations has always been here.”

They talked about the changes in the city in the past ten years, how celebrities both wanted and thwarted a bodyguard’s ability to protect, and the various experiments she’d set up to help her with her research.

Sam had nearly finished his steak when he glanced at her nearly full glass.

“Don’t you like your wine?”

She touched the stem. “It’s fine.”

“Francesca. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m not a big fan of Wild Sea Vineyards.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Do you have any other plans for tonight?”

Plans? With him? Now that he mentioned it-

She deliberately broke off in mid-thought. “Not really.”

“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be,” he said. “So tell me a story.”

“All right.” At least this was a safe topic. No double entendres, not even a hint of sexual tension.

“In 1923 two friends, Antonio Marcelli and Salvatore Giovanni, came to America from Italy. They were both second sons with no hope of inheriting their families’ businesses. They vowed to show their respective families that they would be big successes. They settled in Central California and carefully tended the treasures they had brought with them.” She paused and smiled. “Grapevines.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. She was one surprise after the other. “Francesca Marcelli? As in Marcelli Wines?”

“That’s me.”

He motioned to the bottle on the table. “The Giovanni family, I presume.”

“Uh-huh. The virgin soil, the windswept hills, the temperate climate were all perfect for growing grapes. Antonio and Salvatore bought land next to each other. They shared labor, celebrated victories, and together toasted their first harvest. In time they returned to Italy to ma rry, then came back to California and settled down to have happy lives. Wild Sea Vineyard and Marcelli Wines were born. Antonio and Salvatore each had one son and two daughters.”

She paused to take a drink of water. He leaned forward. “You grew up listening to that story.”

“I’ve heard it a thousand times.”

“Your voice changes when you talk about the family history.” More than her voice. Her eyes stared past him to focus on a long-ago place.

“My grandmother talks about the old days. I guess I’m repeating what she says.”

She drew in a breath and continued. “Events in Europe in the late 1930s worried the friends. With the German occupation of France and threats to Italy during the Second World War, there was great concern for the state of the vineyards. Would generations of healthy stock be destroyed? Antonio and Salvatore went to Europe, where friends offered cuttings. They traveled, collecting more and more cuttings from the most famous vineyards in France and Italy. Then they returned home to graft their legacy to their strongest vines. Whatever happened in Europe, the traditions would continue in America.”

“I’ve noticed a more European flavor to Wild Sea wines,” he said, “but I wouldn’t say the same about Marcelli wines.”