Fanged Love

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  The cellar is dim and cramped with barrels and wine-making equipment. My parents use the outdoor patio for the wine tastings instead of the cellar. Unfortunately, there’s not enough of those tasting visitors to keep us in the black.

  My dad takes the bottles out and hands them to me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the meeting with you?”

  “You and Mom said you’re hoping I’ll turn things around, so let me do my job.” My tone is a little snippy, but I can’t help it. I’m still so angry they kept the truth about the financial state of the winery from me, and I’d really appreciate it if they could show some trust. “Please,” I add belatedly.

  His brow furrows over kindly hazel eyes. “My gut says something’s off about this Prince Bozhidar guy. What kind of name is that anyway? I couldn’t find anything about him online. And we’ve been neighbors for years, yet we’ve never seen him—only Neli.”

  “You never visited him.” My parents only sent me the one time to drop off cookies at Christmas. “Today I stopped by, and he answered the door himself. All it took was a little neighborly friendliness to bridge the gap.” Or cross the moat. I keep that to myself. Dad doesn’t need any more ammunition against the one person who could help save our winery. I don’t expect Mr. Bozhidar to spill all his secrets on what makes his wine so good, but I’m hoping to get his opinion on ours and how to improve it. I mean, obviously if his secret is the source of their vines, that’s not going to help us. It takes several years to grow new ones that produce fruit. I can only hope he’s willing to share a few marketing ideas. We’ll talk shop, businessman to businesswoman. Under less dire financial circumstances, this kind of meeting would be fun for me.

  Dad continues, his tone still suspicious. “And what kind of person builds a medieval-style castle in the middle of California wine country?”

  Guess there’s no hiding the moat.

  “A very rich person. He can build whatever he wants if he’s got the funds. And you know what? I think it’s great that he does what makes him happy.” Like wear top hats. I keep that to myself too. Really, our neighbor just walks to the tune of his own bagpipes (seems appropriate for a castle dweller).

  I head upstairs, cradling the bottles in one arm. My dad follows behind me. I don’t care if our neighbor is a little eccentric. Maybe that’s what makes him so good at crafting award-winning wines. Maybe not following the crowd is the key to standing out in the competitive wine business.

  “Stella, you don’t need to go over there,” my dad says once we get upstairs. “I mean, he can’t be doing anything that different from us. We’re growing grapes in the same soil conditions, the same rainfall. It’s probably just his connections that gave him a leg up.”

  “He’s obviously doing something right. I’m going to find out what. As for your concern about me going over there, I’ll be fine. I’m a grown woman. I can handle a business meeting.”

  He lifts a finger. “That’s another thing. Why does he want to meet you at night? I don’t like it.”

  “He works late to deal with his overseas distributors. Really, it’s fine. I have my phone, and the manager, Neli, lives there too. What time is it?”

  “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Okay, I’m heading over there.”

  “How long will you be?”

  I barely hold back on rolling my eyes. I’ve only been home for a few days, and I’m already starting to feel like I’m back in high school. I know my parents see me as capable, they just need to let up on the overprotective stuff.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter. “I’ll text when I’m on my way back. Bye!” I head out the door of the wine annex and take the shortcut through the side yard to the road.

  Checking in with my dad feels like overkill, but the closer I get to the castle, the more my heart pounds to the tune of naked man, naked man, naked man. I have to get a hold of myself. So much rides on this meeting, and I can’t let anything throw me. I have to let any eccentricity or condition he may have sail right on by. Even if the image of his gorgeous muscular perfection is burned into my brain.

  The sun is setting as I cross the drawbridge once more. I think cooling thoughts and lift the heavy metal knocker. A shiver courses through me. Wow, it wasn’t just my mind that made me cool off. The air definitely feels colder close to the castle. Probably something to do with the stone construction. I’m also wearing another of my long maxi dresses—plain white—and matching sandals, so the cool air goes right to my skin.

  I wait in breathless anticipation, my heart drumming to its new favorite tune with a little fluttery add-on: naked sexy man, naked sexy man.

