She stepped out into the warm afternoon and pulled off her sunglasses. In the past hour she’d been too busy getting ready to think about being nervous, but suddenly the butterflies migrated to her stomach and began dive- bombing her pancreas. She felt hot, thirsty, tense, and apprehensive. If her emotions were a liquid, they would be thick, green, and bubbling.
The brew got worse when Nic stepped out of the winery. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes.
She’d seen him dressed like this hundreds of times, maybe more. So he was tall, muscular, and good-looking. She was only interested in his money. Nothing about the man appealed to her. Really.
Brenna shoved her car keys into her jeans pocket and sighed. She wasn’t a very good liar, not even to herself. It might have been ten years and a lot of miles since she and Nic had been a whole lot more than friends, but some part of her remembered every detail of their time together. Especially the time they’d spent in bed.
She remembered the warmth of his skin. They’d mostly made love outdoors, so in her mind sun heat and Nic heat were almost the same. They’d discovered the sensual pleasures of making love in the cool June rain, by the beach in July, and under thick canopies of grapes on a sultry August night.
Their favorite indoor location had been the fermentation room, empty until harvest but still dark and quiet, smelling of yeast and magic. Sometimes, when she walked by the fermentation rooms at Marcelli and caught a whiff of that distinctive perfume, she flashed back to Nic’s body against her, his hands everywhere, their need spiraling out of control.
Ten years, a lot of miles, and one failed marriage later, she still remembered…perhaps more than she should.
“You made it,” he said, pulling off his sunglasses and offering a smile.
“I was motivated,” she admitted, determined to act completely cool. “And curious. I never thought of you as the pet type.”
“I’ve wanted a dog for a while. This seemed like a good time. You ready?”
She nodded and followed him to the multicar garage. Her thighs did some kind of weird shimmy thing, which made it hard to walk. She hadn’t thought about getting there-to Ojai. This was Nic-the guy who rode motorcycles.
She had an instant vision of herself on the bike with him, riding behind, holding on, being really, really close. She would wrap her arms around him and feel each time he took a breath. Eventually their hearts would start to beat in unison, just as soon as hers stopped kicking into hyper-drive. It would be fun, intimate, exciting, and more than a little dangerous.
She couldn’t wait.
He stepped into the garage and hit a button that activated an overhead door. Light spilled in from outside. As her eyes adjusted, she saw an expensive Jaguar convertible-the really sleek kind, a Land Rover, and three motorcycles. Which was two more than he’d had before.
As she glanced around for extra helmets, Nic walked to the Land Rover and held open the passenger door. “In case we come back with a puppy,” he said. “I don’t want it chewing up my good car.”
Sensual heat drained out of her like water draining out of a bathtub. Right. Nic was buying a dog. People didn’t show up on a motorcycle if they were pet shopping. It wouldn’t look responsible. It’s not as if the puppy could wear a helmet and hang on from behind. What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t, she realized as she slid into the passenger seat and waited while Nic closed the door. She’d been caught up in the past and feeling. Which was really stupid. What about her dreams? What about her mission? The drive to Ojai was her opportunity to convince Nic to loan her the money. She had to focus.
As Nic settled in next to her, she vowed to keep things strictly business. She was about to mention the loan when he spoke.
“Have you started harvesting the Reserve Chardonnay?” he asked.
“Yesterday.”
He turned the key and started the engine, then glanced at her. “And?”
“The grapes are pretty spectacular,” she admitted. “Exactly ripe, with just enough sweetness. You wouldn’t have to have any talent to make this harvest a success. What about you? The Chardonnay grapes ready?”
“In most of the fields. I have crews out.”
They backed out of the garage. He hit a remote to close the door, then turned the vehicle and headed down the main drive to the highway.
“And?” she asked, grinning. “Are you going to have a brilliant year?”
“It looks that way.”
She wasn’t surprised. She’d been hearing that it was turning into a good harvest for everyone. Which was a whole lot better than the years when everyone was scrambling. She still shuddered when she thought back to 1998 when California Cabernet had suffered from low yields due to uncooperative weather. The Cab grapes hadn’t ripened correctly. It had been one of the few times she hadn’t minded not being involved with Marcelli Wines.
“So what did you and your grandfather argue about?” he asked.
“I want to use some of the Reserve grapes for a cuvee. He thinks they should all be bottled as Reserve Chardonnay. They’re our best-producing vines and I see his point, but I’ve had this idea for a great cuvee. He’s a purist and old-fashioned.”
Nic glanced at her. “Chardonnay is one of the most popular wines around. Why would you want to try something new?”
“Because I think blends are becoming more popular. Both Kendall-Jackson and Columbia Crest up in Washington State have done really well with Cabernet-Merlot blends. Qupe Winery has a cuvee that sells out about thirty seconds after it gets bottled.”
“And because you like to experiment.”
She shrugged. “I’ll admit it. I want to create the perfect white wine. Light, slightly fruity. I want the finish to be crisp, with a hint of sweetness. Minimal oak. I want it to taste cold, even when it’s not.”
He glanced at her. “That’s a tall order.”
“It can be done. Assuming you cough up the money, I’m going to buy the Schulers’ Chardonnay grapes. I have some Voignier on reserve up in Napa. I figure with the right blend and barrel fermenting I’ll-”
“You’re going to barrel ferment?”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You sound like my grandfather. Yes, I am. I know it’s expensive and more time-consuming, but the blend will be smoother and the color lighter. Which is what I want.”
“What about your Pinot Noir?”
She watched as they merged onto 101 south heading for the off ramp that led to Ojai.
“I went and saw the grapes last week. They need about another month.”
“You know good Pinot’s a bitch to make.”
She turned to look at him. “I am more than up to the challenge.”
He grinned. “Okay, so Chardonnay, a cuvee, and Pinot. Anything else on the Brenna Marcelli radar scope?”
She did ten minutes on her plans for the perfect Cabernet. As she wasn’t able to grow her own grapes, not yet anyway, she’d lined up a list of potential purchases. Rather than buy in bulk from one seller, she would pick up small batches from several to get the exact blend she wanted.
“I’m going a hundred percent on this Cab,” she concluded. “No Cab Franc or Merlot to smooth it out. I’m not looking for a wine that will cellar for twenty years, either. At least not at first. I want it good in three years and great in four.”
“Don’t we all?”
She allowed herself a smile. “The difference is I know how to do it.”
“And I don’t?”
“Did I say that? You do fine. Wild Sea is known all over the country.”
“Volume not quality?”
The argument was familiar.
“I’ve kept track of Wild Sea wines,” she said. “You know all this, Nic. You’re too focused on getting the most number of cases per ton. You need to give up that last ten percent. It’s not worth it. Oh, and there were a couple of poor barrel choices for the 2000 Reserve Merlot.”
“This is how you convince me to loan you money? By insulting my wines?”
