“Even if I did agree you are the right choice,” Gabe said evenly, “we still need to discuss our other problema.”

“What other problem?”

“That problem.”

Alex frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He lifted a brow. “Tell me that was not a distinctly lustful look.”

“That was not lustful. That was—”

“Alex.” He angled his body toward her and captured her gaze. “You’ve been jumpy since the minute we walked into this hotel room and we both know why.”

Ahh. The almost kiss.

She scowled at him. “I’m working on four hours’ sleep. That’s why I’m jumpy. Maybe you should just say yes to the contract so I can get some rest and—” She stared at him as he moved closer. “What are you doing?”

He lifted his hand and splayed his fingers across her jaw. “Figuring out how bad this particular problema is before I make up my mind.”

“There is no problem,” she croaked. “And if we’re going to be working together I—”

“I haven’t said yes yet,” he cut in, his gaze purposeful. “Right now we have no working relationship whatsoever.”

They did have heat. They definitely had heat. She swallowed hard as it washed over her, made her pulse dance. “If I make this really bad you’ll say yes?”

His gaze darkened. “It’s not going to be bad.”

JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance and adventure since filching her sister’s Harlequin Mills & Boon® novels to escape her teenage angst.

Jennifer penned her first romance at nineteen. When it was rejected she bristled at her mother’s suggestion that she needed more life experience. She went on to complete a journalism degree before settling into a career in public relations. Years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world provided perfect fodder for the arrogant alpha males she loves to write about.

With a suitable amount of life experience under her belt, she sat down and conjured up the sexiest, most delicious Italian wine magnate she could imagine, had him make his biggest mistake and gave him a wife on the run. That story, THE DIVORCE PARTY, won her Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write contest and a book contract. Turns out Mother knew best.

A native of Canada’s gorgeous East coast, Jennifer now lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and their young Viking-in-training. She considers her ten-year-old-strong book club, comprised of some of the most amazing women she’s ever met, a sacrosanct date in her calendar. And some day, they will have their monthly meeting at her fantasy beach house, waves lapping at their feet, wine glasses in hand.

You can find Jennifer on Facebook and Twitter.

Recent titles by the same author

THE DIVORCE PARTY

Did you know this is also available as an eBook? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

An Exquisite Challenge

Jennifer Hayward

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For my editor, Carly, whose impeccable advice made this book what it is. Thank you!

For Victoria Parker and Kat Cantrell, the two best critique partners a writer could have. Your advice and support mean everything to me.

For winemaker Jac Cole of Spring Mountain Vineyard in Napa, who graciously offered his time to teach me about the fine art of blending and bringing a wine to market. I can only hope Gabe’s wines are half as wonderful as yours!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

IF LIFE WAS a glass of Cabernet, Alexandra Anderson wanted to live right in the lusty, full-bodied center of it. The thrill of the chase was paramount—the stickier the challenge, the better. If she wasn’t sure she could do it—that’s where she wanted to be. That’s when she got even better. That’s where she thrived.

As for the intricacies of that particular varietal versus California Zinfandel and Merlot? For a girl who’d grown up in the backwaters of Iowa tossing back beers with the undesirable crowd, it wasn’t something that kept her up at night. Who gave a toss as long as it tasted good and did something to alleviate the interminable boredom of yet another cocktail party that was all work and no play?

Certainly not the sentiment of the man who’d just strode into Napa Valley’s annual industry fundraiser for the homeless, a massive scowl on his face. Those grapes that made bubbly go fizz for her were an obsession for Gabriele De Campo, the visionary behind De Campo Group’s world-renowned wines. His raison d’être.

She stood watching him from her perch on the balcony overlooking the mezzanine of the Pacific Heights hotspot Charo, where the event was being held, with only one goal in mind: to indulge in one of those adrenaline-seeking ventures she so loved. To convince Gabriele De Campo to let her PR firm handle the two massive upcoming launch events for De Campo’s most important wine in a decade. It was her chance to finally win a piece of the internationally renowned winemaker’s communications portfolio, and she didn’t intend to fail.

She took a sip of the glass of wine she’d been nursing for an hour and a half while she’d schmoozed every key player in the California wine industry, doing every piece of reconnaissance she could to learn who was who, what made these people tick and what would make a knockout launch for De Campo.

A warning shiver snaked up her spine. Was she crazy to even be attempting this?

It had all happened in a rather mind-numbingly quick fashion. This morning she’d been sleeping off one too many martinis from her girls’ night out in Manhattan when she’d been woken at 6:00 a.m. with a panicked phone call from Katya Jones, the head of De Campo’s marketing department. An old colleague of hers, cool-as-a-cucumber Katya had sounded unusually flustered. Gabriele De Campo had just fired the PR agency handling his Devil’s Peak launch for its “atroce” ideas three and a half weeks before simultaneous kickoff events in Napa and New York. “I need you,” Katya had groaned. “And I need you now.”

Alex might not have been so inclined to drag her sorry butt out of bed for a chance to work for her sister’s brother-in-law if she hadn’t just lost her three-million-dollar-a-year diamond client this week in a hostile takeover. It had been a huge blow for Alex’s fledgling PR firm that had just taken over a ritzy new space on Fifth Avenue. If she didn’t find another big client soon, she’d be closing her doors before she even got started. So she’d shaken off her fuzz, canceled her appointments and jumped on a plane to San Francisco in time to make this party.

There was only one problem with the whole scenario. Katya didn’t know Alex’s relationship to Gabe. Didn’t know he had a strict no-working-with-family policy he’d never bent from, no matter how much she’d tried to convince him to give her De Campo’s business. Didn’t know she and Gabe were like oil and water. Always. When Gabe said white, she said black. It was just the way it was.

Which had no bearing on the here and now, she told herself, tucking a wayward strand of her long, dark hair back into her chignon, squaring her shoulders and starting for the winding staircase that led down to the mezzanine. Her combative relationship with Gabe was inconsequential when a two-million-dollar contract was on the line. When her future was on the line.

She curved her hand around the mahogany banister and took a deep, steadying breath. Her steps down the staircase were slow and deliberate, designed not to attract attention. Gabe was in the middle of the crowd, speaking to the head of the local farm workers union, his attention immersed in his subject as it always was—that single-minded focus his trademark. But as she continued her descent, that familiar awareness flickered across the air between them, charged, electric. Gabe’s head came up. His gaze froze as it rested on her. His eyes widened.

As if he was surprised to see her.

Oh, Lord. Katya had told him she’d hired her. Hadn’t she?

She started to get the awful feeling that no, somehow her old colleague had not passed along that crucial piece of information as she descended the second flight of stairs, her heart thumping in tandem with each step. Gabe’s thick, dark brow arched high, his gaze not leaving her face. Surprise. Definitely surprise.

This was so, so not good.

Or maybe, she countered desperately, as he broke off his conversation and strode over to stand at the base of the stairs, it was actually a very good thing. Having the element of surprise over control freak Gabe could work in her favor. Allow her to slide in some sound reasoning before he brought the gavel down.

Her knees, as she descended the last flight and took him in, felt a little too weak for a woman facing a man who was essentially family. Which might have been due to the superbly tailored suit that fit Gabe’s tall, muscular body like a glove. Or his black-as-night hair worn overly long with perfectly cut sideburns.

