He grabbed her hand. She steeled her heart against the fit of their fingers. “Come join my table for the wine tasting later. Luke will be there. And you never did meet Grayson.”
“Evan.” She hesitated, digging deep for the resolve she’d found on her drive back from San Francisco. “I work for St. Isadore. You’re the owner. This is a work event.” She glanced at the terrace, now packed with faces she recognized from news articles she’d read on her phone. “Tonight, I’m your winery employee.”
A shadow passed over his expression, but it disappeared so fast she wasn’t sure if she actually saw it. “Sorry. I forgot. Professional. In fact, until the party is over, I’ll act like I barely know you.”
She laughed. “Good luck acting like you don’t know your own winemaker.”
“But tomorrow,” he said, his voice dropping to the bass rumble that made thrills run up and down her spine, “tomorrow we need to discuss your new contract. I look forward to the part before we sign it.”
“Speaking of,” she started, only to be interrupted from a shout coming from behind Evan.
“Hey, Fletcher! I like your wine. So let’s talk.”
She peered over Evan’s shoulder and saw a man, about Evan’s age, grab a glass of wine off a passing tray and then veer toward them. Even without the shouting, he would still draw a second glance from her, thanks to his shock of bright red hair. He was popular, too. He barely took two steps before one guest after another came up to engage him in conversation.
Evan turned around and waved to acknowledge the shout. “Angus.”
“That’s Angus Horne?” she stage-whispered. “I was expecting someone...older. More established-looking.”
“The older, more established people all said no to the amount of investment I’m looking for. But Angus likes risk and Medevco fits into his international strategy.” Evan glanced down at her, calculations already forming behind his eyes. “I need to meet with him and Luke.”
He let her hand go, but not without one final squeeze, and began to make his way toward the clump of people surrounding Angus Horne. “Until later.”
“You have no idea,” she muttered to herself. But until then, she had to get through the party. She turned to find Aracely, only to hear her name called. “Marguerite! So good to see you’re still here.”
She smiled as Orson Whitaker approached her, his wheelchair lightly humming. Owner of the Adrasteia Group, one of the largest beverage alcohol companies in the world—which included Dellavina Cellars among its brands—he and Linus were of the same generation and had run in the same social groups.
She smiled. “Mr. Whitaker. A pleasure.” She grabbed a nearby unused chair and sat down next to him.
He shook her proffered hand, holding it with both of his. “Call me Orson. The old place looks amazing. I’m so sorry I missed Linus’s memorial, but work took me to Europe and I only now returned for the summit. My condolences, again.”
“Thank you. He would’ve been happy to hear your compliments, although he would have thought them naturally his due.”
“Now, we both know Linus would’ve never approved of the barbeque. Even the strings of lights, pretty as they are.”
“True. He would have said they were below the dignity of St. Isadore.”
“I also hear you’re doing interesting things with wine. Dellavina Cellars hired the wrong person.” Orson chuckled. “Don’t look so surprised. My granddaughter Gabrielle is impressed with you. And not impressed with Vos.”
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “Gabrielle... Gabi is your granddaughter? She hasn’t said anything.”
“Gabrielle earned her internship. She’s a natural winemaking talent.”
“I agree.”
“Yes, it takes one to know one. But you also understand why Gabrielle doesn’t volunteer the information.”
“I do know something about keeping relationships quiet out of fear of people getting the wrong idea.” Marguerite said, her gaze searching out Evan.
Orson nodded and turned to look over the terrace and the vineyards beyond. “Pity I didn’t pursue this place when it was up for sale. I assure you Adrasteia Group would have been a better fit for St. Isadore instead of selling to Evan Fletcher. I would have given you a fair price.”
“Given me a fair price? You mean Linus’s great-nephews.”
Orson swiveled his head to look at her, his eyebrows raised. “No, my dear, I mean you. Linus was clear you should receive what you deserve.”
Despite the warm temperature, Marguerite’s teeth chattered as if she were in the Artic. “You must be mistaken.”
“Young lady, I am rarely mistaken. Which is why I am a charter member of the group gathering here today.” He looked at her closely. “I see this is news to you. Ah. Well, perhaps he thought better of it. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.” He turned his chair to leave.
“Wait—when did he say that?”
He thought for a moment. “It was the last time I saw him. Shortly before his stroke, I believe. But people do change their plans, you know.” He reached out and patted her hand where it lay on her chair’s armrest. “However, do not doubt he knew the value of your contributions. I may have hired Vos, but Linus was adamant you were the true talent. Not that he was about to let you go, of course. A good man, Linus was, but he had his selfish streak. Now, if you will excuse me, I should say hello to others.” He wheeled away. Rather jauntily, Marguerite thought, for someone who’d just thrown a grenade into her life and shredded it.
She rose from the chair and put it back where she’d found it, leaning on its back when tears sprang into her eyes. Linus had appreciated her. He meant to upheld their bargain and turn the Delacroix vineyard over to her after all. A piece of her soul she hadn’t been aware was missing clicked back into place.
