Читать книгу An Exquisite Challenge - Дженнифер Хейворд - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
HOW COULD SHE be freezing now?
Uttering a string of purple prose that would have made a trucker proud, Alex got up from her PC before she did something crazy, like throw it across the room. She stalked to the window and looked out over the vineyard, lush and green on a hot summer day. The sunroom Gabe had given her to work in was a wonderful, quiet space, but right now it felt like a prison. She’d said she wouldn’t leave until she had a theme. But it wasn’t coming. At all.
The only thing she’d been able to spew out thus far was a lame idea about how the rich boldness of De Campo’s new wine, The Devil’s Peak, was a feast for the senses.
Ugh. Clichéd. Boring. Done. It could have been coffee for all its originality. Which she’d had more than enough of by now, by the way.
She rubbed her fatigue-stung eyes. Of all the moments for her to have a total creative meltdown, this was not the one she would have chosen. She had forty-eight hours left to conjure up an event theme that would have De Campo on the lips of every wine lover on the East and West Coasts, but nothing was coming.
She picked up her bottle of water and abandoned her office for outside. The De Campo homestead was done in an open-concept, New England–style design that blended in perfectly with the beautiful countryside. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows let in the gorgeous Napa light, bounded by a wraparound porch, terrace and pool area. Up the rolling hill in front of her sprawled the vineyard. Maybe some sunshine and a walk into the vines would inspire her. Impart some fantastic oh, my God idea into her brain.
She walked up the hill and into the Cabernet vines, which stretched all the way up to the edge of the escarpment. A band of green topped by the pure blue Napa sky. Harvest, Gabe had told her, would be the end of summer or early fall, but the grapes on the vines already looked like perfect replicas of the most glorious still lifes. Smaller and more perfectly rounded than a supermarket grape, they were a vibrant, luscious purple. Inspirational, certainly.
Channeling hard, she tried the word-association games they used to brainstorm at the agency. Nothing came. Nada. She was officially in a slump. A ninth-inning slump, at that. A building sense of panic tattooed itself through her veins. It was Saturday. The invitations had to go out by Tuesday, latest, if they were to get into people’s busy summer calendars. Which meant Gabe had to approve a theme and invites by Monday. She had confidence in her graphic designer’s ability to turn a concept and invitation around in twenty-four hours. He was brilliant. But she needed to give him something to work with.
“A feast for the senses” was just not going to cut it.
She plopped herself down in the middle of a row, drew her jeans-clad knees up to her chest and propped her elbows on them. The Devil’s Peak, Gabe’s star wine, was a Cabernet blend. Cabernet was the most popular grape in Napa, compromising a whopping 40 percent of the harvest. Complexity, Gabe had said, the way the varietals were blended together, was the key to this wine. But what the hell did complexity mean?
That was what was freezing her brain. She didn’t understand the product. Didn’t understand what she should be brainstorming about. What was The Devil’s Peak’s key differentiator?
Gabe found her there a half an hour later, still staring glumly at the beautiful purple grapes. Her fried brain took him in. Clinging T-shirt plastered across a muscular chest, dirt-stained jeans and a sweaty, man-working-hard look provided more inspiration than the last half hour had in total.
He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”
“Thank you.” She pushed a self-conscious hand through her hair. Too bad she didn’t rock the disheveled look like he did.
“Elena said you were up before her.”
At five, to be precise. One rose with the birds when severely agitated. “I have to nail this theme.”
He held out a hand. “Looking for inspiration?”
She could have said he was doing just fine in that department, but that would have violated their nothing-personal rule. So she curled her fingers around his palm instead and let him drag her to her feet. Unfortunately, his perspiration-covered, hard-packed abs were now staring her in the face. Looking down or up wasn’t an option, so she stepped back instead.
“I think I’m getting sunstroke along the way.”
He frowned down at her. “Have you had enough water?”
She held up her bottle. Took a deep breath. “I don’t understand what makes this wine special. I need to know what its key differentiator is to come up with a theme, and to me a Cabernet is a Cabernet.”
He looked down his perfect, aquiline nose at her, as if to ask why she hadn’t said something sooner. “You were with Pedro in the winery,” she said defensively. “I didn’t want to bug you.”
His frown eased. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you know about wine?”
She winced. “Three.” That might actually be pushing it.
He sighed. “You need to understand the process from beginning to end if you’re going to understand what makes the wine special.” He glanced at his watch. “I can give you a tour before my call and shower later. I just need to grab some water from the house.”
They started the tour in the rows of De Campo’s prize Cabernet vines. Maybe it was the passionate way Gabe spoke about the growing process or maybe it was because one of the hottest men on the planet was delivering the information, but wine was getting more fascinating by the minute. This Gabe, the relaxed, visionary version of the man she’d never seen before, was darn near irresistible and it was doing strange things to her ability to focus.