Some women pointed out the sexy indentation in the middle of his chin as outrageously hot. She preferred the drown-yourself-in-them forest-green eyes. His formidable self-control she was fairly certain would come crumbling down for the right woman...

She pulled in a breath as she negotiated the last step and stopped in front of him. Utterly to die for. Utterly off-limits. Get a hold of yourself, Lex.

His mouth curved. “Alexandra.”

The rich, velvety texture of his voice stormed her senses, sending goose bumps to every inch of her skin. His use of her full name was formal, his gaze as it rested on her face probing. “I had no idea you were on the West Coast.”

Dammit, Katya. He really had no idea. She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat and tipped her head back to look up at him. “Your internal radar didn’t signal I was close?”

His mouth quirked. “Something must have been scrambling the signal.”

She braced herself against the smoky, earthy scent of him as he bent to brush his lips across each of her cheeks, but his husky “ciao” decimated her composure.

“What are you doing here?” he murmured, drawing back, his gaze lingering on her face. “I can’t imagine anything less your style than an industry party like this.”

Hell. She lifted her chin. “You haven’t spoken to Katya yet today, have you?”

“Katya Jones?”

“Yes, she was going to call you. She—I—” Alex planted her gaze on his and held on. “She hired me, Gabe. To do the events.”

His eyes widened, then darkened. “That isn’t possible. I approve those decisions.”

“I’m afraid it is,” she said calmly. “Have you checked your messages? She must have left you one.”

He scraped his hair out of his face with a tanned, elegant-fingered hand and scowled. “I haven’t had two seconds to think today, let alone check email.”

And there you had it. She plastered a breezy, confident smile on her face. “You have coast-to-coast launches in three and a half weeks, Gabe. Katya knows I’m the only one who can pull them off at this point, so she called me in to help.” She waved a hand at him. “I’m here to save you.”

“Save me?” His frown deepened. “You know I have a firm policy against working with family.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

He screwed up his aristocratic, beautiful face and sliced a hand through the air. “I need a drink.”

Excellent idea. So did she.

“So, I can have a theme to you in forty-eight hours,” she said brightly, trailing along behind him to the bar. “I looked at the ideas the other agency put together for you and I agree, they’re crap. I’ve got some much better ones.”

“Alex,” he growled, slapping his palm on the bar, “you are not doing these launch events.”

She slid onto a stool, her chin tilted at a mutinous angle. “Katya hired me. I’m brilliant at my job. You know I am.”

“That is irrelevant.” He barked a request for drinks at the bartender, then sat down beside her. “I know you’re the best, Alex. I would have hired you already if you weren’t family. But you are, and it’s not happening.”

Desperation surged through her. She rested her elbows on the bar, locked her gaze on his and went for the jugular. “You backed the wrong horse, Gabe. You chose the wrong agency and now you’re in too deep. Executing two massive back-to-back launch events in Napa and New York with this little prep time is an almost suicidal assignment. There are only two PR people besides myself in this country who are even capable of pulling it off. One,” she emphasized, “is presently sailing up the Nile with his wife. I know because I just got a postcard from him. The second is in Houston doing an event with five extra staff she just hired to make it happen. You will not,” she pronounced, “be getting any personal service there.”

He slid a glass of wine across the bar to her, his broad shoulders rising in a dismissive shrug. “We’ll figure it out. I’m not breaking my rule.”

Fire singed her veins. There were a few things Alex was sure of in life. One was the fact that no one was better at their job than she was. Hands down. He needed her. “Do you want your launches to fail?” she demanded. “You’ve spent eight years, eight years getting De Campo to this point in Napa, Gabe. Eight years gaining the respect you deserve for your Californian vintages. You have one chance to make a first impression with this wine. I can make sure it’s the launch of the year.”

He set his glass down and cursed under his breath. Alex stared at him. She had never, ever heard Gabe say that word.

“Let me help you,” she murmured, reaching out and laying her hand on his forearm. “I can do this.”

A current of electricity zigzagged its way from her palm to her stomach. She pulled her hand away and tucked it under her thigh. It was always this way between them, a gigantic pulse-fluttering awareness of each other that defied reason.

“You didn’t think it was a really bad idea jumping on a plane before you had any idea if I was going to take you on?” Gabe muttered with a dark stare that was equal parts frustration and something else entirely.

“Katya hired me. As in gave me the job, Gabe.”

“I can unhire you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He shrugged. “You know it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s fine.” She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll be so invisible you won’t even know I’m there.”

“That,” he murmured, wry humor flashing in his eyes, “is a physical impossibility for you. You’re like a fire-engine-red poppy in a sea of Tuscan green.”

“Gabe—”

He held up a hand, his gaze flicking over her shoulder. “I need to talk to a couple of people, then I have a ton of work to do at home. Sit here, wait for me and I’ll drive you back to your hotel. We can talk on the way.”

She wanted to retort she wasn’t a dog, that she didn’t take orders, but this was the part where she needed to prove he could work with her.

“Fine,” she murmured sweetly. “Here I sit, waiting for you...”

He narrowed his gaze on her face, looked as if he was about to say something, then shook his head and stood. “Ten minutes.”

She watched his tall, imposing figure cut through the crowd. Holy hell, Katya. Really?

The chicly dressed West Coast crowd buzzed around her, drawn to the shining mahogany centerpiece of a bar like moths to a flame. She settled back on the stool, enjoying the relaxed, chilled-out vibe that was so far from the New York scene she was used to, it was like night and day. Sipped her wine and wondered how to approach this Gabe she wasn’t familiar with. He rarely got into a mood, he was iron man, the man most likely to walk through a burning building unscathed, his Armani suit intact. Yet tonight he was antagonized, edgy. Harder to predict.

The only thing to do was stick to the end goal, she told herself. Get the job. She hadn’t spent the last eight years slugging it out in a big, prestigious Manhattan PR firm to go back to working fourteen-hour days on brands that bored her to tears. Functioning like a corporate robot to pad someone else’s bottom line. Anderson Communications was hers. Her ticket to complete financial independence and security. She was not going to fail.

For her, freedom was everything. Misplaced testosterone had no part in it when her future was on the line.

She ran her gaze over the crowded bar with a restless energy that contrasted with the easy vibe. Continued cataloging the attributes of her target audience. A fortysomething salt-and-pepper male on the other side of the bar caught her eye.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

The one man she’d truly hoped never to see again.

Her heart stopped in her chest. Tall, lean and sophisticated in a dark gray designer suit, chatting to a quirkily beautiful blonde, he looked exactly the same. Except, now he had the gray where before he hadn’t and there were visible lines around his eyes when he smiled. That smile he knew dropped a woman at fifty paces.

It had her.

She whipped around on the stool, but not before he saw her. The shock on his face rocketed through her, made her dizzy, disoriented. She got unsteadily to her feet and walked blindly through the crowd, destination undetermined, anywhere that was far, far away from him. The faces around her blurred into a haze of polite laughter and bright lights. Of course Jordan would be here tonight. He was the CEO of the biggest spirits company in the U.S. Everyone who was anyone in the wine industry was here....

Why hadn’t she anticipated it?

A hand came down on her shoulder.

“Alex.”

She spun around, her heart jump-starting and racing a mile a minute. Jordan Lane. Her former client. The man she’d made the biggest mistake of her life with.

