Brenna shoved her car keys into her jeans pocket and sighed. She wasn’t a very good liar, not even to herself. It might have been ten years and a lot of miles since she and Nic had been a whole lot more than friends, but some part of her remembered every detail of their time together. Especially the time they’d spent in bed.
She remembered the warmth of his skin. They’d mostly made love outdoors, so in her mind sun heat and Nic heat were almost the same. They’d discovered the sensual pleasures of making love in the cool June rain, by the beach in July, and under thick canopies of grapes on a sultry August night.
Their favorite indoor location had been the fermentation room, empty until harvest but still dark and quiet, smelling of yeast and magic. Sometimes, when she walked by the fermentation rooms at Marcelli and caught a whiff of that distinctive perfume, she flashed back to Nic’s body against her, his hands everywhere, their need spiraling out of control.
Ten years, a lot of miles, and one failed marriage later, she still remembered…perhaps more than she should.
“You made it,” he said, pulling off his sunglasses and offering a smile.
“I was motivated,” she admitted, determined to act completely cool. “And curious. I never thought of you as the pet type.”
“I’ve wanted a dog for a while. This seemed like a good time. You ready?”
She nodded and followed him to the multicar garage. Her thighs did some kind of weird shimmy thing, which made it hard to walk. She hadn’t thought about getting there—to Ojai. This was Nic—the guy who rode motorcycles.
She had an instant vision of herself on the bike with him, riding behind, holding on, being really, really close. She would wrap her arms around him and feel each time he took a breath. Eventually their hearts would start to beat in unison, just as soon as hers stopped kicking into hyper-drive. It would be fun, intimate, exciting, and more than a little dangerous.
She couldn’t wait.
He stepped into the garage and hit a button that activated an overhead door. Light spilled in from outside. As her eyes adjusted, she saw an expensive Jaguar convertible—the really sleek kind, a Land Rover, and three motorcycles. Which was two more than he’d had before.
As she glanced around for extra helmets, Nic walked to the Land Rover and held open the passenger door. “In case we come back with a puppy,” he said. “I don’t want it chewing up my good car.”
Sensual heat drained out of her like water draining out of a bathtub. Right. Nic was buying a dog. People didn’t show up on a motorcycle if they were pet shopping. It wouldn’t look responsible. It’s not as if the puppy could wear a helmet and hang on from behind. What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t, she realized as she slid into the passenger seat and waited while Nic closed the door. She’d been caught up in the past and feeling. Which was really stupid. What about her dreams? What about her mission? The drive to Ojai was her opportunity to convince Nic to loan her the money. She had to focus.
As Nic settled in next to her, she vowed to keep things strictly business. She was about to mention the loan when he spoke.
“Have you started harvesting the Reserve Chardonnay?” he asked.
“Yesterday.”
He turned the key and started the engine, then glanced at her. “And?”
“The grapes are pretty spectacular,” she admitted. “Exactly ripe, with just enough sweetness. You wouldn’t have to have any talent to make this harvest a success. What about you? The Chardonnay grapes ready?”
“In most of the fields. I have crews out.”
They backed out of the garage. He hit a remote to close the door, then turned the vehicle and headed down the main drive to the highway.
“And?” she asked, grinning. “Are you going to have a brilliant year?”
“It looks that way.”
She wasn’t surprised. She’d been hearing that it was turning into a good harvest for everyone. Which was a whole lot better than the years when everyone was scrambling. She still shuddered when she thought back to 1998 when California Cabernet had suffered from low yields due to uncooperative weather. The Cab grapes hadn’t ripened correctly. It had been one of the few times she hadn’t minded not being involved with Marcelli Wines.
“So what did you and your grandfather argue about?” he asked.
“I want to use some of the Reserve grapes for a cuvée. He thinks they should all be bottled as Reserve Chardonnay. They’re our best-producing vines and I see his point, but I’ve had this idea for a great cuvée. He’s a purist and old-fashioned.”
Nic glanced at her. “Chardonnay is one of the most popular wines around. Why would you want to try something new?”
“Because I think blends are becoming more popular. Both Kendall-Jackson and Columbia Crest up in Washington State have done really well with Cabernet-Merlot blends. Qupe Winery has a cuvée that sells out about thirty seconds after it gets bottled.”
“And because you like to experiment.”
She shrugged. “I’ll admit it. I want to create the perfect white wine. Light, slightly fruity. I want the finish to be crisp, with a hint of sweetness. Minimal oak. I want it to taste cold, even when it’s not.”
He glanced at her. “That’s a tall order.”
“It can be done. Assuming you cough up the money, I’m going to buy the Schulers’ Chardonnay grapes. I have some Voignier on reserve up in Napa. I figure with the right blend and barrel fermenting I’ll—”
“You’re going to barrel ferment?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You sound like my grandfather. Yes, I am. I know it’s expensive and more time-consuming, but the blend will be smoother and the color lighter. Which is what I want.”