“You still pick the grapes?” she asked incredulously. “I thought there were machines for that.”
He nodded. “There are. For mass production that’s fine, but the machines can’t distinguish between the desirable and undesirable grapes, so for the premium wines such as the ones that come from these rows, we harvest them by hand.”
“Got it.” She nodded toward the vine he held. “So how can you tell when they’re ready to pick? They look ready to me.”
A smile curved his lips. “Try one.”
She popped one in her mouth. “Oh. It’s a bit tart.”
“It needs another couple months for the tannins to mature.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t understand those.”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the easiest concept to grasp. Think of it like the structure our skeleton gives us. Tannins give that to a wine. They’re derived from the skins, stems and seeds of the grapes.”
Finally, a concept that made sense to her.
She shoved another in her mouth, swiping a hand across her chin as a rivulet of juice escaped. “Yep. Can definitely taste it’s not quite ready. Must take skill to know when the exact right time to pick is.”
“Years of practice.” He reached up and swept his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “You missed some.”
The roughness of his flesh, callused by years in the fields, made her lips tingle long after his thumb fell away. Her gaze rose to his. The sexual awareness she saw there made her heart stall in her chest.
A no-touching rule might have been prudent.
Skipping that kiss even better.
His mouth flattened into a straight line. He stepped back, out of her personal space, and she started to breathe again. “Shall we move on to the winery?”
She nodded. Sucked in an unsteady breath. What the hell was wrong with her?
Whacking herself over the head with a big mental stick, she followed him into the winery. Built around the foundation of the original historic building, it gleamed with modern efficiency. Huge stainless-steel tanks in which the grapes were fermented nearly reached the ceiling, lined up one after the other—the scale of it was breathtaking.
“Why do you move the wine to barrels?” she asked. “Why not leave it in the vats?”
“To complete the maturation process and add character to the wine.” He led her into a room that was lined with beautiful, honey-colored barrels stacked three rows high. “These are Chardonnay. Some of these barrels have been used for multiple generations of wine. Each one adds a unique flavor depending on where it’s from—French oak or American, say—and how old it is.”
He took a glass from a shelf and used the tap on the top of the barrel to pour a small amount. “Young wine is usually rough, raw and green and needs to settle,” he told her, handing her the glass. “This one’s done in a French oak barrel to add that oaky flavor you often get in a Chardonnay.”
She took a sip. It was too light and fruity for her taste. “I prefer reds.”
“We’re getting to those.” He led her downstairs to the cool, underground cellars where the premium wines were stored. Dark-bricked, high-arched ceilings supported by columns of stone were complemented by the beautiful dark woods of the original cellar. Quiet and hushed in the middle of the day, the rich, atmospheric space seemed to whisper of years gone by and the historic vintages that had been nurtured there.
“It’s unbelievable,” she whispered as he walked her into a large room with stacks of oak barrels displayed on both sides and a huge rustic table running down the center of it. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. This must be the formal dining room Lilly had spoken of, where the events were held.
Gabe threw her an amused look. “Why are you whispering?”
She shrugged, spooked by the feeling there were souls down here other than their own. “It just feels like there’s so much history in the air.”
The grooves around his mouth deepened. “If you mean ghosts—there are. If you choose to believe the folklore.”
Her skin went cold. If there was anything she was afraid of, debilitatingly, horrifyingly afraid of, it was ghosts. “Do not play with me, Gabe. That’s not funny.”
He picked up two glasses and handed them to her, then took two more and motioned for her to follow him. “The story goes that the original owners, Janine and Ralf Courtland, held a huge celebration in honor of Dionysus one summer night. Half of Napa came.”
She frowned, following him out of the room. “Who is Dionysus?”
“The Greek god of wine and revelry.” He looked back at her. “Didn’t they teach you that in school?”
“Greek mythology at Mission Hill High School?” she murmured dryly. “Not quite.”
“I meant in university.”
“I didn’t go to university.”
“College, then. Wherever.’
Heat swept across her skin, this particular conversation humiliating when it was happening with ever-so-brilliant Gabe. “I pretty much flunked out of high school. They only passed me to get rid of me. It was a relief for all of us, I think, to have me gone. And that’s as far as I went.”
His gaze sharpened on her face. “I don’t get that. You have a razor-sharp brain. You must not have applied yourself.”
She recoiled at the rebuke. “It’s clear I’m not approaching the level of perfection you are, Gabe. But I did apply myself to work my way to the top of the PR industry.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ruddy color dusted his cheekbones. “I was merely trying to understand how such an intelligent woman would have almost flunked out of school.”
