Tycoon′s Temptation
Tycoon's Temptation
Trish Morey
When the rebel doesn’t get his wayFranco Chatsfield has never lived by anybody else’s rules and he isn’t going to start now. But, when he is asked to secure a deal for the famous Chatsfield family, he can’t say no. Franco plans to seal the deal fast and get back to his life, but just one person stands in his way…Holly Purman has devoted her life to her precious vines and, if Franco wants them, he must prove he is worthy! But Franco is more intoxicating than the very finest of wines and Holly’s first taste of the brooding Chatsfield leaves her begging for more.Welcome to The Chatsfield, Sydney!
‘Of course there’s something in it for me.
‘I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction of course, then you will sign the contract.’
‘But—’
‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’
‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’
That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’
Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, unassailable.
She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of such a short time ago had turned to quicksand. She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.
Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.
Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …
Welcome to
Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!
For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.
Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?
Let the games begin!
Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.
Ref: 00106875
www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)
TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true.
Visit Trish at her website: www.trishmorey.com (http://www.trishmorey.com)
Tycoon’s Temptation
Trish Morey
www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)
Family Tree (#ulink_6939f03a-160d-53b0-a2ca-69041a756d68)
With grateful thanks to Sue and Sean Delaney from Sinclair’s Gully Wines.
Thanks for your advice, your know-how and most of all, your friendship.
Raising a glass of Rubida to you both,
Trish
xxx
Table of Contents
Cover (#u050ed0f8-33f2-51cf-ae6f-2394a2d1dc82)
Excerpt (#u34eb28bc-033f-5764-94ae-1523f8863cab)
About the Author (#u9969a550-eded-5f7d-a432-f54954056361)
Title Page (#u090057ba-6c20-5d2a-bc44-02a2750ff2f9)
Family Tree (#u8ed6ad2c-0bcb-5d8e-b903-db3e95846c4e)
Dedication (#u48b983e1-241d-5e5d-a835-daecb1abb202)
Chapter One (#ulink_3e6250ee-6ddb-5843-90dc-a06f1d189077)
Chapter Two (#ulink_5f2144a6-b250-5508-9518-4ea15623122f)
Chapter Three (#ulink_83ec56a9-8c69-5e4c-8e5f-a2967666d25e)
Chapter Four (#ulink_0b70ebf9-fa67-5e51-b139-89ddede64ea5)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Readers’ Extras (#litres_trial_promo)
Discover The Chatsfield (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e8b23418-1443-5fe5-97b6-71cf46c5ee9c)
‘BE NICE TO him, Holly.’
Holly Purman smiled and put on her most innocent expression, the one she reserved for when her grandfather was asking something of her that she didn’t want to give. The one that usually worked like a charm. ‘When am I ever not nice to anyone?’
‘I mean it,’ Gus growled, refusing point-blank this time to be swayed. ‘I know what you’re like when you get a bee in your bonnet about something or somebody, and I reckon there’s an entire hive buzzing around up there right now.’
‘Nobody wears bonnets these days, Pop.’ She stooped down to kiss her grandfather’s creased forehead, adding with a grin, ‘They’re old hat.’
‘This is no joking matter, Holly! I want you to take this visit from Franco Chatsfield seriously. It’s a big deal, him coming all this way to talk to us, and the money he’s talking—well, it could set us up for life.’
Holly sighed, abandoning the plans she had to head out to the paddock to let the sheep into the vineyard. The sheep weren’t going to starve in the next thirty minutes and the winter weeds would still be waiting for them in the rows between the vines. Besides, she was hardly going to convince her grandfather that a deal with Chatsfield wasn’t going to be the deal of the century without having the conversation she’d been stewing over ever since Gus had taken the phone call agreeing to some representative from Chatsfield’s visiting with an offer.
She pulled up a chair opposite her grandfather and sat down, putting her hand over his where it rested on the arm of his wheelchair. ‘Okay, Pop, I’ll be serious. We have interest from the Chatsfield Hotel Group. This isn’t so surprising, surely? After winning gold or silver at nearly every wine show going, suddenly everyone wants a piece of Purman Wines. We’ve had loads of interest from potential buyers from all over Australia and from that big supermarket chain in the UK, and I thought you were happy with those. So why are you so excited about some guy coming from Chatsfield? What can hooking up with them give us that none of the others can?’
‘Exposure, that’s what! You know as well as I do that a deal with Chatsfield will give us a global exposure we won’t get through any of our other offers! Chatsfield can take our wine to the world and give it a five-star tick of approval into the deal. You can’t buy that kind of promotion!’
She rubbed her temple where a pulse beat insistently beneath, wishing she’d been in the office the day the call had come in—the call her grandfather had taken in her absence and been so excited about since. She wouldn’t have been so quick to agree to the visit. In fact, she would most likely have told Franco Chatsfield or whatever his name was not to waste his time and effort.
But by the time she’d found out, he was already on his way. And her grandfather was right, she’d been fuming about it ever since. She patted his hand now, willing herself to calm down before she spoke.
‘Sure, Pop, you’re right. We’ll get international exposure if we hook up with Chatsfield, nothing surer, but is it the sort of exposure Purman Wines really wants? Every week it seems there’s another scandal involving that family. What with Lucca Chatsfield caught in a … well, let’s just say “compromising situation” … Do we as a quality brand want the Purman name linked with theirs? We’ve both worked so hard to ensure its success, and I don’t want to see the Purman name dragged through the mud.’
‘Chatsfield is the most prestigious hotel chain in the world!’
‘It used to be, Pop. Once upon a time it used to stand for something special. It still clings to its heritage every chance it gets, but these days the brand is more synonymous with scandal than style.’
His eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. Emphatic. ‘No, no, no! That’s all in the past. Things are turning around. That’s what he told me. There’s a new CEO in charge and the entire chain is getting a makeover. Overhauling their menu and wine list is part of the deal. They’re spending big dollars, Holly, to get the very best. They’re offering the big bucks. Why shouldn’t we cash in on it?’
Holly gave her grandfather a wan smile. ‘We’ve met men with fat wallets who promised the world before, Pop, remember? I don’t recall you being quite so excited then.’
Gus snorted and crooked an eyebrow, his eyes still a piercing blue and sharp as a needle, although the skin around them was creased and tanned from a lifetime of working outdoors. ‘Is that what this is all about? Something that happened ten years ago?’ His gaze grew more intent, his expression deadly serious. ‘He was never good enough for you, Holly, and you know it!’
‘I know that,’ she said, sucking in air at that old familiar stab of hurt, dulled now with the passage of time, but still lurking. Still hurting if she let it. And sometimes she did, just to remind herself never to be so naive again. ‘But that’s not what I meant. Because I recall what happened after you’d sent him packing—when he did his best to drag the Purman name through the mud. Don’t you remember all those poisonous articles in the papers he wrote where he called us “Poorman Wines”? And all those calls from clients cancelling orders, worrying we couldn’t deliver? Don’t you remember all those phone calls from reporters believing we wouldn’t be in business twelve months down the line? Do we really want to bring that kind of exposure on us again?’
‘But this will be different. The money alone—’
‘Money isn’t the only consideration. This is about protecting our brand! If Chatsfield is trying to improve its public image, bully for them, but I don’t see why we should lend our name and our success and risk losing everything we’ve worked to build up, just to make them look good.’
Pop shook his head, the leathery skin between his brows more creased than ever. ‘It’s not just about the money, I know. Just talk to him, Holly. He’ll be here soon. Listen to what he has to say. Give the man a chance. Give Chatsfield a chance.’
The thought of doing a deal with them and risking what had happened before gave her the shudders. ‘Why don’t you talk to him if you’re so keen?’
‘I will. But since I’m reduced to this useless device—’ he slammed the palm of one hand against the wheel ‘—it will be you showing him around the vineyard and the winery. It will be you explaining your vintages, that’s as it should be. Because it’s you everyone wants to meet—the wine whisperer. Dionysus’s handmaiden, the woman who turns the humble grape into nectar of the gods.’ His eyes misted over. ‘My Holly.’
She sighed and squeezed his hand. ‘Those wine writers talk such rubbish.’
‘No, it’s true. All true. You have a gift, my girl, a God-given gift for the grapes and the wine. I’m so proud of you.’
She smiled, a soft smile she hoped told him just how much she loved him, before leaning over to add a kiss to his leathery cheek for good measure. ‘If it is true, it’s only because you taught me everything I know.’
He caught her hand within the iron grip of his bony fingers, blinking to clear watery eyes as he turned his impassioned expression up to hers. ‘Don’t you see, Holly? This Chatsfield deal could be the opportunity of a lifetime.’
She could see how he’d think it so. The dollars alone were enough to make anyone’s eyes water. But it could also turn out to be the biggest blunder of all time, given the parlous state of the Chatsfield family and its hotel chain.
But she didn’t say so, not when her grandfather seemed so set on making a deal with them. ‘I’ll talk to him, Pop,’ she said simply and even honestly with a smile for the man who had been the centre of her existence for so long she didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been there for her. ‘I’ll give him a chance and I’ll listen to what he has to say.’
And then I’ll tell him to go to hell.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_6d45fef7-9a7a-5a42-9ff9-e41af51671c0)
FRANCO CHATSFIELD DIDN’T appreciate having a gun held to his head, especially not by Christos Giatrakos—the man his father had hired in to bring his siblings into line… . Him into line.
He tossed away the business magazine he’d been attempting to read on the descent into Adelaide Airport, giving up all pretence of being able to focus on the words. Because the closer he got to landing, the more resentful he grew.
In normal circumstances he wouldn’t have given someone like Giatrakos five minutes of his time.
In normal circumstances he would have told Giatrakos where to well and truly get off.
Except that Giatrakos’s last email had stopped him in his tracks.
From: Christos.Giatrakos@TheChatsfield.com (mailto:Christos.Giatrakos@TheChatsfield.com)
To: Franco.Chatsfield@TheChatsfield.com (mailto:Franco.Chatsfield@TheChatsfield.com)
Subject: CONDITIONS OF TRUST CONTINUATION
Despite numerous attempts to make you see sense, be aware that failure to seal the deal with Purman Wines will leave me no choice but to use the power your father has given me and lock down your access to your trust funds.
This is your last warning.
C.G.
Jeopardising the income stream from the Chatsfield Family Trust was the one thing Franco couldn’t let happen.
So he’d play the game by Giatrakos’s rules. He’d even let Giatrakos think he’d won the day if it was that important to him. Because he’d spoken to Angus Purman and it was clear from his enthusiastic response to his offer that getting his signature was practically a done deal. No wonder, really, given he’d had one hell of a budget to play with and he’d teased Purman with that knowledge.
Getting the paperwork should be a mere formality, in which case, he’d be back in Milan with this deal sorted and signed and on that jerk CEO’s desk before the ink was even dry on the contract.
And if his father—his famous father, who hadn’t given him two minutes of consideration since he’d been born—had thought for a moment that he would be cowed by the prospect of sorting out a new wine contract for Chatsfield’s prestige hotel chain, he had another think coming.
He might have dropped out of school at sixteen and fled the Chatsfield media circus before it could consume him, but he’d still managed to learn a thing or two along the way. Maybe his father might finally realise that?
He snorted.
Not that he cared either way.
The plane bumped through clouds on its descent and he looked out the window, searching for his first glimpse of Adelaide, but there was still no sign of anything approaching a city. Instead below him spread an undulating carpet of green dotted with tiny towns connected by winding ribbons of bitumen. There were forests of pine and the dull grey of eucalypts, interspersed with open fields, and vineyards too, marching in regimented lines across the hillsides. Somewhere down there, he figured, must be Purman’s cool-climate pinot-chardonnay block that provided the fruit for their award-winning sparkling wine.
A burst of rain spattered against his window, obliterating the view, and Franco reclined back in his seat as the plane bumped its descent over the hills. Not that he had to know where exactly, because as soon as the plane landed and he cleared customs, he was heading straight to Purman’s Coonawarra head office, one more short flight away. He didn’t want or need to see anything else. His job was to fill in a few final details on the contract he had ready and get a signature. It wasn’t like he was here to have a holiday. In fact, the sooner he’d put Giatrakos—the jerk—back in his box and ensured the funds from the Chatsfield Family Trust kept flowing where he wanted them to, the better.
Right now, that was all he cared about.
It might be winter but the weather was worse than wintry, it was foul, and Holly had come in from the vineyard to escape it while she made them both a sandwich for lunch. Above the pounding of the rain on the roof she barely registered the noise at first. Even when she did make out the distinctive whump-whump of chopper blades, she didn’t pay it much attention. They weren’t that far from the airfield after all, and there was a steady trade in sightseer flights, although admittedly more common in the warmer months.
But the noise grew progressively louder and closer and Holly stopped slicing cheese as a shiver of premonition zipped down her spine. Could it be him?
She grabbed a tea towel to wipe her hands as she crossed to the glass doors that looked out over acres of vines, now mostly bare and stripped of their leaves, to see a helicopter hovering above the lawns that doubled as a rudimentary helipad when occasion demanded.
Her grandfather wheeled alongside her as the chopper descended slowly to the ground.
‘You reckon it’s him?’
‘Who else could it be? Clearly it’s somebody who likes to make an entrance. It figures it’d be a Chatsfield.’
‘You don’t know that, Holly.’
Her hackles did.
Her bones did.
‘It’s him,’ she said, before balling the tea towel in her hands and unceremoniously flinging it across the room to land in the sink with the same unerring certainty. She slid open the door to air that was so cold and crisp it might snap, the rain squalls moved on for now, and from the edge of the verandah they waited as the chopper’s motor wound down, the blades’ revolutions slowing.
And even though it was near-freezing outside, her blood simmered with resentment. Did he honestly imagine they’d be impressed at such a grand entrance?
Not likely.
The passenger door popped open and their visitor jumped out and Holly’s skin prickled.
Tall, she registered. Around six foot if she wasn’t mistaken, though it was hard to tell given how far he had to duck his head under the rotating blades. And then he straightened and she could see his face and he could be nothing other than a Chatsfield, with his chiselled good looks and the tendrils of his bad-boy hair flicking like serpents in the down draft from the blades.
