But when he laughed? When he forgot about money, power, and control, and actually tried to play bocce and let Nico win? Her heart melted. A few other parts got warm, too, she had to admit.
She left her stone cottage and headed to the main house, knowing she’d find Anamaria in the kitchen making bread and pasta for the luncheon they were hosting today.
But she didn’t expect anyone else, so she paused at the doorway of the oversized stonewalled room when she spied several family members gathered around the giant table. They were sipping coffee, eating flaky biscuits, and deep in a serious and unusually soft-spoken conversation in Italian. Why weren’t they working? In the vineyards or down in the cellar?
Even Bruno was there, and not even hung over, though he had gone out after dinner the night before.
“Buongiorno.” As she greeted them all, she couldn’t help noticing that the conversation ceased instantly when they saw her. “Pre-event meeting without me?” she asked, always using English as they’d requested. They all wanted to improve their English, because it was so good for tourism, which was one of the reasons they’d offered her the job in the first place. That and the fact that she flat out refused to leave.
Anamaria left a fluffy dough ball she was working on, giving Kyra a thick mug of strong coffee. “You no sleep,” the old woman whispered. “I hear you in the night.”
“Then neither did you.” She leaned closer and let her cheek brush the crinkly one Anamaria offered, thanking her. “Grazie mille, Nonna.”
She took the coffee to the table, sliding onto the bench next to Sofia. “What is going on here?” Kyra asked, sensing the tension.
Sofia rubbed her massive baby belly. Antonio looked down at his food. Lorenzo shrugged, silent. Filippa refolded her napkin and looked around the table.
“Is something wrong?” Kyra asked.
No one answered, and that just ratcheted that tension higher.
“It’s about…him,” Lorenzo finally said.
She didn’t need an explanation to know who “him” was. She scooted closer to the table, wanting to reassure them. “Look, I took the liberty of inviting him to the event today.”
“He will come?” Antonio asked, his arm protectively around the back of Sofia’s chair.
“He hasn’t answered.” At least not in the last fifteen seconds, since she’d checked her phone three hundred times since she’d sent the text. Maybe she’d gone too far with the emojis. He probably wasn’t an emoji kind of guy. Maybe, Kyra?
“The manager contacted me this morning,” Lorenzo said. “William Hayward.”
“This morning?” Kyra did the math on the time difference between Italy and New York. “They must work round the clock.”
Lorenzo sighed and rubbed his temples. He didn’t look like he’d slept any better than she had, considering the shadows under his dark eyes and the furrow in his brow. In his fifties, Lorenzo was still a handsome man, but the weight of the entire family always seemed to bow his broad shoulders.
Never more than right now.
“Buongiorno.” At the sound of Elena’s voice from the hall, Lorenzo dropped his hands, a smile in his eyes as his wife’s soothing effect became immediately visible.
Their oldest son, Enzo, was right behind her as they came into the kitchen, each carrying a stack of papers. “I found what I could,” Enzo said.
“It’s not enough,” Elena said, sitting next to Lorenzo but looking at Kyra. “We don’t have what he wants.” Her English was the best in the whole family, and she used it often.
“Which is what?” Kyra asked.
Elena’s sage-green gaze dimmed with worry. “The business manager sent us…demands, I think is the word.”
“What kind of demands?”
Lorenzo and Elena exchanged a look, one of a thousand that passed between them in a day, indecipherable to anyone but the two of them.
“Stupid demands!” Bruno exclaimed, his hot Italian temper always just under the surface and ready to bubble up. “No owner comes for twenty-four years, and now? We must bow and scrape to this man and find things we not have?”
Elena quieted her volatile son with a raised hand. “These are not the usual things that the business manager sees, not the inventory receipts or…normal spreadsheets. Other things.”
Enzo handed Kyra a piece of paper from the top of his stack, and instantly, she noticed the computer printout was in English. Was that the problem? They couldn’t read it?
