Susan Mallery: Seductive One

“My grandfather has put me in charge of the winery. I know what’s needed to take our success to the next level.”

“So you’re not here for a job.”

“No.” She flipped open the portfolio. “I’m here for a loan.”

Nic straightened. “Why? You don’t have a cash-flow problem.”

“Marcelli Wines doesn’t. Business has never been better. But I’m not them. I work for my grandfather. The company still belongs to him.”

“You’ll inherit.”

If only. The truth shouldn’t still hurt, but it did. It hurt a lot. “My sisters and I inheriting has become less of a sure thing.” She paused, knowing that there was no point in holding back. He was going to hear about it eventually.

“It seems my parents had a child out of wedlock, as they say. A son. They were both still in high school. Due to family pressure, they gave up the baby for adoption.”

Nic was cool as always. Instead of letting any emotion show on his face, he leaned back in his chair. “That would change things,” he admitted. “When did you find out?”

“At our big Fourth of July party. It was our version of fireworks, to say the least. The point is, the long-lost baby is now a thirty-year-old man.”

The Marcelli and Giovanni families might not have spoken in nearly three generations, but they had both grown up with the same traditional Italian values. Feminism had yet to arrive at the shores of their respective vineyards. Nic got it right away.

“Your grandfather is old-fashioned enough to be more comfortable leaving the family business to a male heir. I’m guessing the long-lost brother is interested?”

“It’s a ton of money. Wouldn’t you be?” she asked with a lightness she didn’t feel. “All of which leaves me on the short end of the inheritance stick.” Now came the tough part. “I’ve learned that the wine business is in my blood. I don’t want to do anything else with my life.”

“If you’re right and your brother inherits, why wouldn’t he keep you on to run things?”

“He might, but I’m not willing to wait around and see. Besides, I have my own ideas and plans. I want to start my own label.”

He pointed at the portfolio in front of her. “Your proposal?”

She nodded. “I’ve detailed everything. What grapes I want to buy, the price of the inventory, barrels, storage. There’s also some land I’m interested in.”

“Starting a label doesn’t come cheap.”

“I know.”

His dark gaze never left her face. “Where else did you go for financing?”

“Everywhere short of a loan shark.”

He nodded. “Let me guess. They want to know why you can’t get the money from your grandfather.”

“That’s some of it. They were also concerned that I don’t have any collateral. I’ve explained that the wine is collateral, but that doesn’t seem to impress them.” She shrugged. “You’re a man who likes to take risks, but only when they pay off. I’m the closest to a sure thing you’re going to find.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Brenna could have cheerfully thrown herself in front of a moving delivery truck. She could feel the heat on her face, but with her olive coloring, the blush wouldn’t show. It was a small consolation, but one she clung to like a life preserver.

“You know I can do this,” she said, as if she hadn’t caught the embarrassing wordplay.

“Maybe,” he said. “But why would I want to add to my competition?”

For the first time since driving onto the property, Brenna relaxed. “Oh, please. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to match ten percent of your production in five years. I don’t think you’re going to sweat me putting you out of business.”

“Fair enough. Why did you come to me?”

“You’re the only person I know with extra cash.”

“Your parents would have helped you out.”

“Possibly. But I didn’t want to make them choose between me and my grandfather. You’re a neutral party.”

“I’m a Giovanni. Doesn’t that make me second cousin to the devil?”

Gee, just what she’d been thinking earlier, only in her eyes, the relationship had been a little closer.

Coming to Nic was her last hope, but also a calculated risk. The Marcelli and Giovanni families had been feuding for years. Her grandfather might find out about the loan if she’d secured it through traditional sources such as a bank, but he would never know if Nic funded her. Grandpa Lorenzo would cheerfully rip out his tongue rather than speak to a Giovanni.

Brenna and her sisters had never been all that interested in the feud. Nic hadn’t been, either, which he’d proved the first time she’d met him. But to her grandparents-hostilities were alive and well.

“There’s a certain irony to this conversation,” she admitted. “I would think that appealed to you.”

He studied her. Brenna would like to know what he saw, but on second thought-maybe not. She was still recovering from a disastrous, impulsive haircut. Several months at the family hacienda eating her grandmothers’ cooking had added seven pounds to her already plentiful curves. She thought the suit she’d chosen looked pretty good on her, but was that enough? She’d come a long way from the seventeen-year-old who had promised to love Nic with her whole heart; but the question was, would he consider the changes good or bad?

“Rumor has it I’m a ruthless bastard,” he said casually.

“I’ve heard. Should I be scared?”

“You tell me.”

She could remember everything about being with Nic-the way he touched her, the way he kissed, the scent of his skin. She knew the boy he had been, but not the man. What was the same and what had changed? Or did it matter?

Ruthless bastard or not, she wanted the money.

“I don’t scare easily these days.” She pushed the proposal toward him. “Look it over and tell me what you think.”

He rested his hand on the leather cover but didn’t open it. “How much?”

The butterflies appeared in her stomach and began to fly in formation. She thought they might be practicing touch-and-go landings. Her mouth got dry, her palms got wet, and the room lurched once for good measure.

“A million dollars.”

Nic didn’t react in any way-at least not on the outside. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift in his seat; he didn’t even smile. But on the inside, his mild amusement and intrigue turned to impressed amazement. Brenna had gone and got herself some balls.

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fingered the bills. “You want that in twenties?”

“I’m not in a position to be picky. Twenties are fine.”

“I don’t think I have that much with me today.”

“Bummer.”

She watched him, her big eyes betraying her nervousness. She was at the end of the line and they both knew it. If he turned her down, she wouldn’t get her loan. Any dreams of starting her own label would be squashed. Oh, sure, she could buy a few tons of grapes on the open market, borrow equipment, and set up a few dozen cheap barrels in a garage somewhere. She might get a loyal following, a little notice, maybe a write-up in Wine Spectator. But without an infusion of cash, she would never have the chance to make it big.

Not that he gave a damn about that. What mattered to him were his goals. How did her request fit into the big picture?

He rose and circled the desk until he stood in front of her, then he leaned against the surface, his arms folded over his chest. It was a position designed to intimidate. To challenge.

Brenna reacted by uncrossing, then recrossing her legs. In the silence of the office the sound of her silk stockings brushing and shifting grated against his ears. He found himself watching the movement, staring at the hem of her skirt, picturing her thighs underneath. And above her thighs?