Читать книгу Are You Lonesome Tonight? - Wendy Etherington - Страница 8

“CHES, hand me a power cord.”

Francesca D’Arcy eyed the jeans-clad lower half of her best friend and business partner, Anthony Galini. Not a bad way to start a Tuesday morning, truth be told. The man did have an amazing body, and he was presently defenselessly flat on his back beneath his desk.

She could envision dropping beside him, pulling his snug black T-shirt from his jeans, rolling up the soft cotton to reveal the sprinkling of jet-black hair against his olive-toned skin, his washboard abs, his broad chest—

Tony nudged her with his bare foot. “Ches!”

“What? Oh, the cord.” She rummaged through the box of computer supplies sitting on the desk. “Uh—which one would be the power cord?”

“The one with three prongs that you’d plug into the wall,” Tony said dryly.

“Cooking’s my forte, not computers,” she muttered, yanking out cord after cord in search of the proper one.

“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“At least I got in bed before this morning.”

It seemed even Tony’s commitment to the resort and winery they were about to open together couldn’t compete with his goal of dating every gorgeous blonde in New York before he turned thirty. She’d lain awake until two-fifteen this morning—when she’d heard Tony enter his room at the resort, the one right next to hers.

“Which svelte blonde was it this time? Bambi? Or maybe it was Bunny?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve never gone out with anyone named Bambi or Bunny.” He paused. “But if you want to introduce me…”

As she finally pulled the right cord out of the box, she dropped it on him. Well, more accurately, she threw it on him.

“Ow! What is with you today?”

It was ridiculous, she knew, but her resentment at being relegated to “good ole dependable Ches” was especially sharp this morning. She hadn’t realized her proximity to Tony over the last several months would bring her semi-dormant lust for him roaring to the surface. Lust she planned to do nothing about, of course. With a friendship that had begun in Mrs. Galloway’s fourth-grade class, she’d had nearly twenty years to tell him about her attraction, and now, in the most important month of their lives, when the professional and personal pressure was the greatest, she was going to attempt to jump his bones?

Think again, sister.

Think business. All business.

She’d sunk every spare penny she had in Bella Luna, the newest brainchild of Tony’s uncle Joe, the patriarch of the Galini family. The Galinis had tended to grapevines in Europe for over a hundred years, and fifteen years ago Joe had bought the eighty acres here on the North Fork of Long Island and built a successful winery in America. With all the new resorts and spas popping up in the area, Joe had recently decided to jump into a new venture and build his own resort. Unfortunately for Joe, two of his own sons were busy running the vineyard in Italy, and most of Tony’s other cousins were fairly worthless in the ambition department. They were all content living off their trust funds, playing tennis at their country clubs, skiing in the Alps, and clubbing in New York.

In truth, Tony had spent a good many years indulging in the same pursuits. Then suddenly, six months ago, he’d called Francesca and asked her if she wanted to run the resort. With construction already underway, he’d sent her building and business plans, estimated costs and profit potential. With her degree in hotel and restaurant management, as well as certification from culinary school, Francesca had been completely unfulfilled working in convention planning at the New York Hilton, and after seeing Tony’s ideas for the resort, she saw the possibility of her dream coming true—owning her own business. She convinced Tony and his uncle to let her buy into the project, and though she could only afford ten percent ownership, she was on her way.

Now they were two weeks away from the grand opening. It was all really happening.

No way was she letting her needy hormones muck it up.

Tony scooted out from under the desk and rose to his full height of six-foot-two. The scent of his sexy, spicy aftershave washed over her. “Let’s turn it on.”

She swallowed, knowing if he pushed any more of her buttons, she’d melt into a puddle at his feet. She managed to find her usual aplomb and propped her hand on her hip—a nice hip, too, in her estimation. Not that he’d ever noticed. “Where would that button be?”

Tony kissed the tip of her nose. “Cute, Franny.”

“You’re really trying to get on my nerves, aren’t you?” Francesca stepped back, rubbing her nose as if she was trying to rid herself of his chaste kiss. In truth, she was tingling from her nose all the way to her toes. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Useless.

Tony punched the power button on the computer and propped his butt—a magnificent specimen—against the desk. His velvety brown eyes danced. “Can you believe it’s been almost twenty years since you slugged me in the lunchroom and demanded I come up with a cooler nickname than ‘Franny’?”

“And got two days of after-school detention from Principal Duncan for my efforts.”

