Tuscan Summer with the Billionaire
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Susan Meier
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19.7K
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15
CHAPTER ONE
TRACE JACKSON SLOWED his red Maserati and made the turn at the sign announcing Giordano Vineyards, the property for which he’d assumed ownership that morning. He kept his speed low as he took in the grounds, awestruck by the long rows of grapes, the hills and valleys covered in green grass and trees, and the blue, blue sky.
He was now Trace Jackson, Tuscan vintner. Soon he would be the guy who laughed with tourists at wine-tasting events and the guy who relaxed on the back patio of his villa as evening descended. Holding a glass of red, he would gaze at his beautiful property, not haunted by the past or pushed toward the future, just being himself.
Nothing else.
No more ghosts. No more memories.
The three-story ivory stucco house with dark brown shutters came into view. The vineyard was closed to guests that day while it left the hands of the Giordano family and passed into his. The entire property shimmered with stillness.
He finished the drive down the lane and got out of his car. Taking a long, satisfied breath, he admired the new winemaking facility complete with gift shop and two tasting bars, then the manicured lawn and the multicar garage.
A warm June breeze ruffled his short hair, as he retrieved his bag from the trunk, then half jogged to the villa door. But he stopped and took one more look around the grounds, unable to believe this place was his, that he was about to become a vintner, that he was starting a whole new life. Then he pressed in the numbers for the lock and pushed on the thick wood door.
Glancing around the echoing foyer, he set his bag on a bench in front of the stairway that curled to the second-floor hall. Three tall windows gracefully ascended the wall beside it. The sconce lights between the windows added elegance to the polished space with marble floors and dark-stained steps that complemented the embellished black wrought-iron railing.
A sound in the back had his head jerking to the left. Knowing the house was supposed to be empty, he walked through the bare living room and the almost bare dining room—which still had the long table and chairs that had been negotiated in the sale—toward the great room, where he stopped.
A short, shapely woman stood in front of the wall of windows, staring out at the rows of grapes on a hillside just beyond the manicured lawn. Her hunched shoulders and the way her hands gripped her elbows as if she were hugging herself spoke of sadness or maybe defeat. The room suddenly filled with it. All the joy he’d experienced as he’d gotten out of his car and entered his new home evaporated. Cast away by her sorrow.
Not happy with that or the intruder, he said, “Excuse me?”
His voice echoed around him in the hollow, high-ceilinged room.
The woman slowly turned. Long black corkscrew curls framed a face with delicate features that looked to have been fashioned by the gods. A lightweight pink sweater outlined the kind of curves a man itched to get his fingers on.
His heart jolted and he almost laughed at himself. After his divorce, he’d vowed never to marry again, so he only dated tall, leggy redheads. Women who looked nothing like his blonde ex-wife. He’d never given much thought to brunettes. But this brunette was stunning.
“Signor Jackson?”
When she said his name, he realized she was probably an employee of the vineyard there to greet him, and he extended his hand to her.
“Yes. But you can call me Trace.”
She shook his hand. “I’m Marcia. General manager.”
“Oh!” He took a second to process that. He wasn’t sure why he’d thought the general manager was a man. But...whatever. They’d had plenty of female executives at the holding company he and his partners had owned until a few months ago. He had no bias. He could work with anybody.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for agreeing to stay on and teach me the ropes.”
She snorted. “I did not agree.”
“But the sales contract—”
Her brown eyes flashed. “My father doesn’t ask permission. He also didn’t bother to ask forgiveness when I told him I wasn’t chattel he could barter in a business deal. He simply told me he’d put it in the clause, and I had to abide by it.”
“It’s part of the transition. Lots of companies have employees stay behind to help the new owner. Besides, you’re not the only one in the agreement. Your brothers are staying too.”
“Si, they’ll stay for a few months. I’ll stay a year.”
“You’re the general manager. Your job’s a little more complex than running the wine-tasting room.”
She snorted. “You think you’re going to pick up how to handle customers in a few weeks?” She shook her head. “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll be here tomorrow morning to start showing me their jobs. What I pick up I pick up. What I don’t I’ll figure out when the time comes.”
She shook her head and paced the room. Her body moved fluidly, with a grace and elegance that mesmerized him.
He caught himself, confused by the direction of his thoughts, but more baffled by her. It didn’t seem right that someone so angry could make a man’s mind go blank from attraction. Especially his. He was all business, no nonsense. He didn’t even tiptoe over the line into personal feelings or issues when it came to work.
