by Ava Miles
Her brows narrowed. “But J.T. lived in Rome then, and Trevor was in Dublin. Clara tells me many of your siblings travel to Europe. London isn’t the full reason.”
Shit. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, so believe me when I say it was my screwup. After we broke up, I let work become my life. I closed myself off.”
Sure enough, guilt flashed in her eyes, along with sadness. “I’m sorry.”
He hastily said, “But I’m committed to changing that. It really does make me happy to spend more time with them. I guess…that hasn’t been a goal for a long time.”
“Being happy isn’t a goal. It’s a state, Quinn. You used to be good at it. It was part of who you were.”
That younger man who’d loved her with complete focus and passion hadn’t needed happiness to be a goal. It had been his entire existence. “When I lost you, something changed inside me.”
This time she reached for him, and her soft touch on his bicep was comforting and arousing all at once. “It did for me as well, and working with my father didn’t help. Alice helped me reclaim my life.”
He heard the emotion in her voice. He’d never imagined she’d been that affected, and the knowledge of it tightened his solar plexus. “I’m glad she helped you find it again,” he said firmly. “I hate hearing you were miserable. So… Working with your father wasn’t what you’d hoped?” Of course, she’d left, so he knew it couldn’t have been.
“No,” she said, looking down for a moment. “He…didn’t need me as much as I thought. Oh, let’s leave this. It’s old territory.”
Her troubled gaze told him the memories were only making her sadder, so he didn’t press. “All right. How about we go have a nice time at the wine tasting?”
She caressed his arm, her fingers lingering on his bicep for a moment before she lowered her hand. “Perfect. I hear Arthur and Clara coming down.”
She turned to the stairs to greet them, and the smile on her face took obvious effort. He needed to do something about that.
Something drastic.
“Aunt Clara, I’ve changed my mind. Where are the keys to the limo? I’ve decided I’m up for a new driving challenge.”
His aunt’s blue eyes shot to her hairline, and a hearty laugh burst out of his uncle.
“I was only kidding, Quinn.”
And he’d bit the hook but good, but Francesca was smiling beautifully now, almost on the edge of laughter herself. He had to follow through. “I won’t take no for an answer. How hard could it be?”
Damn hard, he discovered within the first ten minutes of the drive. He caught Francesca watching him in the rearview mirror, biting her cheek with laughter. His aunt had a healthy grip on his uncle, something that made him want to laugh out loud. And when they came to the next curve in the two-lane road on the way to the winery, he let the car sway a little extra since no one was around and then wove back toward the center.
“Oh, good heavens,” he heard his aunt mutter.
“You asked for it, my dear,” his uncle said. “Francesca, how you holding up over there? Hold on to the door handle now. CEO Hotstuff up there might be accomplished in business, but he’s a novice when it comes to driving.”
CEO Hotstuff? He didn’t want to know. “I have a new appreciation for Hargreaves.”
When Quinn wove again on the empty road, his aunt called out, “Oh, Quinn, can’t you drive straight? Stay in between the lines, dear.”
He started whistling in response. Francesca’s gusty chuckle made the rest of the trip worthwhile, as did his aunt’s sharp cries in the back whenever he took a wide turn.
When they arrived at the gorgeous Ferrari-Carano winery, he took in the view as he slowly cruised toward the parking lot. The main house had Italian villa stamped all over it, and the vineyard—all three thousand acres of it—spread out around and behind it. People were streaming up the path to the tasting room as he passed it and pulled into the lot. After choosing an end space to accommodate the limo’s size, he cut the engine and exited, opening Francesca’s door and helping her out.
“Hope you enjoyed the drive,” he said with a wink.
“More than you can know.” Her laughter was light and carefree, and he was proud of himself for having earned it. “Quinn Merriam, you surprised me. It was wonderful to see that you still could.”
“Well, it wasn’t wonderful for me,” Aunt Clara said, coming out on the other side with the help of Uncle Arthur. “I’m driving home. I have no doubt I can do a better job.”
His uncle patted her on the hip. “Let him drive home, Clara. He was yanking your chain the whole way.”
“He could have gotten us all killed, and I won’t have it.” His aunt actually stomped her foot. “If you want to drive home, you need to do a halfway decent job.”
He nodded as meekly as he could. “You have my word.”
“Good,” she mumbled. “Now get me a drink.”
They all laughed as they walked to the tasting room. The air was cold but refreshing, and he found himself feeling like he could breathe again. When was the last time he’d taken a Sunday off? He couldn’t remember.
“You were terrible back there,” Francesca said, falling in step with him. “But very funny. I’m glad to see your wicked sense of humor again.”
He took her arm, and she didn’t pull away. “That’s only the beginning of my wickedness.”
She nudged him playfully. “Good thing we’re in a public place.”
Only he could be slightly wicked in public too. Seated at a dark wood table in the private wine tasting room, he lifted the first wine sample in a toast to his aunt and uncle. “Welcome to the matchmaker wine tasting.” He winked at his aunt. “I thought you two might appreciate this one.”
“Is it really called that?” she asked.