The prickling under her skin intensified and spread until even her breasts tingled and peaked. The cold, she told herself as she clutched her arms over her chest and pressed her fingernails tight into her flesh. Damn this cold and damn this man who was smiling as if he was welcome here.
As if he imagined he was going to get a slice of Purman Wine action.
Not on her watch.
‘Angus Purman?’ he said, extending a hand to her grandfather. ‘Franco Chatsfield. It’s good to meet you.’
‘Gus will do just fine,’ the older man said with a nod, and Franco felt his hand enveloped by a weatherbeaten paw that housed a grip of steel. ‘And this here’s my granddaughter, Holly. She’s the real boss of the show.’
Really? ‘Holly,’ he said, taking her hand in turn, and there could be no greater contrast between the two handshakes. For while the older man’s had been certain, his leathery skin calloused and hard, hers was cool and way too brief to decide if that buzz he’d felt on contact had been any more than his imagination. She made no attempt to acknowledge him or return his smile, but then, she didn’t look happy at all. Instead she looked—He searched for a word as he took in her khaki work pants, dusty boots and a faded long-sleeved polo jumper bearing the Purman Wines logo. Drab. In fact, if it wasn’t for blue eyes in a make-up-free face, she’d be completely colourless.
‘I apologise if my arrival has taken you unawares,’ he said, realising she must be angry because she hadn’t had time to get herself ready. He knew how women liked to preen.
‘No, of course, we were expecting you,’ the old man said genially.
‘We just weren’t expecting you—’ the woman added, gesturing towards the helicopter ‘—in that.’
So she was angry with him. But what the hell for? ‘I had to take it from Mount Gambier. Storms closed the Coonawarra airfield so my charter flight couldn’t land here.’
‘There were no hire cars?’ Gus asked as he wheeled himself inside and gestured Franco to follow.
‘No,’ he said as he followed, discounting the offer he’d had of a car so tiny his knees would have been around his ears. ‘At least, nothing that was suitable.’
‘They were all out of Maseratis?’ quipped the woman. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’
‘Holly!’ Gus growled over his shoulder, and Franco pulled his lips into a smile in spite of his building irritation. He was here with a fistful of dollars in his pocket and a deal that anyone would be mad to turn down and yet she was acting like he wasn’t welcome. What the hell was her problem?
Warmth enveloped him as he stepped into a spacious living area, a kitchen one end and a dining area dominated by a massive timber table the other, all warmed by a stone-walled fireplace pumping out the heat. Stone and timber featured largely in the interior, working in combination with the high ceilings and windows that afforded a view over the surrounding vines. And not that he’d given it much thought, but he hadn’t expected to be reminded of his own stone villa in the Piacenza hills outside Milan and to actually like what he found half a world away in the southeast corner of South Australia.
‘We were just about to have lunch,’ Gus said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us?’
Franco held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ he said, and Holly caught the gleam of a gold watch at his wrist. Ridiculously expensive gold watch, by the looks, just like the ridiculously expensive hand-stitched leather shoes on his feet. Big feet, she registered absently, and in the very next instant wished she hadn’t.
Tall.
Big feet.
What did they say about tall men with big feet?
And heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace suddenly blossomed hot and heavy in her cheeks. She turned her back towards the men, launching an attack on a loaf with the bread knife, furious with herself. She didn’t even like the man. Why the hell would she even think such a thing?
‘A man can’t be expected to do business on an empty stomach,’ Gus said. ‘It’s no trouble, is it, Holly?’
‘No trouble at all,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. ‘I do hope you’re a fan of corned beef sandwiches?’
‘But of course,’ he said, and not for the first time, Holly wondered at his accent. She’d expected him to sound upper crust and privileged, and he did—for the most part. But every now and then there was an unexpected texture to his accent that curled the edges away from Sloane Square and headed for somewhere entirely more earthy.
Maybe because of his Italian mother? Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
‘That’s the spirit,’ her grandfather said. ‘Holly not only makes the best wine in the district, it’s a little-known fact she also makes the best sandwiches. She makes the relish herself, you know.’
‘Then I am indeed fortunate. It appears I couldn’t have timed my arrival better.’
A charmer, she thought as she put together a platter of doorstop sandwiches, adding this latest discovery to his list of crimes, a list that was growing longer by the minute. A Chatsfield and a charmer with a posh accent, who wore handmade shoes and gold watches and who hired helicopters when mere mortals hired cars—and usually the budget model at that.
She didn’t care for charmers with fat pockets.
She didn’t trust them.
She glanced over her shoulder at their guest, her father and Franco engaged in conversation. Another squall had hit, the rain coming in fat drops that belted onto the tin roof and splattered over the windows when the wind blew it horizontally under the wide verandah, and over the din, she could barely hear what they were saying. It was just a shame the noise didn’t dull her vision. He’d shrugged off his jacket while her back had been turned, revealing a fine-knitted sweater that skimmed his powerful shoulders and chest like a second skin. Some tall people looked like weeds. Not Franco. He looked hard packed. Built. He seemed to own the space around him. Not an easy thing in this room when he was surrounded by so much of it.
All the more reason to resent him, she told herself as she set the plate of sandwiches on the table and retreated to the safety of the kitchen to snap on the kettle, watching him take a sandwich in his hands.
Long-fingered hands.
Long-fingered hands with big thumbs.
He’d taken her hand in his and she could still feel the tingle under her skin, the zap that had reminded her of science class where they’d scuffed shoes on the carpet and reached out a hand. It had been fun then.
It wasn’t fun now.
She lifted her eyes and caught him watching her and sensation skittered down her spine. She spun, looking out the window, looking anywhere but at him, wondering what was wrong with her.
‘You’re not eating,’ he said.
She shook her head, wondering what had happened to her appetite. She’d felt hungry when she’d first come in from outside, but she was too wound up now to eat, too busy thinking he should never have come. Wishing she’d taken the call and told him not to. Thinking there was no point to all of this …
‘You must take Franco out to the vineyard,’ Gus said, ‘when this latest shower has passed. You should show him our terra rossa soil, and why our grapes do so well.’
‘Pop, have you looked out the window? I’m not sure it’s a good day to take anyone outside.’ Especially if it meant being alone with him.
‘Nonsense!’ He looked at their guest. ‘Franco would never have come all this way without wanting to see everything there is to know about the vineyard and the winery.’
‘Of course,’ he conceded, his words and smile both tighter than a trellis wire. ‘Naturally, I would appreciate seeing as much as I can while I am here.’
‘Excellent,’ said Gus, slapping the palms of his hands on his legs, triumphant. Holly wasn’t so convinced. Their guest hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance. Maybe he was afraid of getting his pretty shoes wet. ‘Now, you’d better get going before the next squall hits. Holly will find you a coat.’
Franco rose to his feet.
‘Oh, and, Gus, after the tour, perhaps we could sit down together and go over the details of Chatsfield Hotel’s offer?’
Holly’s head snapped around. So here it was. ‘You sure don’t waste any time, do you, Mr Chatsfield?’
‘Please call me Franco. And no, I don’t like wasting time, neither yours nor mine. In fact, I have a contract with me all ready to be signed. I told your grandfather on the phone the terms were generous and I can guarantee we’ll better any other offer on the table. I’d appreciate the opportunity to discuss the proposal with you in more detail.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said a bright-eyed Gus, who was looking like a kid itching to unwrap the biggest present under the Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come out myself while I’m confined to this infernal thing. Holly, I’ll be in the study doing some paperwork. Let me know when you get back and we’ll all sit down together and see if we can’t do business.’
The sky outside offered a rare patch of blue and Holly reckoned they had ten minutes before the next bank of dark cloud rumbled overhead and dropped its load.
‘This is going to ruin your snazzy shoes,’ Holly warned as she climbed into her creaky-with-age Driza-Bone oilskin. No way would his feet fit into Gus’s boots.
‘It’s no problem, really,’ he said. ‘They’re only shoes.’
She smiled at that as she pulled on her knee-high gumboots.
Only someone used to buying hand-crafted shoes would think they were only shoes. Clearly the Chatsfields had more money than sense.
Another crime added to the list.
She strode before him across the sodden lawn in her work boots, hands wedged deeply in the pockets of her coat. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know Franco was right behind her. She could feel him in the prickling heat of her skin. She could sense him in the swirling air of her wake—thick, smug air—just one more dark cloud on a stormy day. At least this cloud would soon blow away. Back to his privileged world and his scandal-ridden existence.
‘Be nice to him,’ Pop had told her, and she reined in on the resentment that bubbled up under her skin at him being here, at his film-star good looks and his entitled accent and his damned big feet and thumbs, but nowhere near enough to quell it completely. No. She could not find it in herself to be nice. But she supposed she could at least try for civil. He wasn’t going to be here long. She could do civil.
At least until he put his offer on the table.
‘We have around fifty hectares of prime Coonawarra land under vines,’ she started, and Franco tuned out, toying with a new and unexpected discovery. Because he’d seen her smile back in the mud room, maybe only because she’d been laughing at his shoes, but still she’d smiled. And it had been a revelation, because she was almost pretty when she smiled, when she let her frosty guard down and let the light play about her blue eyes and tweak her lips. They’d become startling blue eyes when she smiled, a burst of colour when she was otherwise clad in so much drabness. Who would have thought it?
She led him towards an old stone building nestled into a stand of enormous gum trees that served as their cellar door, smoke rising from its chimney, and all the while Holly talked and Franco only half listened, letting the details of the varieties and acreage and yields wash over him, details he didn’t need to know because soon he’d be gone and would never need to give Purman Wines or its cantankerous Miss Drab another thought.
Until then, he guessed, he would just have to endure it.
They stopped at a cutting in the soil, where the ground had been scooped away in a wedge shape to reveal the rich red soil lying atop its white limestone base, and she began to explain terra rossa soil, and Franco’s patience snapped.
‘Save me the lecture. I know what terra rossa means.’ Dio, if it wasn’t enough that his mother was Italian, he’d lived in Italy for the past decade.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed you’d grown up in England.’
‘I did,’ he said tersely, glancing over the massive shed beyond that housed the winery proper, suspecting that she was headed there next and already impatient for it to be over. He’d only agreed to come along because he’d worried they might have thought it looked odd if he hadn’t shown an interest.
But now he looked back across the vineyards, in the direction of the homestead, thinking he’d played Mr Cooperative long enough. It was time to get down to business if he wanted this thing wrapped up today.
‘Thank you for the tour, Ms Purman. I think we should be heading back now.’
Holly blinked those blue eyes. ‘The tour isn’t actually finished yet.’
‘Gus is waiting for us.’
‘He knows we’ll be a while.’
‘I’d rather not keep him waiting.’
She drew in a short sharp breath, laced with frustration.
‘But you haven’t even tasted the wines or seen the winery yet.’
‘The wine is good. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with a contract in my pocket. Don’t you understand? Chatsfield Hotels wants to buy your entire vintage, down to every lock, stock and French oak barrel. We’re not about to change our minds whatever you show me. We’d be better off using our time getting agreement over the contract.’
Her blue eyes flashed like sun on ice, as cold and sharp as the wind that needled around his ears. She swept one arm around in an arc over the vineyard. ‘I knew you weren’t interested in a tour. But then, you’re not actually interested in any of this, are you?’ She was staring right at him, right into him, shaking her head while those ice-blue eyes continued to try to slice him to pieces with laser precision.
‘Don’t take it personally. I’m here to do business, not play tourist.’
‘Have you ever tasted our wines?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘You’re unbelievable! I bet you don’t even know the first thing about wine!’
The hackles on the back of his neck rose. If she only knew. But he wasn’t about to tell her. ‘I know a bit about wine, yes.’
She smiled then, if you could call it a smile, because there was no light dancing in those blue eyes. They were cold and glassy and filled with bad intentions. ‘You know “a bit” about wine then?’ she repeated, nodding. ‘An expert indeed. So I guess you know there are two kinds of wine, right? Red and white?’
He felt the skin pull taut over the bones of his cheeks, felt his lips draw back into a snarl, but his voice, when it came, was tight and purposeful and betrayed nothing of how close he was to losing his control. ‘I wouldn’t quite put it that way.’
‘Oh, of course not,’ she said, any pretence at civility abandoned and left smoking in the heat of her delivery. ‘I was forgetting. Because there are actually three kinds of wine. You are a Chatsfield after all. You weren’t just born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you were born clutching a champagne flute in your hand.’
His hands formed fists, and if there’d been a champagne flute in either of them, it would have shattered, like his control, into tiny pieces.
Nobody judged him.
Not since his father had made it clear he didn’t need a son and Franco had subsequently dropped out of Eton and stormed off to Italy in rebellion had he been judged and found guilty by anyone other than himself.
And he was his own harshest critic.
So he was hardly likely to sit back and be found guilty by the likes of this woman.
She knew nothing of him.
Nothing!
The scar in his side ached as a familiar guilt assailed him—guilt for when he’d discovered what he’d unwittingly left behind in England—guilt for the years he’d lost and the pain he’d caused. Guilt that he’d been unable to save his child’s life just twelve short months later.
Nikki.
And pain lanced him as sharp and deep as it had that day, ten years before, when he’d learned that everything he’d done—everything he’d given—had come to nothing.
Curse the woman!
She knew nothing. But nothing in his agreement with Christos Giatrakos said he had to educate her, to explain. Nothing in his agreement said he had to apologise. He didn’t want her understanding or her forgiveness. All he needed was her damned signature on the dotted line.
‘Chatsfield Hotels want to buy your wines and we’re prepared to pay top dollar for the privilege.’ His voice was as calm and reasonable as he could manage under the circumstances, a thin veneer of civility over a mountain of reason and he’d make her appreciate just how much reason if it killed him. ‘We’ll not only purchase the entire vintage, but your precious wines will be showcased exclusively in the executive lounges of our hotels all over the world. You will never get a better deal. So why the hell won’t you even attempt to listen to what I have to say?’
Her chin kicked up. ‘Maybe because I’m not interested in what you have to say. If Chatsfield Hotels were actually serious about buying Purman Wines, they should have sent someone who knows something about wine and winemaking—not some messenger boy!’
