JAMES (7 Brides for 7 Brothers Book 6)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Are you sure? In about two kilometers, we will reach a road that will take you up to Villa Pietro.”

  Up? It was higher than this? God help him. “No, thank you. Just get me to the hotel in Positano, please.”

  “But you must want to stop for lemon granita.” He pointed to a lookout jammed with tourists, all taking pictures and surrounding a large yellow and white truck selling some kind of Italian lemonade. “The oldest genuine granita in the world, only in Positano,” the driver added. “And the view is world famous. Everyone stops here.”

  “I’m not everyone,” he said, peering past the crowd to see the world-famous view, which was little more than treacherously balanced pastel buildings that looked like they’d roll down the mountain and onto the beach with the next strong wind.

  “It’s pretty, yes?” the driver asked, his gaze on James instead of the curve in the road.

  “Yes.” Pretty remote. “The Hotel Eden Roc, please.”

  The driver got the message and continued on in silence, dodging more scooters, passing trucks, and careening past a thousand parked cars on a road not much wider than a bike path.

  Miraculously, no one died. The limo driver pulled up to a hotel that was four stories built into the side of the mountain. The rough stone façade was broken up by wrought-iron balconies covered in the same fuchsia flowers that had to be weeds, considering they popped out of every rock and wall.

  Leaving the driver to get his bags, James stepped into a quiet, elegant, and understated lobby, grateful his assistant knew to find him exactly the kind of upscale boutique hotel he preferred.

  Before he even got to the desk, a man came up on his left and greeted him by name. A woman behind the desk delivered her buongiornos with a huge smile. Another young man joined in the welcome, all of them spewing a mix of Italian and broken English at him as they informed him that he had Suite 6, the best in the building.

  A bellman guided him in the direction of an elevator just as a woman nearly knocked him over, jumping right into his path.

  “James?” She was petite, barely five-four, with a wild mass of long blond hair and the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen, sparking like gas flames at him. “Um, I mean, Mr. Brannigan. Sorry.” She grinned and rolled her eyes as if her faux pas was just part of her charm. “Mr. Brannigan.”

  An American, he knew instantly, drawing back at the sheer presence of all that…blond brightness. “Yes. James Brannigan. Can I help you?”

  “No, no! I’m here to help you.” Dimples, two of them, deep and symmetrical, punctuated her sweet pink lips like a couple of exclamation points.

  He glanced at the bellman, rooting for the Italian word for help. But the young man stepped back, smiling as if James, of course, wanted this particular distraction on the way to his suite.

  She extended her hand, and he took it, closing his hand around slender fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. “Kyra Summers, sir, and we are so happy you’re here. So, so happy.” Her eyes danced as she shook his hand with the fury of someone trying to explode a soda bottle. “Happy,” she repeated.

  He’d have to remind his assistant to book him somewhere a little less, well, happy. “It’s good to be here, Miss…Summers.”

  God, the name fit her. She was human sunshine and daisies, with a pink and white cotton dress that revealed tanned shoulders and hugged feminine curves on top and spread to a loose, flowing skirt that fell just above her knees. He forced his gaze back to eyes the color of the skies over his California childhood home.

  “We’re very excited about your visit,” she said, a quiver of nerves apparent in her voice. “It feels like we’ve been waiting forever for…a Brannigan. And now you’re here!”

  He let out an uncomfortable laugh at her enthusiasm and glanced again at his bellman, wondering if this really was standard at the Eden Roc. “Yes, I’m here,” he said, taking a step toward the hall and elevator.

  She came right with him. “Did you have a good trip? Was it long? You’re right on time, though, so it went well?” She bit her lip and looked up at him, a cross between a puppy and a…bubbly, sunny, dimply Kewpie doll. He’d have to give the welcoming committee props, though. The greeter was gorgeous, if you liked the effervescent type. He didn’t.

  “It’s all good,” he assured her. “I’ll just, uh, get to my room.”