The man she’d loved and hated in equal measure.

“Jordan.” She forced the words past her constricted throat. “What a surprise.”

His gaze narrowed on her face as if to say he knew she’d seen him, but he played the game, capturing her hand in a deliberate gesture and brushing his lips across her knuckles. “You look beautiful. Age agrees with you.”

Meaning she’d been twenty-two when she’d met him and far too unsophisticated to ever have been able to handle a man like him. Heat roared inside of her, dark and all consuming. She pulled her hand back and pressed the trembling appendage to her side. He had used her inexperience to play her like a bow, to mold her into what he’d desired.

The charm was still there, but the predatory instinct in those startling blue eyes was clearly visible to her now. How had she not seen it before?

“How about,” she suggested icily, “we pretend I took that as a compliment and you go back to your flirtation? At least she doesn’t look half your age.”

His eyes darkened to the wintry color of the Hudson River on a stormy day. “How about we have a drink and talk about it?”

“No. Thank. You.” She turned her back on him.

“It’s about work.”

She spun around. “I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last client on this planet.”

“It takes two to tango, Alex.”

“Funny,” she bit out, “I didn’t even know I was dancing.”

His mouth tightened. “I need branding work done. I know your work and I trust you.”

Trust. Her stomach lurched. The very thing he’d taken away from her when she’d had so little to start with. She clenched her hands into fists and drew herself up to her full height, her gaze clashing with his wintry silver one. “You lied to me and dishonored your wife, Jordan. You almost destroyed my career. Don’t talk to me about trust.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight onto both feet. “I heard you lost Generes. Let me give you some work.”

She lifted her chin. “Go to hell.”

Head held high, she pushed through the crowd, anger stinging her eyes, stinging every part of her. How dare he so cavalierly dismiss what he’d done? How dare he think she’d even want to talk to him, let alone work for him? She was almost to the front doors when a hand grasped her arm. Sure it was him again, she swung around, intent on giving him a piece of her mind, but it was Gabe standing in front of her.

“Everything all right?”

She nodded. “I just need some fresh air.”

“You know Jordan Lane?”

Damn. He had seen them. She struggled to wipe the emotion from her face, to wipe away any evidence she had ever known the man who had almost destroyed her. “Yes—” she nodded “—he was a client at my old agency.”

A frown creased his brow. “He was coming on to you?”

“No.” She raked a hand through her hair and looked away from that penetrating green gaze. “He was offering me a job.”

“He’s not the kind of guy you want to work for, Alex.”

She set her chin at a belligerent angle. “Then give me the job and I won’t have to.”

He was silent for a moment. If there was one person she couldn’t read in this world, it was Gabe. He guarded his feelings with a security worthy of Alcatraz. “I’m ready to go,” he said finally, pulling the sweater out of her arms and holding it out for her. “You look exhausted. Let’s go.”

She slipped her arms into the sleeves, letting him wrap it around her. His deliciously male scent enveloped her, sending her senses into overdrive. And not the kind of overdrive that had anything to do with business.

The valet brought Gabe’s car around. He held the door open for her and she slipped into the luxurious interior of the silver-blue Porsche and sighed. So much better to be out of that crowd.

On the way to her hotel, Gabe wanted to know how his nephew, Marco, Lilly and Riccardo’s rambunctious two-year-old, was doing. She gave him an update, smiling when he asked her what he should buy him for his birthday present, because Gabe inevitably bought Marco totally inappropriate toys. No one saw fit to correct him because, really, how could you tell a proud uncle that a two-year-old, however clever Marco undoubtedly was, was not capable of building a suspension bridge by himself?

They hadn’t even begun discussing the events when Gabe parked outside her boutique Union Square hotel, cut the engine on the powerful beast of a car and looked at her. “Talk over a drink?”

She nodded, even though every bone in her body told her it was a bad idea. She wasn’t sure if it was seeing Jordan tonight that made her nervous about having a man in her hotel room or if it was just that it was Gabe, but her cozy little suite suddenly seemed far too small as they entered it and he shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie. Steady on, she told herself, turning some lights on as he folded himself into the sofa in the little sitting room. It’s just a drink.

He looked tired, she noticed, the lines at the sides of his mouth more pronounced than usual, the hand he used to rub his eyes shifting back to cradle his neck. The stress was getting to him.

She walked over to the bar. “Scotch?”

“Soda and lime if you have it. I have to drive back to the vineyard tonight.”

“Aren’t you swamped back in New York?” he asked as she handed him his drink and perched on the sofa beside him. “How can you possibly take on a job like this?”

“Some things have moved around in my calendar.” Moved permanently, as in out of her calendar, but he didn’t need to know that.

He sat back and took a sip of his drink. “Us working together is a bad idea, Alex.”

“These are extraordinary circumstances.”

“We will kill each other.”

“No,” she countered, “we will learn to work together. I haven’t even tried to be nice to you.”

His smile flashed white against his olive skin. “That thought terrifies me.”

She gave him an earnest look. “I’m the only person who can do this, Gabe.”

He set his drink down and pushed a distracted hand through his hair. “If I gave you the business, and I’m not insinuating anything here, would you do the work yourself or will it be a case of bait and switch with the juniors doing everything?”

“I’ve never done a bait and switch in my life,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you hire me, you get me.”

Oh. That didn’t sound right. She hadn’t meant get her. But he knew what she meant, right?

He shot her a sideways look. “What is wrong with you? Sit down properly, for Cristo’s sake. You’re completely on edge.”

She pushed herself deeper into the sofa. She was on edge, dammit. It was stupidly hard to concentrate with Gabe plastered across the sofa of her hotel room looking hellishly hot in a shirt and tie that would have been ordinary on any other man but made him look like stud of the century.

“Alex?”

“Sorry?” She lifted her gaze to his face.

He sighed. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “It’s been a long day.”

He pursed his lips. Took a sip of his drink. “Convince me I should let you do this.”

She got up, found her briefcase and pulled out a file. “Here are five case studies of events I’ve pulled off in this amount of time,” she said, handing it to him. “I can make this the most spectacular debut for your wine. I promise you that.”

He flipped through the folder. “This is impressive.”

“So make the call.”

He put the folder down on the coffee table and sat back. The movement drew her attention to his superb, muscular thighs. They were so good they were impossible not to ogle.

“Even if I did agree you are the right choice,” he said evenly, “we still need to discuss our other problema.”

“What other problem?”

“That problem.”

She frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He lifted a brow. “Tell me that was not a distinctly lustful look.”

“That was not lustful. That was—”

“Alex.” He angled his body toward her and captured her gaze. “You’ve been jumpy since the minute we walked into this hotel room and we both know why. You keep wondering what it would have been like to have that kiss in Lilly and Riccardo’s garden and so do I.”

Ahh. The almost kiss. The thing she couldn’t get out of her head no matter how hard she tried. She’d been slightly tipsy, standing on a stool unstringing lanterns from a tree after all the guests had left her sister’s welcome-to-summer party, when Gabe had come looking for her. She’d been caught so off guard by his sudden presence she’d nearly fallen off the stool. He’d caught her and swung her to the ground, but kept his arms around her waist. The knowledge that he had been about to kiss her had made her grab her slingbacks and run.