  One of the large arched wooden doors slowly creaks open. Is it him? Is he naked?

  Neli’s small frame appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a white blouse, jeans, and pink flip-flops. Her red hair is in a high ponytail.

  “Hi, Neli.” I try not to show my disappointment that her boss didn’t open the door. Sans pants.

  She smiles. “Hi, Stella, come on in.”

  I step inside, and the door shuts behind me with an ominous thud, echoing through the large two-story foyer.

  She takes a step back. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “I have arrived,” a deep voice announces, startling me. He must move fast. I didn’t even notice him approaching. He’s dressed, which is good, of course, but his clothes are rather unusual. Like a goth musician in a black top hat, white frilly shirt, black velvet cape, and snug black pants that outline his powerful, ahem, thighs.

  I jerk my gaze up to his eyes. Silver glints sparkle back at me in black eyes. How exotic. I guess I didn’t notice them before. Maybe I was too distracted by his defined muscular chest with a smattering of dark chest hair, his washboard abs, and his thick penis with a throbbing vein pointing right at me.

  I flush hot and try to focus on something else, like his black hair reaching down to his shoulders and his pale skin. Maybe he’s a musician in seclusion from his rabid fan base. It would explain so much.

  Neli whirls and whispers something to him in a fierce low tone.

  “Leave us,” he commands. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the soft edge of authority is unmistakable.

  “I’m the manager here,” she says to him. “It’s important I’m in on business meetings.”

  He doesn’t reply. Instead, he merely looks at her as though he expects to be obeyed. She turns back to me and then to him before throwing her hands up.

  “I’ll be nearby if anyone needs me,” she says, looking right at me.

  I nod. Strange. It seems like Mr. Bozhidar would be the one who needs her assistance not me. I face the man who’s the key to getting Stellariva Vineyards out of the hole we’re in and back to the light. Out of the red and into the black. Or something like that. I may be a wee bit nervous now that we’re face-to-face. He’s just so much man (don’t think about it), and he exudes power.

  I stare as he removes his top hat with a flourish.

  “Good evening,” he drawls in a deep silky voice that wraps around me like a dark caress.

  I step closer, drawn in, and then remember the old-school manners Neli told me were important to him. I drop into an awkward curtsy as I clutch the wine bottles against my chest, my purse dropping forward off my shoulder and hitting the floor. My planner spills out of it, exposing one of my many lists. “Good evening, Mr. Bozhidar.”

  I go for my purse and planner, but he’s faster, tucking the planner back in and snagging the strap with a single finger.

  “Quite a long list,” he says.

  I straighten, meeting those glittering black eyes that seem to hint at something mysterious. “I’m a planner. Love to make a plan and check stuff off my list. It’s kinda my thing.”

  He sets my purse back on my shoulder, his touch through the thin fabric of my dress sending a spark through me.

  I lick my lips. “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. I brought two of our best vintages as a gift.
” I offer him the wine. “Would you like a tasting?”

  He leans close, his black eyes gleaming. “A taste?”

  My heart is in my throat, a distant warning of danger sounding in my mind. I take a step back.

  Wait. I’m being silly. I’m just feeling intimidated. Who wouldn’t be in his presence? Good looking, successful, wealthy.

  I gather my nerves and remain focused on the prize. “Yes, I’d love to get your opinion on our wine.”

  “The wine, yes, of course,” he murmurs. “We shall have some.”

  I offer him the bottles, but he doesn’t take them. Instead he snaps his fingers, announcing, “Bring these to the parlor.”

  I glance around. Does he have a maid or a butler who appears at the snap of his fingers? Neli appears. She must’ve stayed close like she said. I guess she helps him a lot.

  He hands her his top hat and gestures for her to take the wine bottles.

  She tucks his hat under one arm and takes the bottles from me. “The great hall would be more comfortable than the parlor. Right this way, Stella.”

  I follow her, sensing Mr. Bozhidar’s looming presence behind me more than hearing it. He moves quietly for a man of his size.

