by Lori Wilde
Hey, stupid, you’re not supposed to call attention to yourself.
The ploy worked. She glanced away quickly, pulled a corkscrew from her apron pocket, and reached for a bottle of wine resting on the sideboard.
“Have a seat.” The tall man waved a hand at the twenty-four empty chairs.
Everyone sat.
The man grabbed for glasses hanging from the rack suspended over the table and started passing them out. Three glasses apiece—a wide-bodied one for the reds, more elongated for the whites, and narrow flutes for the dessert wines.
The auburn-haired woman swiftly opened various bottles of wines. Next, she was slipping between the interns, tipping an ounce of each kind of wine into the waiting glasses in movements as choreographed as a dance. She’d done this many, many times before.
“I’m Maurice Romano,” the man said and moved to slide his hand around the black-haired woman’s waist. “This is my wife, Trudy. Besides looking after our four children, she runs the gift shop, and she is in charge of guest services.”
Trudy Romano smiled. “Welcome, welcome. We want you all to feel like part of the family.”
The door opened, and four kids trouped in. Two boys and two girls.
“This is Mia,” Trudy said, putting her hands on the shoulders of the oldest girl. “She’s thirteen.”
Dark-haired Mia rolled her eyes. “Mom, they don’t care.”
Her mother ignored her. “This is Samuel. He’s ten.”
Samuel wore a Yankees baseball cap. He doffed it, then bowed and grinned.
“Stop showing off.” Mia thumped her brother.
“Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Children, children,” Trudy chided. “This is Elliott, and he’s seven.”
Elliott beamed, showing two missing front teeth.
“This is Juliet. She’s six.”
Bashful Juliet turned and buried her face in her mother’s skirt.
“I have to take them to school now, but we wanted to be here to greet you.” Then waving, Trudy herded her brood out the door.
“And this,” Maurice said, indicating the other woman, “is my cousin Kiara. Our great-grandparents started Bella Notte Vineyards in 1934, and it’s been in our family ever since.”
So this was the fabled Kiara Romano, supposedly so gifted she’d brought the struggling vineyard from the brink of bankruptcy to become one of the most promising boutique wineries in California. Wyatt straightened in his chair. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed that from looking at her.
She stood directly across the table from him, pouring a chilled white wine for Lauren, the blonde from the ferry. Kiara lifted her chin, and their gazes met a second time. Her mouth pressed into a tight thin line, and her emerald eyes narrowed.
What was this? Had she taken an instant dislike to him? That was strange. Most women liked him. That is, until they figured out he wasn’t the kind of man who believed in strings.
Kiara moved around the table, coming closer.
Wyatt’s body tensed. He didn’t hear what Maurice was saying because all his focus was concentrated on the woman pouring the wine.
She affected him on a visceral level, but he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the graceful way she moved even in those heavy boots. Maybe it was the appealing contrast between her delicate bone structure and her all-business, no-nonsense attitude. Maybe it was just the romantic setting.
But if it was Bella Notte that had captured his imagination, then why was it Kiara who captivated him and not one of the interns?
Wyatt had no time to ponder this because Kiara had reached his side.
She leaned over to fill his glass, and her fascinating scent went straight to his head. She smelled honest, clean—like wildflowers and sunshine and oatmeal. She’d had oatmeal for breakfast.
Wyatt had been born with a heightened olfactory sense. For years, his family had thought that with his talent for identifying the fine layers of scents, for sure he’d go into the wine business.
But Wyatt was a bit of a rebel. He never did what was expected of him. Besides, there was a whole world out there to explore. Why confine oneself to a single profession?
He flattened his palms against the table.
His sense of that moment unfolded vividly and slowly as he clocked everything—the brush of her hand against his shoulder, the warmth of her body turning to slip between the two chairs, the sound of her breathing so quiet and even. He didn’t see her so much as feel her.
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 asso
ciated 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.”
Also by Lori Wilde
The Billionaire’s Secret Summer.
About the Author
Lori Wilde is the New York Times, USA Today and Publishers’ Weekly bestselling author of 87 works of romantic fiction. She’s a three time Romance Writers’ of America RITA finalist and has four times been nominated for Romantic Times Readers’ Choice Award. She has won numerous other awards as well.
Her books have been translated into 26 languages, with more than four million copies of her books sold worldwide.
Her breakout novel, The First Love Cookie Club, has been optioned for a TV movie.
Lori is a registered nurse with a BSN from Texas Christian University. She holds a certificate in forensics, and is also a certified yoga instructor.
A fifth generation Texan, Lori lives with her husband, Bill, in the Cutting Horse Capital of the World; where they run Epiphany Orchards, a writing/creativity retreat for the care and enrichment of the artistic soul.