by Lori Wilde
A thought, unexpected and shocking, embedded in his brain.
This woman. She’s the one.
And then she was gone, moving away, leaving him feeling bereft and adrift as she made her way back to the other side of the table where she’d started.
Alarmed, Wyatt shook his head, tried to empty her from his thoughts. What the hell was this? He wasn’t the kind of guy who put claims on a woman. Everyone knew that. Wyatt DeSalme was footloose and fancy-free and...
He could not stop staring at Kiara Romano. Forcefully, he pried his gaze from her and made himself listen to Maurice, who had launched into the history and traditions of Bella Notte and how important interns were in the production of their wines.
Wyatt read between the lines. While under Kiara’s management, Bella Notte’s wines might be making a splash, but the small vineyard was still cash-strapped to the point where they depended on the free labor of interns to make ends meet. His brothers would gleefully rub their hands together at this bit of information.
Bella Notte was vulnerable financially, just as Scott and Eric had suspected, and he was here to deliver the crippling blow.
But that thought, which had excited him this morning because his brothers were finally taking him seriously, was bothersome, and he had no idea why.
The Romanos were nothing to him except DeSalme competition. This was just business, a little underhanded espionage to expose the enemy’s weakness. It was perfectly legal—as long as certain lines weren’t crossed—and was done every single day of the week in corporate America.
So why did Wyatt feel the need to take a long, hot, soapy shower and scrub his soul clean?
After the wines were poured, Maurice passed out index cards and pens. Kiara stood beside the sideboard, assessing the assembled interns. Wyatt could feel the heat of her gaze on him.
He glanced up. A frown creased her lips.
“You are about to taste the three top wines produced by Bella Notte. Taste the white wine first,” Maurice said, “and then write your impression on the card. Do not compare notes.”
Wyatt thought it was odd to have the interns in for a wine tasting at eight in the morning, but what the hell? He cradled the wine glass in his hand, swirling it around, and inhaled the fruity aroma.
Not the usual chardonnay, which gladdened his heart. Chardonnay was so overdone in California. Instead, Bella Notte’s Riesling delighted him—light, fresh, and as bright as a summer day.
One sip had him thinking of swimming pools and fireworks and homemade ice cream. The wine was a carousel ride, the taste intensifying as it rolled over his tongue and then ended humbly but sweetly on a gentle note.
He used the twenty-point Davis wine-ranking scale he’d been introduced to as a child. The Riesling was a solid sixteen. No defects.
“Now for the cabernet,” Maurice directed.
Wyatt closed his eyes and let his nose do the assessment first, identifying the individual notes—peppery, oaken without the obligatory smokiness, and just underneath, he caught a whiff of cherry, muted, but it was there.
He lifted the glass to his lips. The liquid slid smoothly over his tongue, then rushed up to greet his palate. It was a simple cab, yet noble and pristine. Purer than anything DeSalme produced. More intimate too.
The interns around him scribbled madly on their index cards, but Wyatt took his time, allowing the wine to resonate on the back of his tongue before finishing his assessment.
It was hauntingly delicate. A quality he’d never associated with a cab, but he couldn’t decide whether it was indeed a quality that he wanted in a heavy red wine.
Everyone was making appreciative noises, and Maurice had to remind them not to compare notes. Was he testing their abilities to describe wine? Or was he looking for a particular discernment of the taste buds?
Wyatt slid another glance over at Kiara. She was still staring at him. He held her gaze this time, refusing to look away. If she knew who he was, then she was going to have to call him out. Right here in front of everyone.
“And now,” Maurice said, “for the wine that’s going to take first place at the annual Sonoma Wine Festival next month...” He trailed off, pausing dramatically.
Okay, nothing humble about that boast.
“I give you Bella Notte’s premium dessert wine.” He raised his hand like a stop sign. “But hold up a second. You must enjoy it with the chocolate lava cake baked by my Grandmother Romano to truly appreciate the joy that is Decadent Midnight.”
