Her words slammed into him like a hurricane, causing his breath to catch in his chest. The right response escaped him at that moment, and all he could manage was “Come here.”
She crossed the short distance and threw herself against him. Brenna buried her face against his chest and breathed deeply while her arms gripped him like a life rope. He could feel the tension leaving her in increments, each slow breath seeming to ease her. Occasionally her breath stuttered suspiciously, like a sob, but the trembles that moved over her slowly dissipated.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, the warmth of Brenna seeping into his bones as he breathed in the sunshine citrus scent of her hair and stroked the soft strands. The iron grip of her hands finally loosened, and then began to smooth a gentle path up and down his sides and over his chest. When she lifted her head and met his eyes again, he could see a bit of his Brenna emerging from behind the fatigue and worry.
Rising up on her tiptoes, Brenna wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. The fire, the passion, the raw desire—it was all there, and it moved though him like an electrical current. But it was tempered by something else in her kiss.
That feeling shook him, and he groaned as he lifted her off her feet, loving the way she clung to him, moving them both the short distance down the hall to his bed, where he pulled her down on top of him.
Brenna deepened the kiss, threading her fingers through his hair, scratching her nails gently against his scalp. She sighed his name against his neck as his arms tightened around her and molded her body to his, and he felt another tremor—of pleasure this time—shake her gently.
Brenna didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t have to be alone.
Neither did he.
The headache throbbing behind her eyes was growing steadily worse. She should have gone back to bed after the first phone call of the morning. The nice woman in North Napa who’d heard Brenna was selling off her grapes and wanted to buy a couple of bins’ worth to make jam had been a blow to her ego. Her mother’s Pinot Noir grapes, being made into jam. Ugh. At the time she’d thought with a starting note like that the day could only get better.
Then Ted had brought her more bad news. Her head was still spinning from that information, but she was holding it together. Tears would not help the situation any.
Now she was up to her ears in numbers—including the ones Jack had crunched yesterday—and the bottom line was just plain depressing. As the weight settled more firmly on her shoulders, she seriously re-thought her earlier resolution not to cry. A good let-it-all-out bawl might make her feel a little better, at least.
No. She took a deep cleansing breath and let it out slowly. As Jack had said last night, she would get through this. If she just kept repeating that to herself, she might actually begin to believe it.
Jack wasn’t an early riser, and he’d been sleeping soundly when she crawled out of bed at dawn. Now she heard rattling in the kitchen, the unmistakable sounds of someone after a cup of coffee. When Jack entered the office a few minutes later he held two cups, one of which he placed in front of her as he bent to kiss the top of her head. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Only a little,” she confessed. “It’s hard to turn my brain off.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked, reading the notepad in front of her.
She didn’t need to look at it again. “Only the latest bad news.”
“And?”
“Ted’s worried about soil contamination—from the runoff from the fire. All the chemicals and the ashes in the water have drained into the vines. There’s no telling what it will do. We’re going to lose the acre behind the winery. Maybe a little more than that.”
Jack’s mouth twisted a little. “Sorry to hear that. How long will it take to replace them?”
“After we replace the soil and replant it will still be three to five years before we can get any fruit off the new vines.”
“Ouch. At least I know your insurance policy does cover that loss.”
She could tell Jack was trying to be upbeat for her sake, but, while she appreciated the gesture, he seemed to be missing the point entirely. “The money’s not the issue,” she explained.
He glanced at the sheet of figures in front of her. “That kind of money should be.”
He just didn’t get it. “Jack, my great-grandfather planted those vines, almost sixty years ago. They’re healthy, productive vines—the fruit is amazing—and I’m going to have to rip them out of the ground. Trust me, the money isn’t the problem.”
“But they can be replaced.”
Hadn’t he been listening? “No, they can’t.”
“Only you could have a sentimental attachment to a plant.” There was a small chuckle in his voice that sent her hackles up.
She spun in her chair to face him squarely. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t get your back up, Bren. I’m just saying that you’re emotionally invested in this place—”
“Well, yeah,” she interrupted. But he knew that. He knew how she felt about Amante Verano.
He continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “To the extent that you don’t always see the big picture. They’re just vines. We’ll replace them with something better.”
His words cut her, and the hurt ran deep. “They’re slightly more than ‘just vines’ to me. They can’t be replaced that easily—much less with something ‘better.’ Those vines are the backbone and history of Amante Verano. I’m sorry if that offends your MBA, but that’s the truth.” She could hear the snap in her voice, and she tried unsuccessfully to tone it down.
“‘Backbone and history’? Bren, you have to keep your emotions separate from your business.”
He didn’t know her at all. “That’s your answer for everything. ‘Keep your business and your personal life apart.’ Sorry, but it’s not so clear-cut for me. This is my home as well as my livelihood. I can’t really separate the two.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m here, isn’t it?”