She scowled at him. “I’m working on about four hours’ sleep, that’s why I’m jumpy. Maybe you should just say yes to the contract so I can get some rest and—” She stared at him as he moved closer. “What are you doing?”

He lifted his hand and splayed his fingers across her jaw. “Figuring out how bad this particular problema is before I make up my mind.”

“There is no problem,” she croaked. “And if we’re going to be working together, I—”

“I haven’t said yes yet,” he cut in, his gaze purposeful. “Right now we have no working relationship whatsoever.”

They did have heat. They definitely had heat. She swallowed hard as it washed over her and made her pulse dance. “If I make this really bad you’ll say yes?”

His gaze darkened. “It isn’t going to be bad.”

No, she acknowledged, heart pounding, it wasn’t. Slicking her tongue across dry lips, she told herself she just needed to stay in control. Prove to him this attraction between them was wholly avoidable. But when he shifted his thumb to the seam of her lips in the most erotic opening to a kiss she’d ever experienced, she caved like a ton of bricks.

Her first taste of Gabriele De Campo lived up to every fantasy she’d ever had. Hot, smooth and utterly in control, his mouth slanted unhurriedly over hers, exploring every dip and curve with a leisurely enjoyment that made her want to curl her fingers into his shirt and beg. She resisted with the small amount of willpower she still possessed, but it was like being dangled over a ledge a hundred feet above the ground and told to hang on when you knew you were eventually going to fall.

She’d known he’d be good. Just not this good.

For a minute, for just one glorious minute, the temptation was too great and she let her mind go blank. And let herself savor what she’d been craving for a very long time.

He sensed her softening. Slid his hand to the back of her head and took her mouth in a drugging, never-ending kiss that upped the hotness quotient by ten. Off balance, she had to dig her fingers into his shirt and hang on.

“Lex,” he murmured, sliding his tongue along the seam of her lips. “Give me more.”

She was going to stop this in about five seconds. She was. He demanded entry again and she gave it to him. The feel of his tongue sliding sensuously against hers made her insides coil tight. This was more than a kiss, it was a full-out assault on her common sense.

And it was working.

She yanked herself out of his arms, her chest moving rapidly in and out. Her five seconds were definitely up. Way past up.

“That was not fair.”

“You need to admit you have a problem to solve it,” he murmured dryly. “Now we know.”

“We also know we can control it,” she pointed out. “Look it’s done. Presto,” she said, waving her hand at him. “Never to be had again. Curiosity’s over.”

He picked up the file and got to his feet. “Be at my office at ten tomorrow.”

She stared at him incredulously. “You’re leaving me hanging?”

He waved the file at her. “I need to read this.”

“That kiss was nothing, Gabe.”

“I’d like to see what something is.”

She watched as he straightened his shirt. Mortification sank into her bones. Why the hell had she allowed that to happen? She was supposed to be convincing him of her professionalism, not her skills in the necking department.

She followed him to the door. “You won’t regret it if you give me this job, Gabe.”

He gave her a long look. “Che resta da vedere.”

She scrunched her face up. “What does that mean?”

“That remains to be seen.”

He left. She picked up her shoe and threw it at the door. His soft laughter came from the other side. “Use the deadbolt, Alex.”

Despite her bone-deep fatigue, it took a hot shower and an hour of fretting to get herself anywhere near sleep. Gabe had been playing her and playing her well. Establishing a reason not to give her the business. She’d just been too busy being a spineless fool who couldn’t resist his Italian charm to see it.

After all these years of walking away, it had taken jet lag to do her in.

She whacked her head against the pillow and closed her eyes. If she got another chance, if he gave her the job tomorrow, she wasn’t making the same mistake twice.

CHAPTER TWO

MORNING BUMPER-TO-BUMPER traffic on Highway 101, with every motorist in northern California fighting their way into San Francisco with an aggressive zeal that said they were ten minutes late for a meeting and short on temper, wasn’t helping to improve Gabe’s mood. In fact, it had sent it to a whole other level.

He cursed, checked his blind spot and accelerated into the left-hand lane, which appeared equally blocked, but the movement at least made him feel as though he was doing something.

“Maledizione,” he muttered. “I should have stayed in the city last night.”

“One of San Francisco’s most eligible bachelors, devoid of a date on a Thursday night?” His brother Riccardo’s taunting voice sliced through the high-tech speakerphone.

“I was at an industry party.” He scowled at the tinny box. “Mention the bachelor thing one more time and you’ll be talking to empty air.”

His brother chuckled. “I’m just jealous I never made the list.”

As if. Riccardo had dated five times a man’s usual share of the styled-down-to-their-pinkie women who inhabited the island of Manhattan and it hadn’t been until he’d met Lilly and fallen flat on his face for her that the parade had ended. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “They probably figured they were doing the female population a favor.”

“Maybe so.” Humor flavored his brother’s response. “Speaking of women, talk to Matty lately?”

“No.” It struck him as strange now that he thought about it. Matty and Gabe were close and usually talked once a week. “What’s up?”

“A woman, I think. He won’t talk about it. You should call him.”

Gabe wasn’t sure his cynical attitude of late was going to be of much use to his younger brother. Matty was the Don Juan of his generation—he thought love made the world go around. Gabe wasn’t sure how he’d acquired that notion in their particular family, but that was for Matty to figure out. Not his problem. Matty’s issue was likely of the which-one-do-I-pick variety, anyway.

“What happened to the Olympian?”

“I don’t know. He hung up shortly after I asked him if her flexibility was useful in bed.”

“You don’t say?”

His brother’s tone turned businesslike. “How are the events going, by the way? Do you need me in Napa or can I just do NYC?”

Gabe’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “They’re getting there. We’re working through some kinks at the moment.” He checked his rearview mirror and moved back to the center lane. “New York’s fine. I can handle Napa.”

“Bene. The doctor said to keep a close eye on Lilly for the next few weeks.”

“You should be there,” Gabe muttered distractedly, his brain on five hundred people at his vineyard in three weeks. “How did Marco take the news of a little brother?”

“He’s estatico. Already picking out which trains his little brother can and cannot use.”

Gabe smiled. “Already a De Campo.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Nessuna.” Marco was an exuberant brute of a little boy so much like his father and the rest of the De Campo brothers it was like watching one of them as a child. Gabe was glad the little guy was going to have a brother, because his had been a lifeline in a childhood marked by his parents’ coldness. His father’s survival-of-the-fittest regime had reigned supreme in Montalcino, his mother’s lack of interest in her children blatantly apparent. A business merger between two important families did that to the family dynamic.

“I heard,” Riccardo said evenly, “that Alex flew over there to do the events.”

Gabe grimaced. “I fired the PR firm. They were spewing out garbage that was all wrong for the brand.”

“Three weeks before launch?”

“It wasn’t working.”

“So you’re letting Alex step in?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Truth was, Alex’s portfolio was brilliant. The campaigns she’d included had all been for established brands launching products with breakout potential. Just like The Devil’s Peak. Not only had her campaigns been sophisticated and clever with the big buzz potential he was looking for, they’d also been exactly the tone and feel he’d wanted in the last PR agency’s ideas.

“The board is only giving me so much leeway with the Napa investment.” Riccardo’s quietly worded warning came through the speaker. “At some point they’re going to rein us in, and I’d prefer that time be when you’ve had a chance to make things happen and they’re compelled to keep investing.”

