CHAPTER TEN
GABE WAS IN the winery with Pedro late that afternoon, far away from Hurricane Alex, when Elena arrived with coffee and a package.
“It just came,” she said, setting the box on the counter. “I thought you might need it.”
Gabe opened it. The wooden box inside the packaging contained a bottle of wine. The label bore the blue and yellow design of a Vintage Corp. premium blend. Jordan Lane’s wine. His gaze sharpened on the name done in an elegant black scroll. Black Cellar Select—A Premium Cabernet-Merlot Blend.
He froze. Took in the beautifully packaged bottle. This was it. This was Lane’s Devil’s Peak. Pedro had not been able to get a sample of it. No one had. Now Lane had hand delivered a bottle to him to throw it in his face. The day after his launch, when he was riding high.
His chest felt weighted. It was difficult to breathe. Pedro peered over his shoulder and Gabe heard his indrawn breath. “This is it,” he exclaimed. “The bastardo sent it to us.”
Gabe noticed a card tucked into the box. He took it out and slipped the note from the envelope. “‘Congratulations on what I’ve heard was a hugely successful launch, De Campo. Nice to know Black Cellar Select will be in good company.’”
Following the words were Lane’s signature and a list of a dozen of the country’s top restaurants that would be featuring Black Cellar Select as their wine of the month.
His blood ran cold. “Give me a corkscrew.”
Pedro pulled one out of a drawer. Gabe slammed two glasses on the counter and opened the wine. The first taste of the blend on his tongue made his stomach roll. If Lane had taken The Devil’s Peak and matched it scientifically, trait by trait, it couldn’t have been closer.
A two-million-dollar party, a ten-million-dollar ad campaign—spent on a wine which was now one of two. One of Dio knew how many, if he knew Lane. He felt the room sway around him as everything he’d worked for over the past eight years came tumbling down around him. The board needed to see a significant profit this year. The Devil’s Peak had to sell like wildfire. Now he had a competitor. A competitor who had the potential to blow him out of the water.
What was he supposed to do now?
Pedro put his glass down. His shocked gaze met Gabe’s. “It’s the same wine. How is that possible?”
Gabe put a hand on the bar to steady himself, to stop the roiling turmoil in his head. “It has to be one of our winemakers. Someone in the lab. It’s too exact a copy.”
“But there is no one—”
“There is someone,” Gabe growled. There had to be.
Pedro took another sip of the wine. Shook his head as a slow frown crossed his wrinkled brow. “You have no choice now.”
Gabe pulled in a breath, feeling as though he was breathing fire. He exhaled slowly. “You think we should launch the Angel’s Share?”
The other man nodded. “The wine is magnifico, Gabriele. You could bottle it tomorrow and it would score a ninety-seven.”
Gabe levered himself away from the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets. “The question is, is the market ready for it?”
Pedro raised a thick gray brow. “You made your choice on this one two years ago, mio figlio. Now is not the time to second-guess yourself.”
No, it wasn’t, he realized. Pedro had taught him not just about wine, he’d taught him about vision. About seizing the moment. His mentor had not hesitated when Gabe had asked him to come to America with him to pursue this dream. It was Pedro’s as much as it was Gabe’s. If Pedro thought the wine was ready, it was ready.
Gabe’s mouth tightened. “Antonio will fight us every step of the way.”
Pedro rested his unflinching gaze on him. “Then make him see the light.”
Gabe looked at the expensively packaged bottle in front of him. It sounded so simple. Fly to New York this week for the quarterly De Campo board meeting, explain to his father and brother their star wine had been stolen by their chief competitor and secure their approval to bet the bank on a varietal that didn’t even represent a 5-percent share of the Californian mix.
He grimaced. It was either madness or a stroke of genius. He wasn’t sure which.
He looked at Pedro. “Can we be ready in a month?”
The old man smiled. “Sì. On the scale of The Devil’s Peak?”
“Sì.”
“Consider it done.”