He blamed his lapse on time zones and hormones. And all that glorious hair. It had been a while since a woman’s looks had entranced him. He’d reacted because he hadn’t been prepared for it.
No big deal.
She gestured back the way he’d come. “My duties today include showing you around.” She gave him a quick once-over and he’d never felt more deficient. “Whether I want to or not.”
Okay. So, his general manager’s problem went a little deeper than job dissatisfaction. Were he to hazard a guess, he’d say she was more than unhappy to be stuck with him for the year her father had promised she would stay at the vineyard.
He headed for the door, thinking through options. He could fire her and hire someone else who knew as much as she did. In this part of Italy, vineyards were everywhere. Surely, he could find a replacement. Or he could feel her out. See just how angry she was and if that anger would spill over into their work. Lots of angry people were competent. Keeping her would be easier than replacing her, but he’d replaced indispensable people before. Because that’s what he did. That’s why he was successful. He could adapt.
Another situation flitted through his brain. He’d thought he’d adapted to that, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, that was why he was here. In quiet Tuscany. Starting over.
With the right questions, he could probably have Marcia Giordano figured out in ten minutes.
Marcia let Trace Jackson lead the way to the front door and she stifled a groan. The view from the back was even better than the front. Shiny black hair and blue eyes the color of a perfect sky had almost had her forgetting how furious she was with her dad for selling the vineyard. Add tortoiseshell glasses that made him look like a smart, savvy businessman, as well as a gray suit, white shirt and wine-colored tie, and, sure, she might have had the urge to fan herself. Now, she could see his broad shoulders, tapered waist and what appeared to be a very tight butt.
She tamped down the surge of feminine curiosity. This was no time to be soft. This was war. She needed to get this vineyard back into her family’s hands to make up for the fact that it was her fiancé, Adam, who had embezzled the money the Giordano family had borrowed to build the new wine facility, forcing her father to borrow more money and getting them so far into debt he had to sell.
That was why she had to buy it back.
Not her dad. Not her brothers. She had to fix this.
Trace Jackson opened the door and motioned for her to exit first. Politely. Gallantly.
She held back a sigh. She didn’t want him to be nice. That would just make this more difficult. “We don’t go overboard with courtesies here.”
“That’s okay. It’s kind of ingrained in me.”
“Well, out-grain it. Because you and I are competition.”
Clearly surprised, he said, “What?”
Holding the gaze of his sexy pale eyes, she decided a strong dose of truth wouldn’t just get rid of her attraction. It would also put his guard up so this would be a fair fight. She might need to get the vineyard into Giordano hands again, but she wouldn’t cheat, lie or steal. That had been Adam’s forte.
“I fully intend to buy this vineyard back from you.”
His brow furrowed. “But I just bought it.”
“My dad put it up for sale prematurely.”
“No. Your dad picked the right time. I saw the books. Had he waited even another three months, penalties and interest would have bankrupted him.”
“Yes, well. I had a source for the money. He should have talked to me, not gone to you.”
He crossed his arms on his chest. The blue eyes behind the lenses of his glasses narrowed. “If you had a source for the money, why didn’t you bail your dad out before he came to me?”
“My friend Janine’s mother became ill suddenly, and I couldn’t contact her about a loan. That would have been inappropriate.”
He lowered his arms. “Oh.” But the skepticism hadn’t left his voice when he said, “This friend has an extra thirty million dollars hanging around?”
“Actually, she could probably lend me ten times that and not miss it.”
His voice hardened. “And how do you intend to pay it back?”
“Profits from the vineyard—and before you ask, she’ll give me an interest rate much lower than the bank, making the payments manageable.”
He said only, “Hmm,” and then he motioned to the door for her to walk outside ahead of him. But he stopped suddenly and said, “Wait a second.”
He took off his jacket and tossed it to the bench with a bag that was probably his. Then he loosened his tie. As his hands worked the knot, the fringe of a sleeve tattoo appeared at his wrist.
Her breath caught a little.
She forced air into her lungs, stopping that reaction before it really started. She couldn’t be attracted to him. The notion was idiotic. A romance—even a casual affair—was the last thing she wanted or needed right now. Especially with an American like Adam had been. Educated. Gorgeous. Except where Adam had been blond, Trace had black hair. And she’d bet he had dark chest hair and six-pack abs—
This time the wave that hit her was disbelief at her own stupidity. Hadn’t falling for one smooth-talking American been enough? Hadn’t losing all the money her family had borrowed to pay for the new building taught her a lesson?
