The Seductive One

Her grandfather flinched.



She narrowed her gaze. “Here’s a news flash for you. Ten years ago I fell in love with Nic. Yup, me. One of your precious granddaughters, flesh of your own flesh. We met and started dating.”



She hesitated, then decided it was best not to mention that she and Nic had been lovers. Her grandfather probably wanted to hear about that as much as she wanted to hear about him and Grandma Tessa doing the wild thing.



“We talked about wine and life and I really cared about him. In fact, I almost married him. And you know what? The heavens didn’t open. The sky didn’t fall. The feud is long over, and it’s time for all of us to move on.”



Her grandfather’s expression turned thunderous. “How dare you tell me this? You go behind my back and see the son of my enemy? You disrespect the family so much?”



She dropped her hands to her sides. “Don’t you get it? No one cares about that but you.”



“I follow tradition. I listen to the counsel of those wiser than me. Something you could learn from. Already you have one husband who leaves you. Nearly thirty years old and what do you have to show for your life?”



Brenna felt as if he’d slapped her. She took a step back. But he wasn’t done with her.



“You disappoint me, Brenna. I can find nothing to be proud of. Not with you. Not anymore.”



She told herself he was going for the cheap shot, but that didn’t make his words hurt any less. Her throat burned and her chest tightened. When exactly did one become grown-up enough to hear the words “I’m disappointed in you” and not want to crawl under a rock?



She picked up the clipboard and headed for the house.



“Where are you going?” her grandfather asked.



“Away from you.”



“No. You will stay. I asked Joe to come out and see the grapes as they came in today. Ah, there he is.”



Brenna looked up and saw her brother heading toward them. Joe glanced from her to Lorenzo, as if sensing tension.



“How’s it going?” he asked.



“Wonderful,” her grandfather said. “The Cabernet grapes are just ripe. We will produce a beautiful wine.”



“I saw some guys out picking today,” Joe said. “It looks like hard work.”



“It is.” Brenna said. “Want to volunteer to join the crew?”



“Not me. I’m on vacation.”



Her grandfather motioned to the vines by the winery. “Come. We will walk and I will tell you how we take grapes and make the best wine anywhere. Brenna, you come, too.”



She wasn’t sure if this was another form of torture or her grandfather’s way of saying he forgave her. As she didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong, she wasn’t thrilled with either alternative.



They headed east to where the Cabs were being picked.



“See there?” her grandfather said. “We still pick by hand for our best grapes. The rest are harvested by machine. Not the old way, but the cost of the labor is so high.” He shrugged. “We have to make compromises.”



Brenna clenched her teeth. Right. Talk to Joe about compromises and talk to her about betrayal.



“How do you know which grapes deserve hand-picking?” Joe asked.



“It’s all about quality,” her grandfather said. “The history of the vines. What we have made before.”



“There are several factors,” Brenna told him. “Yield per ton, for example. Some grapes produce more juice; some are sweeter, more tart. Some blend better; some stand on their own. It can change from year to year, but our most consistent quality vines get the best treatment. Those vines produce the premium wines, the Reserves. Hand-picking means we pick only the best, ripest grapes. The machines pretty much grab everything, so there’s less control.”



Joe wore a loose T-shirt over his jeans. He tugged on the crew neck.



“It’s hot,” he said. “Is that good?”



“Warm and dry.” Brenna kicked at the loose earth. “We pray for warm and dry during harvest. Before that, it’s a balance. Too little sun and the grapes won’t ripen. Too much and they burn, overripen, or produce too much sugar. We need rain for irrigation, but not so much that there isn’t sun and the plants get mold.”



Joe glanced around at the vines. “It’s a lot of work. To be honest, I don’t get the whole wine thing. I’m more of a beer drinker myself.”



Brenna grinned when her grandfather’s mouth pinched as if he’d just tasted a lemon.



“You will learn to appreciate the subtleties of wine.”



Joe shrugged. “I’m not a real subtle guy. A good steak and a beer is more to my taste.”



Her grandfather seemed unamused. “You see all that we have created here. Can’t you feel the pull of the soil? This is where you belong, Joe. This is your heritage. This could all be yours if you were only to ask.”



Brenna froze. Nic had been wrong. Her grandfather was that crazy.



Oh, it hurt. She’d known this could happen. The discovery of a long-lost brother had been one of the reasons she’d started Four Sisters. But to have her grandfather spell it out like that—right in front of her, as if he didn’t care that he was ripping out her heart…



Without saying anything, she turned and walked back toward the winery. Her grandfather didn’t say a word. No doubt with Joe there, he wouldn’t even notice she was gone.



Lorenzo turned to watch Brenna go. She walked stiffly, as if her muscles wouldn’t cooperate. He’d seen her pain when he’d spoken of Joe inheriting. Seen it, felt it, and regretted it. But he had no choice.



His grandson shoved his hands into his pockets. “So you’d leave all this to me. Just like that?”



“Maybe not ‘just like that.’ You would have to be interested.”



“Brenna said the place is worth about forty million.”



