by Trish Morey
‘It cost them nothing. One of those big women’s magazines ran a nationwide contest to celebrate the opening. They asked people to write in saying why they deserved to hold their wedding celebration there.
‘Your mother entered. She never thought she’d win, but there you go.’
‘May I?’ asked Franco, leaning over her, his long-fingered hand reaching for the photograph, and she caught his scent, of damp leather and red soil and fire-warmed masculine skin. She let him take the cutting, if only because she’d expected it meant he’d move back then, out of her sphere, away from her too-acute senses and heated blood. And when he failed to move anywhere near enough away, she took matters into her own hands, sliding from her chair, finding sanctuary in the straight lines and practical functionality of the kitchen. The bench at her back felt reassuringly solid and real in a world rapidly going off kilter, the air untainted by the evocative scent of a man she couldn’t afford to like.
‘And Mum won it.’ She wasn’t just dispirited. She was blindsided.
‘She did indeed. She won the wedding, the reception—they flew us all over and back for the wedding and put us up. And Tanya and Richard got to enjoy the weekend in the honeymoon suite. All on the house.’
He looked down at the cutting with a shake of his head. ‘I wish we had more of the wedding photos, but something happened to the film and they were ruined. Your mother was so disappointed.’
‘And so it seems,’ Franco said with a smile that said he knew the scales had just come down in his favour, ‘that we have something in common. There is history between our respective families. Marketing will love it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Pop?’ she said, ignoring their suddenly smug visitor. She didn’t want to hear they had something in common. She didn’t want to think about their shared history or to have him witness hers—to see her as a three-year-old at the beach. To see her parents’ wedding photos, regardless of where they were married.
She didn’t want him here, period. ‘Why did you wait until now to tell me?’
Her grandfather shrugged, sagging into his wheelchair and suddenly looking ten years older. ‘It never came up, lovey, not when you were small. It was a detail that didn’t seem important back then, not when we had more important things on our minds. And I guess, in time, it was a detail that just got missed.’
‘But you must have remembered, after Franco called. You must have realised. But you said nothing.’
Moisture sheened her grandfather’s eyes and she could feel an answering dampness welling up in her own. ‘I wanted you to make up your own mind. This is your business as much as it is mine, Holly. In fact, you’re the future of Purman Wines and I should probably butt out.’
‘No!’
He put a hand up to stop her. ‘Just hear me out. I should probably butt out, but I can’t. I think this deal is a good one for not only the money but for the prestige it could bring, and I know we disagree on that. But before you make your final decision, I wanted you to know why I am so in favour of this deal. Your mum and dad were married in the Chatsfield Sydney, Holly. It was a perfect day, and they were so, so happy. And they’d be so proud knowing Chatsfield had singled Purman Wines out for this honour. They’d be so proud of you and what you’ve achieved.’
Unfair.
‘Oh, Pop.’ She bit her lips tight between her teeth, trying to hold herself together. No wonder he’d been so keen all along. No wonder he’d seen the Chatsfield name as some kind of Holy Grail when her parents’ wedding there must have seemed like a fairytale. But he was holding on to some kind of vision of Chatsfield’s as it was, back in the glory days.
‘I’m sorry, Holly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’
She dragged in a breath before she could speak as she shook her head. ‘No. It’s okay.’ But it wasn’t okay. Because while her reasons for denying Chatsfield a deal with Purman Wines hadn’t changed, what she knew it meant to Gus had.
It wasn’t just the deal of a lifetime to him. It was a link to a time when his son—and her father—was alive. It was a name he associated with one of the happiest times in his life.
Was it any wonder he wanted to go with the deal?
But where did that leave her?
Across the table, Franco saw his opportunity. It had been there, hovering in the back of his mind ever since the old man had returned, but it had been only a shadow of an idea then, a mere wisp of ‘what if?’ But now that shadow of an idea had grown and found form and substance and, best of all, weight.
The old man was already in his pocket courtesy of an emotional attachment to the hotels. Here was a gold-plated opportunity to screw the granddaughter down and lock this contract well and truly up.
It would take time, of course, more time than he’d initially allowed. But it would be time well spent if it guaranteed the funding to Nikki’s Ward.
‘I thank you for sharing that, Gus, and I appreciate the fact you’ve given me a good hearing today. But your granddaughter has good reason for being wary of this deal.’ Gus looked up, surprised. Holly looked suspicious. ‘She wants what’s best for Purman Wines, I understand that. I respect her for it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Gus said, looking crestfallen. ‘You’re not withdrawing your offer?’
He smiled. ‘No. I’m offering you a better one.’
‘It’s not just about the money,’ Holly said. ‘I told you that.’
He nodded. ‘You did. You also told me that I wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to do business with.’ He paused, letting that sink in. ‘Let me prove to you that I am.’
