Ramirez was sure laying it on thick.

Carlos bit the side of his cheek, lowering his head to hide a roll of his eyes.

“…but that was back in the eighties,” said the older gentleman, who sat—in Carlos’ opinion—a little too close to Alice on the sofa in her office, taking a little too much pleasure in their shared academic connection. “And I certainly don’t remember Wharton girls being as beautiful as you, Miss Story.”

Girls? Carlos snickered inwardly. Alice’s father had a bad habit of calling his daughters “gal.” Alice hated being called a “girl.”

Ever the polite businesswoman, however, Alice laughed politely. “You’re very kind.”

“No, preciosa! I’m only being honest!” he insisted, briefly touching her bare arm for emphasis. “I would never have graduated Phi Beta Kappa if there were more girls as pretty as you distracting me from my school work!”

She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan sweater down to her wrists, and this time, her chuckle was slightly less warm, though Carlos doubted that Ramirez noticed since his eyes had dropped to Alice’s tits for a long, lusty stare.

Alice cleared her throat, offering her guest a tight smile when he looked up. “I’m intrigued as to the purpose of your visit here today.”

Ramirez lost the goofy grin, his face changing to follow the conversation from pleasantries to business matters. “You should know…I’m not here on official Castillo business, Miss Story.”

“Oh?”

“No. I’m here with…a proposition.”

Everything within Carlos rebelled at Ramirez’s use of the word “proposition,” and he jerked his head up to look at the older man carefully, searching his face for any hint of disrespect. Finding none, Carlos made a note in his composition book:

A proposition. WTF?

“Is that right?” asked Alice.

Ramirez nodded, clearly enjoying his play on words. “Have you heard of the Bahía de Plata vineyards in the Dominican Republic?”

“I haven’t.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Ramirez. “It’s not well known. But it is doing something quite remarkable. They are the first vineyard of the Caribbean islands making real wine from European grapes…not ginger wine, as they make in Jamaica, or tropical wine from mangoes, but wine made from French Colombard grapes.”

“Fascinating,” said Alice, leaning forward a touch, her brown eyes rapt with attention.

He grinned at her, almost preening as she took the bait. “I’ve tasted it…it’s very good.”

Alice nodded. “Tell me more about it.”

“Of course,” he said, a fisherman with a big one on his hook. “But do you think I could have a cup of coffee first?”

“Coffee? Oh. Of course. We should have already offered you a refreshment.” She turned to Carlos, who sat in an office chair across the coffee table from them. “Carlos, would you mind?”

Generally, he wouldn’t mind at all. He’d fetched coffee a million times or more for Alice and her guests, but the smirk on Ramirez’s face made Carlos bristle. He sensed that the older man was laughing at him, a thought confirmed by his next words.

“How refreshing that gender roles are reversed here, Miss Story.”

“Reversed?”

He gestured between Carlos and Alice. “A man getting the coffee…a woman in charge.”

Carlos placed his notebook on the table, lifting his eyes to Alice’s, which flashed once in pique. “I wouldn’t say the roles are reversed, señor. Everyone has a fair chance to prove themselves here, and Carlos is one of my best employees.”

“What a woman!” Ramirez chuckled, shifting his glance back to Carlos. “I like it black and strong, por favor.”

“Un placer,” said Carlos without smiling. He looked at his boss, softening his expression for her. “Alice?”

“I’ll take a water, please,” she said, then turned back to Ramirez. “Please tell me more about Caribbean wine-making.”

Carlos stepped to the door, leaving it wide open as he headed down the corridor and around the corner to the pantry, seething a bit inside.

In Puerto Rican culture, which Carlos shared with Ramirez, machismo was still alive and well. And though it was a changing concept, with more and more women taking leadership positions in business and politics, the idea of a man being subservient to a woman in the workplace was still cause for amusement among some, especially someone like Ramirez, who was twenty-five years older than Carlos and far more successful.

Traditionalmachismo had dictated that men were breadwinners and rule makers, while women tended the home and children. However, with dual-income households more the norm these days, Carlos was used to seeing his friends help with dishes after dinner or take care of the children while their wives or girlfriends were at work. Times were definitely changing.

That said, in Carlos’ generation, the sort of machismo that still mattered greatly was the kind in which one man didn’t allow another man to step to what was his. In a bar or club, for instance, if Carlos was dancing with his woman and another man stepped up to dance with her, he’d take care of it quickly. How? For starters, he’d tell the other man in no uncertain terms that his advances were unwelcome. Should the interloper be persistent, Carlos would have no problem decking him. (And frankly, if he didn’t, his woman and peers would wonder where his balls were hiding.)

