His mouth tilted. “From what I’ve been told, most died from existing injuries.”
She didn’t look so reassured by the response. He held a chair out for her at the candlelit table for two the serving staff had set in the middle of the room. Then he sat down opposite her and swept his hand toward the bottle of wine breathing in the middle of the table. “You’ll have some?”
She scanned the label. The Brunello he’d chosen was the highest-ranking bottle in De Campo’s one-hundred-year-old history. Apparently, its significance wasn’t lost on Quinn, a wry smile curving her mouth. “Refuse the 1970 De Campo Brunello? I think not.”
He poured the rich dark red, almost brown liquid into their glasses and held his own up. “To a successful partnership.”
She tilted her glass in a mocking salute. “So confident.”
“I don’t intend to lose, Quinn.”
“Then let the best candidate win.” Her green gaze glittered as she lifted her glass and swirled its dark contents around the edge. She closed her eyes and breathed the wine in. He found himself hypnotized by the way she gave herself over to the full sensual experience. Quinn Davis was definitely scorching hot on the inside. The type who would be more than a match for any man. The question was, did she ever drop that rigid exterior and let herself go?
Stretch out like a cat and let a man pleasure her until she screamed?
She opened her eyes. Looked directly into his. He was not nearly quick enough to wipe the curiosity off his face. A rosy hue stole over her golden skin, her gaze dropping away from his.
He could work with this.
“So,” she murmured huskily, after their food had been served, “give me your list.”
He sat back in his chair and balanced the Brunello on his knee. “The wine list in your Park Avenue property is far too big. You’re giving people too much choice. Distracting them. You need to allow your sommelier to do his job and sell the wines.”
She frowned. “People like choice. I like choice. I hate it when I go to a place that tries to tell me what I want to drink.”
“Si, but you have too much choice. The night Riccardo and I were there, a couple at the table beside us were all set to splurge on an expensive bottle, but by the time they got through your monstrosity of a list, they gave up and ordered a midend vintage they were familiar with. Your sommelier,” he drawled, “never made it to their table that night.”
“We’re short-staffed there,” she said defensively.
“It was a Tuesday night at six. There were empty tables.”
She was silent. Pursed her lips. “Go on...”
“You need more beautiful women working the bar.”
She lifted a brow. “So men can go ogle them and spend their money? This is a high-end restaurant I’m running, Matteo, not a strip joint.”
“Precisely. Seventy-five percent of the patrons at the bar that night were men—financial power players having a drink after work. Those types are all about the eye candy. You put a beautiful woman in front of them, they’ll stay longer, drink more and I guarantee, they’ll keep coming back.”
“I suppose I should have them in short skirts, too?”
“Sex sells, Quinn.”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if I were a man. You are such simple creatures.”
He smiled at that. “If you mean honest and straightforward about how we feel without a hundred pounds of analysis spread on top of it, then si, it’s true.”
“But in being that way, you miss many of the subtleties of life.”
“Care to give an example?”
“I’d prefer you finish your list.”
* * *
By the time he had and they’d eaten dinner, Quinn had the glaring feeling she’d vastly underestimated how valuable De Campo could be in helping her dig Luxe out of the mess it was in. Matteo was clearly a brilliant businessman and a marketing genius. De Campo was making scads of money at its übertrendy wine bar locations on the East and West Coasts. She’d done the research.
“You make some very good points,” she conceded, pushing her empty plate away. “But there still remains the fact you are competition for us in the restaurant space.”
He shook his head. “It’s not the same clientele. Go sit in one of our wine bars. The customer is ten years younger at least. They do not have the disposable income to eat at Luxe.”
Her gaze sharpened. “How would you guarantee you wouldn’t compete with us in the future? Write it into the contract?”
He flinched, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. “We could talk about that.”
She pressed her lips together. “It’s a problem. I agree that there are synergies there. But I can’t sell this to the board if we’re going to be competing against each other.”
“Who’s to say Silver Kangaroo won’t get into the restaurant business? You can’t know what’s going to happen in the future.”
“But I can hedge my bets. Make my decisions based on the facts I have now.”
He picked up the wine and poured the last of it into their glasses. It occurred to her she should probably refuse any more but the legendary Brunello was just too good to turn down.
He fixed that intense dark stare on her, the one that made her pulse jump all over the place. “Why fourth, Quinn? Why originally rank us fourth when you so clearly want a pure wine play, not a big behemoth.”
Maybe the wine was loosening her tongue, but she decided he deserved to know. “In my mind, De Campo is an arrogant, self-satisfied brand. Yes, you make exceptional wine. Your lineage is impeccable. But you represent what Luxe used to be. Not where we’re going. Silver Kangaroo is young, vibrant and fresh. A bit on the eclectic side. It fits perfectly with where I intend to take the Luxe brand.”
A frown furrowed his brow. “De Campo is not an arrogant brand. A proud brand—yes. A brand with a century of heritage behind it—yes. But arrogant? You’re wrong.”
She tilted her head to one side. “I beg to differ.”