“Hey, didn’t I pull the fire alarm to get you released?”

“I’ll never understand how you didn’t get caught.”

“I have an innocent smile,” he said, then grinned.

Even at ten, he’d known how to drive women wild with his charm. Of course, she’d been unmoved. At least until the night, eight years later, when she’d accidentally walked in on him as he was getting out of the shower…

Yikes. Bad train of thought.

To distract herself, she glanced around the opulent room they’d converted to their office suite, complete with full bar and sunken living room, decorated to give an impression of class and wealth. She sighed as her gaze fell on the windowed wall to her left, beyond which lay the blossoming vineyards. She still bemoaned this valuable space Tony had commandeered on the third floor. She’d even called Joe when Tony insisted he couldn’t work in an office off the lobby. But surprisingly Joe—a practical, hardworking businessman to the core—had sided with his nephew. They could use the suite to entertain potential clients and guests, he’d pronounced.

That Prince of the Universe upbringing of his would be their undoing.

The computer chimed as Windows loaded. He turned around and leaned over the desk. “Looks great, huh?”

With her gaze once again dropping to his lower half—this time catching an excellent, close-up view of that great backside of his—she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah.”

“Go check your computer. I want to see if they’re networked right.” He tapped on the keyboard. “I’m sending you an interoffice e-mail.”

“Yeah?” she said, turning her head sideways, still staring at his butt, not really interested in technology at the moment.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What are you doing back there?”

She yanked her gaze from his bod. Her face flushed. “I, uh—I’m going to check my e-mail.” She backed out of his office and into hers.

Out of reach of temptation and the influence of his aftershave, she managed to pull herself together.

She sank into her office chair. With a simple walnut desk, chairs upholstered in dark green and her knickknacks and diplomas hanging on the walls, her surroundings were completely different from Tony’s sleek, black-marble-and-glass–appointed room. But it suited her.

The mirror on the opposite wall reflected a woman with her dark-brown hair pulled into a ponytail, an ordinary face—though she had inherited her mother’s naturally tanned skin—blue eyes, and nearly-chewed-off pink lipstick. This last was no doubt a casualty of all that butt-gazing. Her mile-long to-do list lay next to her keyboard. Her in box was a good foot high.

Ah, reality. It’s good to have you back.

Back from her brief foray into fantasyland, she was reminded of the life-affirming decisions she’d made recently.

She was at a point in her life where romantic flings had ceased to be a priority. She was a serious business-woman now, with major responsibilities. Tired of the commitment-wary, ambition-challenged guys she’d dated in the past, she’d decided she was holding out for Mr. Right. And Tony certainly wasn’t him.

Dear Tony. Who always skated by in life, then charmed himself out of any situation he’d screwed up.

Even if he ever looked at her as anything other than a friend, she knew he wasn’t The One. The One was going to walk into her life one day and she’d know, instantly, that he was the love of her life. For five generations the women in her family had fallen completely, instantly in love with their future husbands, and seeing the results of her parents’ wonderful thirty-year marriage, she had no doubt love would find her the same way.

So, in conclusion, all you stubborn, Tony-dazzled hormones back off!

She pulled up her e-mail and opened the one from Tony.

Hi, bella. Have I told you lately I couldn’t live without you?

Francesca sucked in a breath. Her hormones danced a jig.

She scrolled down further.

I’d never manage to eat a decent meal.

-T

“Did you get the message?” Tony called from the other room.

“Oh, yeah.” Clamping down on her disappointment and deciding two could play at this game, she typed,

Ecstasy awaits you tonight…

Then she skipped down a few lines and added,

We’re having fettuccine with scallops.

She hit the send button, rose from her chair, rolled her shoulders back, then marched from the office. The One was just around the corner, poised to save her from this impossible attraction.

He just had to be.

TONY LEANED across his desk and snagged the ringing phone. “This is Tony.”

“Mr. Galini, this is Alice in reservations, I have a Mr. Pierre von Shalburg on the phone. He’s making a reservation, but he insisted on speaking with you personally.”

Tony searched his memory, but came up blank on anyone named von Shalburg. “Who’s he?”

“I thought you’d know. He sounds important,” Alice said nervously.

Shoving aside a stack of invoices he had to get through before he could join Francesca for dinner, Tony sighed. “Put him on.”

How did anybody actually get any work done when people were always calling and interrupting?

This is a customer, Francesca—aka his self-appointed conscience of business responsibility—would have reminded him. Customers come first.