Gabe stiffened. “You think I’m not well aware of that?”

“A launch event is a launch event, fratello, not the second coming of Christ. Get it done. Don’t let yourself get in the way of your success.”

Old animosities surged to life—charged, destructive forces that skimmed just beneath the surface. If he’d inherited his father and grandfather’s wine-making brilliance and the ability to play with the chemistry of a wine until it melted on the tongue, Riccardo had mastered the ability to see the big picture. It was the one trait, Gabe was sure, that had catapulted his brother over him to CEO, aside from the fact that Riccardo was the eldest, and Antonio was traditional to the hilt.

He scowled. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

“No,” his brother said matter-of-factly. “I’m saying we’re treading close to the line.”

Which was true. He’d seen the latest profit-and-loss statements for the Napa operations and they weren’t pretty. They weren’t meeting profit targets they’d established at launch eight years ago and there were reasons for that, yes, like the fact that The Devil’s Peak and his other star wine had matured faster than they’d expected and he’d invested in bringing them to market. But the board didn’t know they were about to reap huge financial rewards. To them, he was a number.

He let out a long breath. “These risks we’re taking—they’re going to pay off. You know that.”

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

The quiet confidence in his brother’s reply made him sink his head back against the headrest. “Dispiace,” he murmured. “It’s been quite a week.”

“Get yourself laid. It’ll help.”

“I’m too busy to get laid.”

“A man is never too busy to get laid.”

The gospel according to Riccardo. Gabe shook his head. “Do you have a problem with me hiring Alex?”

“I’m staying out of this particular discussion,” his brother returned dryly. “Better to leave it to your impartial judgment rather than face my wife’s wrath. But I will say, I’ve heard she is the best in the business.”

Gabe wouldn’t describe his attitude toward Alex as impartial, particularly after last night. But this wasn’t personal, it was business.

He and Riccardo debated which quarterback would prevail in the weekend’s football game, arranged to talk after Gabe’s meeting tomorrow with a restaurant chain they’d been courting and signed off.

Traffic started to move. He put his foot down on the accelerator and forced himself to focus on the decision at hand. Hiring Alex was the right thing to do. She might be the only person who could save him. The fact that she made his blood pressure rise by about ten points just by being in the same room shouldn’t have anything to do with it. And yet...the feel of her soft, lush mouth under his last night slammed into his brain with a force that was distinctly off-putting. The hazy desire in her big blue eyes when she’d pulled away. That was what was making him hesitate. Alex’s ability to get under his skin.

She was the type of woman you took to bed once, got out of your system then banished from your head forever. But given their familial ties, he couldn’t do that. He had to see her on a regular basis. So he’d restrained himself. Until that night in Lilly and Riccardo’s garden. Until last night. And even though he’d now assured himself she’d be spectacular in bed, she was off-limits. It pained him to admit it—but he needed her. In a couple of hours she’d be working for him. And if there was one thing he never did, it was mix business with pleasure.

* * *

Alex was two large coffees into an official snit when Gabe deigned to make an appearance at his airy warehouse office space in downtown San Francisco. It had surprised her at first, the modernity of the building, given De Campo’s historic lineage, but Gabe, his chatty PA Danielle had told her, was contemporary both in his design taste and in the way he chose to make his wines in Napa, using a blend of new and old-world techniques.

She sat up straighter in the cream-colored leather chair, her senses switching to high alert. Gabe was dressed in another of those beautifully tailored suits, this time a charcoal-gray that made his green eyes pop, and it took her pulse from zero to fifty in a second flat.

His gaze slid over her. “Scusa. Traffic was murder.”

She bit her tongue. “No worries.”

“Buongiorno,” he murmured to Danielle, requesting an espresso and for her to move his next meeting, before waving Alex into his office, an equally large, open space that offered a superb view of the city.

She sat down in the chair he pointed to and took in the hard line of his jaw. “You’re not going to give me the job.”

He shut the door, walked around the desk and sat down opposite her. “I want to get a few things straight before I give you my answer.”

She felt the need for a preemptive strike. “If it’s about the kiss, I—”

“Are you even capable,” he asked harshly, stripping off his jacket, “of muzzling that mouth of yours while I lay this out?”

Whoa. Someone had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning... His face was all hard lines and tense mouth, his broad shoulders ramrod straight under the crisp light blue shirt. “Okay,” she agreed carefully, “I’m a mute until you tell me I can speak.”

His eyes flashed and she had the feeling he would have taken that comment elsewhere had he not been so focused on the subject at hand. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. If that was supposed to intimidate her, it didn’t. “I will let you manage these events on four conditions.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to snap back that he needed her as much as she needed him, but she pressed her lips together and sat back in the chair.

“One,” he began, “I brief you today, you put an idea I like on my desk by Monday and you’re in.”

She nodded. She was nothing if not good under pressure.

“Two. If for any reason creative differences make it impossible for us to work together, I can fire you at any time.”

Hot anger singed her veins. “You are too much.”

He held up a hand, an icy, calm expression on his face. “You’re a mute, remember?”

She was going to be a killer in a second.

“Three,” he continued. “You have nothing to do with Jordan Lane. He is the competition and you will not do work for him. And four—” he trained his gaze on hers “—what happened last night doesn’t happen again.”

“You started it,” she burst out like a three-year-old.

“And now I’m ending it.” His lips tilted downward. “This is the most important launch of De Campo’s modern history, Alex. There is a ten-million-dollar ad campaign behind it. We don’t get to screw up.”

No kidding.

He pushed her portfolio across the desk. “I looked at this. You’re incredibly talented.”

She glowed at that. “Thank you.”

“I want you to work on the events. I know you’re right for this. Which means,” he added grimly, “we need to learn to work together. We need to put our personal differences aside. Put this inconvenient attraction we have for one other aside. And get this done.”

Inconvenient attraction? She supposed that’s what it was, but she didn’t like the distasteful way he said it. As if she were a bug running across the gleaming wooden floor he wanted to crush.

His gaze was on her, expectant. She lifted a brow. “Am I allowed to talk?” He nodded. “Sooo,” she began, “I’m all for that.” She had precisely one month’s office rent in reserve and she’d like to pad that, not kiss him again. “I also have no interest in working for Jordan Lane.”

“Bene.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, his dictatorial terms secured. “This is the way it’s going to work. You show me the theme—I approve. Then I see everything at every step in the process. Invitations, decor, suppliers.... Any major decision—I approve it.”

Alarm bells started to ring in her head. “Look, I know you had a bad experience with the last agency and the pressure is on, but that’s not how I work.”

“It is now.”

She reined in the urge to tell him he’d lost touch with reality. “We have three and a half weeks to pull these events together, Gabe. We’re going to have to move at lightning speed and even then, it’s going to be a minor miracle if we pull it off.”

His face was hard, implacable. “Tell me now if you can’t do it.”

“I can do it,” she barked, leaning forward and resting her palms on the desk. “But I think it’s nuts. You’re the vice president of De Campo Group. You have a wine to get out the door in a few weeks. You really want to be approving catering menus?”

“I’m creating a brand,” he returned harshly. “Everything depends on first impressions. So if I want to approve a catering menu, I will.”

“What about one of your marketing people back in New York? Surely they can work with me?”

“They’re not close enough to the ground.”

