"After all that cabernet?" She shook her head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Max got dizzy watching her.
"But I want them to see my bottle." It was his new bottle, the good French bottle. It was his idea to put the sauvignon blanc in that bottle and he wanted them to see it. Just then, Valvo walked past. "Carlos!" Max motioned him closer. "We'd like to open the other"—he slowed down to ease into it—"sauvignon blanc."
"Certainly." He walked away.
Max turned again to Victoria. "Did he look unhappy to you? He looked unhappy to me." But now she was talking to Rory. Max sighed and settled back against the booth's soft cushions.
It was going well, he decided, very well. For sure Old Carlos would put Suncrest on his wine list, but that would be only the beginning. Max should go to Sacramento next and get Suncrest served at the Governor's Mansion. Hell, he should go to Washington and get it served at the White House!
Max was considering who his date would be should he dine with the president when Valvo returned with fresh glasses and the newest Suncrest Sauvignon Blanc. Max swelled with pride as he gazed at that heavy French bottle. He pointed to it and then to himself. "That was my idea, Carlos. Pretty slick, huh?"
The guy's brows arched. "Excuse me?"
"To use that bottle."
"I imagine it was." That was it. No praise, no nothing. Max might have been a tad disgruntled if he hadn't been in such a good mood. Valvo poured the wine for everyone, including himself, and they all tasted. Then Valvo set down his glass and hoisted the bottle again, eyeing it through those little wire glasses of his.
"This doesn't have quite the character of the prior year's vintage," he said.
"Sure it does," Max told him. "And when we took it out of those old bottles and put it in these new ones, it got even more character."
"So it's true?" Stella's voice rang out across the table, loud and clear. "Suncrest did rebottle?"
Valvo frowned. He leaned down, much closer than Max wanted. "You decanted this vintage?"
"Well . . ." Max set down his wineglass. He was getting befuddled and didn't like Valvo looming over him like it was the Spanish Inquisition. "I mean, we had to, to get it in the new bottles."
Valvo stared at him for a second, then walked away. Max watched him go.
Somewhere amid the cobwebs a light flashed on and off. You shouldn't have told him that, it said. But then again, he wasn't sure. Who knew and who didn't? It was so hard to keep it all straight.
Maybe it was time to take a leak, before they got in the limo to go home. Max rose from the booth, easier said than done, then made his way to the rear of the restaurant. And—just his luck!—he spied Barbie in the dark little hallway that led to the restrooms and the phones.
"Hello!" He held out his hand to her. "My name is Maximilian Winsted." He had to pause after that, just to catch his breath. Then he leaned confidentially close, closer even than the friar had leaned into him. "I've been watching you all evening."
She laughed, though he noticed she put her hand on his chest. Was she pushing him away? Or was she teasing him? Little vixen!
He laughed. "I find you extremely attractive."
Her eyes got wide. Man, they were really blue. And they got that scared look he kind of enjoyed, fluttering all around like she didn't know what to do next. "David?" she called. Was she talking to him or to somebody behind him in the restaurant?
"No, it's Max," he told her. "My name is Max."
She shook her head. Man, was she built! And she was wearing this tight pink top with a V-neck and he could look down and just see the whole spread. Man, oh man …
It was dark in that hallway. It'd been quite some time since he'd copped a good feel. And Miss Barbie here was giving him quite the come-on, what with the hand on his chest. Maybe he should return the favor. Man, was she cute. Very cute.
Max didn't really think about it, he just reached out and touched her. The next thing he knew he was on the floor, staring not at Barbie's boobs but at dust just inches away from his nose. Or was the scream the next thing he knew? He wasn't sure. Somebody had decked him. Was it Barbie?
He tried to lever himself higher—it was damn hard to do with his head swimming—but he managed to get halfway up. Barbie was standing next to McDougall. In fact McDougall was holding on to her. She was sobbing—now that was an overreaction—and McDougall was stroking her hair. They seemed to know each other really well. Really well. David and Barbie. David and . . . Did he just call her Barbara? The same name as his wife?