The back door opened again, and a wizened woman appeared carrying a tray of twenty-four teacup-size lava cakes, fresh from the oven, still steaming hot. The smell of fine chocolate mingled with the aroma of wine.
This, then, was the wine DeSalme had been hearing rumors about, the wine that was allegedly going to dethrone them as the reigning kings of Sonoma’s Best of the Best Award. The wine that had caused his brothers to call him up in Greece and beg him to go undercover as an intern at Bella Notte.
Wyatt couldn’t wait to drink it. He might not officially be in the family wine business, but he was an expert on luxury. Good food, good wine, good times were the tenets he lived by.
Grandma Romano settled a lava cake in front of him, and a current of excitement ran around the table. Everyone was waiting for a cue from Maurice to begin.
But it was Kiara who picked up a narrow glass of the dark-purple dessert wine and raised it in the air. “Salut.”
The group raised their glasses and echoed, “Salut.”
The interns exchanged glances and grins, then inhaled the intoxicating bouquet. It smelled like plums ripening in the sun. Wyatt thought immediately of Portugal and their port wines. But this was not a fortified wine.
Wyatt closed his eyes again. He heard forks clinking against china, the accompanying moans of pleasure, but he blocked all that out to focus exclusively on his own experience.
A late-harvest muscat. But this was more than a simple muscat. This wine was richer, truer. Not a false note anywhere.
First, he tasted the concentrated melancholy sweetness, immediately followed by a kick of tingling warmth so surprising, his breath came out in a sharp, quick exhalation. Then the supreme flavor of pecan tiptoed in.
He opened his eyes, and there was Kiara Romano, her stare cutting through him like a laser drill. To hide his guilt and his pleasure, he forked in a bite of hot gooey lava cake.
And that’s when magic exploded inside his mouth.
Had he died and gone to epicurean heaven? His brain searched for a word respectful enough to describe the sensation but there simply were none.
Time hung suspended, a precious moment he’d never have again—the first time he tasted the true flavor of decadence.
Seconds? Minutes? An hour?
The pleasure was so barbarically beautiful he didn’t ever want it to end. It tasted like the most sublime sin, and to think that the frumpily dressed woman with the smart green eyes was responsible for this...this...thing of sheer perfection.
His tongue slipped through the comingling of wine and chocolate—sweet and wet and hot. The combination of lava cake and Decadent Midnight rivaled great sex.
He found the comparison surprising, but apt. It was all pure, thick, oozy pleasure. He’d never felt so giddy over a wine.
With every sip, as the indulgent notes tumbled and rolled over his taste buds, his appreciation grew. A symphony. There was a virtual symphony in his mouth.
It tasted like Vivaldi’s “Autumn”—eager, crisp, and rapturous, but underneath a haunting melancholia for things that could not last. Figs and apricots and musky late-autumn piqued his tongue.
The wine’s dark flesh caressed his throat. In that moment, he was one hundred percent fully alive.
It was jaw-dropping, heart-stopping, extraordinary wine of profound and complex character. A well-deserved twenty on the Davis scale. Wyatt’s eyes flew open, and he grabbed his pen and began to write, his hand barely able to keep up with his thoughts.
It was almost as if he were channeling Bacchus, spewing his impressions on the index card in the pell-mell hurry reserved for people rushing to catch a flight just as the airplane doors were closing.
His brothers were right to be worried about the competition from Bella Notte Vineyards, and unless they could find Kiara Romano’s Achilles’ heel and get her to drop out of the contest, Decadent Midnight was going to thrash not only DeSalme in the Best of the Best Award, but every other wine in its category.
Happiness lingered on his tongue. A sweet skin of unforgettable sensation. He felt as if he’d just lost his virginity and couldn’t wait to go back for more.
The beautiful wine had what the French called terroir: taste with a true sense of place. It tasted like where it was grown. Idyllic.