Not necessarily. His grin wasn’t working on her this time. “Are you implying…?”
“I’m not implying anything. You said it yourself—you’re too close to be objective.”
She could quite happily strangle him at that moment. “Wine-making is a very subjective business. I don’t have to be completely objective.”
“Then it’s a good thing I still own half of this place, isn’t it?”
Anger erupted in her chest. The nerve…That was the last straw. Almost blinded by the red haze in front of her eyes, she jerked open desk drawers until she found the manila folder she was looking for. Inside it was the sale agreement. Grabbing a pen off the desk, she flipped to the last page and scrawled her signature at the bottom.
In two steps she was around the desk. She slapped the agreement against his chest, where he grabbed it reflexively. “There. Now you don’t own any of it.”
“Bren…”
“Amante Verano may be a mess, but it’s my mess. And I won’t have you patronizing me or telling me the proper way to run my business. I’ll get through this, remember?”
“I’m trying to help you here, Bren.”
“I don’t want or need your help. Now, get the hell off my property.”
Not waiting for Jack’s response, she let her ire carry her back to Max’s desk—her desk—where she turned her back on him and stared blindly at the numbers on the paper in front of her.
She heard his sigh, but his words were clipped, angry. “If that’s the way you want it, Bren, fine. Good luck.”
On that note, Jack left the room. A minute later she heard the back door close and Jack’s car start up. She sat quietly until the noise faded into the distance, then sagged back against the chair. Closing her eyes, she felt the finality of what had just happened wash over her.
Once again she’d lost Jack. Driven him away. The pain that sliced through her put anything she’d felt in the last two days to shame. The bands tightening ar
ound her chest made it hard to breathe, and her heart sat like a stone in her chest.
She could feel the tears burning her eyes; she could feel the sobs trapped in her throat just waiting to be set free. Tears won’t help, she reminded herself.
But it was too late. She laid her head on her desk and cried.
Chapter Twelve
IN THE two weeks since Brenna had thrown him off her property he’d had no word from her or Amante Verano. Not that he’d expected it; her intent had been very clear, and, if he’d had any doubts, the arrival by courier of the anklet he’d given her a few days later would have clarified it. He and Brenna were back where they’d started a few weeks ago. Ex.
That bothered him. A lot more than he’d thought it would.
His life had quickly settled right back into its normal routine, and he was bored stiff by it. He missed the energy and spark Brenna brought just by being in the same room. Everything moved along like before, but it felt monotonous and bland. Plus, he was getting damned tired of everyone agreeing with him all the time.
Business was good. The New York deal had gone through without a hitch, and Garrett Properties was now established on both coasts. Profits were up. His employees and his stockholders were equally happy with him. He’d received notice just yesterday he’d be receiving an award for “Outstanding Philanthropic Efforts” in the city of San Francisco.
He was having a hard time dredging up enthusiasm for any of it, and he could trace his general dissatisfaction with life straight back to Brenna.
Even though Brenna was ignoring him, that didn’t mean he didn’t have access to what was going on at Amante Verano. His company still had a twenty-five percent interest in the vineyard, so he was fully up-to-date with Brenna’s recovery efforts.
They weren’t going well. Amante Verano just didn’t have the funds on hand to tide them over until settlements could be reached with the insurance companies and the building could be replaced. Now the bank had turned down her request to have her line of credit increased. He fully understood why: the vineyard was a very bad risk at the moment.
Brenna was hemorrhaging money as she tried to get her feet back under her, but it would be a full year before she’d even get another crop in, even longer before she’d have wine ready to sell.
She was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy already. The loss on Jack’s books would be negligible. He could tell, though, by the update he’d received from his people, that Brenna knew she was on the precipice.
It had to be killing her, but he knew Brenna would never come to him for help now. Her stubborn pride wouldn’t let her—not after the way they’d left things. She’d accused him of not fully understanding her, but he did. Probably better than anyone else. While he might not understand her emotional attachment to Amante Verano, he did understand it was as much a part of her as her red hair and her temper.
And he loved her in spite of it.
He sighed and swiveled his chair around, taking in the view of the Golden Gate Bridge, where buses full of tourists were making their way out to wine country. A month ago some of them would have been headed to Brenna’s, but now there wasn’t much there to interest the tourists. The great irony was that now there was something at Amante Verano of great interest to him.
He was in love with his ex-wife…Lord, could his life be any more screwed up?
But he still didn’t know exactly how he could help her right things at the winery. He had plenty of the one thing Brenna needed most right now—money—but the chances of her accepting it if he offered…? Slim.
He hadn’t wanted anything to do with owning a winery, or investing in one, and he’d succeeded. He’d wanted out, and Brenna had thrown him out.
Be careful what you wish for.
But all routes weren’t closed to him. As Brenna had said, the Garrett name alone could open many doors. She might not want his help, but she was going to get it.
It was the least he could do for her.