Lorenzo shrugged. “Perhaps a little less, perhaps a little more.”



“That’s a hell of a lot of money.” Joe stared at the vines.



“So you could be interested?”



“What about your granddaughters?”



“They would be provided for. A nice settlement.”



“But not this.”



“No.”



Joe turned to him. Lorenzo tried to read his face, but the young man’s expression didn’t give away his thoughts.



“Doesn’t Brenna love this place?”



Lorenzo brushed off the information with a flick of his hand. “She is a woman. This land, this heritage, it must be in the hands of a male heir.”



Joe snorted. “Has anyone told you what century we’re in?”



He smiled. “I am very aware of the passage of time. That is part of the problem.” His smile faded as he continued to watch Brenna move away.



“Women can’t be trusted,” he said, more to himself than to his grandson. “They marry. They move away. They no longer care about what is important.”



“You’re not talking about Brenna. She loves this place.”



“Now. But before?” He shrugged. “She left as if we all meant nothing. And for what?”



She’d disappeared as if she had never been. He remembered how he’d waited for her to realize that the juice of the grapes flowed through her body like blood. That she was one with the land. But no. Instead she’d devoted herself to her husband. And last week. He sighed heavily. A Giovanni, here? His father would never have permitted it. Lorenzo himself had dishonored the memory of his father by letting that boy stay and dine with his family on a night of celebration.



“You may know the wine business,” Joe said, “but I know something about surviving. Ignoring your best resource is a real good way to end up dead. Brenna is the best you have. If you dismiss her, you’re a fool.”



Lorenzo nodded slowly. “Maybe you are right. Maybe not. Eh? It’s not as if I haven’t been a fool before. Come, I will show you more of what could be yours.”



Nic walked out of his staff meeting to find Max had abandoned his bed and was nowhere around. Despite being overly friendly, the pup didn’t usually abandon his place by Nic’s office for anyone. With one exception.



Brenna.



He checked his watch. It was barely two. Brenna tended to keep late hours when she was at Wild Sea. So if the dog wasn’t waiting for him, where was he?



Nic went in search of Max and found him ten minutes later. He was stretched across Brenna’s lap in the shade of an old lemon tree by the back of the house. Nic hesitated when he saw the two of them. Brenna sat on the ground, with her head down. Something about the slump in her shoulders told him this had not been her best day. He was torn between wanting to go be a friend and the natural male need to avoid female upset. Friendship won.



As he approached, Brenna wiped her face and tried to smile. Max barely opened an eye. His tail thumped once in greeting, then he drifted back to sleep.



“Want to talk about it?” Nic asked as he settled next to her.



She sniffed. “Good news. I get to tell you you’re wrong. After that, I’m likely to burst into tears and sob all over your shirt.”



“I’m never wrong,” he said lightly. “What happened?”



“Nothing. Everything. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know. I knew. It’s not a surprise or anything.”



“Want to translate that into English?”



She scratched Max’s ears. “My grandfather told Joe that the winery could be his if he wanted it. Just like that. No training, no love of anything Marcelli, just ‘here’s your inheritance.’” She turned to look at him. “What is it about male heirs? Would I be so damn different if I had a penis?”



“You would be to me,” he said honestly, more than a little startled that Lorenzo would play his cards so quickly.



“You know what I mean,” she told him. “I wouldn’t be any more interested in the winery, or smarter or good at my job.”



That he could agree with. Nic leaned back against the tree. Lorenzo leave the winery to a virtual stranger? Was it possible? If the old man went ahead with it, Nic would have a slight delay of his own plans.



Brenna looked at him. “This is where you’re supposed to make me feel better.”



He met her gaze. “I don’t believe your grandfather is going to leave Marcelli Wines to someone he just met. Joe doesn’t know one end of the bottle from the other.”



“I’ll bet he knows that much, but little else.” Despite her obvious pain, she smiled. “Joe admitted he’s more of a beer drinker.”



Nic leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I’ve had a beer or two in my life. It wasn’t bad. Don’t tell anyone.”



“At last. Blackmail material.”



Her smile widened, then quivered and faded. Tears filled her eyes before falling down her cheeks.



“It’s so horrible,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “He’s never happy. Everything is a fight. No matter what I suggest, it’s wrong.”



She kept talking, but as her tears increased, her voice shook and Nic found it difficult to understand her.



He reached toward her, then dropped his hand to his side. What was it about a crying woman that made a man feel awkward and inept? “It’s not so bad, is it?”



She wiped away the tears. “Just when I think it’s getting b-better, it all falls apart again. He s-said he was disappointed in me. I hate that. I’m twenty-seven years old. Why d-do I care what he thinks? But I do.”



The last couple of words came out on a sob. Max raised his head and looked at Nic as if asking him why he wasn’t doing something. Oh, because Nic was so clear on the next course of action. Right.



Feeling like an idiot, he shifted so that he could wrap his arms around her. He drew her close, resting her head on his shoulder and stroking her hair. Max jumped off her lap, stretched, and began sniffing their shoes.