A hedonist’s wet dream.
Everyone else had finished writing, but Wyatt couldn’t seem to stop. Words fell, raining on the page, rushing to express his appreciation for Kiara’s wine. When he’d finally filled the entire note card, front to back, he set down his pen and looked around.
At some point during his purge of words, the blonde intern had gotten up, and Kiara Romano had taken her seat. She studied him from across the table, her eyes bright, shoulders thrust forward, chin quivering.
He smiled at her.
She blinked, a glazed, blissed-out expression shading her eyes. A smile identical to his own just-made-love grin curled at her lips.
With one swift motion, she pushed back her chair, then stood up and held out her hand.
“You,” she commanded. “You come with me.”
2
The man was perfect.
Too perfect.
He set off all Kiara’s internal alarm bells. She did not trust perfect.
Kiara led the way down the corridor. She heard the sound of his sneakers slapping against the terrazzo floor. As a natural introvert, she didn’t particularly care for this part of her job.
Welcoming the interns, being all warm and fuzzy and inviting when all she wanted was to scuttle back to her quiet lab or the peaceful vineyards. Maurice was good at the public relationships aspect of running a winery. Kiara was not.
But she was the one who needed an assistant—her family had finally convinced her to delegate some of the lab duties—and the man behind her had demonstrated all the essential qualities.
Without an accomplished assistant, she wasn’t free to concentrate on her goal— creating premium dessert wine that would turn Bella Notte into the go-to vineyard for sweet, late-harvest wines of superior quality.
Her approach to winemaking differed from all the Romanos who had come before her. With a PhD in Viticulture and Enology, she was one hundred percent scientific. She kept excellent data. She played by the rules.
No loosey-goosey, artsy “magic” of winemaking for her. Yes, Great-grandfather Romano had achieved a lot in his day with nothing but natural talent and grapevines nurtured all the way across the ocean from Naples, but time and technology had changed winemaking from instinct to a discipline.
Now for the nitty-gritty of the interview.
Don’t get your hopes up just because this guy seems to have all the traits you’re looking for. Take your time. There’s no rush.
It sounded good, but that wasn’t true. She’d managed to pluck Bella Notte from the brink of bankruptcy after her father’s illness had forced him to step down as head of the winery, but they were still far from secure.
Decadent Midnight, her own creation, was the ace in the hole, and this year it was her chance to shine at the Sonoma Best of the Best competition.
She pushed through the door into her lab. She waved at a metal stool drawn up to one of the tables. “Have a seat.”
Kiara went around to the other side of the table but remained standing. Folding her arms over her chest, she canted her head, studying the man.
Behind the dark-framed glasses he wore, eyes the deep color of chestnuts stared back at her. Brown shaggy hair flopped over his forehead, giving him a rakish appearance.
He looked as though he dressed with the help of a thrift store. Nothing wrong with that. Between being young and either in college or just graduated, most interns were broke.
But beneath the surface, this guy was different.
For one thing, his nails were buffed, and he had no calluses on his palms, unlike her work-roughened hands. Plus, he moved with an air of self-confidence that belied his position. And then there was his clear talent for evaluating wine.
Why hadn’t another winery snapped him up by now?
Maurice handled the intern applications and training. Where had her cousin found him?
Her eyes met his.
A slow, easy grin started at one side of his mouth and slipped to the other while his gaze snagged onto hers.
Slick. He was way too slick.
Kiara scowled.
His smile teetered, and for a flash of a second, she saw hesitation in his face, and she immediately liked him better.
Maybe the bravado was all show. Maybe he wasn’t as cocky as he seemed. Or maybe she was simply too wary. Her whole family told her she should be more open, more trusting, more romantic, like her sister, Deirdre. Easy for them to say.
Love for them prevented her from pointing out that their trust of an unscrupulous accountant had placed the Romanos’ livelihood in serious jeopardy, and crusty ol’ Kiara was the one who had to save them.