“Then get them here.”

His scowl grew. “This launch is mine, Alex. The culmination of years of blood, sweat and tears. I want to be intimately involved. You play by my rules or you don’t play at all.”

She pressed her lips together. “Do I need your approval to go to the bathroom, too?”

“Scusi?”

“Nothing.” She tapped her fingernails on the desk in a staccato rhythm. “Those poor buggers,” she muttered under her breath, feeling sorry for the last agency. But maybe it should be poor her. Because she was going to have to spend the next month of her life working for him.

“What did you say?”

She looked up at him, the tilt of her chin defiant. “I said, ‘poor buggers.’ As in I feel sorry for the old agency to have had to work with you. Are you sure they didn’t quit?”

His eyes glittered. “Are you sure you want to talk to your boss like that?”

“You’re not my boss yet.” She threw his words from last night back at him, wishing that didn’t put her head squarely back on that kiss. “I haven’t signed the contract yet. You realize I could walk out of this office right now and you’d be screwed, right?”

“But you aren’t going to do that.” He waved her portfolio at her. “I thought it was odd you weren’t booked solid, so I did some homework this morning. You just lost your biggest client, Alex. Swallowed up by a multinational. You need me.”

Her stomach dropped. “It had nothing to do with our work.”

“I’m sure it didn’t. Your reputation is exemplary.” He threw the portfolio down on the desk. “What remains are the facts. It’s me or Jordan Lane, and I can guarantee you, you want to pick me.”

She could guarantee that, too. She stared mutinously at him, hating nothing more than being boxed into a corner, but unfortunately, that’s exactly where she was. “You know what they say about great leaders, Gabe? They surround themselves with good people, they don’t get caught up in the minutia and they let their disciples make them look good.”

His gaze cooled. “Earn my trust, then. Although something tells me you are far from trainable.”

She held her hands up in the air in mock surrender. “You’ll get every menu. You might want to consider joining us at the hip, though.”

Her attempt at a joke didn’t seem to have the intended effect and she wondered if she’d hit a nerve with the leadership thing. “Elena has a room ready for you at the house,” he said abruptly. “It makes more sense for you to be there where you’ll have much more access to me.”

And why did that sound like a very, very bad idea? The kiss from last night flashed through her head again. Her burying her hands in his shirt and begging for more. Him walking away. Sure, it would be more convenient for her to stay at the winery, given the event was going to be held there, but her and Gabe in the same house? Was that asking for trouble?

“I can stay in one of the bed-and-breakfasts,” she suggested. “So I’m not underfoot.”

“You’ll stay at the house.” He pointed to the conference table. “Shall I walk you through the brief?”

She nodded. They moved to the table and Gabe took her through the brief he’d given the other agency. Five hundred people, an outdoor venue where weather could be a factor, VIP tours of the winery and a press junket to see the wine-making process. Oh, and no theme in existence.

Totally doable in three weeks, right?

She almost turned around and ran out the door. Except the desire to conquer was stronger. And maybe the urge to show Mr. Perfection she was a whole lot more than he thought she was.

She might have been describing her entire life.

CHAPTER THREE

HOW COULD SHE be freezing now?

Uttering a string of purple prose that would have made a trucker proud, Alex got up from her PC before she did something crazy, like throw it across the room. She stalked to the window and looked out over the vineyard, lush and green on a hot summer day. The sunroom Gabe had given her to work in was a wonderful, quiet space, but right now it felt like a prison. She’d said she wouldn’t leave until she had a theme. But it wasn’t coming. At all.

The only thing she’d been able to spew out thus far was a lame idea about how the rich boldness of De Campo’s new wine, The Devil’s Peak, was a feast for the senses.

Ugh. Clichéd. Boring. Done. It could have been coffee for all its originality. Which she’d had more than enough of by now, by the way.

She rubbed her fatigue-stung eyes. Of all the moments for her to have a total creative meltdown, this was not the one she would have chosen. She had forty-eight hours left to conjure up an event theme that would have De Campo on the lips of every wine lover on the East and West Coasts, but nothing was coming.

She picked up her bottle of water and abandoned her office for outside. The De Campo homestead was done in an open-concept, New England–style design that blended in perfectly with the beautiful countryside. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows let in the gorgeous Napa light, bounded by a wraparound porch, terrace and pool area. Up the rolling hill in front of her sprawled the vineyard. Maybe some sunshine and a walk into the vines would inspire her. Impart some fantastic oh, my God idea into her brain.

She walked up the hill and into the Cabernet vines, which stretched all the way up to the edge of the escarpment. A band of green topped by the pure blue Napa sky. Harvest, Gabe had told her, would be the end of summer or early fall, but the grapes on the vines already looked like perfect replicas of the most glorious still lifes. Smaller and more perfectly rounded than a supermarket grape, they were a vibrant, luscious purple. Inspirational, certainly.

Channeling hard, she tried the word-association games they used to brainstorm at the agency. Nothing came. Nada. She was officially in a slump. A ninth-inning slump, at that. A building sense of panic tattooed itself through her veins. It was Saturday. The invitations had to go out by Tuesday, latest, if they were to get into people’s busy summer calendars. Which meant Gabe had to approve a theme and invites by Monday. She had confidence in her graphic designer’s ability to turn a concept and invitation around in twenty-four hours. He was brilliant. But she needed to give him something to work with.

“A feast for the senses” was just not going to cut it.

She plopped herself down in the middle of a row, drew her jeans-clad knees up to her chest and propped her elbows on them. The Devil’s Peak, Gabe’s star wine, was a Cabernet blend. Cabernet was the most popular grape in Napa, compromising a whopping 40 percent of the harvest. Complexity, Gabe had said, the way the varietals were blended together, was the key to this wine. But what the hell did complexity mean?

That was what was freezing her brain. She didn’t understand the product. Didn’t understand what she should be brainstorming about. What was The Devil’s Peak’s key differentiator?

Gabe found her there a half an hour later, still staring glumly at the beautiful purple grapes. Her fried brain took him in. Clinging T-shirt plastered across a muscular chest, dirt-stained jeans and a sweaty, man-working-hard look provided more inspiration than the last half hour had in total.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Thank you.” She pushed a self-conscious hand through her hair. Too bad she didn’t rock the disheveled look like he did.

“Elena said you were up before her.”

At five, to be precise. One rose with the birds when severely agitated. “I have to nail this theme.”

He held out a hand. “Looking for inspiration?”

She could have said he was doing just fine in that department, but that would have violated their nothing-personal rule. So she curled her fingers around his palm instead and let him drag her to her feet. Unfortunately, his perspiration-covered, hard-packed abs were now staring her in the face. Looking down or up wasn’t an option, so she stepped back instead.

“I think I’m getting sunstroke along the way.”

He frowned down at her. “Have you had enough water?”

She held up her bottle. Took a deep breath. “I don’t understand what makes this wine special. I need to know what its key differentiator is to come up with a theme, and to me a Cabernet is a Cabernet.”

He looked down his perfect, aquiline nose at her, as if to ask why she hadn’t said something sooner. “You were with Pedro in the winery,” she said defensively. “I didn’t want to bug you.”

His frown eased. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you know about wine?”

She winced. “Three.” That might actually be pushing it.