Pedro clapped him on the back and went off to make things happen. Gabe took another sip of the wine and felt it burn his soul. He would bury Jordan Lane if it was the last thing he did. Someday, at some point, there was going to be a moment when he took a nail and hammered it into Vintage Corp.’s coffin. And he was going to relish every minute of it.
He abandoned his coffee and headed back up to the house to tackle his other problem. Alex had been wrapping things up with suppliers all afternoon, stomping around with fire in her eyes. He wanted to tell her she’d been absolutely right—it had been his idea to have a one-night stand. She hadn’t asked for the grand inquisition he’d given her. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it, he’d just had to know. And now that he knew the depth of the baggage she was dragging around, his predominant thought was to agree with her and cut it off now.
She’d dated the head of a biker gang, for Cristo’s sake! The guy she ended up with, if she ever ended up with anyone, was going to have to be okay with having a keg of dynamite in his backyard at all times. Not something the vice president of one of the world’s biggest companies needed anywhere near him...
He walked down the hill toward the house, noting the absence of trucks in the parking lot. Good. He could get this over with without delay. Best for everyone. Because Alex had most definitely gotten under his skin. She was like a fever that way. Something that got in your system and fried your brain. And if there was one thing he didn’t need, it was a fried brain when everything depended on him being clearheaded and deadly methodical about what happened next.
Elena looked up from the stove as he walked into the kitchen.
“Alex around?”
“She left for the airport an hour ago. Said to tell you there’s an issue with Zambia and she’s caught a flight back to take care of it.”
He blinked, sure he hadn’t heard right. If there was a venue issue with De Campo’s SoHo wine bar, Zambia, where the New York event was to be held, surely someone in New York could have dealt with it.
“She didn’t want to bother you working,” Elena continued, turning back to the stove. “She said she’d call later to update you.”
She had run. Walked out on him. Fury raged like an untamed beast, roaring to life inside of him. He should be happy she was out of his hair. Instead he wanted to strangle her.
“She said she has her mobile if we need her,” Elena murmured. “Call her.”
His hands clenched by his sides. Oh, no. No—he wasn’t going to call her. He was going to find her when he landed in a couple of days and treat her to a rude surprise.
His fists uncurled as he flexed his fingers. It was then that he realized he and Alexandra Anderson were categorically not done.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS EASIER this way.
Alex slid onto a stool at the bar of the trendy Manhattan trattoria where Lilly was to join her for dinner and signaled the bartender. Parachuting out of Napa three days ago to take care of the venue issue at Zambia meant Gabe hadn’t had to pretend any interest in her after her true-confession experiment, and she hadn’t had to pretend it didn’t bother her.
The way she saw it, she had another forty-eight hours to insulate herself against Gabe before she walked him through the venue in anticipation of this weekend’s event. Forty-eight hours to convince herself what had happened between them was forgettable, one-night-stand material instead of an event she was sure was going to be burned into her memory forever.
The bartender ambled over in his oh-so-cool hipster way. She ordered a glass of Argentinean red and tapped her glossy nails on the bar, her foolishness reverberating in her head. The one-night-stand part she could almost be okay with. The truth-serum part, not so much. What had gotten into her? Sex was one thing. Opening herself up to Gabe, the amateur psychologist, was another.
The bartender slid the wine across the bar to her. She picked the glass up and started to sniff the bouquet, then slammed it back down. Damn him. He was everywhere, destroying her peace of mind.
She pulled her phone out to go through some emails. Saw Georges Abel’s story had run. She scanned through it. The word rift and Antonio and Gabe’s names in the same sentence made her grimace. However, he also raved about the wines and gave them a big thumbs-up. She could live with that.
She took a sip of her wine, sans bouquet. Spun the glass around on its stem in a desperate attempt to distract herself. To avoid Gabe’s disturbing conclusions that kept running through her head, taunting her. You’re a fighter in every part of your life except your relationships. You’d rather paint yourself as bad, convince yourself you’re incapable of a healthy relationship rather than face the reality of being in one.
Ugh. She growled low in her throat. Had he really had the gall to say that? It wasn’t in her DNA to be in a relationship. Hadn’t been since Jordan.