“Okay,” Kyra said after a quick perusal. “He wants a description of liens, a discretionary earnings and cash flow statement, supplier and distribution contracts, an asset depreciation schedule…” She stopped reading, though there was more. “This might as well be in Italian,” she muttered. “Or Chinese. I can translate, but I’m not sure I can tell you what these things are.”
“We know a few,” Elena said. “But we do not run the business so…official, you know?”
“I have some.” Enzo tapped his papers. “But not all.”
“Why does he want this now?” Kyra asked.
No one answered, but they all looked worried enough to make Kyra think they knew but weren’t saying.
“So he can cook the books,” Bruno murmured. “That’s why.”
“What you mean ‘cook books’?” Anamaria demanded. “Who cook paper?”
Kyra waved off the question and Bruno’s ridiculous assertions. “James is a very thorough businessman. And you must create annual reports and provide statements of profit and loss, right? You owe that to the owners, don’t you?” she asked.
“Some,” Lorenzo said, gazing at the list again. When he looked up, the lines that furrowed his brow deepened. “But we worry about the wine, Kyra. The harvest, the production, the quality. Some bookkeeping, of course, but…not…asset depreciation, whatever that is.”
She wasn’t entirely sure, but she sensed that a well-run company would track that. This family wasn’t worried about money. They wanted wines that won awards for pride. James Brannigan might not understand that pride. Hell, he didn’t even drink wine and probably didn’t know a precious rosato from cheap white zinfandel.
“He just wants a complete picture of the business,” she said, not really understanding her need to defend him. “You don’t have anything to hide, right? The winery is profitable, sì?”
“Sì, sì.” Lorenzo nodded. “The tourism has four times improved in the last year,” he said, pointing at her. “It’s your fault.”
She smiled at the misuse of the language, but got the gist. “I’m glad. And you have nothing to worry about. Maybe he just wants to invest and build the business even more.”
“Why?” Bruno asked. “His father never added to the business. He just let it run like—like we didn’t matter. Of course, we don’t to people like that.”
She shot him a dismissive look. “The father is not the son,” Kyra insisted. “He’s young and smart and successful. He knows a good thing when he sees it, and yesterday, he saw it.” She beamed at them, willing her optimism to reach their hearts. “This is great news, I think.”
None of them looked like they thought it was great news.
“We must know…” Anamaria put a floury hand on Kyra’s shoulder and added some pressure, proving again that her ability to follow an English conversation was excellent. “What he is gonna do.”
For a long moment, none of them spoke, but the three of them shared more silent side-eyes that made Kyra willing to bet her last paycheck that they’d already talked about this and come up with a plan.
And the way they were looking at her…
“What? You want me to ask him?”
“Not ask,” Elena said. “But make him tell you.”
“Make him?” She choked softly. “Torture the truth out of him?”
And again with the shared looks.
“The opposite of that,” Elena said softly.
Kyra inched back, eyes widening, gripping the table for a little support. “Are you sugg
esting I…” She couldn’t even say what she thought they were suggesting.
“No!” Lorenzo exclaimed.
“Naturalmente no!” Elena added.
“Absolutely not!” Sofia and Antonio insisted.
And then they all got real quiet.
“Then what?” Kyra directed the question to Elena, who had to have the most sense and the best command of the language, and Kyra needed a clear answer.
“If he cares for you, he might tell you the truth. He will tell you the truth. And then we will know what his plans for us are.”
She tried to respond to that, but it just came out as a little whimper of disbelief.
“Maka the boy trust you, Cara,” Anamaria said, using the Italian nickname the family had given her since they’d never heard the name Kyra until she arrived. Usually, the word for “dear” softened her heart and made her feel like she truly belonged here, but right now, she was too bewildered by what they were asking her to do.
“And then break his confidence?”
“For la famiglia,” Lorenzo said, putting his hand over hers again. “La famiglia è tutto.”
