Three phone calls and a half an hour later, she stepped out of her building into the sunshine. She was about to flag a cab when she turned around, walked back to the street vendor she had idle chitchat with every morning and lifted her chin. “Your coffee sucks. Every morning I buy your coffee and it sucks.”
He gave her a dumbfounded look. “Buy the coffee or don’t buy the coffee, lady. That’s what I serve.”
She nodded. “I’m buying an espresso machine. I just thought you deserved my honest opinion.”
She stalked to the curb, flagged a cab and called Lilly from it. “I heard about your phone call home,” her sister said dryly. “Too much caffeine this morning?”
“Not enough.” Alex grimaced. “I’m in a cab to the airport. In case the plane goes down and they’re identifying bodies, thought you should know. Back tomorrow.”
“You said you didn’t have to travel for a while.”
“Jordan Lane is holding credentials presentations this week.”
“Alex. Gabe will lose his you-know-what if you take that job.”
“What does it matter?” she asked calmly. “He’s done with me.”
“You don’t know that. Gabe isn’t a knee-jerk kind of guy. He probably needs time to think this over. Give him—”
“Remember that movie where the two women get in all that trouble and decide to drive off the cliff in the end?”
“Alex.”
“I’m not driving off any cliffs. I’m done with that. But I am going to clear the decks along the way.”
She heard her sister swallow. “Alex, you get out of that cab. Take a Valium—do whatever you need to do, but do not get on that plane.”
“No can do,” she replied cheerfully. “Oh, look. My phone’s dying. Catch you on the other side.”
* * *
It should have been a great moment. Gabe watched the first bottle of the Angel’s Share roll off the line with a tightness in his chest that defied description. It was done. The biggest gamble of his life was in motion. And if the reaction on Saturday night, if the reaction from every wine columnist and blogger in the country was any indication, he’d made the right choice.
It didn’t hurt that the sommelier of the biggest chain of hotels in the world had taken one sip of the Angel’s Share and agreed to carry it. Or that all his distributors and suppliers seemed to be coming around to the idea of a pure Malbec from Napa. It would be October before the first bottle hit store shelves and they would really know the wine’s fate, the most crucial selling period for a winemaker. Between now and then, it was all about filling the supply chain and keeping the faith.
He sorely wished he could do that with his personal life. He was so angry at Alex, he’d had permanent smoke coming out of his ears. It was bad enough she’d had an affair. Even if he did believe her that it had been unknowing—which he did because he knew Alex by now—the fact that it had been Jordan Lane had sealed it for him. Along with the fact she’d kept it from him.
Inexcusable. Violated the biggest code of honor he had—absolute honesty. Darya had made that essential.
It made him sick to think of her with Lane. With the man who wanted to bury him. He was sick at the thought of having a mole in his winery. Sick of it all.
The bottles came off the line, one after another, their proud dark blue De Campo logos gleaming in the light. The Angel’s Share. Alex’s wine. It was impossible for him to think of it as anything else. She had named it. She had created all the buzz around it. They had been a team.
And she had let him down. Just like Darya had. yes on dpgroup
He gripped the railing that overlooked the production line, his knuckles straining white. Okay, not like Darya. Alex had other issues. But he’d wanted her to prove him wrong. That he’d been wrong to want a business partnership when he could have what he had with her. A woman he wanted as much out of bed as in it. A woman with a fighting spirit that refused to quit.
In hindsight, he knew deep down Alex had had nothing to do with Lane or the mole. She had put her heart and soul into those events. But honesty was non-negotiable. He could not live without it.
Pedro waved him down. He pressed his hands into fists and pushed away from the railing, descended the steps to the production level. His mentor handed him a bottle, a proud gleam in his eye. “Numero uno. You should have it.”
Gabe looked the bottle over, checked the label, verified the addition he’d requested to the back fine print was there. Too little, too late.
The wine felt right. His big bet felt right. Too bad he didn’t.