Why would he get physical? For two reasons: One, because the unwelcome attention would be offensive to Carlos’ date and he wouldn’t allow such disrespect to go unchecked. And two, because Puerto Rican men felt, under no uncertain terms, that there was honor in caring for what was theirs.

He grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge and poured Ramirez a cup of coffee, stopping short of spitting in it as he reminded himself, Alice isn’t yours.

She was his boss, but she didn’t belong to him. He needed to tamp down his natural instinct to tell Ramirez to quit looking at her breasts and stop touching her arm. She wasn’t his to protect.

***

“In Bahía de Plata, they get only thirty-six inches of rain per year, which, as you may know, is optimum for cultivating grapes and far below the average for a Caribbean island,” said Ramirez. “And I have tasted the wines, Miss Story. They are…well, I believe they are on par with French wines.”

“Really?”

Carlos reentered the office, placing the beverages on the coffee table and resuming his seat.

“Oh, yes. With the support of winemakers from Portugal and Spain, the vineyard currently produces two annual harvests. And there is a resort, as well…with beautiful villas, a hotel, clubhouse, restaurant, marina, shops, spa, an airstrip…”

“Agritourism at its best,” said Alice. She glanced up at Carlos. “Are you getting all this?”

“Every word.”

“It is…such a beautiful spot, and the local people are hired to help cultivate and harvest the grapes, so it’s brought jobs to the region as well.”

“My goodness,” murmured Alice, wondering why she hadn’t heard about Bahía de Plata sooner.

It wasn’t often, in this day and age, that someone, somewhere, tried an ancient method to create something new and was met with such success. If the Dominican Republic was making European-quality wines, the possibilities for importation were endless!

She thought of all the restaurants in Philadelphia that served Caribbean food and came up with twenty off the top of her head. Add New York, Washington, and Boston to the equation and there must be hundreds. Right now, most of those restaurants served South American or Spanish wines so that they at least sounded right on the wine list. But her mind whirled at the thought of offering these businesses wines that were actually from the Caribbean.

“Are you an investor, Mr. Ramirez?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sadly, no. I didn’t hear about the project until 2014, and by then Bahía de Plata was ably assisted by others. But I have been keeping a close eye on it.”

“Are they interested in exporting?”

“I couldn’t say,” he answered affably.

Alice frowned. “Forgive me, but you do know that Story Sisters Trading is a beverage import-export company?”

“Of course,” he said with a grin. “But you are also Alice Story, the heiress.”

Alice leaned away as Carlos jerked his head up from his note-taking, gray eyes narrowing at their guest.

“Mr. Ramirez, I don’t see how my personal finances—”

“Your sister, Margaret Story Winslow…she owns a local vineyard, yes?”

“Yes. The Five Sisters.”

“Are you an investor?”

Alice nodded. “Not a major one, but yes, my sister Priscilla and I both have a small stake in the Five Sisters.”

“So it’s safe to say that you’re a wine-making family? You and your sisters?”

“Not really,” she said. “I invested in Margaret’s vineyard years ago when she was first getting started. Priscilla invested after she got married. But neither Priscilla nor I have anything to do with Margaret’s operation.”

“Better still,” said Ramirez, winking at her.

Because he was older than she, she let this slight pass, just as she had with his use of the word “girl” to describe her. But her patience was definitely wearing thin. She looked up at Carlos, whose eyes were cool. He obviously shared her reserved sentiments about the very charming, game-playing Ramirez.

“With respect, señor, I think it would save us both a bit of time if you told me exactly why you’re here.”

“Cutting to the chase,” he said, nodding at her with a sly smile. “I respect that, Miss. Story. I heard you were all business. But I confess, señorita, I didn’t believe a woman so young and beautiful could be so focused. You have proved me wrong.”

With a serene smile, Alice stared back at him, unwilling to engage in any more of his flattery and waiting for him to continue with the reason for his visit. If he didn’t, she would ask Carlos to please escort him out, and by the look on her assistant’s face, she felt certain he’d relish the task.

Ramirez’s playful grin faded, and he reached for his coffee, taking a sip before replacing the cup to the saucer. He looked up at Carlos. “You do wonderful work in the kitchen.”

Taking his cue from Alice, Carlos stared back at their guest, unflinching, waiting for him to answer his boss’s question.

“Ay! You two are no fun!” cried Ramirez, chuckling to himself. “Business it is!”

Finally.

“I am from the island of Puerto Rico. Do you know it?” he asked Alice.

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, it is a wonderful place, I assure you. And recently I have made a particular discovery. In the southern part of the island, near my home in Ponce, there is a valley that receives about thirty-six inches of rain per year. It has almost identical conditions to the area of Bahía de Plata.”

Alice nodded. “I see.”

“Do you? Well, let me illuminate you further…I have bought the land. All of it. Four hundred acres. And I intend to start my own vineyard there, following the model established in Bahía de Plata.”