As he picked up the phone, he knew somewhere Max was laughing his head off.
The idleness was driving Brenna crazy. She’d never had so much free time on her hands. Every morning when she woke up and realized she didn’t have a ton of work waiting for her in the winery, the blow was just as fresh. And spending the day fielding frustrating phone calls and watching her bottom line sink deeper and deeper into the red wasn’t any better than having nothing to do at all.
But the disaster of her professional life had only highlighted something else: how little personal life she actually had. No hobbies. Few friends beyond Di and Ted, and those she did have buried under their own post-crush work in their wineries. Somehow, that used to seem like enough, but now it didn’t. Playing Solitaire on her laptop was a poor excuse for a life.
Jack was right: she needed to get off the property more.
Jack. The thought of him brought a chest-crushing wave of pain that hadn’t subsided any over the last couple of weeks. Without the busy work Amante Verano used to provide she had ample time to think about Jack, and everything that had transpired, until the pain and emptiness overwhelmed her.
She’d let her temper get the best of her. Even if she tried to blame her last outburst on a really bad day, she had to admit that it had been more than just stress egging her on. The amount of time she’d had to think had given her clarity on a couple of topics. She had used the vineyard as a safety blanket all these years: no need to mourn the loss of Jack when she had Amante Verano to immerse herself in. It had still been a connection to Jack—however tenuous—but now that was gone.
Losing Jack a second time had sucked all the blood out of her heart, and she felt like a zombie wandering though what was left of her life. Facing the destruction of the winery had been much easier when Jack was here; now it seemed insurmountable.
Late at night, when there was even less to occupy her, Jack’s absence was harder to bear. Jack had been a safe harbor when she’d hit bottom, and she missed that feeling of strength he gave her by just being there.
Oh, who was she trying to fool? She just missed him. The pain she’d felt when she’d signed the divorce papers was nothing compared to this—because this time she’d gone in eyes open, without all those teenage romanticized ideas.
And she’d fallen even harder than before.
She’d quit crying herself to sleep simply because she’d run out of tears.
Brenna blew her hair out of her face and stared blankly at her computer screen, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Good Lord, she couldn’t even concentrate on the disaster in front of her because of Jack.
From her seat on the couch she saw Di through the French doors, shortcutting her way into the house through the vines. Dianne was moving faster than normal, and she practically burst through the doors. “‘Every day is a great day at Amante Verano’, right?”
“I wouldn’t say great, Di,” Brenna answered, but the excited grin on Dianne’s face was enough to toss a shot of hope into the bleakness.
“Well, this should definitely make this day a little better for you.” Dianne waved a letter at her.
“Because…?” she prompted.
“The bank has approved your application to extend our line of credit.”
“What? They shot us down as too big a risk.”
“Obviously they’ve reconsidered. Look, Brenna.” Di handed her the letter. “Money. Look at all those zeros. Enough to tide us over until the insurance pays out and we get back on our feet.” Di was almost dancing with excitement.
It didn’t make any sense, but there, in black and white, was the lifeline she needed. It seemed too good to be true. “Hand me the phone, will you?”
Dianne did as she asked, but as she handed it over added, “Who are you calling?”
“Mia Ryan at the bank. I want to be sure this isn’t a computer glitch before I start spending money I don’t really have.”
Dianne raised an eyebrow, then shrugged as Brenna dialed.
“M
ia, it’s Brenna Walsh. Can you tell me what’s up with our line of credit?”
“Of course, Brenna.” She could hear Mia’s fingers on her keyboard. “How are things?”
“If the letter I got today is for real, then things are about to be much better.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Here we go. Let me see…” There was a long pause as Mia consulted something, then Brenna heard the keyboard again. “Interesting…”
“Interesting? How?”
“Your LOC request was reopened two days ago and approved based on an increase in your cash on hand and a guarantee on the debt.”
“Cash on hand?” She didn’t have any cash on hand. Money was flowing out of Amante Verano like a river, not in. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what it says.” Mia read Brenna her account balance, and Brenna’s good mood evaporated.
“That’s a mistake.”
“I don’t think so, Brenna. Let me check something.”
Brenna tried to be patient as Mia put her on hold, but Dianne’s questions in the interim were only increasing her confusion and agitation about the situation. She held up a hand to silence her as Mia came back on the line.
“Okay, Brenna. I found it, and it’s all correct. Jack Garrett deposited the money into your account at the same time he guaranteed the LOC.”
“Jack?” Her throat seemed to be closing and words were hard to get out. “Surely you mean Garrett Properties. They’re the other partner. Not Jack.”
“No.” Mia sounded as if she thought Brenna was a marble or two shy of a game. “It was Jack Garrett personally. I can see the scan of the check and the LOC agreement. Are you okay, Brenna?” she added, as Brenna started to choke.
Boardroom Rivals, Bedroom Fireworks! Page 13