“I was a bad girl,” she said sharply. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
He gave her a long look. She stared him down until he started moving again, leading the way into the room across the hall. “Apparently the Courtlands’ party was something else. Boatloads of Champagne, British royalty, a famous Vegas singer...” He leaned down and poured a glass from one of the barrels, this wine a light magenta. “Dionysus is known for instigating a frenzied madness among the celebrants. He’s all about extreme self-gratification and things can and do go very wrong.”
She and Dionysus would have been best buddies when she was younger, she was pretty sure. “And...things went wrong, I presume?”
He leaned down to pour a second glass. “Apparently Janine was in love with the Courtlands’ head winemaker, not her husband. During the celebration they lost their heads and were found down here in flagrante delicto by Ralf.”
Her jaw dropped. “No way.”
He nodded. “Ralf stabbed the winemaker and his wife to death with an ornate dagger.”
Oh, my God. Her huge mistake with Jordan Lane fresh in her mind, she stood there gaping at him. “That’s awful.”
He shrugged. “Some would say Janine Courtland got her due.”
A buzzing sound filled her ears. “Sometimes things aren’t so black-and-white.”
“And sometimes they are.” His voice had taken on a dark intensity, his gaze on hers. “Wouldn’t you put cheating in that category?”
Obviously yes. Watching her father destroy her mother with his affair with a local farmer’s wife had been devastating for her entire family. But what had happened with Jordan had shaken her. He had lied to her and told her he was divorced. But should she have seen past the lies? Seen the signs?
She licked suddenly dry lips, realized he was waiting for her response. “I agree,” she nodded. “There is no excuse for infidelity.”
He led her to another room, where he poured two more glasses of a richer-looking red. Alex tried to shake off the darkness that had invaded her. “Any particular reason the reds are down here?”
He pointed to the gravel lining the earth floor. “They’re the premium wines. Keeping them down here, where the humidity is high and the barrels rest on the earth, preserves as much of the wine as we can.” He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the barrel. “If we get three hundred bottles from this one, we’ll still lose a liter and a half along the way.”
“That much?”
He nodded. “Winemakers like to call it the Angel’s Share.”
She smiled. “I love that.”
“Very apt, no?”
They took the wine back to the dining room and sat at the ornately carved showpiece of a bar. “So where was she murdered?”
His mouth tipped up on one side. “In the last barrel room we visited.”
“And whose ghost is supposed to be down here?”
“Janine’s. Apparently she paces the cellar demanding to be brought back to life. She considers the whole situation unjust.” He shrugged. “I say apparently, because I haven’t heard or seen her since I’ve been here.”
Thank God for that. Her breath left her in a whoosh. “Time to drink.”
“Alexandra Anderson,” Gabe drawled slowly, studying her face. “You aren’t afraid of ghosts, are you?”
She waved her hand in the air. “Let’s just say they’re not one of my favorite things.”
“Interesting.” He lowered his tall, lean frame onto the stool beside her and slid a glass across the bar. “We’ll start with the lightest ones. First the Zinfandel.”
She took a sip. “Too fruity.”
“Lots of people find that.”
Next came the Pinot Noir. It was better. Smoky, maybe? She wrinkled her nose. “Too light.”
His mouth quirked. “What are you, Goldilocks?”
She smiled. “Next?”
He pushed the second-deepest-toned red toward her. She took a sip. This time the smoother, richer tone of the wine curled itself around her tongue in a mellow greeting she was fully on board with. “Mmm. This one is good.”
“I should hope so.” Humor darkened his eyes. “It’s our gold-medal award-winning Merlot.”
She took another sip. It really was good. Rich, smooth and so easy to drink... A warm glow began to spread through her body as the combined effect of the different wines and a lack of sleep hit her. She pushed her empty glass toward him. “Next.”
“Easy, tiger. You still have two more to go.”
“Two?”
“Our Devil’s Peak is behind the bar. Just getting it labeled.” He flashed her one of those schoolteacher looks of his. “What did you notice about the last wine?”
She frowned. “I dunno. It’s heavier but still soft.”
“Exactly. Merlots are softer and fruitier than a Cab, yet display many of the same aromas and flavors—black cherry, currant, cedar and green olive. You can even have mint, tobacco and tea-leaf tones in them.”
She snorted. “Green olives? You don’t actually believe all that mumbo jumbo, do you? I mean, have you ever tasted green olive in a wine?”
“Sì.” He gave her a condescending look. “I have.”
She surveyed the twist of his lips with an inner growl. He was so smug. So confident. She wondered what it would take to knock him off his peg. To kiss him again, except this time ruffle that deep, dark packaging and see what happened.
Which couldn’t happen, given their agreement. But fun to think about nonetheless...
“And this one?” She summoned her best dutiful-schoolgirl look. “Must be a Cab.”
He nodded. “From 2006. Our best year. Try it.”
She tasted it. It was rich and dark and so good she wanted to eat it up. “That is a wine.”