Gus seemed intrigued as he looked from their visitor to his granddaughter, a frown tugging his shaggy brows together. He’d missed that part of the conversation. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’
‘You’re down a worker. You need someone to help you prune. I’m volunteering for the job.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BREATH HOLLY had been holding burst free on a laugh. To think she’d almost been worried for a moment! ‘That’s good,’ she said, pausing for air. ‘That’s funny!’
Gus wheeled himself closer. ‘Hear him out, Holly. Listen to what the man has to say.’ And to Franco, ‘Now, what exactly are you proposing?’
‘Oh, come on, Pop. The man knows nothing about vineyards. I doubt he’s ever had to work a day in his life. Sorry, Chatsfield, I’m afraid I’m not looking for a work experience student.’
‘I can prune.’
‘You can?’
‘Pop, no. Seriously?’
He hushed her by holding up one hand. ‘Now, Franco, pruning vines like ours is a specialised job. We don’t trust our low-yield high-quality grapes to machines. It’s all hand pruning here. Where have you pruned?’ Gus’s voice cut over the top.
Holly crossed her arms and glared at Franco. This was ridiculous. They were wasting time. She should be on the phone chasing up someone to replace Tom, not listening to the wild imaginings of a spoiled rich kid who probably didn’t know a hard day’s work if it slapped him in the face.
‘A vineyard in the Piacenza region of Italy, not far from Milan.’
‘You’ve worked there?’
He smiled. ‘You could say that. I own it.’
Silence descended so suddenly his words might have been a thunderclap.
Gus recovered first. ‘You own a vineyard in Italy?’
‘I do. We grow some local varietals. Malvasia, Barbera, along with some merlot and pinot noir.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention this before?’
‘I didn’t think it relevant. This deal is between Chatsfield Hotels and Purman Wines, nothing to do with my business interests.’
Holly was beyond angry. ‘You couldn’t even mention it in polite conversation?’ He’d let her think he knew nothing of vines or wine. He’d let her accuse him of the same and not corrected her. He’d cut short the tour like it was an imposition on his precious time and not something he
was interested in in the least. What was she supposed to think?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise we’d had a polite conversation.’
Bastard.
‘You could have said something!’
‘I was here to broker a deal and I was under the impression Chatsfield’s offer would be welcome. I didn’t realise small talk was expected.’
‘You made no effort!’
‘You think if I had, Ms Purman, it might have made you more amenable to my offer? I think not.’
Gus grunted. ‘True enough, Holly.’ His eyes narrowed then, homing in on Franco. ‘But can you really prune?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Gus, the past couple of years I’ve spent more time in the boardroom than in amongst the vines, but yes, I can prune and I used to be a star pruner. All our estate vines are hand pruned. I spent more than ten years hand pruning every season.’
Holly felt the ground beneath her shifting so fast she was battling to keep up. ‘Oh, Pop, this is mad! You can’t seriously be thinking of agreeing to this.’
‘No? And why not, Holly? We’re short an experienced worker. You know yourself how long it takes to train someone and get them up to speed. Years.’
‘But he’s … a Chatsfield! And whatever flimsy connection he has to this supposed vineyard in Italy—’
‘The estate exists, Ms Purman. And I assure you, it’s mine.’
‘Then why are you offering to do this, if you’ve got your own vineyard back in Italy? How can you afford to offer us your services and your time? Why would you do that? What’s in it for you?’
‘There’s something in it for me, of course. I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction, of course, then you will sign the contract.’
‘But—’
‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’
‘That’s not the only reason I’m not in favour of this deal and you know it.’
‘True, you’re also worried about the scandals that my siblings have brought upon themselves from time to time, and their impact on the Chatsfield name. You’re worried the Purman name might be dragged down in the fallout. But I can tell you that you have nothing to fear. You will no doubt choose not to believe me. But in the time it takes to prune—how many weeks will that be? Two? Four?’
‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’
That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Even better. Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal, regardless of how far along we are with the pruning. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract, and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’
‘I like it!’ said Gus with a chortle as he slapped the flat of his hand against one leg. ‘It solves everything. What do you say, Holly?’
Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, as unassailable.
She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of minutes ago had turned to quicksand.
They were both waiting, Gus and Franco, watching her, waiting for her response. And damn them both, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight. ‘Surely you have family back home who will be expecting you?’
Something dark scudded across his cool grey eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. ‘No.’
‘Business interests that need looking after?’
‘They’ll manage.’
‘What if you’re rubbish at pruning?’
‘Then the deal is off. But I assure you, I’m not.’
‘You’ll have to stay for the entire time.’
‘Of course.’
‘However long it takes.’
‘I realise that.’
‘And not just being here. Contributing. We don’t accept passengers.’