If she’d slapped his cold cheek with the palm of her hand it couldn’t have stung as much as her ice-cold words, and far from the first time he cursed Christos Giatrakos for putting him in this position.
If he didn’t need to seal this deal—didn’t need this woman’s cooperation—Franco could have climbed back in the helicopter and left then and there.
But he couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t give frosty Ms Purman and her ice-blue eyes the satisfaction. She might be standing in his way now, frustrating his efforts to get a quick closure, but he’d get what he’d come for.
He had to. He could not risk losing his distribution from the Chatsfield Family Trust. He would do a deal with the devil himself to save it.
So he swallowed down cold air smelling of damp earth and wet grass. He could not afford to antagonise this woman any more than he clearly already had, so he would not rise to her bait, but that didn’t mean he must take her barbs and insults lying down. He might at least call her on it.
‘Do you treat all your potential customers like this, Ms Purman? Or are you singling me out for special treatment?’
The woman smiled, and now it was more than light that danced in her ice-blue, scathing eyes, there was cold, hard satisfaction. She was enjoying this. ‘I’m afraid I am singling you out. Does that make you feel special, Mr Chatsfield?’
Her brazen admission sent white-hot fury pumping through his veins and pounding at his temples, hammering at his skull like he wished he could hammer sense into her. He was here to bestow the biggest contract this woman was ever likely to see in her lifetime, and yet she couldn’t have been less welcoming were he the grim reaper come to harvest her grandfather’s soul.
Somehow he managed to force a smile to his features, although he had to work hard to move his lips beyond a tight thin line.
‘I think we’re wasting our time here. I think we should go and talk to your grandfather. At least he seems a little less averse to doing business with the Chatsfield Hotel Group.’
‘Fine, we’ll do what you want. We’ll go and see Pop.’ She smiled again and, unlike him, seemed to have no problem finding the necessary muscles to make it stick. ‘But you see, we’re a partnership, Pop and me, and you need both our signatures on that contract. So I warn you now, don’t go getting your hopes up.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8ea03677-e0b1-5585-afdd-78ef26a47e05)
‘THIS IS RIDICULOUS!’
Franco Chatsfield was not a happy man.
They’d been talking all afternoon it seemed, Franco talking the deal up, dollar signs plastered thickly to every word, while Gus had listened eagerly, hanging on every gold-plated promise. Holly, meanwhile, had been busy hosing down Franco’s excess enthusiasm and finding flaws in the deal and still Franco’s signature was the only one so far on the contract.
It hadn’t been easy. Franco Chatsfield had made his offer sound better than good. He’d made it sound like it was the deal of a lifetime as he’d laid out figures and facts and promised an endless stream of dollars if only they would both sign on the dotted line.
To Gus it must have sounded like a dream come true, the culmination and validation of his life’s work.
Holly could understand why. She could see that in isolation, if the money was all that mattered, then the dollars looked amazing.
But that didn’t mean she was about to buckle. There was more to success than dollars, and she remembered a time when adverse publicity had almost ruined them. As long as the offer was coming from Chatsfield, a once-grand name now more synonymous with headlines and scandal, it was hard to see how they could ever do business.
Why didn’t her grandfather see it that way?
Half an hour ago the helicopter had departed, and Franco, stony-faced, had watched it take off and still the discussions wore on, and all the time she’d watched the skin of his face pull progressively tighter across his bones, until the tendons in his neck had become taut and corded and stained red with tension and he’d looked like a volcano about to erupt.
And then Gus had excused himself, promising to be back, and before Holly could wonder what he’d gone off in search of, Franco had erupted. He’d slammed his fist on the table and leapt from his chair, his eyes wild and jaw rigid as finally he gave in to the temptation to blow. ‘A complete and utter waste of time,’ he snarled as he prowled before the fire like a lion cheated of its kill. ‘We’re getting nowhere,’ he said, his back to her as he raked fingers through his long hair. He spun around and pinned his cold, winter-grey eyes on her, and she was struck anew by his height and power and his ability to eat up the space around him and shrink it down till there was just him and the fire and a hot lick of flame she could almost feel on her skin. ‘What is your problem?’ he growled. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
Vaguely she was aware of a phone ringing but then it stopped and she knew Gus must have picked it up in the study.
Franco was still staring at her, hostile eyes demanding an answer. Holly didn’t bother with a smile. While there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that she’d stymied this man’s smug expectations of walking out of here with exactly what he wanted, something told her that smiling would not go down well right now.
But that didn’t mean she had to cower.
‘Seems to me, I’m not the one with a problem.’
‘You think? Because you would have to be the most intransigent, uncooperative, stubborn woman I have ever met.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘That wasn’t a compliment.’
She arched an eyebrow over one glacier-blue eye. ‘I take them where I can find them.’
He snorted and turned away. Little wonder. The way she looked in those oversize, drab work clothes, compliments were no doubt thin on the ground.
He strode past the fireplace. He needed this contract signed and he’d get it signed, come hell or high water, and he refused to be beaten by a woman who’d dug her heels in from the very start. But how to make her shift her position?
The old man was already in his pocket. He just had to sway her.
The old man …
And he spun back around, finding a new weapon in his arsenal, a new direction from which to attack now that the old man had left the room and they were alone. ‘Why are you so against this deal?’ he demanded. ‘Your grandfather is keen to do business. So why are you so adamantly opposed to doing a deal with Chatsfield?’
She crossed her arms over her chest, her body language confirming just how far closed was her mind, although the act of defiance also revealed something else—something as unexpected as the transformation in her features when she smiled. For there was shape under that shapeless Purman sweater. Curves. And the heat of his anger morphed into a different kind of heat as his body stirred in response. He willed the reaction away, as unlikely as it was unwanted, as she said, ‘We can do better.’
‘Financially?’ he challenged, his eyes back on hers, his focus back on track. ‘Not a chance.’
‘It may surprise you to learn that there’s more to life than money, Mr Chatsfield. We’re building up a prize-winning brand here at Purmans—a prestige brand. I don’t want to see that put at risk.’
‘So you’d turn down the best offer you’re ever likely to get, because you’re afraid?’
She was on her feet in an instant, her jaw rigid, her blue eyes defiant. ‘You say afraid. I say once bitten, twice shy. Do you think you’re the only one to see the value of our wines? Ten years ago someone else with big pockets tried to buy us out—he promised riches beyond our imagination too.’ He’d offered more besides that still made her ill to think about. ‘But when Gus finally turned him down, he did everything he could to ruin us. “Poorman’s Wines,” he labelled us, every chance he got, undermining all we’d built up, threatening relations with our best stockists and our most loyal clients alike.
‘It’s taken ten long years of rebuilding, Mr Chatsfield, and you blithely walk in here and expect us to get tangled up with a business that is more likely to feature in the gossip columns of the scandal sheets than the business pages? I don’t think so!’
She was flushed, her fists clenched tight at her sides and her eyes like braziers burning with cold blue flame and it was like he was seeing her for the first time.
She was magnificent.
And part of him wanted to goad her, to prod and needle her some more and see more of that passion that transformed this drab little mouse of a woman into a tigress that might have been fighting to protect her cubs.
Part of him wondered where else she might turn into a tigress and what it might be like to have that passion unleashed on him.
While the sane, logical part of him wondered if he’d gone mad. She was so very not his type of woman.
And he had a contract to get signed.
‘Don’t you think it strange that your grandfather doesn’t appear to share your concerns?’
She shook her head. ‘Gus is looking at the offer through a Vaseline lens. His view is distorted and blurred around the edges. He has this romantic notion of Chatsfield Hotels that was shaped some time last century when the chain had a reputation worth having. And as much as I respect my grandfather’s opinion, this time it’s proving not to be based on good business sense.’
‘The Chatsfield Hotel Group is hardly a “chain.” You make it sound like some two-star budget deal.’
‘Do I? Well, whatever you call it, unfortunately Pop’s missed just how far its reputation has slipped over the past few decades. He’s not quite up to speed on the latest trashy magazine gossip.’
‘Whereas you, on the other hand, are?’
Her eyes sparkled with ice-cold crystals. ‘I go to the dentist twice a year. Seems there isn’t an edition of the magazines published where one or more of the Chatsfield clan doesn’t feature front and centre.’
He shook his head, cursing the fact he belonged to a family that had, for as long as he could remember, insisted on playing out its sordid lives on the front page of every scandal sheet going. If his family was the issue, how the hell would he ever convince her to sign?
‘You treated this deal with contempt from the start. And by not being the slightest bit prepared to take heed of what your grandfather wants, you treat your grandfather and his wishes with contempt.’
‘Pop will get over the disappointment the moment he sees the next Chatsfield scandal unfold in all its gory, glossy details—I’ll make sure he does—and then he’ll be glad he never put pen to paper on this deal. Besides, it’s not like we have to sign. There are other offers on the table.’
‘Like ours? Like hell.’
‘No, they’re not like yours. They’re solid deals with reputable parties, parties we’ll be happy to pin the Purman name to. And even if the money doesn’t quite attain the same dizzy heights, at least we can be sure our name won’t end up in the gutter—unlike some of your famous siblings.’
A gust of wind rattled the windows and the fire crackled and spat fiery sparks that nowhere near rivalled the heated embers that flew at her from Franco’s cold grey eyes, and Holly marvelled at the contradiction of fire and ice as he glared across the room at her, the twitch of a muscle in his jaw his only movement.
Intransigent, he’d called her.
Maybe Franco was right.
But she had a damned good reason. And maybe she didn’t understand completely why Gus didn’t see it the same way, when he’d been there ten years ago and he knew how hard it had been to rebuild their name after they’d been so publicly trashed, but that didn’t mean she had to lower her standards.
‘I’m sorry, Franco,’ she said, suddenly tired of the fighting, and the tension this man added to the room by his mere presence and just wanting him gone, ‘but there’s no point discussing this any longer. I’m not going to change my mind. You’re simply not the kind of person I want to do business with. End of story.’
It might have been too, if Gus hadn’t wheeled himself back into the room a moment later, oblivious to the tension between the two warring parties, an old cardboard box perched on his lap. ‘That was Tom on the phone.’
He was frowning, Holly noticed, the worry lines on his face noticeably deeper, and for a moment she forgot about Franco. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Tom can’t make it.’
‘What? But he promised he’d be here tomorrow.’ A team of workers had been engaged to start in a couple of weeks when the younger vines would need work, but Tom was an expert who’d agreed to help her with their most precious low-yielding vines that she wouldn’t trust to anyone but family.
Gus shook his head. ‘Susie’s ill. Breast cancer. She starts chemo in Adelaide Monday. He’s sorry, but …’ He shook his head.
‘Oh, Pop.’ She crossed the room and knelt down beside him and enclosed one of his hands in hers. Gus had lost Esme to cancer twenty years ago when Holly was just a kid in primary school and Tom and Susie had been there, supporting him, at her funeral.
Losing Esme had almost killed him. He’d once told her that if he hadn’t had Holly to look after, it probably would have. And now, for it to happen to a friend … ‘That’s horrible news.’
‘I told him things have improved. That Susie’s chances were better now than they would have been twenty years ago.’
She blinked away tears. She wanted to hug her grandfather and squeeze him tight and she would have, if they didn’t have this wretched visitor, and so she simply said, ‘That’ll help, Pop. I know it will help.’
He nodded on a long sigh, rubbing his bristly jaw with one hand. ‘Yeah, but it’s gonna mess with our plans too, Holly. Where are we going to find someone else to help you prune at such short notice?’
‘Let’s talk about it later,’ she said, wanting to close down the conversation as she stole a glance at Franco, wishing that this stranger didn’t have to bear witness to everything that was going on in their lives right now. ‘Tom’s not the only one around here who can prune.’ Even though he would be nigh on impossible to replace at this time of year. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘Oh,’ he said, as if he’d forgotten it was sitting there in his lap. ‘I found it. Devil’s own thing to find. Come and see. Franco, I think you’ll find this interesting too.’
Holly followed her grandfather warily to the table, curiosity warring with frustration. She didn’t expect whatever was in that box to make any difference to anything, but she was curious what he’d found.
Gus peeled back the flaps of the box. ‘Photographs?’ What on earth was Gus thinking? For the box was full to the brim of old photos, sepia mixed in with black-and-white and some, more recent, in colour. He started spreading them out on the table, family photos going back decades and pictures taken at harvest or in the winery. Gus worked furiously, clearly searching for something.
But why did he think Franco might find it interesting?
‘It took me forever to find them,’ Gus continued. ‘I figured they were somewhere in the storeroom but I had no idea where. Your grandmother always planned to organise them into albums, but there was always something else to do. There never seemed to be enough time. Oh, look,’ he said, passing her one. ‘Here you are at the beach. You must have been all of three years old in that one.’
She blinked down at the photo in her hands. The photographic paper was thick and curled on the corners with age but there she was, sitting on her mother’s lap in the sand, the Holly of three chubby in her floral one-piece, grinning up at the camera with a spade in one hand, bucket in the other.
Her eye was drawn instinctively to the woman who was her mother.
Holly looked at her smiling face, touched a fingertip to a face she wished she could remember other than from seeing it in photographs.
‘Ah,’ announced Gus, delighted. ‘Here it is!’ Followed almost immediately by his handing it to her with a growl. ‘No, that’s not the one I’m looking for,’ and more fervent digging.
Holly took it anyway. It was a smaller version of one she knew well, a photo of her parents holding her as a newborn, one they’d had blown up and had sat framed on the mantelpiece until Holly at ten had decided it belonged on the dressing table in her bedroom and spirited it away one day.
If Gus had noticed, he’d never remarked on the move.
She looked at them now, the happy couple smiling at the camera, the baby in a long christening gown fringed with lace.
And she could even see the resemblance in her Dad’s smile to Pop’s. Oh, yeah, she thought as she studied the photo, that was definitely Pop’s smile her father was wearing. And those were her eyes her mother sported. Turquoise-blue eyes under blonde hair.
And not for the first time she wished she could remember more than what faded photographs could tell her, remember her mother’s scent as she hugged her tight, or the tickling rasp of her father’s cheek when he’d kissed her goodnight.