Their wine educator, Bruce, nodded and proceeded to tell them about the first wine they were tasting. Quinn pushed aside the white rectangle plate in front of him with assorted treats so he could position himself closer to Francesca.
She took a sip of her wine and leaned toward him. “Hargreaves confirmed to Alice that your aunt and uncle usually show up as matchmakers. According to him, they’ve helped all of your siblings find love. Chaperones, indeed, Quinn.”
Hargreaves must be getting chummy with Alice to have told her something so confidential. Usually he was the soul of discretion. “Took you long enough,” Quinn said, nudging her. “I figured you’d be onto me sooner than this.”
“They haven’t been too obvious,” she said, swirling the wine in the glass and taking another sip. “I knew they wanted us to get together, but I didn’t know they’d made a profession out of it.”
“I had to bring in the big guns to get you back.” He turned in his seat, needing to see her. “They’re the best. Like my brother said earlier, their track record so far is flawless.”
She finished off her tasting portion of wine and reached for one of the seasonal bites the chef had prepared for them, a savory and sweet amuse-bouche matched to each of the wines. “Alice was impressed.”
He took another of the bites she’d just eaten and offered it to her since she’d displayed a discreet show of pleasure only he would catch. Francesca Maroun wouldn’t moan aloud in public over food, although he had coaxed her to do so once in a corner booth at a London bistro over a decadent chocolate cake. Of course, he’d been feeding it to her and rubbing her thigh under the table then.
When she glanced at him, her suspicious look had heat, he was pleased to see, as if she’d read his mind. “You try it,” she said, smiling when the wine educator presented her with another wine to try.
His aunt and uncle were both talking to Bruce, and he suspected they were monopolizing his attention purposefully to give them some privacy.
“Too bad it’s not chocolate cake, right?” He waited until he’d sampled it before saying, “You can see why their chef is one of the best in the field.” He wished he could put his arm around her, much like his uncle was do
ing with his aunt.
“What is your best field, do you think?” she asked him, her tone that of Francesca Maroun, savior of businesses. It was obvious he’d rattled her, and she was hoping to push his mind down a different track.
He was having none of it. “Loving you.”
Her sharp intake had him smiling, and she busied herself with swirling the wine and then breathing it in for a few seconds. Before she could engage the wine educator in conversation, Quinn leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Let me show you again how great I am at loving you.”
The air between them suddenly seemed charged with electricity, as if a storm had blown in. Her glass tipped before she set it down with precision. “I want that, despite my concerns.”
“I know you do,” he said, his breath hot on her ear. “What’s it going to take for you to see a future between us?”
“It’s like we’re still walking in a fog like the one outside your house in the mornings, and I can’t see what’s ahead,” she said honestly. “I need to see it, Quinn.”
He gave her some space and tasted the next wine. “You always look before you leap. I know that. But can’t you just leap into my arms this time and trust that we’ll figure it out together? I still want you to do what fulfills you, and I know you want the same for me.”
“That’s a love affair,” she said, smiling again as the wine educator poured them another wine to taste. “That’s not a marriage.”
Her use of the word felt like a victory. “Isn’t it?” he asked, putting his hand on her arm. “Look at me. Don’t you see us meeting up at the end of the day and discussing work over dinner and then later in bed like we used to?”
Truthfully, they could do that now if she let them, and they both knew it.
“I do see that,” she said, ignoring the next wine.
He found he didn’t care to sample it either. “Then what?”
“My father has been pushing for me to return—to take over for him eventually—and while I’m not enchanted by the prospect, I haven’t resolved myself against it.”
“But you told me earlier working with him was miserable.”
“I’m hoping to find peace with him. It’s another of my New Year’s resolutions.”
Crap. He and her father were in the same resolution boat? He wanted to curse a blue streak.
“While I’m not prone to manipulation,” she continued, “his hook about Maroun Industries employing forty thousand people is…compelling. A lot of people depend on it. I know you understand.”
He did get it, but that didn’t mean he liked it. “So you wait until you can take over outright since working with him is so hard on you. You probably have a few decades before it becomes an issue. Your father is as fit as a fiddle, and you’ve said he’ll die in his office chair in his nineties if he has his way. Why worry about it now? Our kids could be completely grown before this happens. Hell, I might be retired by then.”
He would be nearing sixty, so it wasn’t inconceivable.
But she was already shaking her head, her expression agitated, her hands in fists in her lap. “I’m not willing to go into a long-term relationship before I decide what I intend to do about the business. You know better than anyone know what taking over Maroun Industries would mean.”
His throat tightened. “Yeah, I do. Tell me more about how it was, working with your dad.”
She reached for her wine and drank deeply before saying, “At first, everyone in the company patted me on the head, not expecting much both because I was a woman and Georges Maroun’s daughter. I proved them all wrong, and once I’d established myself as a power player, I told my father I was striking out on my own. Some leaders always need to be in control. I couldn’t continue working under those conditions.”
Her voice sounded tortured. “You couldn’t breathe with him.”
She’d once used that phrase to explain why boarding school, however lonely, had come as a welcome escape from her father’s dominant personality. “It made our relationship worse. After my mother died, the trips home from school were hard. I was alone most of the time, what with him working.”