  “Of course!” She clapped her hands like this just occurred to her. “Well, that’s fine, you get settled and I’ll take you when you’re ready.” She pointed to a settee under a display of ceramic platters on the wall. “I’ll be right here. Where I’ve been…” She let out a chuckle that sounded more like bells than laughter. “For a while, right, Aldo?”

  Aldo nodded and grinned. “She has been waiting,” he confirmed in accented English. “Very…speciale guest.”

  “So special!” she agreed. “I’ll wait until you’re ready. Then we’ll go!”

  “Go…where?” He frowned and glanced around for assistance, vaguely aware of the irony that the only other American in the room was speaking words that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t going anywhere; it wasn’t on his quarterly hour schedule.

  “To dinner,” she said. “I know it’s early, but there’s so much to see and do, and dinner will take hours, and you’re on a different time now, so this is…” Her words faded as crystal blue eyes searched his. “You don’t want to have dinner?” A little sadness softened her voice and did something stupid to his heart.

  Why should he care if he crushed this little imp hired by a hotel to make him feel welcome? “I have to work.” The four words rolled off his tongue with as much familiarity as his own name.

  “I thought you might…I mean…you have to eat and…”

  “I have a call with Hong Kong and conferences,” he said, but even as the words came out of his mouth, they sounded as wooden as they tasted.

  “Oh.” The smile faded. The eyes dimmed. The dimples disappeared.

  James felt a physical kick in the gut and no small burn of shame for acting like a dick to this woman who was nothing but nice. “But I could have dinner.” As his words came out, they surprised both of them.

  Sunshine burst forth again, warming him whether he liked it or not. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll wait. I’ll take you there.” She reached out, almost making him flinch at the unexpected jolt when she made contact with his arm. “We’re so happy you’re finally here, Mr. Brannigan. We’ve been waiting and waiting for this very day.”

  No wonder the hotel ranked so high. “Thank you,” he said, taking a slow step away. “I should make a call, but…”

  But Hong Kong would be there tomorrow. And he was suddenly famished.

  “Take your time.” She backed away and dropped onto the settee, the pink skirt spreading like flower petals against the silk. “I’ll be right here.” He must have looked a little stunned at his own decision, because she added a reassuring smile and said, “It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun.” He repeated the word, as foreign as the language in this country. James Brannigan didn’t do fun. He didn’t do impulsive blondes with captivating smiles and too many exclamation points, either.

  Well, apparently, he did in Italy. “I’ll just be a few moments, Miss Summers.”

  “Kyra,” she corrected. “My name is Kyra.”

  It sounded as musical as she was, and James was only a little surprised that he was still smiling when he stepped into his suite.

  Chapter Two

  Big old jerk. Big old hot, handsome, loaded, controlling, scary, uptight, overdressed, kind of sexy if he were a little nicer jerk.

  This did not bode well for Villa Pietro, Kyra thought, nibbling on her lip and pulling a thread on the antique sofa in the lobby. Things didn’t look bright for her beloved Sebastiani family with this nasty new owner.

  The whole family had been in an absolute tizzy since they’d gotten the news the new American owner was flying over for a visit. What does it mean? Why would he come? What will happen to us?

&
nbsp; Anamaria broke out her finest alabaster rosary that Pope John Paul himself had blessed. Lorenzo and Elena locked themselves in the office and dragged out every medal awarded by the Italian Sommelier Association over the last two decades. Enzo and Filippa had their heads together, too, in the kitchen of the big house, preparing feasts they would serve on the expansive courtyard patio for their guest of honor, murmuring about their little boys’ futures. Antonio checked the cellars so often, Sofia was worried he’d be underground when she went into labor. And Bruno got plastered and stayed out until sunrise.

  Well, that wasn’t unusual, but the rest of the normally happy, hardworking, God-fearing, family-loving Sebastiani clan were wired tight and scared to death. They loved growing their noble grapes on rough-hewn pergolas set into vertical terraces. They kept their winemaking secrets and prided themselves on the glorious rosso and bianco and rosato, their picturesque villa and exclusive tastings, their festive harvests followed by peaceful winters.