Who knew his impulsive decision to accept Uncle Joe’s challenge to make something significant of his life would involve actual work and stress? He’d only become a businessman to impress the uncle he regarded so highly. He wanted people to look at him with the admiration and respect they gave Joe. Unfortunately, his resort-owner fantasy wasn’t meshing with reality.

He’d pictured walking around the restaurant, smiling at patrons, offering suggestions and wine pairings. He imagined cocktail parties with plenty of lovely ladies in attendance.

But so far…zilch in the fun department. Why had he thought he could do this? He’d been perfectly happy milking his trust fund like nearly everyone else he knew. Hell, it was practically a Galini family tradition.

“This is Pierre von Shalburg,” said an unfamiliar voice.

The man paused at length, giving Tony the impression that he should recognize von Whoever’s name immediately. Which, of course, he didn’t. He fell back on a familiar skill—bluffing. “Ah, yes. What can I do for you?” he asked as he searched the piles of paper on his desk for a pad to take notes.

Von So-and-So cleared his throat importantly. “I believe, Mr. Galini, it’s what I can do for you that should be of interest to your establishment.”

Really? He’d worked his ass off for nearly six months just to have his first encounter with an actual guest want to make him bang his head against the wall. He’d left jet-setting for this?

“Fortunately for you,” the guy continued, “my schedule is free during the weekend you’re planning to open.” He paused. “You are planning to open on time, aren’t you?”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” Who was this guy?

“I’m so thrilled for you,” Mr. von Snooty said in such a deadpan voice that Tony pictured him winning the fifty-million-dollar lottery and saying, “I suppose this will do.”

“I’ll arrive on Friday afternoon at precisely three o’clock. I’ll require a suite with a view of the vineyards.” He paused. “You do have rooms overlooking the vineyards, don’t you?”

“Naturally.” What else would they have views of?

“I want room service delivered at precisely seven o’clock in the morning…”

Sighing about the sad state of a world in which jerks like von Whatsisname existed, Tony nevertheless started scribbling notes.

“I’ll inform you of my dietary requirements when I arrive and peruse the menu.” He paused. “You do have menus, don’t you?”

Tony ground his teeth. “Yes, sir, we do.”

“Twelve o’clock, lunch; six o’clock, cocktails; seven o’clock, dinner. I will also require a tour of the facilities, including the winery, and, of course, a tasting.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

“That will be all, Mr. Galini. Expect me next Friday.”

“Ye—” A dial tone sounded in his ear.

Tony slammed the phone into its cradle. “What an ass.” He looked over his sparse notes and had the feeling he should have asked von Whoever-he-was more questions.

He ran a hand through his hair. What had ever possessed him to actually make something of his life? His friends were probably having drinks at the club about now, talking about their summer trips to Barbados. What was he doing? Sweating and stressing as he installed computers and got insulted by guys named von Something-or-Other, whom he probably could have snubbed under any other circumstances.

It was that look in Joe’s eyes. That look that asked Are you going to be a trust-fund waste like the rest of my brothers’ children? Guilt had suffused him. Guilt that apparently everyone else in his family—except two of Joe’s sons, who ran the family’s Tribiletto winery in Italy—seemed conveniently to have been born without.

Was he really up to this challenge? He had zero business experience. He clearly had no patience with demanding clients. His parents called the resort “Tony’s little distraction”.

His friends thought he’d lost his mind and kept telling him to call a shrink whenever he had the urge to do something productive.

But sometime in the last few months, a deep desire to prove himself had stubbornly sparked to life. He wasn’t selfish and spoiled like his parents. He wanted to prove everyone wrong about his ability to commit. He wanted respect. He needed it.

The question was—could he earn it?

First thing, though, he had to find out who von Snobby was. “Francesca!” he shouted.

A few seconds later, the intercom speaker on his desk phone beeped, then Francesca’s calm voice floated out. “We spent an unmentionable amount of money on the phones, Tony, maybe we should actually use them.”

And, boy, could that woman be bossy. “Hey,” he said into the speakerphone, “I just got off the phone with this guy—do you know a Pierre von Something-or-Another?”

She drew a swift breath. “Pierre von Shalburg?”

“That’s him!” He sagged in relief. “You know him. He yammered on like I should know who he is, but I didn’t have a clue—”

“Oh, God. Tony, did you say you just talked to him?”