He should have told her to her face, and she should have insisted on a formal agreement from the start. She’d allowed sentiment to lead instead of logic. And while it was good—oh, so good!—to learn from a third party he’d meant to keep his word, he hadn’t followed through.
Still, the angry hurt that punched holes in her heart whenever she thought of Linus folded up its daggers and faded away.
“All is well?” Aracely materialized next to her.
“Huh?” Marguerite shook her head to clear it. “Yes. Of course. Why?”
“You have impersonated a statue for ten minutes.”
Marguerite relaxed her shoulders, but they almost immediately sprang back to their previous position around her ears. “I’m fine. Just...thinking.”
Her gaze found Evan again, standing in a tight knot consisting of Angus Horne and Luke. They were deep in intense discussion, the crowd ebbing and flowing around them like a river around a rock.
This was going to be the longest party she’d ever attended, and it had just started.
* * *
Evan sat down in the creaky leather chair and dropped his head into his hands. How had he not foreseen this? He was dealing with Angus Horne. It was a given the negotiations would not be straightforward.
He had to hand it to Angus, however. Horne loved creating chaos, but even he couldn’t have known how much mental turmoil he was causing Evan.
The hour was late. The wine tasting was long over, and the cleanup crew was gone. Only the barbecue pit on the terrace, waiting to be removed in the morning, provided physical evidence the party had occurred. The guests had dispersed to the nearby summit host hotel, most of them probably asleep in order to get an early start to a weekend full of keynote speeches, exclusive roundtable discussions and chance encounters that would shape the direction of global business for the year to come. Those that weren’t asleep—well, they were no doubt engaged in far more pleasurable activities than sitting in the dark in a faux Gothic library, contemplating the best choice between a rock and a hard place.
Evan
had picked the library in the owner’s residence for soul-searching in the wee hours of the night because it was the one room at St. Isadore that he had yet to touch, in part because the furnishings were massive and would require teams of workmen to remove—and perhaps necessitate rebuilding the entire room. The heavy oak bookcases stretched from the floor to the ceiling high overhead. The reading nooks—there were three—featured armchairs that could accommodate two people plus a good-sized dog. The desk he sat behind was solid wood on three sides, with sizable drawer pedestals. If he put it in his San Francisco office, he’d barely have room left over for a potted plant.
And grapevines were everywhere. Carved into the crown molding. Painted on the sides of the bookcases. Woven into the rugs.
The room had nothing to do with Silicon Valley, not even a computer to remind him of tech-world wheeling and dealing. But it had everything to do with St. Isadore.
And Marguerite. Whom he’d managed to avoid ever since he, Luke and Angus had shaken hands on the outline of the deal to put Medevco on the international map.
In the past week, he couldn’t shake himself of certain visions. Marguerite falling asleep on his shoulder after a long day, laughter around a fully occupied dinner table, a small child with dark curls tugging on his hand. He even began to wonder if he could make those visions a reality.
But he should have known. His life was not meant to have such things.
He should have known. His life wasn’t meant for such things.
His hands would not stay still. He picked up the paperweight sitting on the desk, looking for something to occupy his fingers while his mind built and discarded one decision tree after another. But the paperweight, a crystal globe encasing a miniature version of the winery, was lighter than he’d anticipated, the smooth surface more slippery. It rolled out of his grasp and under the desk.
“Damn it.” He had no idea if the object had any monetary or sentimental value. He turned on the lamps and to get a better look but the paperweight had rolled to the far corner. Nothing to do but crawl under the desk.
The desk was tall enough for him to be on his hands and knees with headroom to spare. Using the flashlight app on his cell, he reached for the paperweight with his other hand but his fingertips put enough spin on the globe to shoot it out of his grasp. He sighed and rolled his eyes, waving the phone around for illumination Then he stared.
Something white was sticking out from behind the drawer pedestal on the left side. Several somethings. The desk had been emptied before he moved in, but some items must have fallen behind the drawers and been overlooked. He reached out and pulled.
The flashlight app revealed a motley collection of flotsam and jetsam that had been shoved in drawers, fallen behind them and then forgotten over the years. An invoice addressed to the Kennedy-era White House for several cases of Chardonnay. Bills of sale for new oak casks. Faded drugstore receipts, mostly illegible. A small leatherbound ledger with “M. Delacroix” inscribed on the front. A ticket stub from opening night of the San Francisco Opera, dated 1987. More receipts—
Wait. Evan found the ledger again, using the flashlight on his phone to look at it more carefully.
M. Delacroix? As in Marguerite?
He opened the ledger and a handwritten note on a piece of lined legal-size notepaper, folded into threes, fell out.
He unfolded the paper and started to read.
* * *
Marguerite couldn’t sleep. Not only was she still keyed up from the party—St. Isadore had worked its usual magic on the guests, who’d raved about her wine and Hunter Chase’s food and the overall ambiance—she was acutely aware Evan was in the owner’s residence, only a brisk fifteen minutes’ walk away.