He sighed. “You need to understand the process from beginning to end if you’re going to understand what makes the wine special.” He glanced at his watch. “I can give you a tour before my call and shower later. I just need to grab some water from the house.”

They started the tour in the rows of De Campo’s prize Cabernet vines. Maybe it was the passionate way Gabe spoke about the growing process or maybe it was because one of the hottest men on the planet was delivering the information, but wine was getting more fascinating by the minute. This Gabe, the relaxed, visionary version of the man she’d never seen before, was darn near irresistible and it was doing strange things to her ability to focus.

“You still pick the grapes?” she asked incredulously. “I thought there were machines for that.”

He nodded. “There are. For mass production that’s fine, but the machines can’t distinguish between the desirable and undesirable grapes, so for the premium wines such as the ones that come from these rows, we harvest them by hand.”

“Got it.” She nodded toward the vine he held. “So how can you tell when they’re ready to pick? They look ready to me.”

A smile curved his lips. “Try one.”

She popped one in her mouth. “Oh. It’s a bit tart.”

“It needs another couple months for the tannins to mature.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t understand those.”

He lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the easiest concept to grasp. Think of it like the structure our skeleton gives us. Tannins give that to a wine. They’re derived from the skins, stems and seeds of the grapes.”

Finally, a concept that made sense to her.

She shoved another in her mouth, swiping a hand across her chin as a rivulet of juice escaped. “Yep. Can definitely taste it’s not quite ready. Must take skill to know when the exact right time to pick is.”

“Years of practice.” He reached up and swept his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “You missed some.”

The roughness of his flesh, callused by years in the fields, made her lips tingle long after his thumb fell away. Her gaze rose to his. The sexual awareness she saw there made her heart stall in her chest.

A no-touching rule might have been prudent.

Skipping that kiss even better.

His mouth flattened into a straight line. He stepped back, out of her personal space, and she started to breathe again. “Shall we move on to the winery?”

She nodded. Sucked in an unsteady breath. What the hell was wrong with her?

Whacking herself over the head with a big mental stick, she followed him into the winery. Built around the foundation of the original historic building, it gleamed with modern efficiency. Huge stainless-steel tanks in which the grapes were fermented nearly reached the ceiling, lined up one after the other—the scale of it was breathtaking.

“Why do you move the wine to barrels?” she asked. “Why not leave it in the vats?”

“To complete the maturation process and add character to the wine.” He led her into a room that was lined with beautiful, honey-colored barrels stacked three rows high. “These are Chardonnay. Some of these barrels have been used for multiple generations of wine. Each one adds a unique flavor depending on where it’s from—French oak or American, say—and how old it is.”

He took a glass from a shelf and used the tap on the top of the barrel to pour a small amount. “Young wine is usually rough, raw and green and needs to settle,” he told her, handing her the glass. “This one’s done in a French oak barrel to add that oaky flavor you often get in a Chardonnay.”

She took a sip. It was too light and fruity for her taste. “I prefer reds.”

“We’re getting to those.” He led her downstairs to the cool, underground cellars where the premium wines were stored. Dark-bricked, high-arched ceilings supported by columns of stone were complemented by the beautiful dark woods of the original cellar. Quiet and hushed in the middle of the day, the rich, atmospheric space seemed to whisper of years gone by and the historic vintages that had been nurtured there.

“It’s unbelievable,” she whispered as he walked her into a large room with stacks of oak barrels displayed on both sides and a huge rustic table running down the center of it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. This must be the formal dining room Lilly had spoken of, where the events were held.

Gabe threw her an amused look. “Why are you whispering?”

She shrugged, spooked by the feeling there were souls down here other than their own. “It just feels like there’s so much history in the air.”

The grooves around his mouth deepened. “If you mean ghosts—there are. If you choose to believe the folklore.”

Her skin went cold. If there was anything she was afraid of, debilitatingly, horrifyingly afraid of, it was ghosts. “Do not play with me, Gabe. That’s not funny.”

He picked up two glasses and handed them to her, then took two more and motioned for her to follow him. “The story goes that the original owners, Janine and Ralf Courtland, held a huge celebration in honor of Dionysus one summer night. Half of Napa came.”

She frowned, following him out of the room. “Who is Dionysus?”

“The Greek god of wine and revelry.” He looked back at her. “Didn’t they teach you that in school?”

“Greek mythology at Mission Hill High School?” she murmured dryly. “Not quite.”

“I meant in university.”

“I didn’t go to university.”

“College, then. Wherever.’

Heat swept across her skin, this particular conversation humiliating when it was happening with ever-so-brilliant Gabe. “I pretty much flunked out of high school. They only passed me to get rid of me. It was a relief for all of us, I think, to have me gone. And that’s as far as I went.”

His gaze sharpened on her face. “I don’t get that. You have a razor-sharp brain. You must not have applied yourself.”

She recoiled at the rebuke. “It’s clear I’m not approaching the level of perfection you are, Gabe. But I did apply myself to work my way to the top of the PR industry.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Ruddy color dusted his cheekbones. “I was merely trying to understand how such an intelligent woman would have almost flunked out of school.”

“I was a bad girl,” she said sharply. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

He gave her a long look. She stared him down until he started moving again, leading the way into the room across the hall. “Apparently the Courtlands’ party was something else. Boatloads of Champagne, British royalty, a famous Vegas singer...” He leaned down and poured a glass from one of the barrels, this wine a light magenta. “Dionysus is known for instigating a frenzied madness among the celebrants. He’s all about extreme self-gratification and things can and do go very wrong.”

She and Dionysus would have been best buddies when she was younger, she was pretty sure. “And...things went wrong, I presume?”

He leaned down to pour a second glass. “Apparently Janine was in love with the Courtlands’ head winemaker, not her husband. During the celebration they lost their heads and were found down here in flagrante delicto by Ralf.”

Her jaw dropped. “No way.”

He nodded. “Ralf stabbed the winemaker and his wife to death with an ornate dagger.”

Oh, my God. Her huge mistake with Jordan Lane fresh in her mind, she stood there gaping at him. “That’s awful.”

He shrugged. “Some would say Janine Courtland got her due.”

A buzzing sound filled her ears. “Sometimes things aren’t so black-and-white.”

“And sometimes they are.” His voice had taken on a dark intensity, his gaze on hers. “Wouldn’t you put cheating in that category?”

Obviously yes. Watching her father destroy her mother with his affair with a local farmer’s wife had been devastating for her entire family. But what had happened with Jordan had shaken her. He had lied to her and told her he was divorced. But should she have seen past the lies? Seen the signs?

She licked suddenly dry lips, realized he was waiting for her response. “I agree,” she nodded. “There is no excuse for infidelity.”

He led her to another room, where he poured two more glasses of a richer-looking red. Alex tried to shake off the darkness that had invaded her. “Any particular reason the reds are down here?”

He pointed to the gravel lining the earth floor. “They’re the premium wines. Keeping them down here, where the humidity is high and the barrels rest on the earth, preserves as much of the wine as we can.” He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the barrel. “If we get three hundred bottles from this one, we’ll still lose a liter and a half along the way.”

“That much?”

He nodded. “Winemakers like to call it the Angel’s Share.”

She smiled. “I love that.”

“Very apt, no?”

They took the wine back to the dining room and sat at the ornately carved showpiece of a bar. “So where was she murdered?”