“Yeah. He yammered on—”

“What did you say?” Francesca yelled.

Scowling, Tony tapped his pen against the desk. “I said yes.”

“To what exactly?”

“To him coming here for opening weekend.”

A long silence ensued. Then, “You’d better meet me in the kitchen.”

List in hand, he headed out of his office, down the hall and took the elevator to the kitchen. He’d been pleasant enough to the guy. Francesca acted as though he couldn’t deal with a simple reservation. He hadn’t exactly bubbled over with enthusiasm, though, and he doubted their guest-to-be would bend beneath his smile. Why couldn’t von Shalburg have been a six-foot blonde with legs to die for?

As he approached the open doorway, he saw Francesca standing behind one of the assistant chefs—sous chefs she called them—hovering as he cooked scallops in a big frying pan. She looked tired. Her usually jaunty ponytail hung limply against her neck. Sweat glistened on her face.

Actually… He angled his head. She looked really good sweaty. Not unkempt so much as…mussed. As if she’d rolled out of a bed she hadn’t wanted to leave.

He’d seen Francesca first thing in the morning many times. Throughout their teenage years, her parents had let him stay with them when his parents had gone out of town and they’d been between housekeepers—which was often, since his mother was forever accusing his father of sleeping with them, and he was always trying to make up for his behavior by taking her to Aspen or Paris or St. Croix.

That was Francesca—always around when he needed her, always willing to see him through any situation.

They had been best friends since they were ten, when Tony’s parents had decided he should start attending public school on Long Island, rather than going back to boarding school in England. Years later, he’d learned this change of heart hadn’t been prompted by his homesickness, but the hundred-thou-a-year his parents had saved by keeping him home.

Francesca’s tongue peeked out to flick across her bottom lip, and he groaned. How would she look with her long, dark hair loose and caressing her face? The strands looked silky, but how did they feel? He couldn’t recall ever gliding his hands through her hair. Why was that? Why hadn’t he—

Because she’s the only true friend you have.

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Erotic fantasies about Francesca? He’d definitely been working too hard.

And last night didn’t count. He’d only been consoling Barbie on the breakup of her engagement.

He walked into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter. “I could use a martini.”

Francesca glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. “I’ll page the bartender.”

“Do we have a bartender?” He winced as she continued to glare. He was an owner now, not a guest. He really needed to come up with a mantra or something to help him remember that. “Hell, now I’m starting to sound like that pompous jerk.”

Crossing to the industrial-sized, walk-in freezer, he headed straight for the ice-cold bottle of Grey Goose on the third shelf. He mixed his drink—and one for Francesca as well. She’d been working as hard as he had. Probably harder.

Maybe he should volunteer to take her out. She deserved a night off.

“Pompous jerk?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “That would be Pierre von Shalburg, I assume?”

He sampled his martini, found it nicely balanced, so he pushed the second glass across the counter to Francesca, which she picked up by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and sipped. He smiled at the elegant picture she made—even in jeans, a stained T-shirt and an apron. “That would be him,” he said finally.

Eyes narrowed, she set down her martini glass with a clang. “What did you say to him?”

He cut his gaze right then left, looking for an escape. He drank again from his glass. “He pretty much did all the talking.”

He thought he saw smoke seeping from Francesca’s ears. “Do you have any idea who he is?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“He’s the principle critic for A Vino magazine.”

Thank God. Finally, a name he recognized. Just last week Uncle Joe had gone on and on about the influence of the magazine, since A Vino was the resort industry’s premier review—

Oh, hell. He leaned heavily onto the counter. “He can make us or break us.”

Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. “You do have a talent for succinctness.” She glared at him. “When absolutely forced beyond reason.”

“I did okay. Really,” he added, when she continued to stare daggers in his direction. He grasped her hands, sliding his thumbs across her skin. “I wrote down everything he said and assured him we could accommodate his every desire.” He smiled. “You know how good I am at that.”

To his surprise, instead of returning his smile, she scowled and pulled her hands from his grasp. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Well, I could—

No, no, no. This is Francesca, you idiot. Your best friend.

He couldn’t put any moves on her.

He wasn’t a long-term guy—his personal relationship record was three months. Francesca needed more from a man. She’d told him so dozens of times. Usually after she’d broken things off with a guy who turned out to be “commitment-phobic.” And if there was ever a commitment-phobic guy, it was him. Again, a Galini family tradition—with the exception of Joe and his wife. And, really, he could modestly admit to himself that he had plenty of female attention. Why limit his talents to just one? It didn’t seem equitable.