His smile grew wider. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
And all of a sudden she’d run out of ifs and buts and terms and conditions.
She swallowed hard.
Hard down on her disappointment.
Hard down on her pride.
‘Then I suppose we could give you a trial.’
And Gus clapped his hands together as he belted out a laugh. ‘Well, it’s all settled then, looks like we’ve got ourselves a deal! ‘
Was it settled? Nothing in Holly’s mind felt settled. Instead it was scattered, a mess of question marks when there should be full stops.
She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too-big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.
Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
It was Gus who insisted on cracking open a bottle of Rubida, their best sparkling wine, and proposing a toast to celebrate the deal. It was no consolation that Franco finally got to taste their wine whether he wanted to or not. It was no consolation that he thought the wine was good.
No consolation at all.
She would have liked it better if he’d screwed up his face and turned tail and run thinking that someone at head office had made a horrendous mistake. Although she knew for a fact that her wines were amongst the best out there and that there was no mistake.
And it was also Gus who decided Franco should stay in the cottage they had prepared for Tom’s arrival. Maybe it was a logical decision, but it meant he’d be living here on the property as well as working here for six weeks. Six long weeks of potentially seeing him every day. Six long weeks of feeling that itching prickle and that annoying heat under her skin. Then again, it could have been worse, Holly mused as she collected up a basket of breakfast supplies from the pantry—Gus could have invited him to stay at the house.
Perish the thought.
By the time Holly picked up her car keys to drop Franco at the cottage, the clouds had blown away and the wintry day had turned into frosty night. She welcomed the bite of the chill air against her overheated skin as she led Franco to the four-wheel drive, shoes crunching on the gravel, while she wished the cold air could similarly work some kind of magic on improving her mood. Six weeks of working alongside this man.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She stashed the basket on the back seat of the four-wheel drive before climbing into the driver’s seat. The heavy door slammed shut behind her.
Damned right.
Exactly how her life felt right now. Slammed shut. All options closed.
‘Ms Purman? Are you all right?’
Clearly not. Holly blinked. She’d been sitting, staring at the steering wheel and hadn’t even noticed Franco climb in. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied through a jaw so rigid by now it was hard to talk.
He clicked in his seatbelt and his elbow brushed against hers and she flinched, feeling a jolt to her senses.
Just peachy, she thought, pulling her arms in tight against her body as she turned the key in the ignition, hating how all of a sudden she was confined in a car with a man who seemed as big as a mountain. And she hated how the air around her didn’t smell of wet oilskins or muddy feet but seemed flavoured with his scent instead, of warm man and wood smoke and there was some kind of cologne mixed in there as well, something spicy and masculine and no doubt expensive. She rammed the car into First and let go the accelerator too quickly and the vehicle lurched and hopped. His fault, she thought, distracting her with that scent.
She wound down her window a couple of inches. The air
was so cold it almost hurt to breathe, but it also didn’t smell like him.
No contest, really.
‘There are two cottages side by side. Josh, who looks after the cellar door, lives in the other one. He usually heads into town to eat so you’ll be able to catch a ride with him if you want.’ Be damned if she was going to be expected to play chauffeur.
‘If there’s a bed, I might just settle for that.’
She glanced across at him, seeing lit up in the headlights of a passing car the weariness that hovered around his eyes and weighed down on his eyelids. ‘Worn out after a long day travelling in first class? You have my sympathy. It must be hell.’
‘I’m surprised you’d give me the time of day, let alone your sympathy.’
She snorted and manoeuvred the car around a bend. ‘Yeah, you’re right. You don’t have my sympathy.’
Beside her she sensed the shift in his body as he angled himself on the seat. She sensed his eyes on her, and could almost feel the curve of his lips in a smile. She didn’t dare look, keeping her eyes on the road ahead instead, but she could feel him watching her and she waited, her heart thumping. She didn’t know much about this man, but she’d figured enough to know he wouldn’t let her have the last word. ‘You don’t like me,’ he said.
She shifted the gears down before turning into the cottage car park and pulling up in the space outside, ratcheting up the stiff hand brake, thinking about his words and their delivery. He’d made it sound like a challenge, like he was calling her on it, daring her to agree or to back down making excuses.
She wasn’t about to back down.
‘Don’t take it personally.’
‘No? How am I supposed to take it?’
She shrugged. ‘As a fact of life,’ she said, swinging open her door. She found a smile then and turned. ‘Like breathing. It just happens.’ And then she jumped out.
She didn’t wait for him. She grabbed the basket from the back seat and marched up the pathway, searching in her pocket for the key. If she had a choice, she’d hand over the key and leave him to it, but there was a crotchety water heater to turn on that had a degree of difficulty of three-point-five. There was no point even trying to explain it. He’d never fit under the bed anyway, where the damn thing was located.