They’d been ripped from her when she was far too young to form any real memories. A tear squeezed from her eye and she fought it back as she remembered their visitor. Now was hardly the time to be sniffling over old photographs.
‘Why did you bring them out now, Pop? What are you looking for?’
‘And why did you think I might be interested?’
He was standing behind her, Holly realised with a start, her skin prickling all over. Sometime while she’d been absorbed in the old photos, he’d left the fireplace and now he was standing right behind her. So close that she dare not turn her head. So close that it seemed like he’d brought the heat of the fire along with him until it infused her cheeks and seared the air in her lungs.
Did he have to stand so damned close?
It wasn’t like it was anything to do with him.
‘Because somewhere in here,’ Gus said, ‘I know there’s … Ah!’ His gaze focused as he pulled something from the pile and passed it to Holly. ‘I knew it! I just knew it. You see?’
Holly didn’t see. Not at first. It was a cutting from a newspaper, stained browned with the passage of years, with her mother and father standing outside a building, the bride’s hand to her head as her veil was lifted horizontally by the breeze, the photograph perfectly capturing the moment as the groom reached a hand out for the wayward veil too, laughing along with her, and so focused on each other that it took Holly for ever to shift her eyes and see the awning over their heads—and to recognise the name on that awning.
No!
She blinked but there was no denying it.
‘I … I don’t understand,’ she said, looking up at her grandfather.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Your mother and father were married at the Chatsfield Hotel in Sydney, on their opening weekend.’
‘But how? Why?’ It was news to Holly. Unbelievable news. As far as she’d known, the vineyard and winery had provided no more than a modest income until recently, when their wines had really begun to find success and acclaim. It seemed unlikely that they could ever have afforded to get married in a Chatsfield Hotel and one all the way over in Sydney. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘It cost them nothing. One of those big women’s magazines ran a nationwide contest to celebrate the opening. They asked people to write in saying why they deserved to hold their wedding celebration there.
‘Your mother entered. She never thought she’d win, but there you go.’
‘May I?’ asked Franco, leaning over her, his long-fingered hand reaching for the photograph, and she caught his scent, of damp leather and red soil and fire-warmed masculine skin. She let him take the cutting, if only because she’d expected it meant he’d move back then, out of her sphere, away from her too-acute senses and heated blood. And when he failed to move anywhere near enough away, she took matters into her own hands, sliding from her chair, finding sanctuary in the straight lines and practical functionality of the kitchen. The bench at her back felt reassuringly solid and real in a world rapidly going off kilter, the air untainted by the evocative scent of a man she couldn’t afford to like.
‘And Mum won it.’ She wasn’t just dispirited. She was blindsided.
‘She did indeed. She won the wedding, the reception—they flew us all over and back for the wedding and put us up. And Tanya and Richard got to enjoy the weekend in the honeymoon suite. All on the house.’
He looked down at the cutting with a shake of his head. ‘I wish we had more of the wedding photos, but something happened to the film and they were ruined. Your mother was so disappointed.’
‘And so it seems,’ Franco said with a smile that said he knew the scales had just come down in his favour, ‘that we have something in common. There is history between our respective families. Marketing will love it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Pop?’ she said, ignoring their suddenly smug visitor. She didn’t want to hear they had something in common. She didn’t want to think about their shared history or to have him witness hers—to see her as a three-year-old at the beach. To see her parents’ wedding photos, regardless of where they were married.
She didn’t want him here, period. ‘Why did you wait until now to tell me?’
Her grandfather shrugged, sagging into his wheelchair and suddenly looking ten years older. ‘It never came up, lovey, not when you were small. It was a detail that didn’t seem important back then, not when we had more important things on our minds. And I guess, in time, it was a detail that just got missed.’
‘But you must have remembered, after Franco called. You must have realised. But you said nothing.’
Moisture sheened her grandfather’s eyes and she could feel an answering dampness welling up in her own. ‘I wanted you to make up your own mind. This is your business as much as it is mine, Holly. In fact, you’re the future of Purman Wines and I should probably butt out.’
‘No!’
He put a hand up to stop her. ‘Just hear me out. I should probably butt out, but I can’t. I think this deal is a good one for not only the money but for the prestige it could bring, and I know we disagree on that. But before you make your final decision, I wanted you to know why I am so in favour of this deal. Your mum and dad were married in the Chatsfield Sydney, Holly. It was a perfect day, and they were so, so happy. And they’d be so proud knowing Chatsfield had singled Purman Wines out for this honour. They’d be so proud of you and what you’ve achieved.’
Unfair.
‘Oh, Pop.’ She bit her lips tight between her teeth, trying to hold herself together. No wonder he’d been so keen all along. No wonder he’d seen the Chatsfield name as some kind of Holy Grail when her parents’ wedding there must have seemed like a fairytale. But he was holding on to some kind of vision of Chatsfield’s as it was, back in the glory days.
‘I’m sorry, Holly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’
She dragged in a breath before she could speak as she shook her head. ‘No. It’s okay.’ But it wasn’t okay. Because while her reasons for denying Chatsfield a deal with Purman Wines hadn’t changed, what she knew it meant to Gus had.
It wasn’t just the deal of a lifetime to him. It was a link to a time when his son—and her father—was alive. It was a name he associated with one of the happiest times in his life.
Was it any wonder he wanted to go with the deal?
But where did that leave her?
Across the table, Franco saw his opportunity. It had been there, hovering in the back of his mind ever since the old man had returned, but it had been only a shadow of an idea then, a mere wisp of ‘what if?’ But now that shadow of an idea had grown and found form and substance and, best of all, weight.
The old man was already in his pocket courtesy of an emotional attachment to the hotels. Here was a gold-plated opportunity to screw the granddaughter down and lock this contract well and truly up.
It would take time, of course, more time than he’d initially allowed. But it would be time well spent if it guaranteed the funding to Nikki’s Ward.
‘I thank you for sharing that, Gus, and I appreciate the fact you’ve given me a good hearing today. But your granddaughter has good reason for being wary of this deal.’ Gus looked up, surprised. Holly looked suspicious. ‘She wants what’s best for Purman Wines, I understand that. I respect her for it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Gus said, looking crestfallen. ‘You’re not withdrawing your offer?’
He smiled. ‘No. I’m offering you a better one.’
‘It’s not just about the money,’ Holly said. ‘I told you that.’
He nodded. ‘You did. You also told me that I wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to do business with.’ He paused, letting that sink in. ‘Let me prove to you that I am.’
Gus seemed intrigued as he looked from their visitor to his granddaughter, a frown tugging his shaggy brows together. He’d missed that part of the conversation. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’
‘You’re down a worker. You need someone to help you prune. I’m volunteering for the job.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_020bbb61-9412-56c3-9bd9-6f2213b10aaa)
THE BREATH HOLLY had been holding burst free on a laugh. To think she’d almost been worried for a moment! ‘That’s good,’ she said, pausing for air. ‘That’s funny!’
Gus wheeled himself closer. ‘Hear him out, Holly. Listen to what the man has to say.’ And to Franco, ‘Now, what exactly are you proposing?’
‘Oh, come on, Pop. The man knows nothing about vineyards. I doubt he’s ever had to work a day in his life. Sorry, Chatsfield, I’m afraid I’m not looking for a work experience student.’
‘I can prune.’
‘You can?’
‘Pop, no. Seriously?’
He hushed her by holding up one hand. ‘Now, Franco, pruning vines like ours is a specialised job. We don’t trust our low-yield high-quality grapes to machines. It’s all hand pruning here. Where have you pruned?’ Gus’s voice cut over the top.
Holly crossed her arms and glared at Franco. This was ridiculous. They were wasting time. She should be on the phone chasing up someone to replace Tom, not listening to the wild imaginings of a spoiled rich kid who probably didn’t know a hard day’s work if it slapped him in the face.
‘A vineyard in the Piacenza region of Italy, not far from Milan.’
‘You’ve worked there?’
He smiled. ‘You could say that. I own it.’
Silence descended so suddenly his words might have been a thunderclap.
Gus recovered first. ‘You own a vineyard in Italy?’
‘I do. We grow some local varietals. Malvasia, Barbera, along with some merlot and pinot noir.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention this before?’
‘I didn’t think it relevant. This deal is between Chatsfield Hotels and Purman Wines, nothing to do with my business interests.’
Holly was beyond angry. ‘You couldn’t even mention it in polite conversation?’ He’d let her think he knew nothing of vines or wine. He’d let her accuse him of the same and not corrected her. He’d cut short the tour like it was an imposition on his precious time and not something he was interested in in the least. What was she supposed to think?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise we’d had a polite conversation.’
Bastard.
‘You could have said something!’
‘I was here to broker a deal and I was under the impression Chatsfield’s offer would be welcome. I didn’t realise small talk was expected.’
‘You made no effort!’
‘You think if I had, Ms Purman, it might have made you more amenable to my offer? I think not.’
Gus grunted. ‘True enough, Holly.’ His eyes narrowed then, homing in on Franco. ‘But can you really prune?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Gus, the past couple of years I’ve spent more time in the boardroom than in amongst the vines, but yes, I can prune and I used to be a star pruner. All our estate vines are hand pruned. I spent more than ten years hand pruning every season.’
Holly felt the ground beneath her shifting so fast she was battling to keep up. ‘Oh, Pop, this is mad! You can’t seriously be thinking of agreeing to this.’
‘No? And why not, Holly? We’re short an experienced worker. You know yourself how long it takes to train someone and get them up to speed. Years.’
‘But he’s … a Chatsfield! And whatever flimsy connection he has to this supposed vineyard in Italy—’
‘The estate exists, Ms Purman. And I assure you, it’s mine.’
‘Then why are you offering to do this, if you’ve got your own vineyard back in Italy? How can you afford to offer us your services and your time? Why would you do that? What’s in it for you?’
‘There’s something in it for me, of course. I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction, of course, then you will sign the contract.’
‘But—’
‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’
‘That’s not the only reason I’m not in favour of this deal and you know it.’
‘True, you’re also worried about the scandals that my siblings have brought upon themselves from time to time, and their impact on the Chatsfield name. You’re worried the Purman name might be dragged down in the fallout. But I can tell you that you have nothing to fear. You will no doubt choose not to believe me. But in the time it takes to prune—how many weeks will that be? Two? Four?’
‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’
That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Even better. Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal, regardless of how far along we are with the pruning. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract, and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’
‘I like it!’ said Gus with a chortle as he slapped the flat of his hand against one leg. ‘It solves everything. What do you say, Holly?’
Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, as unassailable.
She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of minutes ago had turned to quicksand.
They were both waiting, Gus and Franco, watching her, waiting for her response. And damn them both, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight. ‘Surely you have family back home who will be expecting you?’
Something dark scudded across his cool grey eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. ‘No.’
‘Business interests that need looking after?’
‘They’ll manage.’
‘What if you’re rubbish at pruning?’
‘Then the deal is off. But I assure you, I’m not.’
‘You’ll have to stay for the entire time.’
‘Of course.’
‘However long it takes.’
‘I realise that.’
‘And not just being here. Contributing. We don’t accept passengers.’
His smile grew wider. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
And all of a sudden she’d run out of ifs and buts and terms and conditions.
She swallowed hard.
Hard down on her disappointment.
Hard down on her pride.
‘Then I suppose we could give you a trial.’
And Gus clapped his hands together as he belted out a laugh. ‘Well, it’s all settled then, looks like we’ve got ourselves a deal! ‘
Was it settled? Nothing in Holly’s mind felt settled. Instead it was scattered, a mess of question marks when there should be full stops.
She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too-big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.
Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
It was Gus who insisted on cracking open a bottle of Rubida, their best sparkling wine, and proposing a toast to celebrate the deal. It was no consolation that Franco finally got to taste their wine whether he wanted to or not. It was no consolation that he thought the wine was good.
No consolation at all.
She would have liked it better if he’d screwed up his face and turned tail and run thinking that someone at head office had made a horrendous mistake. Although she knew for a fact that her wines were amongst the best out there and that there was no mistake.
And it was also Gus who decided Franco should stay in the cottage they had prepared for Tom’s arrival. Maybe it was a logical decision, but it meant he’d be living here on the property as well as working here for six weeks. Six long weeks of potentially seeing him every day. Six long weeks of feeling that itching prickle and that annoying heat under her skin. Then again, it could have been worse, Holly mused as she collected up a basket of breakfast supplies from the pantry—Gus could have invited him to stay at the house.
Perish the thought.
By the time Holly picked up her car keys to drop Franco at the cottage, the clouds had blown away and the wintry day had turned into frosty night. She welcomed the bite of the chill air against her overheated skin as she led Franco to the four-wheel drive, shoes crunching on the gravel, while she wished the cold air could similarly work some kind of magic on improving her mood. Six weeks of working alongside this man.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She stashed the basket on the back seat of the four-wheel drive before climbing into the driver’s seat. The heavy door slammed shut behind her.
Damned right.
Exactly how her life felt right now. Slammed shut. All options closed.
‘Ms Purman? Are you all right?’
Clearly not. Holly blinked. She’d been sitting, staring at the steering wheel and hadn’t even noticed Franco climb in. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied through a jaw so rigid by now it was hard to talk.
He clicked in his seatbelt and his elbow brushed against hers and she flinched, feeling a jolt to her senses.
Just peachy, she thought, pulling her arms in tight against her body as she turned the key in the ignition, hating how all of a sudden she was confined in a car with a man who seemed as big as a mountain. And she hated how the air around her didn’t smell of wet oilskins or muddy feet but seemed flavoured with his scent instead, of warm man and wood smoke and there was some kind of cologne mixed in there as well, something spicy and masculine and no doubt expensive. She rammed the car into First and let go the accelerator too quickly and the vehicle lurched and hopped. His fault, she thought, distracting her with that scent.
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Trish Morey
When the rebel doesn’t get his wayFranco Chatsfield has never lived by anybody else’s rules and he isn’t going to start now. But, when he is asked to secure a deal for the famous Chatsfield family, he can’t say no. Franco plans to seal the deal fast and get back to his life, but just one person stands in his way…Holly Purman has devoted her life to her precious vines and, if Franco wants them, he must prove he is worthy! But Franco is more intoxicating than the very finest of wines and Holly’s first taste of the brooding Chatsfield leaves her begging for more.Welcome to The Chatsfield, Sydney!
