Susan Mallery: Seductive One

“Dennis will be getting you specific numbers,” Nic said, referring to their sales manager. “We’re going to have to get up to speed on all the regulations and the hell of shipping the wine overseas. Once we get a start date, I’ll want updated financials.”

“No problem.” Maggie made a few notes on a pad. “Dennis and I already have a meeting set up for later this morning. I’ll add this to the agenda.” She glanced at him. “So why aren’t you thrilled about this?”

“I am.”

“You don’t seem excited. Isn’t this a big deal? You’ve been working toward it for nearly a year. Why don’t you look like a happy camper?”

He shrugged. “I got what I wanted. Now it’s time to move on to the next goal.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop and enjoy all that you’ve already accomplished.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “Nic, you’re burying yourself in work. Have you ever thought about getting a life?”

“I have one.”

Her mouth twisted. “You have the winery, which occupies about ninety percent of your time. The rest of your free hours are spent riding that damn motorcycle along the coast road and dating women you have no intention of ever settling down with. Don’t you want something more significant than that?”

“You ruined me for other women,” he told her.

“Not likely. You’re the one who dumped me, remember?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m too smart to let someone like you get away.”

“Oh, sure. Say that now that I’m happily married with a toddler.” Her humor faded. “When we first met you had so many plans and dreams. I never noticed they were all about business. In the past seven years you’ve made them all come true. Maybe it’s time to focus on other areas of your life.”

“Gee, thanks for the lecture, Mom.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I know. I appreciate the concern.”

“But you’re not going to listen to me.” She sounded resigned.

“Not for a minute.”

She sighed. “Why can’t I get through to you?”

“Because you’re a born rescuer and I don’t need saving.”

“You need something.” She tapped her pen on the desk. “What about a dog?”

He laughed. Maggie always knew the right thing to say, even when he didn’t want to hear it. She wanted him to be a well-rounded person. He wanted to win. As far as she was concerned, he’d achieved every goal he’d set for himself. Which he had. All but the one she didn’t know about.

As for a woman in life, something permanent, it might be for other people, but not for him. He’d long ago learned that loving someone meant opening himself to being left behind and betrayed. Why bother?

“Maybe a dog,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”

“You could get one of those sidecars for your motorcycle. Wouldn’t that be great? You could buy doggie goggles and a little leather dog jacket.”

He winced. “Not in this lifetime. I’d be getting a dog, not a dress-up doll. Does Jason know you’re this twisted?”

“My husband adores me.”

Nic was glad. When he’d come home after his eighteen months of exile in France, Maggie had just been hired to get the winery’s books in order. She’d been five years older, new in town, and the softest touch around. The second she’d found out about his broken heart, she’d gone to work, healing him with everything from long conversations to nights of great sex.

Six months later he’d been back on his feet, and she’d been smart enough to end things before they got awkward. Over the years they’d stayed friends. She’d met Jason, had fallen in love, and gotten married. Nic had been happy for her. She’d always been the home-and-hearth kind.

“How’s our cash flow?” he asked, changing the subject to something less personal.

“What do you want to buy? More land? Maybe a small island somewhere?”

“Very funny. Actually I was thinking of making a loan.”

Maggie frowned. “To whom?”

“Someone I know wants to start a winery.”

“And you just love training the competition?”

He shrugged. “How many new concerns make it?”

Maggie blinked. “You want to loan money for a winery start-up you expect to fail?”

“I don’t expect it to fail.” Not exactly. But Brenna had been out of the business a long time. Ten years ago he would have bet on her in a heartbeat, but now? He wasn’t so sure.

“Are you making the loan yourself, or is this from the company?” Maggie asked.

“Which do you suggest?”

“It depends on terms. There are tax implications either way. How much money are we talking about?”

Nic settled back to watch the show. “A million dollars.”

Maggie pushed to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. Her eyes widened and her cheeks turned as red as her hair. “Are you insane?”

“Is this how you talk to your boss?”

“I do when he’s in serious need of therapy. You’re considering loaning someone a million dollars and you think there’s a chance they might fail?”

He shrugged. “It would be a good write-off.”

“It would be really dumb. I mean it, Nic. I know this is your company and you can tell me to pound sand if you want, but this is a really, really bad idea.”

“Have I ever told you to pound sand?”

“Not in so many words, but you frequently ignore my very sound financial advice.”

“This may have to be another one of those times.” He rose and faced her. “Work up a couple different ways to come up with the money. I don’t know if I want to do it privately or through the company, so go at it from both angles.”

“Why would you do this?”

He grinned. “Because I can.”

Sweat prickled Brenna’s back as the hot California sun burned through her T-shirt. She wore a wide-brimmed hat to protect her face and should have used gloves, but she didn’t have the dexterity to feel what she was doing with them on. As a result, her fingers were bruised, her nails broken, and she’d been scratched from fingertips to wrist by dozens of grapevines.

As she crouched between the rows of lush plants, she inhaled the heady aroma of ripe Chardonnay grapes. She took the heavy bunches in her hand and carefully cut them free, imagining the pale green juice running free as the ripe, tender fruit was squeezed. Marcelli Wines Reserve Chardonnay was one of the best in the country, and this harvest was going to be one for the record books. As she worked, cutting grapes free and dropping them into the bin in front of her, she calculated tons per acre and bottles per ton.

When she’d first seen the potential success of the harvest, she’d wanted to hold some of the grapes back for blending. She had an idea for a cuvée she’d been wanting to try and this was the year. But her grandfather had refused to listen, instead telling her that they had always made Reserve Chardonnay from the best grapes, and he wasn’t going to let any of them go to waste because she wanted to experiment.

“The man’s a fool,” she told herself as she shifted to the next plant and began cutting.

Around her the migrant workers who had shown up at the beginning of the week worked quickly, filling three bins of grapes for every one of hers. She didn’t practice enough to be efficient and her heart wasn’t in the task.

Yesterday they’d brought in the first grapes. She’d been there as they’d been carefully loaded on the conveyor belt that would carry them into the giant vat for crushing. She’d sorted and watched, then tasted the first juice of the harvest. One sip had told her it was going to be a good year.

The realization that it might be the last year for Marcelli Wines-if her grandfather went ahead and sold, or left everything to her newly found brother-had driven her from the winery and into the fields. She’d stayed there all day yesterday and had remained there today. She felt restless and tense. It had been three days. Why hadn’t Nic called?