A year might have passed, but she still felt the sting of it. She was only now coming back to herself. She wouldn’t wreck that over a handsome face.
Sexy or not, Trace Jackson was the opposition. Not quite an enemy but the guy who had her family’s business. And she had to wrestle it back—even as she trained him enough that he would see he didn’t really want to own a vineyard. Running one wasn’t as romantic and easy as everyone thought. The work was hard, hours were long, and tourists weren’t always pleasant.
As they made the short walk to the wine building, he rolled his white shirtsleeves to his elbows. Refusing to allow herself a quick look at his tattoos, she opened the door on two long mahogany bars with round tables scattered throughout the sparkling-clean room. The gift shop behind a wall of glass at the far right held everything from single bottles of wine to wineglasses with the silver-and-white vineyard logo, as well as towels, mugs, stoppers and T-shirts, all displayed as if they were fine jewels. Everything about the room screamed sophistication. If it didn’t shine like well-polished wood, it glowed from a recent scrubbing.
It was perfect as the initial thing tourists saw. She’d made sure of that, cradling the project with loving hands. Handling every detail. Thinking through every tile and piece of machinery.
Trace strolled the room, smiling, the gorgeous artwork of the tattoos on his forearms revealed for all the world to see. He hadn’t gone to the back room of a bar in his city for his art. No. His tattoos had been drawn by a master.
“This room is what sold me on buying the vineyard.”
Marcia smiled stiffly. Not merely because it rankled that someone had bought her baby, but because one of those weird whooshes of attraction had roared through her again, causing her blood to tingle and her knees to turn to jelly. A businessman with tattoos? What could be sexier?
She had to take a breath before she could say, “Really?”
He ambled around the silent room, his movements smooth and incredibly male. Especially with his sleeves rolled up.
Annoyed with herself, she forced her eyes away. It didn’t matter how sexy he was. He wouldn’t be staying.
“This space was filled with tourists the day I walked through with your dad.”
Which explained why Marcia hadn’t seen him. Her father had probably deliberately mixed him in with the crowd so he wouldn’t be noticed. The vineyard’s financial troubles had bruised Antonio Giordano’s pride, and she knew he blamed her, no longer trusted her and hadn’t wanted her opinions. Not even on the sale of the business that was to be her future.
“Everyone was happy, praising the samples they tasted.” Trace turned to face her again. “And orders for cases of Giordano’s finest flowed as naturally and as freely as the wine.”
“We have a very good reputation.”
“And I want to make sure that reputation stays intact. That’s the wine’s biggest selling point. The vineyard’s reputation. That’s why I won’t be renaming it Jackson Vineyards or Trace of Delight Wines.”
A spontaneous laugh burst from Marcia and she cut it off. The man was charming and easygoing. But that didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.
He walked over, met her gaze. “If you intend to buy me out because you’re worried that I’m going to change things, I’m not. I’m a CPA. I know a good deal when I see one. This vineyard is a success. Your dad would have never sold it had it not been for the embezzling.”
Her heart stopped. Her breath froze.
He knew about Adam?
Of course he did. A smart businessman would investigate every nook and cranny of the vineyard’s history...and its accounting...before buying.
The sale might have been fast, and she might not have been told about it until agreements had already been signed, but she hadn’t been made general manager because she was pretty. She’d been educated to build Giordano Wines. She knew business. Some part of her had always realized the new owner would find out about the embezzling. She simply hadn’t acknowledged it until this minute.
But now that she had, she would breathe again.
Really.
She forced air in and out of her lungs, accepting the fact that her greatest mistake was a part of the vineyard’s history. She’d never escape it. It would follow her like an unwashed dog.
“Anyway, we both know I understand numbers. What I don’t know is wine.” He pointed to the double aluminum doors in the middle of the far wall. “Let’s take a look back there.”
Relief that he didn’t ask for details about the embezzling poured through her, quelling the wild beating of her heart. Then she realized he’d asked a few questions and moved on as if he either didn’t take her seriously about buying the vineyard back from him or didn’t see her as a threat.
Something hot and angry flickered through her.
This she wouldn’t ignore. This she would handle.