“I’m Kiara.” She thrust out her hand.
The smile returned. “I heard.” He took her hand. “Wyatt Jordan.”
The instant their hands touched, a blast of raw sexual desire shot up her arm and sped a blistering trail straight to her groin. Her body reacted to him without her approval; that had never happened before.
Wyatt’s eyes widened.
Kiara withdrew her hand, her gaze dropping to her feet.
Silence crawled by, slow and painful.
“So...” she said, ignoring the butterfly storm in her stomach.
“So,” he echoed.
“Looks like we both have the same extensive vocabulary.”
“Watch out, Google might poach us.”
He was funny. And smart. A dangerous combo. Don’t forget gorgeous. See. Too perfect.
This time, she noticed the shape of his lips. Angular. Wide and welcoming. Very kissable lips. Helplessly, she felt her attraction to him grow. This was definitely out of the ordinary for her.
She wasn’t the kind of woman who did anything heedlessly, much less indulged in lusty impulses, but she could not stop herself from tracking down his strong masculine chin to his broad shoulders and chest.
Good thing he was sitting behind a table, otherwise, she would have been tempted to let her gaze stroll even lower.
What in the hell was wrong with her? She needed to take control of the situation and take control of it now.
“I have another taste test I want to give you,” she said.
“Bring it.”
She held up one finger. “I’ll be right back.”
Kiara took off from the lab, more as an excuse to compose herself than anything else. This intern had potential, but her physical reaction to him scared her. She needed to make sure he was the one before she offered him the job as her assistant.
She had a test in mind to see if he really did have a discerning tongue and olfactory sense or if he was just a great pretender. She suspected the latter.
When she was in grad school, she’d been involved in a study based on a blind taste test featuring two name-brand colas. In the original experiment, all the blindfolded participants preferred the taste of the lesser-known brand to the best-selling soda.
The researchers wanted to understand why the best-tasting cola was not the best-selling cola, so they did a second test where they performed an MRI on the subjects as they drank the colas and discovered the “reward” center of the brain lit up when they drank the lesser-known brand.
In a clever twist, the researchers repeated t
he experiment a third time, informing the participants that they were drinking the name brand even though they were not. This time their brains lit up in the “reward” region, the same as they had previously done with the brand whose flavor they had enjoyed more.
Kiara’s scientific mind found the results of this experiment both fascinating and frustrating. It meant that for most people, brand loyalty trumped quality.
Given human psychology, how did an upstart winery compete against the big labels? It was a question that had plagued her for years, but now that she was in charge of Bella Notte, it had become the paramount question.
She needed something—someone—to help her bridge the gap between the myth of a name brand’s superiority and the science of truly good wine. She had to believe that some level of objectivity could be found and exploited.
But how?
Test this guy. See if he truly is discerning enough to differentiate between taste and brand.
All right, so it was a bit underhanded. She’d admit it. But if she was going to let this guy into her lab, take him on as an assistant, she needed some assurance he was the real deal.
Or was she simply kidding herself? Was she just trying to find an excuse to keep the super-hot guy around?
Kiara’s cheeks flushed. No, no, that wasn’t what she was doing. She wasn’t the kind of person who allowed something like sexual attraction get in the way of her goals. She wanted him because he had exhibited a rare talent for detecting the subtle smells and flavors of wine.
She was focused. Resolute. Her goal was single-minded and lofty. Consistently produce the best dessert wine in California, and if Wyatt Jordan could help her do that, well, then she would use him.
Yeah? So why are you standing out here in the corridor?
She shook her head and took the steps down to the wine cellar. The cool, earthy smell enveloped her. She loved it down here in this old-fashioned cellar with stone walls and a floor of packed earth.
When she was a child, this had been her favorite place to play. She’d learned to read down here at age four, spelling out the letters on the wine labels.
In the cellar, she felt especially linked to her family, to the past, to the entire history of winemaking. It was an ancient, provocative lure.