Uh-oh.
Chapter 11
On a Friday evening, as another Napa Valley summer weekend officially kicked off, Gabby stood in her living room, wrapped in Will's arms. It was exactly where she wanted to be and what she'd been waiting for all week. Were it not for the words coming out of his mouth, she would have been blissfully happy.
"Our weekend will officially begin as soon as I'm done with this call," he told her. He pulled back a bit, glanced at his watch. "In fact, I've got to go do it right now."
"I can't believe you've got to do a business call at seven o'clock on Friday night."
"It's not my choice, believe me." His right hand reached out to smooth back her hair. "But I'm close to finalizing a deal. The call has to happen tonight." Then he stopped abruptly, as if he'd planned to tell her more but then thought better of it. "I'm sorry but what can I say? I've told you before I don't have—"
"I know, I know." This time she pulled away, entirely out of his embrace. "A nine-to-five job."
She lifted a pillow from the shabby brown couch, plumped it, then tossed it back into position. You're sounding like a whiner, she told herself. Lay off him. Can't you see he's exhausted?
In the weak sunlight filtering through the windows, softened by the fog that perched on the mountain like a wool cap, Will truly did look spent. Pale, haggard, as droopy as the collar on his usually crisp dress shirt.
And he had to drive seventy miles to get up here, she reminded herself. Through Friday-night commuter traffic.
She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm a little stressed, too." She walked closer to him, tried to sound as apologetic as she felt. "Work was crazy and I got home late and dinner's not ready yet anyway. You want a glass of wine?"
"You know what? I'd prefer water. And aspirin."
"Oh, no—on top of everything else you've got a headache?"
He massaged the nape of his neck. "I'm afraid so. It started when I was stopped dead on 29 for half an hour."
"I'll go get you something." Once in the blue-tiled bathroom, she regarded her disappointed face in the old medicine-cabinet mirror, then threw back her head and closed her eyes. This is really shaping up nicely. My day sucked, it looks like his day sucked, and we can't even talk about it because work is off-limits.
He had to stay mum about his deals, and no way could she spill anything about the chaos at Suncrest, all of which was generated by Max. Thanks to him, they had a bunch of dead vines from weed killer, a shot reputation at one of San Francisco's best restaurants, and a vintage of sauvignon blanc she was none too proud of.
She reopened her eyes and shook her head. Actually, she had every right to be stressed herself. Will wasn't the only one with a high-pressure job, though at the moment he was sort of acting like it.
She found him in the living room tossing his cell phone back in his briefcase. He straightened to face her. "I forgot I don't get coverage here. Do you mind if I use your land line?"
"Not at all. Maybe you should use the extension in the bedroom since I'll probably be noisy in the kitchen." She watched him shake three aspirin onto his palm. "Should you be taking that many?"
He didn't say anything, just popped the pills down his throat, set down the glass, and bent to pick up his briefcase. "I'll use my calling card," he said, before he disappeared up the stairs to the bedroom.
The house fell silent. She sighed as she turned again toward the kitchen, where a ton of pasta-making awaited her. But no handsome so
us-chef to entertain her while she worked.
*
He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. Chill. You'll make the call, you'll move the deal forward. Then you can relax and concentrate on her.
That was the best he could hope for, he knew. There was still a lot to accomplish on the telecom deal. It was highly unlikely he'd be able to relax. And even if he did, it wouldn't last long, because the Napa situation still hung over him like a storm cloud.
He lay his briefcase on her floral bedspread. The damn thing was, he couldn't make the Suncrest acquisition happen. He could bet on it, he could believe in it, but he had to wait for the situation to play itself out. That was the risk he had taken, the gamble he had made.
And on top of that, he'd promised Gabby to try not to change Suncrest if the deal did go through. How stupid was that? That was a promise he could never keep. Not in a million years could he get his partners to agree to a deal that let Suncrest keep operating as a breakeven family heirloom. As Faskewicz had reminded him not long ago, GPG wasn't into funding nonprofits.