‘Of course there’s something in it for me.
‘I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction of course, then you will sign the contract.’
‘But—’
‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’
‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’
That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’
Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, unassailable.
She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of such a short time ago had turned to quicksand. She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.
Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.
Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …
Welcome to
Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!
For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.
Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?
Let the games begin!
Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.
Ref: 00106875
www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)
TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true.
Visit Trish at her website: www.trishmorey.com (http://www.trishmorey.com)
Tycoon’s Temptation
Trish Morey
www.thechatsfield.com (http://www.thechatsfield.com)
Family Tree (#ulink_6939f03a-160d-53b0-a2ca-69041a756d68)
With grateful thanks to Sue and Sean Delaney from Sinclair’s Gully Wines.
Thanks for your advice, your know-how and most of all, your friendship.
Raising a glass of Rubida to you both,
Trish
xxx
Table of Contents
Cover (#u050ed0f8-33f2-51cf-ae6f-2394a2d1dc82)
Excerpt (#u34eb28bc-033f-5764-94ae-1523f8863cab)
About the Author (#u9969a550-eded-5f7d-a432-f54954056361)
Title Page (#u090057ba-6c20-5d2a-bc44-02a2750ff2f9)
Family Tree (#u8ed6ad2c-0bcb-5d8e-b903-db3e95846c4e)
Dedication (#u48b983e1-241d-5e5d-a835-daecb1abb202)
Chapter One (#ulink_3e6250ee-6ddb-5843-90dc-a06f1d189077)
Chapter Two (#ulink_5f2144a6-b250-5508-9518-4ea15623122f)
Chapter Three (#ulink_83ec56a9-8c69-5e4c-8e5f-a2967666d25e)
Chapter Four (#ulink_0b70ebf9-fa67-5e51-b139-89ddede64ea5)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Readers’ Extras (#litres_trial_promo)
Discover The Chatsfield (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e8b23418-1443-5fe5-97b6-71cf46c5ee9c)
‘BE NICE TO him, Holly.’
Holly Purman smiled and put on her most innocent expression, the one she reserved for when her grandfather was asking something of her that she didn’t want to give. The one that usually worked like a charm. ‘When am I ever not nice to anyone?’
‘I mean it,’ Gus growled, refusing point-blank this time to be swayed. ‘I know what you’re like when you get a bee in your bonnet about something or somebody, and I reckon there’s an entire hive buzzing around up there right now.’
‘Nobody wears bonnets these days, Pop.’ She stooped down to kiss her grandfather’s creased forehead, adding with a grin, ‘They’re old hat.’
‘This is no joking matter, Holly! I want you to take this visit from Franco Chatsfield seriously. It’s a big deal, him coming all this way to talk to us, and the money he’s talking—well, it could set us up for life.’
Holly sighed, abandoning the plans she had to head out to the paddock to let the sheep into the vineyard. The sheep weren’t going to starve in the next thirty minutes and the winter weeds would still be waiting for them in the rows between the vines. Besides, she was hardly going to convince her grandfather that a deal with Chatsfield wasn’t going to be the deal of the century without having the conversation she’d been stewing over ever since Gus had taken the phone call agreeing to some representative from Chatsfield’s visiting with an offer.
She pulled up a chair opposite her grandfather and sat down, putting her hand over his where it rested on the arm of his wheelchair. ‘Okay, Pop, I’ll be serious. We have interest from the Chatsfield Hotel Group. This isn’t so surprising, surely? After winning gold or silver at nearly every wine show going, suddenly everyone wants a piece of Purman Wines. We’ve had loads of interest from potential buyers from all over Australia and from that big supermarket chain in the UK, and I thought you were happy with those. So why are you so excited about some guy coming from Chatsfield? What can hooking up with them give us that none of the others can?’
‘Exposure, that’s what! You know as well as I do that a deal with Chatsfield will give us a global exposure we won’t get through any of our other offers! Chatsfield can take our wine to the world and give it a five-star tick of approval into the deal. You can’t buy that kind of promotion!’
She rubbed her temple where a pulse beat insistently beneath, wishing she’d been in the office the day the call had come in—the call her grandfather had taken in her absence and been so excited about since. She wouldn’t have been so quick to agree to the visit. In fact, she would most likely have told Franco Chatsfield or whatever his name was not to waste his time and effort.
But by the time she’d found out, he was already on his way. And her grandfather was right, she’d been fuming about it ever since. She patted his hand now, willing herself to calm down before she spoke.
‘Sure, Pop, you’re right. We’ll get international exposure if we hook up with Chatsfield, nothing surer, but is it the sort of exposure Purman Wines really wants? Every week it seems there’s another scandal involving that family. What with Lucca Chatsfield caught in a … well, let’s just say “compromising situation” … Do we as a quality brand want the Purman name linked with theirs? We’ve both worked so hard to ensure its success, and I don’t want to see the Purman name dragged through the mud.’
‘Chatsfield is the most prestigious hotel chain in the world!’
‘It used to be, Pop. Once upon a time it used to stand for something special. It still clings to its heritage every chance it gets, but these days the brand is more synonymous with scandal than style.’
His eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. Emphatic. ‘No, no, no! That’s all in the past. Things are turning around. That’s what he told me. There’s a new CEO in charge and the entire chain is getting a makeover. Overhauling their menu and wine list is part of the deal. They’re spending big dollars, Holly, to get the very best. They’re offering the big bucks. Why shouldn’t we cash in on it?’
Holly gave her grandfather a wan smile. ‘We’ve met men with fat wallets who promised the world before, Pop, remember? I don’t recall you being quite so excited then.’
Gus snorted and crooked an eyebrow, his eyes still a piercing blue and sharp as a needle, although the skin around them was creased and tanned from a lifetime of working outdoors. ‘Is that what this is all about? Something that happened ten years ago?’ His gaze grew more intent, his expression deadly serious. ‘He was never good enough for you, Holly, and you know it!’
‘I know that,’ she said, sucking in air at that old familiar stab of hurt, dulled now with the passage of time, but still lurking. Still hurting if she let it. And sometimes she did, just to remind herself never to be so naive again. ‘But that’s not what I meant. Because I recall what happened after you’d sent him packing—when he did his best to drag the Purman name through the mud. Don’t you remember all those poisonous articles in the papers he wrote where he called us “Poorman Wines”? And all those calls from clients cancelling orders, worrying we couldn’t deliver? Don’t you remember all those phone calls from reporters believing we wouldn’t be in business twelve months down the line? Do we really want to bring that kind of exposure on us again?’
‘But this will be different. The money alone—’
‘Money isn’t the only consideration. This is about protecting our brand! If Chatsfield is trying to improve its public image, bully for them, but I don’t see why we should lend our name and our success and risk losing everything we’ve worked to build up, just to make them look good.’
Pop shook his head, the leathery skin between his brows more creased than ever. ‘It’s not just about the money, I know. Just talk to him, Holly. He’ll be here soon. Listen to what he has to say. Give the man a chance. Give Chatsfield a chance.’
The thought of doing a deal with them and risking what had happened before gave her the shudders. ‘Why don’t you talk to him if you’re so keen?’
‘I will. But since I’m reduced to this useless device—’ he slammed the palm of one hand against the wheel ‘—it will be you showing him around the vineyard and the winery. It will be you explaining your vintages, that’s as it should be. Because it’s you everyone wants to meet—the wine whisperer. Dionysus’s handmaiden, the woman who turns the humble grape into nectar of the gods.’ His eyes misted over. ‘My Holly.’
She sighed and squeezed his hand. ‘Those wine writers talk such rubbish.’
‘No, it’s true. All true. You have a gift, my girl, a God-given gift for the grapes and the wine. I’m so proud of you.’
She smiled, a soft smile she hoped told him just how much she loved him, before leaning over to add a kiss to his leathery cheek for good measure. ‘If it is true, it’s only because you taught me everything I know.’
He caught her hand within the iron grip of his bony fingers, blinking to clear watery eyes as he turned his impassioned expression up to hers. ‘Don’t you see, Holly? This Chatsfield deal could be the opportunity of a lifetime.’
She could see how he’d think it so. The dollars alone were enough to make anyone’s eyes water. But it could also turn out to be the biggest blunder of all time, given the parlous state of the Chatsfield family and its hotel chain.
But she didn’t say so, not when her grandfather seemed so set on making a deal with them. ‘I’ll talk to him, Pop,’ she said simply and even honestly with a smile for the man who had been the centre of her existence for so long she didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been there for her. ‘I’ll give him a chance and I’ll listen to what he has to say.’
And then I’ll tell him to go to hell.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_6d45fef7-9a7a-5a42-9ff9-e41af51671c0)
FRANCO CHATSFIELD DIDN’T appreciate having a gun held to his head, especially not by Christos Giatrakos—the man his father had hired in to bring his siblings into line… . Him into line.
He tossed away the business magazine he’d been attempting to read on the descent into Adelaide Airport, giving up all pretence of being able to focus on the words. Because the closer he got to landing, the more resentful he grew.
In normal circumstances he wouldn’t have given someone like Giatrakos five minutes of his time.
In normal circumstances he would have told Giatrakos where to well and truly get off.
Except that Giatrakos’s last email had stopped him in his tracks.
From: Christos.Giatrakos@TheChatsfield.com (mailto:Christos.Giatrakos@TheChatsfield.com)
To: Franco.Chatsfield@TheChatsfield.com (mailto:Franco.Chatsfield@TheChatsfield.com)
Subject: CONDITIONS OF TRUST CONTINUATION
Despite numerous attempts to make you see sense, be aware that failure to seal the deal with Purman Wines will leave me no choice but to use the power your father has given me and lock down your access to your trust funds.
This is your last warning.
C.G.
Jeopardising the income stream from the Chatsfield Family Trust was the one thing Franco couldn’t let happen.
So he’d play the game by Giatrakos’s rules. He’d even let Giatrakos think he’d won the day if it was that important to him. Because he’d spoken to Angus Purman and it was clear from his enthusiastic response to his offer that getting his signature was practically a done deal. No wonder, really, given he’d had one hell of a budget to play with and he’d teased Purman with that knowledge.
Getting the paperwork should be a mere formality, in which case, he’d be back in Milan with this deal sorted and signed and on that jerk CEO’s desk before the ink was even dry on the contract.
And if his father—his famous father, who hadn’t given him two minutes of consideration since he’d been born—had thought for a moment that he would be cowed by the prospect of sorting out a new wine contract for Chatsfield’s prestige hotel chain, he had another think coming.
He might have dropped out of school at sixteen and fled the Chatsfield media circus before it could consume him, but he’d still managed to learn a thing or two along the way. Maybe his father might finally realise that?
He snorted.
Not that he cared either way.
The plane bumped through clouds on its descent and he looked out the window, searching for his first glimpse of Adelaide, but there was still no sign of anything approaching a city. Instead below him spread an undulating carpet of green dotted with tiny towns connected by winding ribbons of bitumen. There were forests of pine and the dull grey of eucalypts, interspersed with open fields, and vineyards too, marching in regimented lines across the hillsides. Somewhere down there, he figured, must be Purman’s cool-climate pinot-chardonnay block that provided the fruit for their award-winning sparkling wine.
A burst of rain spattered against his window, obliterating the view, and Franco reclined back in his seat as the plane bumped its descent over the hills. Not that he had to know where exactly, because as soon as the plane landed and he cleared customs, he was heading straight to Purman’s Coonawarra head office, one more short flight away. He didn’t want or need to see anything else. His job was to fill in a few final details on the contract he had ready and get a signature. It wasn’t like he was here to have a holiday. In fact, the sooner he’d put Giatrakos—the jerk—back in his box and ensured the funds from the Chatsfield Family Trust kept flowing where he wanted them to, the better.
Right now, that was all he cared about.
It might be winter but the weather was worse than wintry, it was foul, and Holly had come in from the vineyard to escape it while she made them both a sandwich for lunch. Above the pounding of the rain on the roof she barely registered the noise at first. Even when she did make out the distinctive whump-whump of chopper blades, she didn’t pay it much attention. They weren’t that far from the airfield after all, and there was a steady trade in sightseer flights, although admittedly more common in the warmer months.
But the noise grew progressively louder and closer and Holly stopped slicing cheese as a shiver of premonition zipped down her spine. Could it be him?
She grabbed a tea towel to wipe her hands as she crossed to the glass doors that looked out over acres of vines, now mostly bare and stripped of their leaves, to see a helicopter hovering above the lawns that doubled as a rudimentary helipad when occasion demanded.
Her grandfather wheeled alongside her as the chopper descended slowly to the ground.
‘You reckon it’s him?’
‘Who else could it be? Clearly it’s somebody who likes to make an entrance. It figures it’d be a Chatsfield.’
‘You don’t know that, Holly.’
Her hackles did.
Her bones did.
‘It’s him,’ she said, before balling the tea towel in her hands and unceremoniously flinging it across the room to land in the sink with the same unerring certainty. She slid open the door to air that was so cold and crisp it might snap, the rain squalls moved on for now, and from the edge of the verandah they waited as the chopper’s motor wound down, the blades’ revolutions slowing.
And even though it was near-freezing outside, her blood simmered with resentment. Did he honestly imagine they’d be impressed at such a grand entrance?
Not likely.
The passenger door popped open and their visitor jumped out and Holly’s skin prickled.
Tall, she registered. Around six foot if she wasn’t mistaken, though it was hard to tell given how far he had to duck his head under the rotating blades. And then he straightened and she could see his face and he could be nothing other than a Chatsfield, with his chiselled good looks and the tendrils of his bad-boy hair flicking like serpents in the down draft from the blades.
The prickling under her skin intensified and spread until even her breasts tingled and peaked. The cold, she told herself as she clutched her arms over her chest and pressed her fingernails tight into her flesh. Damn this cold and damn this man who was smiling as if he was welcome here.
