Wendy Etherington - Are You Lonesome Tonight?

“I’m so thrilled for you,” Mr. von Snooty said in such a deadpan voice that Tony pictured him winning the fifty-million-dollar lottery and saying, “I suppose this will do.”

“I’ll arrive on Friday afternoon at precisely three o’clock. I’ll require a suite with a view of the vineyards.” He paused. “You do have rooms overlooking the vineyards, don’t you?”

“Naturally.” What else would they have views of?

“I want room service delivered at precisely seven o’clock in the morning…”

Sighing about the sad state of a world in which jerks like von Whatsisname existed, Tony nevertheless started scribbling notes.

“I’ll inform you of my dietary requirements when I arrive and peruse the menu.” He paused. “You do have menus, don’t you?”

Tony ground his teeth. “Yes, sir, we do.”

“Twelve o’clock, lunch; six o’clock, cocktails; seven o’clock, dinner. I will also require a tour of the facilities, including the winery, and, of course, a tasting.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

“That will be all, Mr. Galini. Expect me next Friday.”

“Ye—” A dial tone sounded in his ear.

Tony slammed the phone into its cradle. “What an ass.” He looked over his sparse notes and had the feeling he should have asked von Whoever-he-was more questions.

He ran a hand through his hair. What had ever possessed him to actually make something of his life? His friends were probably having drinks at the club about now, talking about their summer trips to Barbados. What was he doing? Sweating and stressing as he installed computers and got insulted by guys named von Something-or-Other, whom he probably could have snubbed under any other circumstances.

It was that look in Joe’s eyes. That look that asked Are you going to be a trust-fund waste like the rest of my brothers’ children? Guilt had suffused him. Guilt that apparently everyone else in his family—except two of Joe’s sons, who ran the family’s Tribiletto winery in Italy—seemed conveniently to have been born without.

Was he really up to this challenge? He had zero business experience. He clearly had no patience with demanding clients. His parents called the resort “Tony’s little distraction”.

His friends thought he’d lost his mind and kept telling him to call a shrink whenever he had the urge to do something productive.

But sometime in the last few months, a deep desire to prove himself had stubbornly sparked to life. He wasn’t selfish and spoiled like his parents. He wanted to prove everyone wrong about his ability to commit. He wanted respect. He needed it.

The question was—could he earn it?

First thing, though, he had to find out who von Snobby was. “Francesca!” he shouted.

A few seconds later, the intercom speaker on his desk phone beeped, then Francesca’s calm voice floated out. “We spent an unmentionable amount of money on the phones, Tony, maybe we should actually use them.”

And, boy, could that woman be bossy. “Hey,” he said into the speakerphone, “I just got off the phone with this guy—do you know a Pierre von Something-or-Another?”

She drew a swift breath. “Pierre von Shalburg?”

“That’s him!” He sagged in relief. “You know him. He yammered on like I should know who he is, but I didn’t have a clue—”

“Oh, God. Tony, did you say you just talked to him?”

“Yeah. He yammered on—”

“What did you say?” Francesca yelled.

Scowling, Tony tapped his pen against the desk. “I said yes.”

“To what exactly?”

“To him coming here for opening weekend.”

A long silence ensued. Then, “You’d better meet me in the kitchen.”

List in hand, he headed out of his office, down the hall and took the elevator to the kitchen. He’d been pleasant enough to the guy. Francesca acted as though he couldn’t deal with a simple reservation. He hadn’t exactly bubbled over with enthusiasm, though, and he doubted their guest-to-be would bend beneath his smile. Why couldn’t von Shalburg have been a six-foot blonde with legs to die for?

As he approached the open doorway, he saw Francesca standing behind one of the assistant chefs—sous chefs she called them—hovering as he cooked scallops in a big frying pan. She looked tired. Her usually jaunty ponytail hung limply against her neck. Sweat glistened on her face.

Actually… He angled his head. She looked really good sweaty. Not unkempt so much as…mussed. As if she’d rolled out of a bed she hadn’t wanted to leave.

He’d seen Francesca first thing in the morning many times. Throughout their teenage years, her parents had let him stay with them when his parents had gone out of town and they’d been between housekeepers—which was often, since his mother was forever accusing his father of sleeping with them, and he was always trying to make up for his behavior by taking her to Aspen or Paris or St. Croix.

That was Francesca—always around when he needed her, always willing to see him through any situation.

They had been best friends since they were ten, when Tony’s parents had decided he should start attending public school on Long Island, rather than going back to boarding school in England. Years later, he’d learned this change of heart hadn’t been prompted by his homesickness, but the hundred-thou-a-year his parents had saved by keeping him home.

Francesca’s tongue peeked out to flick across her bottom lip, and he groaned. How would she look with her long, dark hair loose and caressing her face? The strands looked silky, but how did they feel? He couldn’t recall ever gliding his hands through her hair. Why was that? Why hadn’t he—

Because she’s the only true friend you have.

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Erotic fantasies about Francesca? He’d definitely been working too hard.

And last night didn’t count. He’d only been consoling Barbie on the breakup of her engagement.

He walked into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter. “I could use a martini.”

Francesca glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. “I’ll page the bartender.”

“Do we have a bartender?” He winced as she continued to glare. He was an owner now, not a guest. He really needed to come up with a mantra or something to help him remember that. “Hell, now I’m starting to sound like that pompous jerk.”

Crossing to the industrial-sized, walk-in freezer, he headed straight for the ice-cold bottle of Grey Goose on the third shelf. He mixed his drink—and one for Francesca as well. She’d been working as hard as he had. Probably harder.

Maybe he should volunteer to take her out. She deserved a night off.

“Pompous jerk?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “That would be Pierre von Shalburg, I assume?”

He sampled his martini, found it nicely balanced, so he pushed the second glass across the counter to Francesca, which she picked up by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and sipped. He smiled at the elegant picture she made—even in jeans, a stained T-shirt and an apron. “That would be him,” he said finally.

Eyes narrowed, she set down her martini glass with a clang. “What did you say to him?”

He cut his gaze right then left, looking for an escape. He drank again from his glass. “He pretty much did all the talking.”

He thought he saw smoke seeping from Francesca’s ears. “Do you have any idea who he is?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“He’s the principle critic for A Vino magazine.”

Thank God. Finally, a name he recognized. Just last week Uncle Joe had gone on and on about the influence of the magazine, since A Vino was the resort industry’s premier review—

Oh, hell. He leaned heavily onto the counter. “He can make us or break us.”