Will sucked down another deep breath, let it out slowly. Enough of all that. Time to focus.
From his briefcase he pulled out the tools of his trade. Palm. Blackberry. Laptop. Spiral notebook. Pen. A glance at the bedside clock informed him he was to place the call in precisely two minutes. The future of his telecom deal and a hundred million dollars rode on the conversation he was about to have.
Not to mention that Will Henley Jr. could use a splashy professional success right about now.
He tossed some of the bed pillows onto the floor and used others to prop his back against the pine headboard, then pulled her phone onto his lap from its home on the bedside table. It was a pink princess phone, amazingly enough, which he had thought charming the first time he saw it but which didn't get quite that reaction from him now. On this he was supposed to conduct a serious negotiation? It made him feel like Gidget.
He put the call through. It was a complicated business, what with him in California, Ted and Sally in New York, and Marco in Shanghai. Through the floor below him he heard strains of stereo music, fairly muted, and the clattering of pots and pans.
Should I have warned Gabby how long this might take? Probably, but there was no time for that now. He kicked off the proceedings. "Everybody has a copy of the proposed term sheet?" Grunts all around. "All right, let's start with the post-money cap table . . ."
Time passed. "I recognize your issue, Marco." Will jotted notes at lightning speed. "But the liquidation preference is completely standard in this type of transaction."
The door opened slowly. Gabby poked her head into the bedroom, gave a tentative smile. "Dinner's ready," she whispered. He couldn't even nod, given that he was cradling the Gidget phone between his left ear and his shoulder. Briefly he raised his pen from his note-taking and made an I heard you wave. She backed away, closed the door. He glanced at his watch. Eight o'clock already?
He returned his attention to the call. Marco was making outrageous demands, but then again that was his preferred negotiating strategy: start with an insane position to define the terms of the debate and then feign intransigence as everybody else scrambled to save the deal by accommodating him. Will had tried that himself a few times and learned its effectiveness. But it was not entertaining to be on the receiving end.
Time passed. "Sorry, Marco, but the transfer restrictions are necessary. We're putting in over a hundred million dollars and we want to make sure our interests are completely aligned."
Again the door opened. Again it was Gabby. This time Will looked up to see that there was no smile and no whisper. "The food is done," she said. "It's getting cold."
He couldn't mouth the words that leaped to his mind. I'm trying to do a major transaction here, Gabby. For Christ's sake, don't bother me about dinner! But none of that could he say. All he could do in the throes of negotiation was lift his shoulders in a There's nothing I can do about it now gesture, which he did. He noted, as she left, that she looked none too happy.
Finally, the call was done. "Okay, then, we're agreed." He capped his pen. "Ted will redraft the term sheet and send it out by e-mail. Marco and his counsel will review it Monday his time, and we'll talk again Sunday night at seven Pacific time. I'll set up the call." Within seconds, everybody hung up. Will rose from the bed to stretch his legs, relieved that the pressure was slightly off, at least until Sunday. He glanced at the clock. 9:18.
Uh-oh. That'd taken two hours.
Gabby would not be pleased. After all, she didn't understand what he did well enough to know that's how long these calls could take.
Nor had he warned her.
He exited the bedroom and stood at the head of the staircase. He didn't hear her, but music was on, a soothing-voiced female vocalist warbling something jazzy. The aroma was terrific—garlic and olive oil and pancetta, was it?—and he realized he was terrifically hungry. But his feet were slow to descend the stairs.
He found Gabby in the kitchen, sitting at the small table. In front of her was an open bag of pretzels, an impressive array of crumbs, and an empty, obviously used wineglass. She looked up at him. "You're done?"
He recognized the tone of voice. It was the You bastard, how inconsiderate are you? tone he'd heard from girlfriends past.
Great. Just what he and his stress level needed.
"The call went fine," he told her, aware of a hardness in his voice. "The deal's not done but we're closer," he added, hoping to drive home the point that the call indeed had been important, been worth his time and hers.