As if he imagined he was going to get a slice of Purman Wine action.
Not on her watch.
‘Angus Purman?’ he said, extending a hand to her grandfather. ‘Franco Chatsfield. It’s good to meet you.’
‘Gus will do just fine,’ the older man said with a nod, and Franco felt his hand enveloped by a weatherbeaten paw that housed a grip of steel. ‘And this here’s my granddaughter, Holly. She’s the real boss of the show.’
Really? ‘Holly,’ he said, taking her hand in turn, and there could be no greater contrast between the two handshakes. For while the older man’s had been certain, his leathery skin calloused and hard, hers was cool and way too brief to decide if that buzz he’d felt on contact had been any more than his imagination. She made no attempt to acknowledge him or return his smile, but then, she didn’t look happy at all. Instead she looked—He searched for a word as he took in her khaki work pants, dusty boots and a faded long-sleeved polo jumper bearing the Purman Wines logo. Drab. In fact, if it wasn’t for blue eyes in a make-up-free face, she’d be completely colourless.
‘I apologise if my arrival has taken you unawares,’ he said, realising she must be angry because she hadn’t had time to get herself ready. He knew how women liked to preen.
‘No, of course, we were expecting you,’ the old man said genially.
‘We just weren’t expecting you—’ the woman added, gesturing towards the helicopter ‘—in that.’
So she was angry with him. But what the hell for? ‘I had to take it from Mount Gambier. Storms closed the Coonawarra airfield so my charter flight couldn’t land here.’
‘There were no hire cars?’ Gus asked as he wheeled himself inside and gestured Franco to follow.
‘No,’ he said as he followed, discounting the offer he’d had of a car so tiny his knees would have been around his ears. ‘At least, nothing that was suitable.’
‘They were all out of Maseratis?’ quipped the woman. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’
‘Holly!’ Gus growled over his shoulder, and Franco pulled his lips into a smile in spite of his building irritation. He was here with a fistful of dollars in his pocket and a deal that anyone would be mad to turn down and yet she was acting like he wasn’t welcome. What the hell was her problem?
Warmth enveloped him as he stepped into a spacious living area, a kitchen one end and a dining area dominated by a massive timber table the other, all warmed by a stone-walled fireplace pumping out the heat. Stone and timber featured largely in the interior, working in combination with the high ceilings and windows that afforded a view over the surrounding vines. And not that he’d given it much thought, but he hadn’t expected to be reminded of his own stone villa in the Piacenza hills outside Milan and to actually like what he found half a world away in the southeast corner of South Australia.
‘We were just about to have lunch,’ Gus said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us?’
Franco held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ he said, and Holly caught the gleam of a gold watch at his wrist. Ridiculously expensive gold watch, by the looks, just like the ridiculously expensive hand-stitched leather shoes on his feet. Big feet, she registered absently, and in the very next instant wished she hadn’t.
Tall.
Big feet.
What did they say about tall men with big feet?
And heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace suddenly blossomed hot and heavy in her cheeks. She turned her back towards the men, launching an attack on a loaf with the bread knife, furious with herself. She didn’t even like the man. Why the hell would she even think such a thing?
‘A man can’t be expected to do business on an empty stomach,’ Gus said. ‘It’s no trouble, is it, Holly?’
‘No trouble at all,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. ‘I do hope you’re a fan of corned beef sandwiches?’
‘But of course,’ he said, and not for the first time, Holly wondered at his accent. She’d expected him to sound upper crust and privileged, and he did—for the most part. But every now and then there was an unexpected texture to his accent that curled the edges away from Sloane Square and headed for somewhere entirely more earthy.
Maybe because of his Italian mother? Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
‘That’s the spirit,’ her grandfather said. ‘Holly not only makes the best wine in the district, it’s a little-known fact she also makes the best sandwiches. She makes the relish herself, you know.’
‘Then I am indeed fortunate. It appears I couldn’t have timed my arrival better.’
A charmer, she thought as she put together a platter of doorstop sandwiches, adding this latest discovery to his list of crimes, a list that was growing longer by the minute. A Chatsfield and a charmer with a posh accent, who wore handmade shoes and gold watches and who hired helicopters when mere mortals hired cars—and usually the budget model at that.
She didn’t care for charmers with fat pockets.
She didn’t trust them.
She glanced over her shoulder at their guest, her father and Franco engaged in conversation. Another squall had hit, the rain coming in fat drops that belted onto the tin roof and splattered over the windows when the wind blew it horizontally under the wide verandah, and over the din, she could barely hear what they were saying. It was just a shame the noise didn’t dull her vision. He’d shrugged off his jacket while her back had been turned, revealing a fine-knitted sweater that skimmed his powerful shoulders and chest like a second skin. Some tall people looked like weeds. Not Franco. He looked hard packed. Built. He seemed to own the space around him. Not an easy thing in this room when he was surrounded by so much of it.
All the more reason to resent him, she told herself as she set the plate of sandwiches on the table and retreated to the safety of the kitchen to snap on the kettle, watching him take a sandwich in his hands.
Long-fingered hands.
Long-fingered hands with big thumbs.
He’d taken her hand in his and she could still feel the tingle under her skin, the zap that had reminded her of science class where they’d scuffed shoes on the carpet and reached out a hand. It had been fun then.
It wasn’t fun now.
She lifted her eyes and caught him watching her and sensation skittered down her spine. She spun, looking out the window, looking anywhere but at him, wondering what was wrong with her.
‘You’re not eating,’ he said.
She shook her head, wondering what had happened to her appetite. She’d felt hungry when she’d first come in from outside, but she was too wound up now to eat, too busy thinking he should never have come. Wishing she’d taken the call and told him not to. Thinking there was no point to all of this …
‘You must take Franco out to the vineyard,’ Gus said, ‘when this latest shower has passed. You should show him our terra rossa soil, and why our grapes do so well.’
‘Pop, have you looked out the window? I’m not sure it’s a good day to take anyone outside.’ Especially if it meant being alone with him.
‘Nonsense!’ He looked at their guest. ‘Franco would never have come all this way without wanting to see everything there is to know about the vineyard and the winery.’
‘Of course,’ he conceded, his words and smile both tighter than a trellis wire. ‘Naturally, I would appreciate seeing as much as I can while I am here.’
‘Excellent,’ said Gus, slapping the palms of his hands on his legs, triumphant. Holly wasn’t so convinced. Their guest hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance. Maybe he was afraid of getting his pretty shoes wet. ‘Now, you’d better get going before the next squall hits. Holly will find you a coat.’
Franco rose to his feet.
‘Oh, and, Gus, after the tour, perhaps we could sit down together and go over the details of Chatsfield Hotel’s offer?’
Holly’s head snapped around. So here it was. ‘You sure don’t waste any time, do you, Mr Chatsfield?’
‘Please call me Franco. And no, I don’t like wasting time, neither yours nor mine. In fact, I have a contract with me all ready to be signed. I told your grandfather on the phone the terms were generous and I can guarantee we’ll better any other offer on the table. I’d appreciate the opportunity to discuss the proposal with you in more detail.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said a bright-eyed Gus, who was looking like a kid itching to unwrap the biggest present under the Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come out myself while I’m confined to this infernal thing. Holly, I’ll be in the study doing some paperwork. Let me know when you get back and we’ll all sit down together and see if we can’t do business.’
The sky outside offered a rare patch of blue and Holly reckoned they had ten minutes before the next bank of dark cloud rumbled overhead and dropped its load.
‘This is going to ruin your snazzy shoes,’ Holly warned as she climbed into her creaky-with-age Driza-Bone oilskin. No way would his feet fit into Gus’s boots.
‘It’s no problem, really,’ he said. ‘They’re only shoes.’
She smiled at that as she pulled on her knee-high gumboots.
Only someone used to buying hand-crafted shoes would think they were only shoes. Clearly the Chatsfields had more money than sense.
Another crime added to the list.
She strode before him across the sodden lawn in her work boots, hands wedged deeply in the pockets of her coat. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know Franco was right behind her. She could feel him in the prickling heat of her skin. She could sense him in the swirling air of her wake—thick, smug air—just one more dark cloud on a stormy day. At least this cloud would soon blow away. Back to his privileged world and his scandal-ridden existence.
‘Be nice to him,’ Pop had told her, and she reined in on the resentment that bubbled up under her skin at him being here, at his film-star good looks and his entitled accent and his damned big feet and thumbs, but nowhere near enough to quell it completely. No. She could not find it in herself to be nice. But she supposed she could at least try for civil. He wasn’t going to be here long. She could do civil.
At least until he put his offer on the table.
‘We have around fifty hectares of prime Coonawarra land under vines,’ she started, and Franco tuned out, toying with a new and unexpected discovery. Because he’d seen her smile back in the mud room, maybe only because she’d been laughing at his shoes, but still she’d smiled. And it had been a revelation, because she was almost pretty when she smiled, when she let her frosty guard down and let the light play about her blue eyes and tweak her lips. They’d become startling blue eyes when she smiled, a burst of colour when she was otherwise clad in so much drabness. Who would have thought it?
She led him towards an old stone building nestled into a stand of enormous gum trees that served as their cellar door, smoke rising from its chimney, and all the while Holly talked and Franco only half listened, letting the details of the varieties and acreage and yields wash over him, details he didn’t need to know because soon he’d be gone and would never need to give Purman Wines or its cantankerous Miss Drab another thought.
Until then, he guessed, he would just have to endure it.
They stopped at a cutting in the soil, where the ground had been scooped away in a wedge shape to reveal the rich red soil lying atop its white limestone base, and she began to explain terra rossa soil, and Franco’s patience snapped.
‘Save me the lecture. I know what terra rossa means.’ Dio, if it wasn’t enough that his mother was Italian, he’d lived in Italy for the past decade.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed you’d grown up in England.’
‘I did,’ he said tersely, glancing over the massive shed beyond that housed the winery proper, suspecting that she was headed there next and already impatient for it to be over. He’d only agreed to come along because he’d worried they might have thought it looked odd if he hadn’t shown an interest.
But now he looked back across the vineyards, in the direction of the homestead, thinking he’d played Mr Cooperative long enough. It was time to get down to business if he wanted this thing wrapped up today.
‘Thank you for the tour, Ms Purman. I think we should be heading back now.’
Holly blinked those blue eyes. ‘The tour isn’t actually finished yet.’
‘Gus is waiting for us.’
‘He knows we’ll be a while.’
‘I’d rather not keep him waiting.’
She drew in a short sharp breath, laced with frustration.
‘But you haven’t even tasted the wines or seen the winery yet.’
‘The wine is good. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with a contract in my pocket. Don’t you understand? Chatsfield Hotels wants to buy your entire vintage, down to every lock, stock and French oak barrel. We’re not about to change our minds whatever you show me. We’d be better off using our time getting agreement over the contract.’
Her blue eyes flashed like sun on ice, as cold and sharp as the wind that needled around his ears. She swept one arm around in an arc over the vineyard. ‘I knew you weren’t interested in a tour. But then, you’re not actually interested in any of this, are you?’ She was staring right at him, right into him, shaking her head while those ice-blue eyes continued to try to slice him to pieces with laser precision.
‘Don’t take it personally. I’m here to do business, not play tourist.’
‘Have you ever tasted our wines?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘You’re unbelievable! I bet you don’t even know the first thing about wine!’
The hackles on the back of his neck rose. If she only knew. But he wasn’t about to tell her. ‘I know a bit about wine, yes.’
She smiled then, if you could call it a smile, because there was no light dancing in those blue eyes. They were cold and glassy and filled with bad intentions. ‘You know “a bit” about wine then?’ she repeated, nodding. ‘An expert indeed. So I guess you know there are two kinds of wine, right? Red and white?’
He felt the skin pull taut over the bones of his cheeks, felt his lips draw back into a snarl, but his voice, when it came, was tight and purposeful and betrayed nothing of how close he was to losing his control. ‘I wouldn’t quite put it that way.’
‘Oh, of course not,’ she said, any pretence at civility abandoned and left smoking in the heat of her delivery. ‘I was forgetting. Because there are actually three kinds of wine. You are a Chatsfield after all. You weren’t just born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you were born clutching a champagne flute in your hand.’
His hands formed fists, and if there’d been a champagne flute in either of them, it would have shattered, like his control, into tiny pieces.
Nobody judged him.
Not since his father had made it clear he didn’t need a son and Franco had subsequently dropped out of Eton and stormed off to Italy in rebellion had he been judged and found guilty by anyone other than himself.
And he was his own harshest critic.
So he was hardly likely to sit back and be found guilty by the likes of this woman.
She knew nothing of him.
Nothing!
The scar in his side ached as a familiar guilt assailed him—guilt for when he’d discovered what he’d unwittingly left behind in England—guilt for the years he’d lost and the pain he’d caused. Guilt that he’d been unable to save his child’s life just twelve short months later.
Nikki.
And pain lanced him as sharp and deep as it had that day, ten years before, when he’d learned that everything he’d done—everything he’d given—had come to nothing.
Curse the woman!
She knew nothing. But nothing in his agreement with Christos Giatrakos said he had to educate her, to explain. Nothing in his agreement said he had to apologise. He didn’t want her understanding or her forgiveness. All he needed was her damned signature on the dotted line.
‘Chatsfield Hotels want to buy your wines and we’re prepared to pay top dollar for the privilege.’ His voice was as calm and reasonable as he could manage under the circumstances, a thin veneer of civility over a mountain of reason and he’d make her appreciate just how much reason if it killed him. ‘We’ll not only purchase the entire vintage, but your precious wines will be showcased exclusively in the executive lounges of our hotels all over the world. You will never get a better deal. So why the hell won’t you even attempt to listen to what I have to say?’
Her chin kicked up. ‘Maybe because I’m not interested in what you have to say. If Chatsfield Hotels were actually serious about buying Purman Wines, they should have sent someone who knows something about wine and winemaking—not some messenger boy!’
If she’d slapped his cold cheek with the palm of her hand it couldn’t have stung as much as her ice-cold words, and far from the first time he cursed Christos Giatrakos for putting him in this position.
If he didn’t need to seal this deal—didn’t need this woman’s cooperation—Franco could have climbed back in the helicopter and left then and there.