“The king of all reds, infatti. Cabs are the world’s most sought-after grape—they take five to ten years to achieve an optimal flavor, and they’re worth every minute of it.” He gestured toward her glass. “You should taste plum, cherry, blackberry and a hint of tobacco in that one.”
She frowned. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Lex,” he said darkly. “Focus. You aren’t going to get a feel for this unless you try.”
She took another sip, rolled it around her mouth and swallowed. “Maybe the spice?”
“Not spice, tobacco.”
“I can’t taste it.”
His lips moved but no sound came out. He looked as though he was counting to five. Was he counting to five?
“Gabe...”
He shook his head and waved a hand at her, as if he’d given up. She pouted. Really? Could it be this hard?
He walked around the bar and pulled out a bottle without a label. “Now for The Devil’s Peak.”
She perked up. This was what it was all about.
He poured them some. She pulled her glass toward her lips. “Lex—” He muttered a curse and came around the bar. “You don’t drink wine like you’re slinging beer. You savor it.”
“That’s pretentious garbage.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled the glass away from her mouth. “It’s not pretentious garbage, it’s how to drink wine. First,” he instructed, guiding her wrist in a smooth, circular movement, “you swirl it in the glass to smell the bouquet. It’s important to get that first scent of the flavor to taste it correctly.” He pushed the glass toward her nose. “Now you inhale.” She did and lo and behold, an intense shot of berry filled her lungs.
“Cherry,” she crowed triumphantly.
“Hallelujah.” He held his hands up. “So what’s the other grape it’s blended with?”
She bit her lip. Thought hard. “Merlot?”
His teeth flashed white against his swarthy skin. “Esattamente.”
She tried to ignore how everything he said in Italian sounded sexy. How he was standing so close to her she could smell that earthy, spicy aftershave of his, bringing back heady memories of the kiss. Hell. She forced herself to focus on the issue at hand. The wine was rich like the previous Cab, smooth like the prize-winning Merlot, but there was also something else...something special she couldn’t put her finger on. “Lots of wines blend Merlots and Cabs, though, right? What makes this one so special?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Chemistry. We add the mystery ingredients, play with the yeasts and use our proprietary processes to get that perfect blend.”
So how did that play into her theme? She racked her brain. Tossed around a couple of ideas. Then a lightbulb went off in her head. Maybe that was her theme...
Chemistry. There were a million innovative ways she could make it come to life at the party. It was perfect.
“You,” she pronounced, poking her finger into his chest, “are brilliant.”
“I’m glad you’ve seen the light,” he responded dryly. “Care to share?”
“Not yet.” She wasn’t stupid. She needed to have this idea fully baked before she put it in front of Mr. Flawless here. “On Monday when I can show you the full concept.”
“Prudent of you.”
She ignored the tilt of his mouth. She could be prudent when she needed to. She did have some restraint. Another sip of the glorious wine kept the ideas flowing. She rolled it around her mouth. Yes, she could definitely get inspired about this.
“We haven’t talked about who’s going to speak to the media about all this brilliance.” She lifted a brow. “You? Antonio?”
“Me. Riccardo doesn’t want to leave Lilly alone and Antonio isn’t coming.”
She frowned. “Why? The press eat Antonio up. They love his big personality, his theatrics. He can do the big-picture historic stuff.”
His face tightened. “I’ll do it. Antonio isn’t available.”
“What do you mean isn’t available? How can he not be available for this?”
He picked up the bottle and jammed it on the shelf behind the bar. “Antonio doesn’t believe in this venture. He doesn’t believe a decent bottle of wine can be made outside of Italy and if he were to come, he’d say something damaging that would hurt us. I don’t want him here.”
“We can message him so he doesn’t go off track. Make sure he knows what he can and cannot say. I really think—”
“No.” The force behind the word stopped her in her tracks. His face was a thundercloud of black emotion. “Find another way to get press coverage, Alex.”
And that was that. He excused himself to take his call. Alex sat there finishing her wine, wondering what kind of a father showed such a lack of support for his son in the most important venture of his life. She knew from Lilly that the De Campo men were not close to their father, but she’d never had any idea the rift between Gabe and Antonio ran this deep.
Her insides twisted with a hurt so old it had been healed fifty times over. She knew all about rifts. How you said you didn’t care, but they ate away at you until you couldn’t let another person in for fear you’d drive them away, too. Her father had written her off as unrecoverable at such an early age, nothing she’d done since had compensated. None of the career ladders she’d climbed, none of the praise lauded on her by some of the world’s leading companies had helped. She could be the first woman president of the United States and he’d still have the same low opinion of her.
She pushed the glass away and took in the dark, historic cellar around her. Gabe De Campo had demons, too. Go figure.
She was pretty sure she’d just scratched the surface at that.