Besides, he wasn’t attracted to Francesca. Not at all. Not in the least.

He drained his martini. “Well, anyway, here’s the list.” He pushed the scribbled note toward her. “When do we eat?”

“Any minute now.” Finally giving him a quick smile, Francesca glanced over the note. “Imagine Pierre von Shalburg at our resort. If we can impress him, we’ll have solid bookings for the next year. I’m sure the staff can handle the meal requirements. We’ve already been working on some grand opening specials. And Joe will be here to do the tour—”

“I’ll do the tour.”

Francesca eyed him skeptically.

“Ches, if there’s anything I understand it’s the vines. I’ve been pruning every winter and harvesting every fall since I was fourteen.”

She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

“Dinner, Ms. D’Arcy,” the sous chef announced, setting two plates on the counter in front of him and Francesca.

“Thank you, Kerry,” she said.

The scent of sautéed scallops wafted past him, and Tony put all thoughts of the cranky Pierre von Shalburg out of his mind. He selected a ’96 chardonnay from the fridge and poured the straw-colored liquid into two glasses. He paused with the bottle hovering over a third glass. “Kerry?”

“No, thank you, sir,” the sous chef said, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “I still have prep work for tomorrow.”

Tony set aside the bottle, then picked up his glass. He touched the crystal to Francesca’s. “To success.”

They had been eating like this, standing at the counter in the warm, busy kitchen in the basement, nearly every night for a month. Tony found himself checking his watch in the afternoon in anticipation of dinner with her. Must be a latent longing for all those impersonal meals he’d endured growing up with nobody but the housekeeper for company.

As they enjoyed the delicious meal, they discussed plans for the critic’s visit.

With the number of resorts in the area growing, they’d had to find ways to distinguish themselves from the competition. Since the wine production had always been their focus, it seemed logical to focus on food, wine and music, rather than spa services.

Would von Shalburg participate in their planned cooking classes?

Tony doubted it.

Would he relax in the jazz-themed bar at night?

Maybe. But certainly alone.

Would he like the wine-pairing sessions?

Only if he could tell everybody what he thought and have them bow and definitively agree with every word he said.

Finally, frustrated, Francesca shoved her plate aside. “Well, what do you think he would like?”

“How about a day at the spa? We could foist him off on Chateau Fontaine down the road.”

Francesca sighed. “No, do you plan to shuffle off every troublesome guest?”

“Hmm… Yes?”

“No.” She leaned toward him. “We’re trying to attract all the guests we can handle. Bookings equal revenue, remember? As much as you obviously don’t want to admit it, we need Pierre von Shalburg. He could bring us industry buzz and accreditation.”

“He could bring us a giant pain in the—”

“We agreed we were going to give this our best shot.”

Tony hung his head. He’d agreed all right—to the coup sponsored by Francesca and Uncle Joe.

No, that wasn’t true—or fair. Fact was, in addition to being one of the few Galinis in his generation capable of guilt, he’d also been a complete sucker for the hope and resolve that had shone in Francesca’s eyes that fateful day six months ago.

She’d always had so much faith in him—faith that he could get through his English final in high school, faith that he could graduate college, faith that he could resist Tiffani Lambeau’s determined advances even though she claimed her new husband ignored her, and, more recently, faith that he would be the best, most charming resort host on Long Island.

“Has it really been all that bad?” she asked softly.

Startled, he lifted his head. “No, of course not.” And it hadn’t. Watching the resort go from mere drawings on a page to three-dimensional reality, having people listen to his opinion on something besides which was the hip nightclub this month had been great. The responsibility gave him a sense of belonging and acceptance he hadn’t anticipated.

He just kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. No one—save Joe and Francesca—expected him to succeed. Not his acquaintances, his parents or his friends. He, in fact, knew they all had a pool going on the precise moment his dismal failure as a businessman would occur.

At least he’d cost that joker Sonny Compton—who’d started the pool—two hundred bucks already.

Francesca slid her hand over his. “You can do this.”

He stared into her sparkling, earnest blue eyes and almost believed her.

She was the only one who knew of his need to prove he wasn’t like his parents, that he could be a success in business—or anything else. He also suspected she knew he was terrified of everything he had to do in order to provide that proof….

He gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”

“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”

She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”

He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.

As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.

As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.

He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.

“What the hell are you doing?”