She nodded. "After two hours, I would imagine you would be closer."
He couldn't help it; the comment annoyed him. "It wasn't my choice it took that long." He watched her, noted no apology in her hazel eyes. "You had a snack?"
"I was hungry." She cocked her head at the stove. "Help yourself to the pasta. You'll probably have to nuke it."
He moved toward the cabinet where he knew the plates were stored. "Can I get you some?"
"No thanks."
"Maybe we should just toss it and do takeout."
She was on her feet and in front of him in a flash. "We are not tossing that pasta. I made those noodles myself."
He was taken aback. "Okay, then. We'll nuke it."
"You're damn right you'll nuke it." Her hands were on her hips now, her skin starting to flush. "Work was hell today, but somehow I managed to get back here to roll out fresh pasta dough. I know what a hard week you had. I was trying to do something special for you. But apparently you're so self-absorbed you don't appreciate that." She marched to the other side of the kitchen and crossed her arms over her chest. "Go hungry for all I care."
"Whoa!" He threw up his hands in a Stop right there! position. "You call me self-absorbed? I'm trying to negotiate a multimillion-dollar transaction and all you're worried about is your pasta? I didn't ask you to hand-make something for me. I'd've been happy with takeout. You could've bought something at Dean and DeLuca. But maybe you didn't want to run into your old boyfriend again?"
Her eyes widened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Vittorio Mantucci." He felt his control start to slip. It felt good, actually. He didn't do it often enough. "Out to do a Napa Valley acquisition." It had shocked him to find that out. GPG had damn good young associates to do research and he made damn good use of them. He edged closer to her, and she backed away a step. For a moment, a moment only, he felt bad for giving her a second's physical fear. Then anger and frustration pushed the reluctance away and he kept right on going. "What did you do, tell your old flame now was a good time to buy in? Thought maybe it'd be a good idea to give GPG some competition?"
"I did no such thing!" She spun away from him, picked up her napkin from beside her empty bowl then threw it down again. "Even though you should have competition from somebody like Vittorio, who understands what the wine business is all about. Or should be about."
"Do you have any idea h
ow much I have riding on everything that's going on right now?" By now his control was going, going, gone. "My entire career is on the line. No deals, no job. But all you care about is your precious pasta. Or preserving the character of Suncrest, which is on the skids for reasons that have nothing to do with me. Jesus!"
She spun toward him, stance aggressive. "Do not presume to tell me what I should and should not care about. Though clearly I made a huge mistake taking my valuable time trying to do something nice for you."
"Damn it, Gabby!" His voice shook the rafters. The intensity of it shocked even him. "I have helped you in so many ways! I go with you to the hospital when your father has a heart attack, I help you rebottle the goddamn sauvignon blanc, I even make promises to you that I had no business making about how I might structure Suncrest if I ever acquire it!" His finger pointed in her direction, only inches from her face, while his voice lowered to a menacing growl. "You extracted that promise in bed, Gabby. That was low. No, that was lower than low. You know what that was?" He paused, considered stopping, but didn't. "That was blackmail."
Her face twisted. Shit, she's gonna cry. Well, if she did that would be blackmail, too—a woman using tears as a weapon when logic and argument failed.
But she didn't, and as he watched her jaw set and her eyes narrow, he wasn't sure if he was relieved or not. "All you care about is business." Her voice took on a threatening tone, too, as ugly as his own. "Doing deals, making money. The things that should matter to you don't. I guess my first impression of you was right after all."
"Fine." He looked around her kitchen, at its white tiles with their cheery roosters, at the run-down linoleum floor, at the ceramic plates set on stands she'd probably brought home from Tuscany.
He wanted out. He wanted away. Away from her. Away from Napa Valley. Away from all the things that weren't going his way and never might. "You know what, Gabby? I'm not the cause of your problems. But right now you are the cause of mine. I'm out of here." He pounded upstairs to collect his briefcase and everything else that was his from her bedroom, leaving in total disarray the bed where they'd shared so much joy.
Too Close to the Sun Page 17