  We step through a large archway into what is truly a great hall with a long wooden table and enough room to accommodate—fifty people, at least. There’s a line of wooden chairs with intricate scrollwork carved into the top of each one. An enormous candelabra overhead brings out the gold motif in the post and beam ceiling. A stone hearth dominates the opposite end of the hall. Sconces that resemble torches line the walls between arched mullioned windows.

  Wow. No detail was spared to make it feel like an authentic castle.

  Mr. Bozhidar pulls out a chair for me adjacent to the head of the table, and I take the offered seat. He really does value manners. And bathing. Mmm… I inhale deeply, taking in the clean scent of his fresh woodsy aftershave. Oddly, it’s somehow familiar. Maybe my ex used it.

  He takes the seat at the head of the table, and I try to focus my attention back on the matter at hand. I’m here for business. Not smelling his smooth clean skin.

  “I’ll be right back with glasses and a cheese platter,” Neli says.

  Mr. Bozhidar stares at her. “Cheese platter? Just bring the silver platter with the cheese on top. I do not know how—”

  “Boz.” Neli smiles tightly. “I’m sure Stella would like to hear about our latest award-winning vintage.” She gives him a significant look. Some kind of problem with the cheese platter around here?

  “I would,” I say enthusiastically. “You must be very proud to take the gold medal at last year’s Challenge International du Vin, in France.” I did my research on the latest news from their winery earlier today. Our winery could never compete at their level internationally; however, there’s a big competition in New York coming up next month for domestic wines. I’m hoping we can scrape up the entry fee and submit our best wine. It’s a long shot, but now is not the time to be careful. It’ll take big, bold ideas and a miracle to save Stellariva.

  Neli quickly walks from the room. I think she doesn’t want to miss much of our meeting. Maybe she’s afraid he’ll share all his wine-making secrets. I can feel his stare as I set my purse over the back of the chair, waiting for him to tell me about his recent win. Those black eyes. For a moment there, he felt dangerous. Maybe there is something off about him like my dad said. No, no. Don’t be silly.

  Again, I fight back my nerves. I’m sitting in the room with a wine-industry legend, but he’s still just a man who puts his pants on one leg at a time. When he wears pants.

  “Your gold medal win?” I prompt.

  He steeples his long fingers together on the table. “Ah, yes. Our merlot.”

  “I’m so impressed. That’s a very prestigious competition.”

  “Yes, yes, would you like to try our winning wine?”

  The jitters return. Why can’t I seem to settle down? “Sure. That would be wonderful.”

  He stands. “Let’s take this to the cellar. I will give you a tour.”

  “Should we wait for Neli?” I ask. “She’s bringing us a cheese platter.” Or a silver platter with cheese on it or something with cheese. I’m really not sure.

  “I have no use for that. Come.” He crooks his elbow for me to take, like a gentleman from a more courtly era. It’s unusual, but I actually like his old-school ways. It makes me feel like we’re in another world—like you see in those movies about knights in armor, sword fights, and lavish feasts. Kind of exciting, really. Must be the medieval atmosphere.

  I cross to him and rest my hand on his arm, meeting hard muscle. My heart starts its lusty drumbeat once more.

  We’re barely through the front hall when Neli appears with a platter of cheese, olives, and crackers. She holds two wineglasses by the stems in her other hand. “Where’re you going?”

  “The cellars,” Mr. Bozhidar says. “We will dine later.”

  “Just a minute,” she says. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No need,” he says at the same time as I say, “That would be nice.”

  He stiffens and looks down at me. “You wish for a chaperone?”

  Chaperone? Now that’s really old-school. “Uh, I thought it would be nice for her to join us. Isn’t Neli a critical part of the success of your winery?”

  “Why, yes, I am,” she says, setting the glasses and platter on a hall table before rushing back to us. “Thank you, Stella, for saying so. It seems Mr. Bozhidar is eager to show off our wine.”

  “As he should be,” I say.

  A few minutes later, I step into the most spectacular cellar I’ve ever seen. It’s an enormous vaulted space, made entirely of pale stone bricks with multiple archways, and lit with candelabras overhead and sconces along the sides of every archway. “Whoa,” I breathe as we walk through the space, my hand still tucked in the crook of Mr. Bozhidar’s arm.