Oh, he was bringing out the big guns now, using the late patriarch Giorgio’s favorite saying. The one that hung on a tapestry in the dining room and that was embroidered into pillows in the living room as well as the fabric of this household. La famiglia è tutto…the family is everything.
And it was, she thought with a resigned sigh.
This family. Her great big adopted Italian family. The family she never had but dreamed of her whole life. She’d wandered into their winery on a lark a year and a half ago, and they’d given her a home, a job, and a seat at the table, and a place in their hearts.
How could she say no when they were so scared to lose their livelihoods? Their home? This family couldn’t break. She wouldn’t let it.
“Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to get, uh, cozy with the new owner and find out his plans for our winery.”
Anamaria came closer, frowning suddenly. “What is this ‘cozy’?”
“Close. Comfortable.” She wrapped her arms around herself to mime a hug. “Cozy.”
“Sì, sì,” Anamaria said. “Cozy. Not…” She bent her arms and pumped her round hips in and out.
“Mamma!” Lorenzo barked.
The old woman grinned her yellowed smile. “Only cozy.” She rubbed her own arms sweetly.
Kyra turned to Elena, praying for some common sense, but the motherly person in the group was smiling and nodding.
“You think this is smart?” Kyra asked. “And…ethical?”
“Cara, Cara,” she whispered. “We just want to know what he will do with our business. Then we can plan and adjust. With the boys and the baby and Nonna…”
Kyra sighed. Of course. This winery was their life and future. They needed to know what he was planning to do. She could find that out, right?
“Maybe,” she said. “I mean, I could try.”
If only he’d answer her texts. She picked up her phone to check again, just as Nico and Gianni came flying into the kitchen, breathless and vibrating with news.
“Brannigan!” Nico exclaimed.
“He’s come back!” Gianni added.
Kyra inched back in surprise, catching the smug look of satisfaction on Anamaria’s face.
“Quello era facile,” the old lady muttered.
Yes, that was easy, Kyra mentally agreed. But making James trust her and tell her his plans for a business might not be.
“Take him to town,” Elena said suddenly.
Town? “He hates my scooter.”
“Take Bruno’s car,” Lorenzo suggested, nudging his son. “Give her the keys.”
“Why can’t he be here?” Kyra asked.
“We’re getting ready for the lunch,” Elena told her. “You go be alone. Walk through town. To the beach. It is beautiful, and you’ll be…cozy.”
She stood slowly, nodding. No one could walk the beach in Positano and not fall in love. With the beach. “Okay, Operation Cozy, here we go.”
They all grinned at her like accomplices. And she looked from one dear face to the next and knew why she would do just about anything to help these people. Even get cozy with James Brannigan.
Not that it would exactly hurt.
Chapter Eight
Taking the Eden Roc shuttle bus up to the winery hadn’t been as exhilarating—or terrifying—as the motor scooter, but it hadn’t been exactly relaxing, either. Still, James arrived in one piece, cool, calm, and collected. Despite his interrupted sleep, he’d risen rested, and dressed in linen pants and a cotton shirt before enjoying a bountiful breakfast at the hotel.
It was time to get back to business.
Climbing out of the shuttle at the gate to the winery, he was ready to review the documents he’d requested and then adjust the price and make some real money on this place. Which, he’d decided upon waking, was exactly the reason Colin gave it to him. Nothing more mysterious, nefarious, or life-altering than that.
Hayward had balked, of course, at the idea of increasing the price in the middle of negotiations and adding a mountain of documentation to justify the new amount. But since he worked for James, he’d given in and sent the request. So now James wanted to read that paperwork and nothing else.
No wine drinking. No grape eating. No bocce playing. No…fun.
But as soon as the shuttle left, he caught sight of two little rascals scurrying down from a giant tree and running to the house to announce his arrival. He couldn’t help smiling at the boys and admiring their clever and secretive lookout over the vineyards and the road leading up to their home. It reminded him of the tree house at the ranch, a place to spy and hide and enjoy the hell out of their young lives.