“I have third-party brand studies that will show you you’re wrong. That we appeal to a young, hip demographic.”
“Brand studies are a self-serving exercise in making a company feel good about itself,” she countered. “It’s an instinctual feeling I have, Matteo, and at the end of the day, that is how I will make my decision. Instinct.”
Frustration glinted in his eyes. “You need to visit Gabriele in Napa. He is light-years ahead of Silver Kangaroo.”
She nodded. “I will if time permits.”
A server came to take their dishes away. “That was fantastic,” she murmured, sure she could crawl into bed right now and sleep for twenty-four hours. “Maybe I should steal Guerino away from you.”
He flashed a lazy smile. “Sorry. He’ll never leave Italy.”
“So sad.” She tried to ignore how the dark stubble that covered his jaw was even more pronounced tonight as he spoke to the waiter in Italian. How it took his rakish good looks to a whole new dangerous level. But the warmth from the wine had turned her limbs into mush and her brain along with it. He had been mentally undressing her earlier, she was sure of it, and what had she done? Just let him keep on doing it. Insane, really, when this was all about business and this was Matteo they were talking about. The playboy who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
Unfortunately that didn’t stop her from studying his beautiful, elegant hands as he gestured to the server. It made her think of a quote she’d read in one of the tabloids while getting her hair done. One of Matteo’s exes—the curator of a Manhattan art gallery—had made an incredibly blunt comment about how he’d been the best she’d ever had. Then had gone on to suggest she’d like to sample him again—all while dating the studlike quarterback of New York’s pro football team.
He couldn’t be that good. Could he? Or would those gorgeous hands be the perfect instrument to seduce a woman slowly, taking the time to savor her?
“Quinn?”
Her gaze flew guiltily to his. “Sorry?”
The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “Crème caramel or chocolate torte for dessert? Personally, I think Guerino’s crème caramel is the best in Italy.”
“Definitely the crème caramel.” She might even manage to spoon some in her mouth before she did a face-plant in it.
Matteo relayed their choice to the server, then miraculously produced another bottle of Brunello. She held up a hand. “No more wine for me, thank you.”
“I’ll drink most of it,” he said smoothly. “Live a little.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Julian had said that to her all the time in that condescending, highbrow voice of his. “Live a little, Quinn. Show me you can have some fun or you might drive me elsewhere.”
“Just half a glass,” she said quietly.
“That was a joke, you know,” he murmured, his gaze on her face. “Although you are known to be a workaholic. Just as driven as your father, insiders say.”
Impossible. She’d never met a human being on this earth as driven as Warren. Her mouth twisted. “And what else did your intelligence turn up?”
“You made the top thirty under thirty business people in America this year. One of only two women. That must have made Warren proud.”
Questionable. He hadn’t much commented even though she’d been aching for him to. Quinn took a sip of the heady wine. Rolled it around her mouth and set the glass down. “No matter what people like to believe, there is still a glass ceiling for women. But I had advantages from the start.”
“Si, but you’ve also had the disadvantage of being very beautiful. Many men don’t take that seriously.”
“Do you?”
His smile flashed white in the candlelight. “I’ve never underestimated a woman in my life, beautiful or otherwise. You would rule the world if men weren’t physically stronger.”
He looked genuine when he said that. Quinn had the ghastly idea she might actually like Matteo De Campo after these couple of days. Which was really, really not a good idea.
“So,” she murmured, taking another sip of her wine, “what else was in your report?”
“The usual. Harvard, your rapid climb up the corporate ladder...” An amused glitter entered his eyes. “I have to say, the graduate-level Krav Maga caught me off guard. Interesting choice.”
How had he found out about that? She never talked publicly about it. Went to the most discreet school in Chicago specifically to avoid that type of publicity.
She waved her hand at him, brushing it off. “It’s an outlet.”
“Hardly.” That smoky, perceptive gaze stayed on hers. “Krav Maga is a street-fighting martial art, Quinn. The Israeli army trains its soldiers in it. It’s hardly a casual outlet.”
She shifted in her seat. And lied. “A girlfriend was doing it. It suits my competitive personality.”
It would also make any man think twice about putting his hands on her ever again.
“Since we’re trading interesting facts about one another,” she said, changing the subject, “I’m intrigued by the tattoo. What does it mean?”
He touched his fingers to his biceps, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It means ‘never forget.’”
“Never forget what?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Matteo’s gaze darkened to the deep slate of gunmetal. “My best friend, Giancarlo, died in a car accident recently. It was pointless. Unnecessary.”
Oh. The way he said unnecessary sent a chill through her. The grief she saw in his eyes was something she knew all too well. Dammit, she castigated herself, she should not have asked that. The wine had been a bad, bad idea.
“I am so sorry,” she murmured huskily, needing to say something into the heavy silence. “I lost my mother when I was ten. It makes you question everything, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “Si. It does.”
The conversation stumbled after that. There was a darkness surrounding Matteo that contrasted strikingly with his earlier charming demeanor. When they’d finished dessert, he suggested she must be tired. She nodded and said that she was. Her head was starting to spin now. It was way past time for her jet-lagged body to be in bed.
