been here.”
They talked about the changes in the city in the past ten years, how celebrities both wanted and thwarted a bodyguard’s ability to protect, and the various experiments she’d set up to help her with her research.
Sam had nearly finished his steak when he glanced at her nearly full glass.
“Don’t you like your wine?”
She touched the stem. “It’s fine.”
“Francesca. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m not a big fan of Wild Sea Vineyards.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Do you have any other plans for tonight?”
Plans? With him? Now that he mentioned it-
She deliberately broke off in mid-thought. “Not really.”
“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be,” he said. “So tell me a story.”
“All right.” At least this was a safe topic. No double entendres, not even a hint of sexual tension.
“In 1923 two friends, Antonio Marcelli and Salvatore Giovanni, came to America from Italy. They were both second sons with no hope of inheriting their families’ businesses. They vowed to show their respective families that they would be big successes. They settled in Central California and carefully tended the treasures they had brought with them.” She paused and smiled. “Grapevines.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. She was one surprise after the other. “Francesca Marcelli? As in Marcelli Wines?”
“That’s me.”
He motioned to the bottle on the table. “The Giovanni family, I presume.”
“Uh-huh. The virgin soil, the windswept hills, the temperate climate were all perfect for growing grapes. Antonio and Salvatore bought land next to each other. They shared labor, celebrated victories, and together toasted their first harvest. In time they returned to Italy to ma rry, then came back to California and settled down to have happy lives. Wild Sea Vineyard and Marcelli Wines were born. Antonio and Salvatore each had one son and two daughters.”
She paused to take a drink of water. He leaned forward. “You grew up listening to that story.”
“I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
“Your voice changes when you talk about the family history.” More than her voice. Her eyes stared past him to focus on a long-ago place.
“My grandmother talks about the old days. I guess I’m repeating what she says.”
She drew in a breath and continued. “Events in Europe in the late 1930s worried the friends. With the German occupation of France and threats to Italy during the Second World War, there was great concern for the state of the vineyards. Would generations of healthy stock be destroyed? Antonio and Salvatore went to Europe, where friends offered cuttings. They traveled, collecting more and more cuttings from the most famous vineyards in France and Italy. Then they returned home to graft their legacy to their strongest vines. Whatever happened in Europe, the traditions would continue in America.”
“I’ve noticed a more European flavor to Wild Sea wines,” he said, “but I wouldn’t say the same about Marcelli wines.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “No one knows exactly what happened or why. At first both sets of cuttings did well, but over time those planted on Marcelli lands began to die. Antonio accused Salvatore of cursing his lands or poisoning his grapes. The two men had a falling out, as did the families. Friendships ended, engagements were broken. To this day, Marcelli Wines and Wild Sea Vineyards are mortal enemies.”
He liked the story, but then he found that he liked everything Francesca had to say.
“Any spilt blood?” he asked.
“Not our style,” she said with a smile. “We’re more the heated conversation types. Actually my grandfather, Antonio’s son, is the one most interested in carrying on the feud. My parents have never been that enthusiastic about old fights, and my sisters and I don’t really have the invested emotions.”
“Who runs Wild Sea now?”
“Salvatore’s great-grandson, Nicholas.” She rested her fingertips on the bottle. “They flourished with their new European cuttings. While we’re a successful enterprise, they are an international conglomerate.”
“You study psychology, not wine. Why?”
“Grandpa Lorenzo says the vines must be a passion. They never were for me. My sister, Brenna, has them in her blood.”
Their waiter took away the plates. Francesca shook off an offer of dessert. Sam handed him a credit card.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said when they were alone again. “I’ve enjoyed this evening.”
“Me, too.” Sam smiled. “I’d like to see you again.”
Heat sparked to life inside her midsection. “Me, too.”
“Tomorrow night? Unless you already have plans.”
She supposed she should play hard to get. That’s what Mia, her baby sister, was always saying. Francesca had never been very good at following directions.
“Tomorrow is fine.”
Sam pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and wrote on the back. “My home number,” he said when he passed it to her. He drew out another card. “Yours?”
As she told him the number, he wrote it down. When he was finished, she glanced at his business card. She scanned the information, then visually stumbled when she read the title under the name.
President and CEO.
“You run the company,” she said, trying not to panic. Of course he did. Why would that change anything?
“For a few years now.”
She raised her gaze to his face. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
The waiter interrupted them when he handed Sam his credit card and a receipt to sign.
When Sam had finished, he glanced at her. “Have I converted you to Wild Sea wines?”
She chuckled. “Unlikely. I’m not sure I’ve had Wild Sea Cab before. It was actually pretty good. Not that I’ll tell my grandfather.”
“He would probably want to cut you out of his will.”
“That or throw me out of the family.”
Sam tucked the receipt into his jacket pocket, rose, and moved behind her. As she stood, he pulled the chair away, then settled a hand on the small of her back.
She felt the heat of his palm and fingers all the way through to her skin, and found herself fighting the instinctive urge to step closer.
Surfer valet met them by the courtyard. He gave Sam a quick salute and pointed down the street. Francesca followed the direction and saw her truck parked behind a gleaming silver sedan. Sam held out his free hand, and the valet dropped two set of keys into them.
“He’s not going to get the cars?” she asked, confused by the circumstances.
Sam handed her the truck’s keys and slipped the others into his jacket pocket.
“I arranged for our cars to be brought around and parked down there.”
“Why?”
“It’s more private. It’s not as if I want an audience when I kiss you good night.”
3
Francesca told herself that a man with a plan was a good thing. She should applaud Sam’s sensible nature. Instead she suddenly felt awkward, nervous, clumsy, and just a little tingly. The odd combination of apprehension and anticipation did not sit well on her baked chicken entree.