How lucky they were, he mused. Tamping down an unexpected ache for his own lost childhood, James yanked open the gate. As he did, a flash of yellow caught his eye. He peered through the flower-covered trellis, half expecting the urchins to come tear-assing back to climb all over him.
But the yellow didn’t belong to a little boy. No, indeed. That was no little boy. That was one helluva beautiful woman in a dress the very color of the juicy lemons that hung from every other tree on the Amalfi Coast. Somehow both sweet and sexy, the dress fit her curves and still left a little to the imagination.
So much for all that hard-won control.
She walked toward him, her wild mane ruffled by the breeze, her body moving with just enough purpose to make him think her imagination might have been overactive last night, too. His mouth went a little dry, no doubt because of the blaring sunshine. In fact, his whole body felt abnormally overheated.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she called out, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I was waiting for a text and I get the man himself.”
He felt the nudge of guilt for not texting her, but buried it. “I’ve come to review the documents my business manager asked for.”
“Oh, that.” She flicked her hand as if his meeting were nothing but an annoying gnat on a summer day. “I don’t think Lorenzo made it to the bottom of the email before his eyes glazed over and he ran for the closest bottle of rosso.” She let out a lilt of a laugh when she got closer and reached for the gate. “He’ll need days to pull all that together.”
“Days?” James gave a soft snort. “I don’t have days.”
“At least a week.” She unlatched the wrought-iron bolt and opened the gate slowly with the sweetest smile, like she was opening the gates of heaven and inviting him in. But she stepped out before he could get inside, slyly keeping him out.
“I can’t stay here for a week. Why would it take so long?”
“Because you’re in Italy.” She looked up at him, momentarily blinding him with those damn dimples. He’d forgotten those in his imagination last night. He’d been too focused on her cascade of blond curls and the slight rise of her breasts when she took a breath or let out one of her musical laughs.
Get a
grip, James. “There are no files, computers, calculators, or spreadsheets in Italy?”
And there was the laugh, like a wind chime. “There is no speed in Italy. Only on the road, not in business. Here, we savor every moment. We live, eat, drink, and make love quite slowly.”
She gazed up at him, all innocence and light, all charming and disarming, like she hadn’t just slipped that make love bombshell into the middle of a casual conversation.
Did this blond bomb-dropper think he was born yesterday? Did she think he could be swayed by dimples and cleavage and big blue eyes and sideways references to sex?
“In my business, nothing is slow,” he replied, even colder than he needed to be in an act of sheer self-preservation. “I asked for information and expect to get it. Promptly.”
She made a face, squishing her nose and somehow becoming even more adorable than when she was smiling. Damn it. He never liked adorable women. He liked statuesque, cool, sleek women. Not…lemon drops.
“Sorry,” she said, as if apologizing for being so appealing. “But that information? Not happening today.”
“Why not?” He let his distaste for the news come out loud and clear in the question.
“Because he has to find it and prepare it for you.”
“Nothing I’ve asked for should be hard to find. Not for a well-run business, anyway.”
She shrugged off the implication. “But I told you what’s happening today. A large American group has booked the winery for a tour and late afternoon tasting and luncheon. There are travel agents in the group, and we have to impress them. Honestly, James, they take precedence over…documents.”
“Not to me.”
“Sorry, but the whole house is working this morning, and you just can’t go in there now and turn things upside down to suit your schedule.”
Irritation skittered up his spine. “Except it’s my winery and my schedule.”
Her expression grew serious. “Then you should want nothing more than for the winery to run well and make money. Interrupting what’s happening in there is counterproductive to what you want for your business and your schedule.” She crossed her arms with a playful, nonverbal so there, and if she wasn’t so damn precious, he’d march right by her and get what he wanted.
JAMES (7 Brides for 7 Brothers Book 6) Page 6