They stopped by the kitchen where she gave Guerino her compliments, then walked over to the west wing. On the circular, steep stairwell to her turret bedroom, her head started to spin in a dizzying pattern that made the ascent in four-inch heels particularly challenging. Halfway up, her shoe caught in a rivet. She stumbled and teetered in the ridiculously high designer heels, and would have fallen if Matteo hadn’t been behind her. He cursed, swept his arm under her knees and caught her up in his arms.
“Wh-what are you doing?” She dug her fingers into his muscular shoulders and held on for dear life.
“Making sure you don’t break your neck,” he muttered, carrying her up the last flight and down the hallway to her room. “Why you women wear those heels is beyond me.”
She was too busy registering that wow, he was strong and so hot carrying her like this to pay much attention to the rebuke. He smelled delicious, too, the spicy, exotic scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils.
“I think I might have overdone the wine,” she offered faintly as he set her down on the floor outside her room. He kept his hands around her waist as if scared she would keel over, his fingers burning into her skin like a brand. Quinn looked up at his gorgeous, sexy face, at the dark stubble she was dying to run her fingers over and told herself this was business.
Business. Business. Business.
The heat that arced between them like a living, breathing thing was not. It had been there from the moment she’d laid eyes on him and it was getting worse. The reluctant but oh-so-interested glitter in those smoky gray eyes wasn’t helping.
“Ice-cold?” he drawled. “I think not, Quinn.”
The heat pooling in her abdomen rose up to her face. For the first time since Julian had walked out on her two years ago, she was interested. She wanted, badly, to kiss a member of the opposite sex. And not just any member of the opposite sex. Matteo De Campo!
CHAPTER FOUR
IF IT HAD BEEN any woman other than Quinn Davis that Matteo had his hands on, if he hadn’t just plied her with a bottle of Brunello and perhaps most importantly, if he hadn’t promised his brother he’d keep his hands off her, Matteo would have stepped in, closed his hands firmer around her tiny waist and taken what she was so obviously offering.
Her forest-green eyes were hazy with desire and a curiosity that hit him square in the solar plexus. Her hips were soft under the span of his hands, her body primed for an exploration he was oh so ready to give her. And that perfume she was wearing, the one he’d given her, merda, did the spicy scent do something to him.
However, this was Quinn Davis standing in front of him, a tipsy Quinn Davis, and his fantasies had to stop here. He switched off the part of his brain that said to hell with it, lifted his hands from her with an exaggerated movement and stepped back. “See, Quinn?” A taunting smile curved his lips. “I can keep my hands to myself.”
She planted a hand against the wall to steady herself, a defiant glitter stirring to life in her eyes. “Too much wine and a brief moment of madness. Don’t flatter yourself thinking it would have gone anywhere.”
He quirked a brow. “You don’t think so? I may be all kinds of arrogant, Quinn, but I know when a woman wants me to kiss her.”
Her lush mouth parted, then slammed shut. At a loss for words. It might just have been the best part of the whole evening.
“Breakfast at eight tomorrow.” He w
aved his hand in the direction of the family dining room. “We’ll take it downstairs. And wear something appropriate for horseback.”
She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. “I told you I don’t ride well.”
“Not to worry, I have a gorgeous, even-tempered mare for you to ride. You’ll love her.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Good night,” he murmured. “I’m at the end of the hall if you need anything.”
The look she flashed him said it would be a cold day in hell before she ventured into his bedroom. Laughing inwardly, he turned on his heel and left.
If she only knew the things he could do to her.
* * *
With his brain on New York time and unable to sleep, Matteo headed down to the study, called Riccardo and told him to get working on a solution for Quinn’s competitive concerns. “The board will never approve a clause in the contract,” his brother dismissed. “We’ll have to find another way.”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” Matteo inserted. “Find it.”
His brother’s husky laughter echoed in his ears. He put the phone down, pushed to his feet and paced to the window. The lights from the castello cast an amber glow over the surrounding hills, their peaks looming dark and endless the farther the eye traveled. The view was usually enough to bring him peace, but tonight he knew how steep his journey was about to get. He needed to convince Quinn that all this was what she should sign De Campo for. That no vineyard anywhere in the world produced vintages as fine as theirs or was as impressive. Which was what tomorrow’s tour would do.
What concerned him more was Quinn’s perception of De Campo as a self-satisfied, traditional brand. How was he going to dispel that if she wouldn’t even look at his research? Sending her to visit Gabriele in Napa might be the only way. She was as stubborn as Matteo was. And as closed a book as he’d ever seen. You might manage to penetrate those outer layers, but she was never going to let you any further in than that.
Exhaling deeply, he pushed away from the window and climbed the stairs to his room. He needed sleep. But his mind, as he folded himself into bed, was wide-awake. The anniversary of Giancarlo’s death was just days away. His role in that tragedy haunted him every waking hour of his life. Made it impossible to forget. So he focused on that utterly beddable version of Quinn standing outside her room instead. Anything not to go there.
The Truth About De Campo Page 5