In her role as company owner, Alice made many deals, but there were only a few that had made her heart start to race like this one. To be in on the ground floor of such an operation? To be an investor? Why, she would have input on production, sales, and marketing. She could have exclusive import-export rights. She could—

“I see your mind whirling, Miss Story,” said Ramirez, reaching out to place his hand on her knee.

Carlos cleared his throat loudly, and Ramirez looked up at the younger man, smirking at him before removing his hand with a sigh.

“You’re seeking investors?” asked Carlos, his voice clipped.

“No,” he said. “Partners.”

“Me?” asked Alice.

“You and your sisters. We require six million dollars to get the operation started.”

“What are you contributing, señor?” asked Carlos evenly.

“The other six million,” he answered lightly. Turning to Alice, he cocked his head to the side and smiled at her. “I have confidence in this project.”

“It is intriguing,” said Alice. “But I’d need more information, of course. And I would have to speak to my sisters.”

“I would like to invite you, Miss Story, to visit my home in Ponce,” said Ramirez. “I can show you the land I’ve purchased and the plans our landscape architect from Bahía de Plata has drawn up. You will fall in love there,” he said, his voice low and almost seductive. “I promise.”

Alice stared into his bright-blue eyes, feeling slightly hypnotized by his promise and presence and the marvelous opportunity he’d brought to her doorstep. She loved the idea of partial ownership of a vineyard in the Caribbean, especially if her sisters were her partners too.

Alice turned to Carlos. “I’d need to see Bahía de Plata first, of course. Look into it?”

Carlos nodded.

“I could…meet you there?” suggested Ramirez.

“No, thank you,” said Alice quickly, uncertain of how she felt about the charming, overconfident older man and his innuendo. “But I will come to Ponce after I’ve seen Bahía de Plata…if I think the project has merit and promise.”

Ramirez was handsome. She couldn’t deny that. He was also well educated and successful. And his inappropriate touches and suggestive double entendre could be cultural—Latino men were, after all, notorious flirts.

But all the same, he would need to be managed if they engaged in any sort of business deal together. Alice didn’t date people she worked with. Not ever. And that would include Ramirez, should she decide to invest in his Ponce vineyard. If he persisted in his flattery, she would need to make her unavailability clear at some point, though she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. It would bruise his ego and could negatively affect their efficacy in working together.

“I greatly look forward to seeing the Bahía de Plata operation.”

“And I will be on my knees night and day, hoping you believe it has…promise.”

He took her hand, drawing it to his lips and kissing it before returning it to her lap and standing.

So surprised by his gesture, she hadn’t been able to pull her hand away in time, but Alice felt the kiss all over her body—the soft, gentle touch of lips to skin. It had been a long time since she’d been kissed—anywhere—and her heart fluttered from the contact.

“Thank you, señor,” she said, her voice slightly breathless, certain she was blushing but determined to end their meeting as professionally as possible, “for bringing this idea to me. Please e-mail any information to Carlos. I will be in touch soon.”

“I will count the minutes,” he said, holding out his hand. “Adios, Miss Story.”

Alice shook it, careful to drop it quickly.

“Adios, señor.”

***

Carlos seethed inside as he showed Ramirez to the door.

Not only was he an asshole to Carlos with all that coffee bullshit, but he’d been totally inappropriate with Alice. Gaping at her tits? Touching her knee? Kissing her hand? He was taking liberties, and they both knew it.

“Dime,” said Ramirez from behind as Carlos led him toward the reception area, “de donde eres?”Where are you from?

“Puerto Rico,” he said without turning around.

“De verdad? De que parte?” Really? What part?

“Toa Baja.”

“¡Y yo de Guaynabo! ¡Tremenda coincidencia!” What a coincidence!

“Supongo que sí,” he answered without much enthusiasm. I suppose.

Carlos opened the glass door to the reception area, holding it for Ramirez. Once they were both in the lobby, he let it swing back gently.

“You don’t like me,” said Ramirez, smirking at Carlos.

“I don’t know you,” said Carlos, though he was lying. He knew guys like Ramirez. Rich, entitled assholes from little islands. Little kings in their own big heads.

“You think you do.”

Carlos ignored this and nodded at Susan in greeting as they walked past the reception desk. He opened the glass doors and led Ramirez to the elevator lobby.

But Ramirez wasn’t finished testing him yet.

“Tu jefa…está que estilla.” Your boss…she’s hot.

Carlos flinched, clenching his jaw as he turned to face Ramirez.