  And Kyra loved them, so she would do whatever was necessary to ensure that family—her family now—could continue the fifty-year-old tradition of the Sebastianis running Villa Pietro.

  Whatever was necessary…including suck up to the sourpuss owner. That was fine, though, and came with Kyra’s job title, the one she basically invented during the week she first visited—and never left—the winery. Loosely translated, she was the “American Tourist Liaison,” but in reality, she was the wandering nomad who stepped into a magical family and became part of it, doing whatever needed to be done to help each and every one of them.

  It was her job to go between the Sebastiani family and the hordes of mostly American tourists who’d discovered the precious villa and winery high in the hills above Amalfi’s top tourist destination, Positano. So it made sense that Kyra would be the one sent to meet and greet the new owner, to butter him up and take him to the dinner that he apparently forgot about.

  Or, worse, didn’t care if he missed.

  Yep, it would take a lot more than butter and at least a vat of last year’s harvest to warm up that stone-faced hard-ass. They might have to boil him in olive oil.

  The front door opened, and she recognized Silvio Manzi, a driver who worked for a local car service and frequently brought tourists to the winery.

  “Hey, Silvio,” she said as he wheeled a suitcase and carry-on. “So you picked up Mr. Brannigan in Sorrento, huh?”

  Silvio heaved a sigh. “Sì.”

  “What did you think?” she asked, hoping for something positive.

  “Not a talker,” he said. “But he mentioned that he was going to Pietro tomorrow.” He frowned at her, thinking. “He didn’t want to go now. What are you doing here? Just greeting him?”

  “What do you mean he didn’t want to go? He’s supposed to be there for dinner tonight.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “I just…” She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. She’d never told him she was with the winery, dang it. So he just thought she was some random blonde off the street inviting him to dinner.

  And he accepted.

  Standing, she glanced around the corner, half expecting him to come back any minute and change his mind. “I’m taking him up to dinner at Pietro. That’s what we’d planned when his assistant sent his schedule to Lorenzo. Of course, Elena wanted him to stay at the house, but his assistant said he had to be at a hotel.” Which was probably where the miscommunication came in. “Did he tell you why he was here?” she asked.

  Silvio shrugged. “To visit the winery.”

  “Visit? That’s all?” At Silvio’s confused look, she asked, “He didn’t tell you he’s the new owner?”

  The young man drew back, his dark eyes wide. “Really?”

  “His father used to own it. He was some gazillionaire who owned movie studios and half of California, bought Pietro from its previous owner, then disappeared and let the Sebastianis continue to run it for twenty-four years. He never showed up, not once. Now he’s dead, and here’s the new owner.” Even though her English was spoken quickly, Silvio got the gist of what she was saying and looked suitably worried.

  “So he didn’t say what he wanted to do with the winery?” she pressed, standing up. “Move in? Change anything? Expand it? Cut back? Nothing?”

  He shook his head, but she wasn’t sure if that meant he didn’t know or didn’t follow the rapid-fire English questions. “Well, whatever he does,” she said on a sigh, “Lorenzo and Elena have a plan.”

  Silvio laughed. “Food and wine cure all?”

  “Pretty much,” she agreed. The whole winery had essentially come to a screeching halt when they got the news that James Brannigan was coming. The entire family, all the staff, and half the neighbors had launched into a preparation of meals, tours, and general behind-kissing that would make you think Francis himself was coming down from the Vatican in the popemobile.

  “You go.” She gave him a nudge. “Get his stuff to him in Suite 6. I’m taking him up to Villa Pietro now.”

  His eyes popped. “You?”

  “Yes, me. Why?”

  He looked outside. “But I didn’t see the Pietro van.”

  “That beast? Only Bruno can drive that on these roads. My Vespa seats two.”

  Silvio looked horrified. “I’ll drive him, Kyra.”

  “No! I want to take the scenic route.”

  “He won’t like that.”

  “He’ll love it,” she insisted. “That’s all part of the big plan to make him fall completely in love with Positano and Villa Pietro and the family.” Not that Mr. Stoneface could fall in love with anything.