But he couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t give frosty Ms Purman and her ice-blue eyes the satisfaction. She might be standing in his way now, frustrating his efforts to get a quick closure, but he’d get what he’d come for.
He had to. He could not risk losing his distribution from the Chatsfield Family Trust. He would do a deal with the devil himself to save it.
So he swallowed down cold air smelling of damp earth and wet grass. He could not afford to antagonise this woman any more than he clearly already had, so he would not rise to her bait, but that didn’t mean he must take her barbs and insults lying down. He might at least call her on it.
‘Do you treat all your potential customers like this, Ms Purman? Or are you singling me out for special treatment?’
The woman smiled, and now it was more than light that danced in her ice-blue, scathing eyes, there was cold, hard satisfaction. She was enjoying this. ‘I’m afraid I am singling you out. Does that make you feel special, Mr Chatsfield?’
Her brazen admission sent white-hot fury pumping through his veins and pounding at his temples, hammering at his skull like he wished he could hammer sense into her. He was here to bestow the biggest contract this woman was ever likely to see in her lifetime, and yet she couldn’t have been less welcoming were he the grim reaper come to harvest her grandfather’s soul.
Somehow he managed to force a smile to his features, although he had to work hard to move his lips beyond a tight thin line.
‘I think we’re wasting our time here. I think we should go and talk to your grandfather. At least he seems a little less averse to doing business with the Chatsfield Hotel Group.’
‘Fine, we’ll do what you want. We’ll go and see Pop.’ She smiled again and, unlike him, seemed to have no problem finding the necessary muscles to make it stick. ‘But you see, we’re a partnership, Pop and me, and you need both our signatures on that contract. So I warn you now, don’t go getting your hopes up.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8ea03677-e0b1-5585-afdd-78ef26a47e05)
‘THIS IS RIDICULOUS!’
Franco Chatsfield was not a happy man.
They’d been talking all afternoon it seemed, Franco talking the deal up, dollar signs plastered thickly to every word, while Gus had listened eagerly, hanging on every gold-plated promise. Holly, meanwhile, had been busy hosing down Franco’s excess enthusiasm and finding flaws in the deal and still Franco’s signature was the only one so far on the contract.
It hadn’t been easy. Franco Chatsfield had made his offer sound better than good. He’d made it sound like it was the deal of a lifetime as he’d laid out figures and facts and promised an endless stream of dollars if only they would both sign on the dotted line.
To Gus it must have sounded like a dream come true, the culmination and validation of his life’s work.
Holly could understand why. She could see that in isolation, if the money was all that mattered, then the dollars looked amazing.
But that didn’t mean she was about to buckle. There was more to success than dollars, and she remembered a time when adverse publicity had almost ruined them. As long as the offer was coming from Chatsfield, a once-grand name now more synonymous with headlines and scandal, it was hard to see how they could ever do business.
Why didn’t her grandfather see it that way?
Half an hour ago the helicopter had departed, and Franco, stony-faced, had watched it take off and still the discussions wore on, and all the time she’d watched the skin of his face pull progressively tighter across his bones, until the tendons in his neck had become taut and corded and stained red with tension and he’d looked like a volcano about to erupt.
And then Gus had excused himself, promising to be back, and before Holly could wonder what he’d gone off in search of, Franco had erupted. He’d slammed his fist on the table and leapt from his chair, his eyes wild and jaw rigid as finally he gave in to the temptation to blow. ‘A complete and utter waste of time,’ he snarled as he prowled before the fire like a lion cheated of its kill. ‘We’re getting nowhere,’ he said, his back to her as he raked fingers through his long hair. He spun around and pinned his cold, winter-grey eyes on her, and she was struck anew by his height and power and his ability to eat up the space around him and shrink it down till there was just him and the fire and a hot lick of flame she could almost feel on her skin. ‘What is your problem?’ he growled. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
Vaguely she was aware of a phone ringing but then it stopped and she knew Gus must have picked it up in the study.
Franco was still staring at her, hostile eyes demanding an answer. Holly didn’t bother with a smile. While there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that she’d stymied this man’s smug expectations of walking out of here with exactly what he wanted, something told her that smiling would not go down well right now.
But that didn’t mean she had to cower.
‘Seems to me, I’m not the one with a problem.’
‘You think? Because you would have to be the most intransigent, uncooperative, stubborn woman I have ever met.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘That wasn’t a compliment.’
She arched an eyebrow over one glacier-blue eye. ‘I take them where I can find them.’
He snorted and turned away. Little wonder. The way she looked in those oversize, drab work clothes, compliments were no doubt thin on the ground.
He strode past the fireplace. He needed this contract signed and he’d get it signed, come hell or high water, and he refused to be beaten by a woman who’d dug her heels in from the very start. But how to make her shift her position?
The old man was already in his pocket. He just had to sway her.
The old man …
And he spun back around, finding a new weapon in his arsenal, a new direction from which to attack now that the old man had left the room and they were alone. ‘Why are you so against this deal?’ he demanded. ‘Your grandfather is keen to do business. So why are you so adamantly opposed to doing a deal with Chatsfield?’
She crossed her arms over her chest, her body language confirming just how far closed was her mind, although the act of defiance also revealed something else—something as unexpected as the transformation in her features when she smiled. For there was shape under that shapeless Purman sweater. Curves. And the heat of his anger morphed into a different kind of heat as his body stirred in response. He willed the reaction away, as unlikely as it was unwanted, as she said, ‘We can do better.’
‘Financially?’ he challenged, his eyes back on hers, his focus back on track. ‘Not a chance.’
‘It may surprise you to learn that there’s more to life than money, Mr Chatsfield. We’re building up a prize-winning brand here at Purmans—a prestige brand. I don’t want to see that put at risk.’
‘So you’d turn down the best offer you’re ever likely to get, because you’re afraid?’
She was on her feet in an instant, her jaw rigid, her blue eyes defiant. ‘You say afraid. I say once bitten, twice shy. Do you think you’re the only one to see the value of our wines? Ten years ago someone else with big pockets tried to buy us out—he promised riches beyond our imagination too.’ He’d offered more besides that still made her ill to think about. ‘But when Gus finally turned him down, he did everything he could to ruin us. “Poorman’s Wines,” he labelled us, every chance he got, undermining all we’d built up, threatening relations with our best stockists and our most loyal clients alike.
‘It’s taken ten long years of rebuilding, Mr Chatsfield, and you blithely walk in here and expect us to get tangled up with a business that is more likely to feature in the gossip columns of the scandal sheets than the business pages? I don’t think so!’
She was flushed, her fists clenched tight at her sides and her eyes like braziers burning with cold blue flame and it was like he was seeing her for the first time.
She was magnificent.
And part of him wanted to goad her, to prod and needle her some more and see more of that passion that transformed this drab little mouse of a woman into a tigress that might have been fighting to protect her cubs.
Part of him wondered where else she might turn into a tigress and what it might be like to have that passion unleashed on him.
While the sane, logical part of him wondered if he’d gone mad. She was so very not his type of woman.
And he had a contract to get signed.
‘Don’t you think it strange that your grandfather doesn’t appear to share your concerns?’
She shook her head. ‘Gus is looking at the offer through a Vaseline lens. His view is distorted and blurred around the edges. He has this romantic notion of Chatsfield Hotels that was shaped some time last century when the chain had a reputation worth having. And as much as I respect my grandfather’s opinion, this time it’s proving not to be based on good business sense.’
‘The Chatsfield Hotel Group is hardly a “chain.” You make it sound like some two-star budget deal.’
‘Do I? Well, whatever you call it, unfortunately Pop’s missed just how far its reputation has slipped over the past few decades. He’s not quite up to speed on the latest trashy magazine gossip.’
‘Whereas you, on the other hand, are?’
Her eyes sparkled with ice-cold crystals. ‘I go to the dentist twice a year. Seems there isn’t an edition of the magazines published where one or more of the Chatsfield clan doesn’t feature front and centre.’
He shook his head, cursing the fact he belonged to a family that had, for as long as he could remember, insisted on playing out its sordid lives on the front page of every scandal sheet going. If his family was the issue, how the hell would he ever convince her to sign?
‘You treated this deal with contempt from the start. And by not being the slightest bit prepared to take heed of what your grandfather wants, you treat your grandfather and his wishes with contempt.’
‘Pop will get over the disappointment the moment he sees the next Chatsfield scandal unfold in all its gory, glossy details—I’ll make sure he does—and then he’ll be glad he never put pen to paper on this deal. Besides, it’s not like we have to sign. There are other offers on the table.’
‘Like ours? Like hell.’
‘No, they’re not like yours. They’re solid deals with reputable parties, parties we’ll be happy to pin the Purman name to. And even if the money doesn’t quite attain the same dizzy heights, at least we can be sure our name won’t end up in the gutter—unlike some of your famous siblings.’
A gust of wind rattled the windows and the fire crackled and spat fiery sparks that nowhere near rivalled the heated embers that flew at her from Franco’s cold grey eyes, and Holly marvelled at the contradiction of fire and ice as he glared across the room at her, the twitch of a muscle in his jaw his only movement.
Intransigent, he’d called her.
Maybe Franco was right.
But she had a damned good reason. And maybe she didn’t understand completely why Gus didn’t see it the same way, when he’d been there ten years ago and he knew how hard it had been to rebuild their name after they’d been so publicly trashed, but that didn’t mean she had to lower her standards.
‘I’m sorry, Franco,’ she said, suddenly tired of the fighting, and the tension this man added to the room by his mere presence and just wanting him gone, ‘but there’s no point discussing this any longer. I’m not going to change my mind. You’re simply not the kind of person I want to do business with. End of story.’
It might have been too, if Gus hadn’t wheeled himself back into the room a moment later, oblivious to the tension between the two warring parties, an old cardboard box perched on his lap. ‘That was Tom on the phone.’
He was frowning, Holly noticed, the worry lines on his face noticeably deeper, and for a moment she forgot about Franco. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Tom can’t make it.’
‘What? But he promised he’d be here tomorrow.’ A team of workers had been engaged to start in a couple of weeks when the younger vines would need work, but Tom was an expert who’d agreed to help her with their most precious low-yielding vines that she wouldn’t trust to anyone but family.
Gus shook his head. ‘Susie’s ill. Breast cancer. She starts chemo in Adelaide Monday. He’s sorry, but …’ He shook his head.
‘Oh, Pop.’ She crossed the room and knelt down beside him and enclosed one of his hands in hers. Gus had lost Esme to cancer twenty years ago when Holly was just a kid in primary school and Tom and Susie had been there, supporting him, at her funeral.
Losing Esme had almost killed him. He’d once told her that if he hadn’t had Holly to look after, it probably would have. And now, for it to happen to a friend … ‘That’s horrible news.’
‘I told him things have improved. That Susie’s chances were better now than they would have been twenty years ago.’
She blinked away tears. She wanted to hug her grandfather and squeeze him tight and she would have, if they didn’t have this wretched visitor, and so she simply said, ‘That’ll help, Pop. I know it will help.’
He nodded on a long sigh, rubbing his bristly jaw with one hand. ‘Yeah, but it’s gonna mess with our plans too, Holly. Where are we going to find someone else to help you prune at such short notice?’
‘Let’s talk about it later,’ she said, wanting to close down the conversation as she stole a glance at Franco, wishing that this stranger didn’t have to bear witness to everything that was going on in their lives right now. ‘Tom’s not the only one around here who can prune.’ Even though he would be nigh on impossible to replace at this time of year. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘Oh,’ he said, as if he’d forgotten it was sitting there in his lap. ‘I found it. Devil’s own thing to find. Come and see. Franco, I think you’ll find this interesting too.’
Holly followed her grandfather warily to the table, curiosity warring with frustration. She didn’t expect whatever was in that box to make any difference to anything, but she was curious what he’d found.
Gus peeled back the flaps of the box. ‘Photographs?’ What on earth was Gus thinking? For the box was full to the brim of old photos, sepia mixed in with black-and-white and some, more recent, in colour. He started spreading them out on the table, family photos going back decades and pictures taken at harvest or in the winery. Gus worked furiously, clearly searching for something.
But why did he think Franco might find it interesting?
‘It took me forever to find them,’ Gus continued. ‘I figured they were somewhere in the storeroom but I had no idea where. Your grandmother always planned to organise them into albums, but there was always something else to do. There never seemed to be enough time. Oh, look,’ he said, passing her one. ‘Here you are at the beach. You must have been all of three years old in that one.’
She blinked down at the photo in her hands. The photographic paper was thick and curled on the corners with age but there she was, sitting on her mother’s lap in the sand, the Holly of three chubby in her floral one-piece, grinning up at the camera with a spade in one hand, bucket in the other.
Her eye was drawn instinctively to the woman who was her mother.
Holly looked at her smiling face, touched a fingertip to a face she wished she could remember other than from seeing it in photographs.
‘Ah,’ announced Gus, delighted. ‘Here it is!’ Followed almost immediately by his handing it to her with a growl. ‘No, that’s not the one I’m looking for,’ and more fervent digging.
Holly took it anyway. It was a smaller version of one she knew well, a photo of her parents holding her as a newborn, one they’d had blown up and had sat framed on the mantelpiece until Holly at ten had decided it belonged on the dressing table in her bedroom and spirited it away one day.
If Gus had noticed, he’d never remarked on the move.
She looked at them now, the happy couple smiling at the camera, the baby in a long christening gown fringed with lace.
And she could even see the resemblance in her Dad’s smile to Pop’s. Oh, yeah, she thought as she studied the photo, that was definitely Pop’s smile her father was wearing. And those were her eyes her mother sported. Turquoise-blue eyes under blonde hair.
And not for the first time she wished she could remember more than what faded photographs could tell her, remember her mother’s scent as she hugged her tight, or the tickling rasp of her father’s cheek when he’d kissed her goodnight.
They’d been ripped from her when she was far too young to form any real memories. A tear squeezed from her eye and she fought it back as she remembered their visitor. Now was hardly the time to be sniffling over old photographs.
‘Why did you bring them out now, Pop? What are you looking for?’