She hadn’t had a chance to speak to him after their brief conversation on the terrace. Despite receiving two bottles to take home as party favors, many guests had asked to purchase additional wine as well as St. Isadore souvenirs. She had been pressed into service at the second cash register in the gift shop when she wasn’t busy giving impromptu tours to people who requested them. Evan had seemed equally preoccupied even after his conversation with Angus Horne had concluded, dashing about the party, flashing his grin as he mingled with guests, but his gaze never finding hers. By the time she’d finished helping with cleanup, he was nowhere to be found, and she’d assumed he was having a nightcap with his fellow titans of industry or perhaps turning in early to attend the summit meetings the next day.
But the thing about revelations—like the one she’d been sitting on all week—was that they had to be shared. Casper’s taunts and Orson’s kind words and her own heart, demanding to be heard, were not going to let her sleep.
So when she looked out her window and saw light coming from what had to be the library, she didn’t hesitate. Nico had pretty much moved into Gabi’s apartment, so the lit lamp had to signify Evan’s presence. She threw on sneakers and a long cardigan over her knit pajama pants and camisole and, after grabbing a flashlight on her way out of the apartment, ran down the stairs and into the main garage on the other side of the courtyard.
The quickest way to the library, she knew from her previous role as Linus’s assistant, was through the secret passageway that connected the former stables to the main building. The winery maintenance staff continued to keep the tunnels in decent shape, so she arrived on the other side of the secret door without any mishap or unwanted encounters with four-, six-or eight-legged creatures. She paused, twisting her hair into a semblance of a bun on top of her head and using the time to bring her breathing under control. Although, if things went as she hoped, she would be plenty breathless soon.
Then she knocked. “Evan? It’s me.”
She heard a loud thump, followed by a groan. She wrenched the door open, revealing the life-size portrait of Linus on the other side. “Evan? Are you okay?”
She blinked several times as her eyes got accustomed to the light, dim as it was. Where was he—oh. She blinked again, this time at the sight of Evan crawling out from under the desk commissioned by the original founder of St. Isadore. He held one hand to the back of his head.
She crossed the room, leaving the secret door open. “What happened? Are you hurt? Let me see.”
But when she reached for him, he evaded her touch, retreating into the shadows as she advanced. His eyes were dark and unreadable. “I’m not imagining this. You really are here.”
It was a flat statement. No, more than flat. His voice was controlled. And that scared her. Evan didn’t do controlled. He bantered and, on occasion, blustered. The lack of emotion stopped her cold. “I am.”
His gaze flicked away from her and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Should have known. Another late-night break-in. How many times didn’t I catch you?”
“I... I haven’t... I saw the light on and the secret passageway was the fastest way to reach the library—”
“Of course. Secret passageway. Another of St. Isadore’s secrets.”
“Evan, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Did Angus say no to the investment?” It was a possible explanation for Evan’s behavior. Although she doubted a business deal, even a deal that turned sour, would cause this reaction.
Ha! If only.” The derision in his tone turned her from scared to petrified. “That’s good, right?” She wrapped her arms around her, both to stay warm and because the atmosphere required armor of some sort. “Congratulations. I know how hard you’ve worked.”
“You might want to hold your congrats.”
“He would only invest in Medevco if I included St. Isadore in the pot.” Evan fell into the chair, pressing his fingers hard into his temple. He wants me to sell the entire estate to him.”
Sell St. Isadore? Was she too late? Marguerite took the guest chair from its place, pulled it around to the other side and sat next to him. Her hands were numb. She didn’t know if they would ever warm up. “Hav
e you given him a response?”
”My first thought was to counteroffer.” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe give him a partial interest. Or the wine-distribution rights. Or sell him the private residence, since he kept talking about the winery’s ‘chill vibes’ and ‘potential for social,’ but I’d keep the rest.” He shook his head. “Something. Anything to satisfy Horne’s deal requirements but maintain control of St. Isadore.”
The pressure on her chest making it difficult to breath lessened. Evan didn’t jump at chance to sell. Maybe St. Isadore meant something to him more than dollars and cents. She tried to smile. “It’s disappointing you didn’t get what you wanted from Horne right away, but this is just the opening salvo in the negotiations.”
“There won’t be another round of negotiations.” His tone was final. And that was the scariest thing she had heard all night thus far.
She rose from her chair and started to pace along the rug. “So, what happens next? You’ll sell St. Isadore to him?”
Her voice cracked on the word sell, but she recovered by the time she finished speaking. The thought of losing St. Isadore anew caused her skin to prickle as though punctured by thousands of straight pins. It hurt, damn it.
But it was nothing compared to the pain caused by the ice in Evan’s gaze. He’d never looked at her that way—not even when he first caught her taking her wine from the owner’s cellar.
“Why are you here, Marguerite?”
She blinked at the non sequitur. “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
“No. Why are you here, at St. Isadore? Why did you break in that night?”
She frowned. What did he mean by his question? “I told you.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to restore feeling to her fingers. “I thought the new owner would tear down the buildings, and I wanted to save the wine I made.”
Who's the Boss Now? Page 13