  He gives me a strange look. “Do you wish for me to slow down?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I inhale and take in the sweet musty scent of fermenting wine and oak barrels.

  Neli snorts.

  I look around. “Do you ever hold events down here? It’s an amazing space.”

  “Events?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you know, like a fun Halloween masquerade or a New Year’s Eve party.”

  “Never,” he says. “Though I am an avid observer of all variations of All Hallows’ Eve, especially Day of the Dead, but a party would invite too much temptation.”

  I lower my voice, though we’re the only three here. “You mean people who would steal from you?”

  “I cannot imagine anyone would dare. In my castle, we deal with thieves in the usual way,” he says dismissively.

  “What’s the usual way?” I hope he means they call the police, but I’m sensing he’s talking about something very different. Something much worse. Damn. I really need to stop this. There is nothing to be afraid of—with him or this place. The creepy vibe is all in my head. The creepy vibe is all in my—

  “At Castle Sangria, we take a long piece of rope and—”

  “Tie them up, of course!” Neli interjects from behind with a nervous tone. “Then we call the authorities. But we rarely hold any events. Our main focus is on production. Let’s get on with the tour so we can get to the good part—the tastings for Stella.”

  He gestures to the sides of the vaulted archway we pass through, where there are various rooms. “Production area, armory, torture chamber, barrel room—”

  “Sorry, what?” I interrupt. “Did you say torture chamber?”

  “Tasting chamber,” Neli chirps. “He calls it a chamber because it’s such a large area, bigger than a room. It’s under renovation now.”

  I glance to my right at a dimly lit space, where I can barely make out glints of metal, but she rushes to my side and blocks my view.

  I lick my dry lips. “Th-then you must do a lot of tastings here if you have such a large roo
m for it.” Not creepy. Not creepy. Not cree—

  “We did before the renovation,” she says.

  I’m about to ask what kind of advertising they used for that, but I’m distracted by the quick movement of Mr. Bozhidar. One moment he’s by my side, and the next he’s pulling a dusty bottle of wine from the large rack in a nearby side chamber. The man is like a goth ninja.

  He holds it up from where he stands by the wine rack. “Here it is, the best merlot in the world.”

  He’s very proud, as he should be. We join him. Neli produces a corkscrew from a nearby cabinet along with some glasses and pops open the bottle. She pours us each a small sample. I swirl it around in my glass, smell it, and then sip.

  They both wait for my reaction.

  “It’s wonderful, very smooth with notes of cherries and cocoa.” I sip again because it’s so good, as is feeling Mr. Bozhidar’s intense gaze on me. It simultaneously soothes and excites me. “Some hints of vanilla and cedar from aging in oak barrels.”

  “Excellent,” he says, filling my glass.

  “We’re glad you like it,” Neli adds.

  “Finish your wine, Stella,” he says. “I have a cabernet sauvignon you must try.”

  I sip again, and he watches my throat as I swallow. I almost feel like I need to chug to get to the cabernet he’s so eager for me to try. “Aren’t you going to drink yours?”

  He swallows his wine and wipes the red drops from his lips with a linen napkin Neli hands him. He tosses it carelessly to a nearby end table. He certainly acts like he’s the king of the castle. Well, if he funded the entire venture, maybe he is.

  Neli sighs, stuffs the napkin in her pocket, and sets her glass down on the end table, searching the rack for our next tasting wine.

  By the time I’ve sampled his six reserve wines, I’m feeling tipsy. I practically float upstairs on Mr. Bozhidar’s arm. “Now you should try my wine,” I tell him. “I’d love your opinion on it. It’s important that our wine wins some awards too. It’s not looking good for our winery right now. Major financial troubles.” Oops! Did I say that out loud? Here’s my plan and backup plan—first, make the wine as great as it can be for the future of Stellariva. But that takes a while with the fermenting and all that, which is why I have a backup plan to win an award with our current wine. Even a smaller wine competition could help. I found one in the Finger Lakes of New York that looks promising. We already missed the major competitions here in California.