Her loneliness was palpable. “You always said it was easier to travel somewhere during your time off.”
“Yes, but part of me was still hoping my father would change and we could have a happier relationship, the kind I had with my mother. With her gone, I’d hoped he would turn to me. But I’m a fool. He might say otherwise, but he still wishes I were a boy. Of course, he can’t deny we’re alike.”
Quinn disagreed, but he kept his opinion to himself.
“My ability to see industry patterns and make moves comes from him, and he knows it.”
Okay, he’d concede that much was true. He was more like his father too, although their similarities didn’t end with their approach to business.
“Only he’s too controlling and old-fashioned to listen to me half the time. He lured me to work for him by saying he needed me—for the first time—and part of the reason I agreed was because I wanted his approval. It upsets me to admit that, but it’s true. Alice says I need to give up my attachment to how I want my relationship with my father to be.”
That struck a little close to home. Couldn’t the same be said of Quinn pushing his vision for a future on Francesca? The thought depressed him. He finally put his arm around her, because he needed to—and he thought maybe she needed it too—and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Working with family can be challenging.”
“And yet Clara tells me your sister Michaela and her fiancé work together, and so do J.T. and his wife. Your other siblings seem to be professionally supportive of their partners too.”
Trevor helped Becca with her bed and breakfast when she needed him. Connor was helping Louisa expand the homeless shelter. Then there was Flynn, who couldn’t tell enough people about Annie’s skincare line. “Maybe that’s something to remember when you’re thinking about us and our future. On some level, you know I have that capacity too.”
Her sigh was audible to his ears. “I suppose you do. All right, we’ve discussed this topic enough for the moment. How about we catch up on the wine tasting? Then you can drive us all home in the limo, staying in between the lines this time and not weaving all over the road.”
“I thought I did admirably.” He rubbed the tense muscles in her neck, just like she’d massaged his back the other day, then pulled away and reached for his glass. “What are we on now? A pinot?”
Flagging down their wine educator, he gave her the space to breathe and think things through.
Because he knew it was ultimately the only way to win her back.
Chapter 12
Francesca was beginning to believe she owed Arthur a case of whiskey for establishing their nightly walk along the beach. She’d come to look forward to the end of the evening meal, when she and Quinn would turn to each other. In his eyes, she always saw the same banked longing she felt pulsing within her. Taking his arm seemed to anchor them both.
At first it had surprised her that he didn’t say much on their walks, but when she’d teased him about it, he’d just looked at her seriously and said, “You always need quiet time and space after a long day of work.”
So on a gloomy Friday night, after the second week of restructuring, she was oddly sad to see the cold sheets of rain outside the windows. There would be no walk tonight. A pity, because tonight she felt particularly in need of relaxation.
The coronavirus was worsening by the day. China had nearly a thousand reported deaths, exceeding the SARS outbreak in 2003, which had devasted the global market. With China’s economy at a standstill, the need for oil had halted, driving prices down ten dollars a barrel. Quinn was starting to get nervous, but he remained resolute on riding it out, saying Merriam Enterprises had done so before.
But she kept coming back to her conversation with her father. He’d indicated the virus wasn’t the reason she should hesitate to restructure Merriam Enterprises around oil. And y
et she’d seen no other sources of trouble in any of her daily industry research.
The World Health Organization had just sent a team of experts to China. Now the first cases of the virus were popping up all over the globe. The numbers were small, but the pattern was troubling. There was a Diamond Princess cruise ship quarantined in Yokohama, Japan, due to cases of corona, and passengers who’d been quarantined on another ship were finally disembarking in Hong Kong. The entire news cycle was alarming, and she was starting to share Clara and Hargreaves’ fear that the virus could indeed be as deadly as the Spanish flu. It certainly was spreading fast.
“Francesca,” Alice called, bringing her surroundings back into focus. “Do you want more panna cotta?”
Tonight they’d eaten yet another meal prepared jointly by Alice and Hargreaves—this time Italian—and she’d barely tasted it. “No, thank you. It was so delicious I couldn’t have another bite.”
Her friend’s eyes narrowed.
“Maybe you should hit the hay,” Arthur said. “You two have been hard at it this week.”
“We still have to work tomorrow before we can take a break on Sunday.” She would rally. They were still talking about downsizing divisions, and she needed to walk him through her plan for the first round of layoffs. So far, she thought they’d done a remarkable job, but they needed to use the scalpel more and they both knew it.
She hated this part of the process but had discovered not every CEO dreaded it as she did. Some of them didn’t care about their employees beyond their functionality.
Not Quinn, though. Forgoing his salary had allowed them to save jobs, and she’d wanted to kiss him for it. He’d dismissed her praise with a casual wave of his hand, a front for what she knew were deeper emotions.
He was not most CEOs. Their talk about eliminating jobs had made his shoulders slump earlier, and yet he’d remained solicitous of her well-being. He’d risen to boil her water for tea or bring her a snack of salted almonds. He’d been like that ever since the wine tasting. He took care of her in a dozen little ways while he hung back and let her decide the future of their relationship.