Sizing up the older man quickly, Carlos knew that, physically at least, he could have Ramirez on his back, begging for mercy, in two seconds flat. Ramirez was only athletic in a country club sort of way, without any real muscle tone. And his face—which had probably lured a thousand women to his bed at one time, had a fair amount of creases and sun spots up close. It wasn’t quite as handsome as it likely had been twenty years ago when he was in his prime. Still, between the two of them, Ramirez was in the position of power: older, wealthier, established, and a possible future partner to Carlos’ boss. Throwing a punch in the defense of a woman who didn’t belong to him would be stupid, and no matter how much loyalty Alice had to Carlos, she would have no option but to fire him.

He answered in English, his voice gritty with anger. “I’ll ask you to use a more respectful tone when speaking to me about Miss Story, me entiendes?”

“Ha! Because I should be concerned for your fragile sensibilities?” scoffed Ramirez.

“Because,” said Carlos, cracking his knuckles, “I’ll deck you if you ever insult her in front of me again.”

“Was that a threat?” asked Ramirez, stepping to Carlos, puffing up his smaller, less muscular chest until it grazed Carlos’ suit jacket.

“A warning,” said Carlos, stepping back as the elevator door opened and gesturing with his hand for Ramirez to enter.

“With all that fetching coffee and taking notes, I was wondering where your balls were,” said Ramirez, chuckling as he entered the elevator and turned to face Carlos. “Good to see you still have them…muchacho.”

It was on the tip of Carlos’ tongue to tell Ramirez to go to hell, but the doors closed before he could say another word. He stood in the lobby for a moment gathering his wits. He let out a long breath and unclenched his fists.

He didn’t appreciate feeling emasculated—what man did?—but cabrónes like Ramirez were a dime a dozen, and they didn’t really understand the most recent generation of Boricua men. Men who had to adapt to a changing world and leave traditional gender roles behind if they wanted to succeed in their personal and professional lives.

Sighing as he turned and stalked back into the office, he swung into the pantry and pulled a Coke from the fridge, uncapping it and taking a cold, burning sip as he returned to Alice. She was focused, with hawklike intensity, on her computer screen, not looking up as he walked in.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Solid opportunity.”

“About Ramirez.”

“You know what I think,” he said without skipping a beat.

“He can be managed,” she said, but her voice held a hint of uncertainty.

Ramirez had been pretty bold. “I don’t know.”

She bit her lip, typing something else into the computer. “Do you know this area? Ponce?”

He nodded, sitting in one of the two guest chairs in front of her desk. “Sure. Every college kid in Puerto Rico has partied in Ponce at some point. It’s on the southern coast of the island.”

She turned to him. “And you’re from…”

“The north.”

“But you’ve been there? To Ponce?”

“Many times.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay, good. Find out about land, about him, about the rainfall. Look into Bahía de Plata and find out if we can visit as business interests, not tourists. I want to see how they run things.”

“You want a tour of the property? As an importer?”

Alice thought for a moment. “Yes. But make it clear I’m only seeking one-year contracts. We’ll make it worth their while to welcome us, but I don’t want them to have expectations beyond a year. If I go into business with Ramirez, I’ll sell Ponce wines once they’re available.”

“Got it,” he said. “Anything else?”

She nodded. “Book two tickets to the Dominican Republic. I want to stay in Bahía de Plata for a day or two and check out their operation.”

“Right. And then on to Ponce?”

She grimaced, then nodded. “Yes. As long as I’m down there, I’ll go check out the land Ramirez has acquired and compare it to what I see in Bahía de Plata.”

Carlos stood from his chair, pushed it under the lip of her desk, and scribbled something on his notepad. “The tickets…for you and…?”

She cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing just a touch as she raised her chin. “Shane isn’t traveling again until October.”

“Then…?” he asked, his heart fluttering and thumping for no good reason.

“You. You’ll accompany me instead.”

His breath caught. He knew it was coming, but he still hadn’t expected it. And he certainly didn’t know what to do with the riot of emotions he was having at the prospect of traveling with Alice for a week.

“Me,” he whispered.

The color in her cheeks deepened.

“Yes. Shane said you did quite well in Chile.”

“Uh…okay, then. Thank you for your confidence in me, Alice.”

“Ah-leese,” she murmured softly, then gulped, nodding curtly and returning her attention to her computer screen. “You know…if all goes well, you should consider putting in for a promotion to the sales team. I’d hate to lose you, but I’d never hold you back.”

Her words set off a dual reaction inside of him—gratitude and sorrow colliding. Being promoted to a sales associate would be a huge step toward a brighter future, but not working directly for Alice anymore? He winced inside, the thought pinching his heart, making him wonder which was more important to him.

“When did you want to go?”

“My schedule’s open.” She remained focused on her computer. “The sooner the better, if that works for you.”

“The sooner it is,” he said, turning away from her and the unexpectedly confusing feelings that this morning’s events had uncovered.