“What about your Pinot Noir?”
She watched as they merged onto 101 south heading for the off ramp that led to Ojai.
“I went and saw the grapes last week. They need about another month.”
“You know good Pinot’s a bitch to make.”
She turned to look at him. “I am more than up to the challenge.”
He grinned. “Okay, so Chardonnay, a cuvée, and Pinot. Anything else on the Brenna Marcelli radar scope?”
She did ten minutes on her plans for the perfect Cabernet. As she wasn’t able to grow her own grapes, not yet anyway, she’d lined up a list of potential purchases. Rather than buy in bulk from one seller, she would pick up small batches from several to get the exact blend she wanted.
“I’m going a hundred percent on this Cab,” she concluded. “No Cab Franc or Merlot to smooth it out. I’m not looking for a wine that will cellar for twenty years, either. At least not at first. I want it good in three years and great in four.”
“Don’t we all?”
She allowed herself a smile. “The difference is I know how to do it.”
“And I don’t?”
“Did I say that? You do fine. Wild Sea is known all over the country.”
“Volume not quality?”
The argument was familiar.
“I’ve kept track of Wild Sea wines,” she said. “You know all this, Nic. You’re too focused on getting the most number of cases per ton. You need to give up that last ten percent. It’s not worth it. Oh, and there were a couple of poor barrel choices for the 2000 Reserve Merlot.”
“This is how you convince me to loan you money? By insulting my wines?”
She shifted in her seat, adjusting the seat belt so she could face him. “If you didn’t want my opinion, you wouldn’t have asked.”
“I don’t recall asking.”
“You phrased ‘volume, not quality’ in a tone of voice that implied a question. That’s asking.”
He glanced at her. “You’re still stubborn.”
“I’m also still right. You might outsell Marcelli Wines four to one, but we get nearly three times as many wins at competitions, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about our ratings from the various magazines and critics.”
“No, you don’t. Want to compare gross profits?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Only if you want me to drool in your car.”
“Let’s save that for the puppy.”
They left the freeway and turned onto the road to Ojai. August in California meant sunny days and little rain. In summer much of the state turned brown.
Brenna studied Nic’s strong profile and the competent way he drove.
This was the longest they’d spent in each other’s company in what felt like forever. She was nervous about a lot of things, but also oddly relaxed. Maybe because he’d always been so easy to be around. Because of their differing opinions on everything from wine to politics, they fought all the time. Yet their arguing was never hostile—instead it was more of a hobby they shared. They discussed with plenty of emotion, they called each other names, they even threatened bodily harm—in the best way possible, all without either of them ever really getting mad. At least they used to. Currently, they were only arguing.
She found herself wondering what he’d been doing for the past ten years. Oh, she knew the basics. He’d spent eighteen months in France, exiled by his grandfather, Emilio. Best not to think about that, she told herself. After all, Nic being driven away had pretty much been her fault.
In the end Nic had been vindicated when his grandfather begged him to return to run the family vineyard. Nic had agreed, taking over the day-to-day operations. When Emilio died, Nic inherited everything.
In the past seven or eight years Wild Sea had grown, mostly through acquisition. If a winery went out of business, or someone got tired of the ups and downs of the industry, Nic was there with the best offer to be had. He’d always said he wanted to be the biggest and best. By most standards, he already was.
“Why do you want to bother?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts. “You could fall on your butt and end up owing me a million dollars plus interest.”
She’d done her best to forget why she was here. Suddenly it was show time. She considered the question.
“I was a fool to walk away from Marcelli Wines ten years ago. I didn’t realize my heart and soul were buried in the land and that without them I was an empty shell.”
“And here I thought you were happily married.”
She tried to figure out if there was heat or sarcasm in his words, but couldn’t hear either. Maybe it was just a statement.
“I thought I was, too. It was all an illusion. Now I’m back and I can’t believe the difference. I never want to lose the land or the vines again. My grandfather has options he considers a lot more interesting than leaving me in charge, so I’m willing to take the chance. I don’t consider failure possible.”
“Some people would say that’s arrogant.”
“I don’t care what some people say. I know what I’m doing. I have a plan. I’m not afraid to work hard.”
“What are you afraid of?”
She straightened in her seat and stared out the front window. “Interesting question. I guess being stupid. Giving it all up for something that doesn’t matter.”
As soon as the words fell out of her mouth, she wanted to grab them and stuff them back. Of all the idiotic, insensitive, ill-timed things to say, that was it. If she wanted to make sure Nic didn’t loan her the money, she’d just come up with the perfect strategy.
“So we have that in common,” he said, his voice even.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Nic, I—”
“Don’t sweat it,” he said, cutting her off.
“But I really—”
“No, you don’t. I’m not interested in the past. It’s boring. I find the future far more intriguing. Assuming you make it through the first year, then what?”