  “And you think that will make him leave things at the winery exactly as they are?”

  “We hope.”

  Silvio shook his head, doubtful. “Just be careful on the Vespa. You do not want to lose him off the back and watch him tumble all the way down to the mountain.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “That would be one solution to our problems.”

  At his dropped jaw, she added a playful jab to his shoulder. “Just kidding! Take his bags now. I have to get him up there before Anamaria has a stroke.”

  He shook his head as he walked away, her sarcasm and English, as it often was with the Italians, lost on him. And it probably wouldn’t be any better received on Big Bad Brannigan, no matter how American he was.

  She’d have to work as hard as the rest of the family to impress him, but she would. Kyra would do whatever had to be done to ensure that the winery stayed exactly as it was. It was her home now, the only one where she’d ever felt completely loved and wanted.

  So what if she shared a two-bedroom stone house on the outskirts of a vineyard with an eighty-one-year-old widow? Anamaria was the nonna Kyra had never had, and Villa Pietro was the home she’d always wanted.

  Some big lug nut of a billionaire who happened to have a gorgeous face and dreamy dark eyes was not going to blow into her little bit of heaven and ruin the lives of the people she loved most in the whole world.

  He came back down to the lobby then, dressed in light linen trousers and a pale blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up enough to show his forearms. They were lightly tanned, dusted with dark hair, and muscular enough to draw her attention.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said, clearing her throat when the whole impact of him hit her harder than expected.

  For a split second, she thought she detected disappointment flicker in his expression, or maybe that was just a man who didn’t like things not to go as he’d planned. “How so?”

  “I’m with the winery,” she said. “Not…” A pickup in the hotel lobby.

  He inched back a little. “Villa Pietro?”

  “Yes,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not sure who you thought I was, but I’m the guest liaison. Specifically, I manage relations with the American tourists.”

  “Oh…I thought…” He shook his head. “I’m not an American tourist.”

  She swall
owed at his clipped tone. “I know that, Mr. Brannigan. But I’m here in an official capacity to greet you and take you to Pietro to meet everyone and have dinner. Your assistant told Lorenzo you were coming today, so we prepared you a dinner.”

  “My business manager told me the meeting was tomorrow.”

  “It’s a dinner, not a meeting.” Maybe the Wolf of Wall Street didn’t know the difference.

  He retreated a few steps. “There really is no reason to do that.”

  No, no. She couldn’t lose him. She’d promised the family she’d bring him back, and they’d been working noon and night so his arrival would be perfect. This billionaire trust fund baby wouldn’t understand that, of course. Probably wouldn’t care that he’d put out some peasants who worked his fields.

  She’d need to lure him another way, then. She boldly slid her arm through his and gave a little squeeze. “Would you like me to give you a reason?”

  He blinked at her and stared, as if he wasn’t sure of the right answer and might be a little taken aback by whatever it was.

  “Because I guarantee you have never seen a place like Villa Pietro,” she said, purposely lowering her voice so he had to come a little closer. “You will walk the paths of the vineyard under the pergolas that grow the grapes, breathing air so crisp and clear, it could make you weep.”

  He angled his head in doubt, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. She had a memorized speech she gave on the tour, and it never failed.

  “You’ve never seen the pergolas of the Amalfi Coast, vines stacked like God’s own stairs on the face of the mountain. You’ve never tasted wine drenched in the taste of the rock and the sea, the flavor kissed by Bacchus himself.”

  A slow smile pulled at his lips, drawing her attention to his mouth, which she’d failed to notice was beautifully shaped with soft lips despite the stubble of whiskers from his long day of travel. “Bacchus kissed the flavor?” he asked, a tease in his voice.

  “The translation is odd, but let me finish.”

  “By all means.”

  Her own smile threatened, but probably because she just realized that his eyes weren’t that dark, but flecked with gold the exact color of the biancolella grapes that Anamaria sometimes sneaked to her at night. “You’ve never touched the cool limestone of the cellar walls, or inhaled the musty scent of the oak barriques fat with the last harvest, aging to perfection.”