His mouth tipped up on one side. “In the last barrel room we visited.”

“And whose ghost is supposed to be down here?”

“Janine’s. Apparently she paces the cellar demanding to be brought back to life. She considers the whole situation unjust.” He shrugged. “I say apparently, because I haven’t heard or seen her since I’ve been here.”

Thank God for that. Her breath left her in a whoosh. “Time to drink.”

“Alexandra Anderson,” Gabe drawled slowly, studying her face. “You aren’t afraid of ghosts, are you?”

She waved her hand in the air. “Let’s just say they’re not one of my favorite things.”

“Interesting.” He lowered his tall, lean frame onto the stool beside her and slid a glass across the bar. “We’ll start with the lightest ones. First the Zinfandel.”

She took a sip. “Too fruity.”

“Lots of people find that.”

Next came the Pinot Noir. It was better. Smoky, maybe? She wrinkled her nose. “Too light.”

His mouth quirked. “What are you, Goldilocks?”

She smiled. “Next?”

He pushed the second-deepest-toned red toward her. She took a sip. This time the smoother, richer tone of the wine curled itself around her tongue in a mellow greeting she was fully on board with. “Mmm. This one is good.”

“I should hope so.” Humor darkened his eyes. “It’s our gold-medal award-winning Merlot.”

She took another sip. It really was good. Rich, smooth and so easy to drink... A warm glow began to spread through her body as the combined effect of the different wines and a lack of sleep hit her. She pushed her empty glass toward him. “Next.”

“Easy, tiger. You still have two more to go.”

“Two?”

“Our Devil’s Peak is behind the bar. Just getting it labeled.” He flashed her one of those schoolteacher looks of his. “What did you notice about the last wine?”

She frowned. “I dunno. It’s heavier but still soft.”

“Exactly. Merlots are softer and fruitier than a Cab, yet display many of the same aromas and flavors—black cherry, currant, cedar and green olive. You can even have mint, tobacco and tea-leaf tones in them.”

She snorted. “Green olives? You don’t actually believe all that mumbo jumbo, do you? I mean, have you ever tasted green olive in a wine?”

“Sì.” He gave her a condescending look. “I have.”

She surveyed the twist of his lips with an inner growl. He was so smug. So confident. She wondered what it would take to knock him off his peg. To kiss him again, except this time ruffle that deep, dark packaging and see what happened.

Which couldn’t happen, given their agreement. But fun to think about nonetheless...

“And this one?” She summoned her best dutiful-schoolgirl look. “Must be a Cab.”

He nodded. “From 2006. Our best year. Try it.”

She tasted it. It was rich and dark and so good she wanted to eat it up. “That is a wine.”

“The king of all reds, infatti. Cabs are the world’s most sought-after grape—they take five to ten years to achieve an optimal flavor, and they’re worth every minute of it.” He gestured toward her glass. “You should taste plum, cherry, blackberry and a hint of tobacco in that one.”

She frowned. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Lex,” he said darkly. “Focus. You aren’t going to get a feel for this unless you try.”

She took another sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. “Maybe the spice?”

“Not spice, tobacco.”

“I can’t taste it.”

His lips moved but no sound came out. He looked as though he was counting to five. Was he counting to five?

“Gabe...”

He shook his head and waved a hand at her, as if he’d given up. She pouted. Really? Could it be this hard?

He walked around the bar and pulled out a bottle without a label. “Now for The Devil’s Peak.”

She perked up. This was what it was all about.

He poured them some. She pulled her glass toward her lips. “Lex—” He muttered a curse and came around the bar. “You don’t drink wine like you’re slinging beer. You savor it.”

“That’s pretentious garbage.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled the glass away from her mouth. “It’s not pretentious garbage, it’s how to drink wine. First,” he instructed, guiding her wrist in a smooth, circular movement, “you swirl it in the glass to smell the bouquet. It’s important to get that first scent of the flavor to taste it correctly.” He pushed the glass toward her nose. “Now you inhale.” She did and lo and behold, an intense shot of berry filled her lungs.

“Cherry,” she crowed triumphantly.

“Hallelujah.” He held his hands up. “So what’s the other grape it’s blended with?”

She bit her lip. Thought hard. “Merlot?”

His teeth flashed white against his swarthy skin. “Esattamente.”

She tried to ignore how everything he said in Italian sounded sexy. How he was standing so close to her she could smell that earthy, spicy aftershave of his, bringing back heady memories of the kiss. Hell. She forced herself to focus on the issue at hand. The wine was rich like the previous Cab, smooth like the prize-winning Merlot, but there was also something else...something special she couldn’t put her finger on. “Lots of wines blend Merlots and Cabs, though, right? What makes this one so special?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Chemistry. We add the mystery ingredients, play with the yeasts and use our proprietary processes to get that perfect blend.”

So how did that play into her theme? She racked her brain. Tossed around a couple of ideas. Then a lightbulb went off in her head. Maybe that was her theme...

Chemistry. There were a million innovative ways she could make it come to life at the party. It was perfect.

“You,” she pronounced, poking her finger into his chest, “are brilliant.”

“I’m glad you’ve seen the light,” he responded dryly. “Care to share?”

“Not yet.” She wasn’t stupid. She needed to have this idea fully baked before she put it in front of Mr. Flawless here. “On Monday when I can show you the full concept.”

“Prudent of you.”

She ignored the tilt of his mouth. She could be prudent when she needed to. She did have some restraint. Another sip of the glorious wine kept the ideas flowing. She rolled it around her mouth. Yes, she could definitely get inspired about this.

“We haven’t talked about who’s going to speak to the media about all this brilliance.” She lifted a brow. “You? Antonio?”

“Me. Riccardo doesn’t want to leave Lilly alone and Antonio isn’t coming.”

She frowned. “Why? The press eat Antonio up. They love his big personality, his theatrics. He can do the big-picture historic stuff.”

His face tightened. “I’ll do it. Antonio isn’t available.”

“What do you mean isn’t available? How can he not be available for this?”

He picked up the bottle and jammed it on the shelf behind the bar. “Antonio doesn’t believe in this venture. He doesn’t believe a decent bottle of wine can be made outside of Italy and if he were to come, he’d say something damaging that would hurt us. I don’t want him here.”

“We can message him so he doesn’t go off track. Make sure he knows what he can and cannot say. I really think—”

“No.” The force behind the word stopped her in her tracks. His face was a thundercloud of black emotion. “Find another way to get press coverage, Alex.”

And that was that. He excused himself to take his call. Alex sat there finishing her wine, wondering what kind of a father showed such a lack of support for his son in the most important venture of his life. She knew from Lilly that the De Campo men were not close to their father, but she’d never had any idea the rift between Gabe and Antonio ran this deep.

Her insides twisted with a hurt so old it had been healed fifty times over. She knew all about rifts. How you said you didn’t care, but they ate away at you until you couldn’t let another person in for fear you’d drive them away, too. Her father had written her off as unrecoverable at such an early age, nothing she’d done since had compensated. None of the career ladders she’d climbed, none of the praise lauded on her by some of the world’s leading companies had helped. She could be the first woman president of the United States and he’d still have the same low opinion of her.

She pushed the glass away and took in the dark, historic cellar around her. Gabe De Campo had demons, too. Go figure.

She was pretty sure she’d just scratched the surface at that.

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