‘And why did you think I might be interested?’
He was standing behind her, Holly realised with a start, her skin prickling all over. Sometime while she’d been absorbed in the old photos, he’d left the fireplace and now he was standing right behind her. So close that she dare not turn her head. So close that it seemed like he’d brought the heat of the fire along with him until it infused her cheeks and seared the air in her lungs.
Did he have to stand so damned close?
It wasn’t like it was anything to do with him.
‘Because somewhere in here,’ Gus said, ‘I know there’s … Ah!’ His gaze focused as he pulled something from the pile and passed it to Holly. ‘I knew it! I just knew it. You see?’
Holly didn’t see. Not at first. It was a cutting from a newspaper, stained browned with the passage of years, with her mother and father standing outside a building, the bride’s hand to her head as her veil was lifted horizontally by the breeze, the photograph perfectly capturing the moment as the groom reached a hand out for the wayward veil too, laughing along with her, and so focused on each other that it took Holly for ever to shift her eyes and see the awning over their heads—and to recognise the name on that awning.
No!
She blinked but there was no denying it.
‘I … I don’t understand,’ she said, looking up at her grandfather.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Your mother and father were married at the Chatsfield Hotel in Sydney, on their opening weekend.’
‘But how? Why?’ It was news to Holly. Unbelievable news. As far as she’d known, the vineyard and winery had provided no more than a modest income until recently, when their wines had really begun to find success and acclaim. It seemed unlikely that they could ever have afforded to get married in a Chatsfield Hotel and one all the way over in Sydney. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘It cost them nothing. One of those big women’s magazines ran a nationwide contest to celebrate the opening. They asked people to write in saying why they deserved to hold their wedding celebration there.
‘Your mother entered. She never thought she’d win, but there you go.’
‘May I?’ asked Franco, leaning over her, his long-fingered hand reaching for the photograph, and she caught his scent, of damp leather and red soil and fire-warmed masculine skin. She let him take the cutting, if only because she’d expected it meant he’d move back then, out of her sphere, away from her too-acute senses and heated blood. And when he failed to move anywhere near enough away, she took matters into her own hands, sliding from her chair, finding sanctuary in the straight lines and practical functionality of the kitchen. The bench at her back felt reassuringly solid and real in a world rapidly going off kilter, the air untainted by the evocative scent of a man she couldn’t afford to like.
‘And Mum won it.’ She wasn’t just dispirited. She was blindsided.
‘She did indeed. She won the wedding, the reception—they flew us all over and back for the wedding and put us up. And Tanya and Richard got to enjoy the weekend in the honeymoon suite. All on the house.’
He looked down at the cutting with a shake of his head. ‘I wish we had more of the wedding photos, but something happened to the film and they were ruined. Your mother was so disappointed.’
‘And so it seems,’ Franco said with a smile that said he knew the scales had just come down in his favour, ‘that we have something in common. There is history between our respective families. Marketing will love it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Pop?’ she said, ignoring their suddenly smug visitor. She didn’t want to hear they had something in common. She didn’t want to think about their shared history or to have him witness hers—to see her as a three-year-old at the beach. To see her parents’ wedding photos, regardless of where they were married.
She didn’t want him here, period. ‘Why did you wait until now to tell me?’
Her grandfather shrugged, sagging into his wheelchair and suddenly looking ten years older. ‘It never came up, lovey, not when you were small. It was a detail that didn’t seem important back then, not when we had more important things on our minds. And I guess, in time, it was a detail that just got missed.’
‘But you must have remembered, after Franco called. You must have realised. But you said nothing.’
Moisture sheened her grandfather’s eyes and she could feel an answering dampness welling up in her own. ‘I wanted you to make up your own mind. This is your business as much as it is mine, Holly. In fact, you’re the future of Purman Wines and I should probably butt out.’
‘No!’
He put a hand up to stop her. ‘Just hear me out. I should probably butt out, but I can’t. I think this deal is a good one for not only the money but for the prestige it could bring, and I know we disagree on that. But before you make your final decision, I wanted you to know why I am so in favour of this deal. Your mum and dad were married in the Chatsfield Sydney, Holly. It was a perfect day, and they were so, so happy. And they’d be so proud knowing Chatsfield had singled Purman Wines out for this honour. They’d be so proud of you and what you’ve achieved.’
Unfair.
‘Oh, Pop.’ She bit her lips tight between her teeth, trying to hold herself together. No wonder he’d been so keen all along. No wonder he’d seen the Chatsfield name as some kind of Holy Grail when her parents’ wedding there must have seemed like a fairytale. But he was holding on to some kind of vision of Chatsfield’s as it was, back in the glory days.
‘I’m sorry, Holly. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’
She dragged in a breath before she could speak as she shook her head. ‘No. It’s okay.’ But it wasn’t okay. Because while her reasons for denying Chatsfield a deal with Purman Wines hadn’t changed, what she knew it meant to Gus had.
It wasn’t just the deal of a lifetime to him. It was a link to a time when his son—and her father—was alive. It was a name he associated with one of the happiest times in his life.
Was it any wonder he wanted to go with the deal?
But where did that leave her?
Across the table, Franco saw his opportunity. It had been there, hovering in the back of his mind ever since the old man had returned, but it had been only a shadow of an idea then, a mere wisp of ‘what if?’ But now that shadow of an idea had grown and found form and substance and, best of all, weight.
The old man was already in his pocket courtesy of an emotional attachment to the hotels. Here was a gold-plated opportunity to screw the granddaughter down and lock this contract well and truly up.
It would take time, of course, more time than he’d initially allowed. But it would be time well spent if it guaranteed the funding to Nikki’s Ward.
‘I thank you for sharing that, Gus, and I appreciate the fact you’ve given me a good hearing today. But your granddaughter has good reason for being wary of this deal.’ Gus looked up, surprised. Holly looked suspicious. ‘She wants what’s best for Purman Wines, I understand that. I respect her for it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Gus said, looking crestfallen. ‘You’re not withdrawing your offer?’
He smiled. ‘No. I’m offering you a better one.’
‘It’s not just about the money,’ Holly said. ‘I told you that.’
He nodded. ‘You did. You also told me that I wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to do business with.’ He paused, letting that sink in. ‘Let me prove to you that I am.’
Gus seemed intrigued as he looked from their visitor to his granddaughter, a frown tugging his shaggy brows together. He’d missed that part of the conversation. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’
‘You’re down a worker. You need someone to help you prune. I’m volunteering for the job.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_020bbb61-9412-56c3-9bd9-6f2213b10aaa)
THE BREATH HOLLY had been holding burst free on a laugh. To think she’d almost been worried for a moment! ‘That’s good,’ she said, pausing for air. ‘That’s funny!’
Gus wheeled himself closer. ‘Hear him out, Holly. Listen to what the man has to say.’ And to Franco, ‘Now, what exactly are you proposing?’
‘Oh, come on, Pop. The man knows nothing about vineyards. I doubt he’s ever had to work a day in his life. Sorry, Chatsfield, I’m afraid I’m not looking for a work experience student.’
‘I can prune.’
‘You can?’
‘Pop, no. Seriously?’
He hushed her by holding up one hand. ‘Now, Franco, pruning vines like ours is a specialised job. We don’t trust our low-yield high-quality grapes to machines. It’s all hand pruning here. Where have you pruned?’ Gus’s voice cut over the top.
Holly crossed her arms and glared at Franco. This was ridiculous. They were wasting time. She should be on the phone chasing up someone to replace Tom, not listening to the wild imaginings of a spoiled rich kid who probably didn’t know a hard day’s work if it slapped him in the face.
‘A vineyard in the Piacenza region of Italy, not far from Milan.’
‘You’ve worked there?’
He smiled. ‘You could say that. I own it.’
Silence descended so suddenly his words might have been a thunderclap.
Gus recovered first. ‘You own a vineyard in Italy?’
‘I do. We grow some local varietals. Malvasia, Barbera, along with some merlot and pinot noir.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention this before?’
‘I didn’t think it relevant. This deal is between Chatsfield Hotels and Purman Wines, nothing to do with my business interests.’
Holly was beyond angry. ‘You couldn’t even mention it in polite conversation?’ He’d let her think he knew nothing of vines or wine. He’d let her accuse him of the same and not corrected her. He’d cut short the tour like it was an imposition on his precious time and not something he was interested in in the least. What was she supposed to think?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise we’d had a polite conversation.’
Bastard.
‘You could have said something!’
‘I was here to broker a deal and I was under the impression Chatsfield’s offer would be welcome. I didn’t realise small talk was expected.’
‘You made no effort!’
‘You think if I had, Ms Purman, it might have made you more amenable to my offer? I think not.’
Gus grunted. ‘True enough, Holly.’ His eyes narrowed then, homing in on Franco. ‘But can you really prune?’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Gus, the past couple of years I’ve spent more time in the boardroom than in amongst the vines, but yes, I can prune and I used to be a star pruner. All our estate vines are hand pruned. I spent more than ten years hand pruning every season.’
Holly felt the ground beneath her shifting so fast she was battling to keep up. ‘Oh, Pop, this is mad! You can’t seriously be thinking of agreeing to this.’
‘No? And why not, Holly? We’re short an experienced worker. You know yourself how long it takes to train someone and get them up to speed. Years.’
‘But he’s … a Chatsfield! And whatever flimsy connection he has to this supposed vineyard in Italy—’
‘The estate exists, Ms Purman. And I assure you, it’s mine.’
‘Then why are you offering to do this, if you’ve got your own vineyard back in Italy? How can you afford to offer us your services and your time? Why would you do that? What’s in it for you?’
‘There’s something in it for me, of course. I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction, of course, then you will sign the contract.’
‘But—’
‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’
‘That’s not the only reason I’m not in favour of this deal and you know it.’
‘True, you’re also worried about the scandals that my siblings have brought upon themselves from time to time, and their impact on the Chatsfield name. You’re worried the Purman name might be dragged down in the fallout. But I can tell you that you have nothing to fear. You will no doubt choose not to believe me. But in the time it takes to prune—how many weeks will that be? Two? Four?’
‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’
That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Even better. Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal, regardless of how far along we are with the pruning. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract, and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’
‘I like it!’ said Gus with a chortle as he slapped the flat of his hand against one leg. ‘It solves everything. What do you say, Holly?’
Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, as unassailable.
She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of minutes ago had turned to quicksand.
They were both waiting, Gus and Franco, watching her, waiting for her response. And damn them both, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight. ‘Surely you have family back home who will be expecting you?’
Something dark scudded across his cool grey eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. ‘No.’
‘Business interests that need looking after?’
‘They’ll manage.’
‘What if you’re rubbish at pruning?’
‘Then the deal is off. But I assure you, I’m not.’
‘You’ll have to stay for the entire time.’
‘Of course.’
‘However long it takes.’
‘I realise that.’
‘And not just being here. Contributing. We don’t accept passengers.’
His smile grew wider. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
And all of a sudden she’d run out of ifs and buts and terms and conditions.
She swallowed hard.
Hard down on her disappointment.
Hard down on her pride.
‘Then I suppose we could give you a trial.’
And Gus clapped his hands together as he belted out a laugh. ‘Well, it’s all settled then, looks like we’ve got ourselves a deal! ‘
Was it settled? Nothing in Holly’s mind felt settled. Instead it was scattered, a mess of question marks when there should be full stops.
She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too-big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.
Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
It was Gus who insisted on cracking open a bottle of Rubida, their best sparkling wine, and proposing a toast to celebrate the deal. It was no consolation that Franco finally got to taste their wine whether he wanted to or not. It was no consolation that he thought the wine was good.
No consolation at all.
She would have liked it better if he’d screwed up his face and turned tail and run thinking that someone at head office had made a horrendous mistake. Although she knew for a fact that her wines were amongst the best out there and that there was no mistake.
And it was also Gus who decided Franco should stay in the cottage they had prepared for Tom’s arrival. Maybe it was a logical decision, but it meant he’d be living here on the property as well as working here for six weeks. Six long weeks of potentially seeing him every day. Six long weeks of feeling that itching prickle and that annoying heat under her skin. Then again, it could have been worse, Holly mused as she collected up a basket of breakfast supplies from the pantry—Gus could have invited him to stay at the house.
Perish the thought.
By the time Holly picked up her car keys to drop Franco at the cottage, the clouds had blown away and the wintry day had turned into frosty night. She welcomed the bite of the chill air against her overheated skin as she led Franco to the four-wheel drive, shoes crunching on the gravel, while she wished the cold air could similarly work some kind of magic on improving her mood. Six weeks of working alongside this man.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She stashed the basket on the back seat of the four-wheel drive before climbing into the driver’s seat. The heavy door slammed shut behind her.
Damned right.
Exactly how her life felt right now. Slammed shut. All options closed.
‘Ms Purman? Are you all right?’
Clearly not. Holly blinked. She’d been sitting, staring at the steering wheel and hadn’t even noticed Franco climb in. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied through a jaw so rigid by now it was hard to talk.
He clicked in his seatbelt and his elbow brushed against hers and she flinched, feeling a jolt to her senses.
Just peachy, she thought, pulling her arms in tight against her body as she turned the key in the ignition, hating how all of a sudden she was confined in a car with a man who seemed as big as a mountain. And she hated how the air around her didn’t smell of wet oilskins or muddy feet but seemed flavoured with his scent instead, of warm man and wood smoke and there was some kind of cologne mixed in there as well, something spicy and masculine and no doubt expensive. She rammed the car into First and let go the accelerator too quickly and the vehicle lurched and hopped. His fault, she thought, distracting her with that scent.
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Trish Morey
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: When the rebel doesn’t get his wayFranco Chatsfield has never lived by anybody else’s rules and he isn’t going to start now. But, when he is asked to secure a deal for the famous Chatsfield family, he can’t say no. Franco plans to seal the deal fast and get back to his life, but just one person stands in his way…Holly Purman has devoted her life to her precious vines and, if Franco wants them, he must prove he is worthy! But Franco is more intoxicating than the very finest of wines and Holly’s first taste of the brooding Chatsfield leaves her begging for more.Welcome to The Chatsfield, Sydney!