“Grazie,” he murmured. “I should get back to work.”
* * *
Alex arrived at the restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf at precisely six in the evening West Coast time. She was immaculately attired. Not one detail about her remotely resembled the naive twenty-two-year-old she’d once been. In fact, she’d just added another row of cynicism to her belt. Perfect. Exactly what she needed.
Her warning antennae went up as the tall, thin maître d’ led her to a table at the far end of the lavishly appointed seafood restaurant. This didn’t look like the type of place to have a business meeting. She spotted Jordan ahead of her. At a table for two. The warning signals went off the chart. Where the hell was her competition?
“I don’t understand,” she murmured quietly as he got up to greet her with a kiss on both cheeks. “Where is everyone?”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “I thought we needed to talk first.”
She stood there, every cell in her body telling her to run. “About what?”
“Sit down, Alex.”
She sat down. “Are the rest coming later, then?”
His brilliant blue eyes met hers. “They aren’t coming.”
She stood up with a jerky movement. How could she have been so stupid as to think this could be about business? That Jordan might want her for her brain?
“Let me explain.” His gaze was hard, unwavering. “Sit down. You’re making a scene.”
She glanced around her. Noted the curious looks of the other patrons. And sat. “Do you have no shame?” she murmured. “Isn’t what you did five years ago enough?”
His blue eyes darkened. “I asked you here tonight because I wanted to apologize. I’m so sorry, Alex.”
“For what? For almost destroying my life?” She slammed her palms down on the white damask, anger at herself singeing her nerve endings. “I can’t believe I thought my professional credentials were what brought me here.”
“They are. I’ve told the committee they should pick you.”
“Then what’s this?” She waved her hand at the table. “This is not business, Jordan.”
“But it is.” He poured her wine she didn’t want with a smooth movement. “I need to know you’re not sleeping with Gabe De Campo.”
Gabe. The man who was worth ten of him. The man he was trying to destroy. “I don’t think I want your contract.”
“You need my contract. Get over your personal feelings, accept my apology and move on, Alex.”
That was what she was supposed to be doing today. Moving on. If Gabe didn’t love her, she needed to bury herself in work. “I have no relationship with Gabe,” she said tightly.
He studied her face with that ice cool gaze. Then nodded. “Fine. Shall I walk you through the RFP?”
She pulled her copy out of her briefcase, her survival patterns telling her just to do it. She forced herself to focus. But every time Jordan talked about his Black Cellar Select, it made her stomach churn. It was Gabe’s wine. And yet here he was talking about it as if it was the product of his blood, sweat and tears.
She loved Gabe. The words blurred in front of her. She realized now she had been infatuated with Jordan’s worldliness, with the way a powerful man like him would want someone like her. But she loved Gabe with a depth that was so much more. She loved his passion. She was not ready to give him up.
If she took this job, she would.
Jordan took a call, then excused himself to go to the washroom. She sipped her wine, her fingers trembling. Then picked up the RFP and ripped it in half. She could stop the vicious cycle now. Gabe might not take her back, but at least she would have tried.
She was done running.
Her gaze flickered over Jordan’s phone as she waited for him to return. It was still unlocked. Before she had any idea what she was doing, it was in her hands and she was pressing through the home screen to his contacts. Her heart pounded like a high-speed train as she scrolled through the hundreds of names. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was searching for and was starting to think she was looking for a needle in a haystack when a name popped glaringly out at her. Sam Withers. Sam Withers. One of Gabe’s winemakers. Why was he in Jordan’s contact list? She clicked on his name. He’d made multiple calls to Jordan this week.
Oh, my God. She cleared the screen and set it down with a thump. Was Sam Withers the mole?
Jordan came back. Surveyed the ripped RFP with a raised brow.
She stood up. “I can’t work for you.”
His eyes flashed. “You wanted me, Alex.”
She shook her head. “I wanted a mirage. It never existed.”