in new surroundings, and one she would have to conquer, but there wasn’t time tonight. At least she was sitting down. It wouldn’t be the first time she had tripped over something. Even with Buddy’s help, she sometimes forgot her restrictions and went flying.
But that wasn’t going to happen tonight, Grace reassured herself firmly.
‘Buddy?’
Hearing the big dog shift position, she was pleased to note he wasn’t too far away. Buddy knew he was still on duty, but he hadn’t heard the imperative note in her voice that called him to action. She mapped the table in front of her, feeling for glasses and bottles and other hazards. She always put down mental markers so she could understand her surroundings better. She listened intently as Nacho poured. Even the sound wine made as it glugged from the bottle told a story.
As the sound of her rapid breathing compared to Nacho’s steady inhalations told another, Grace realised, consciously steadying herself.
‘Right. Are we ready?’ he said. ‘I’ve labelled the bottles and glasses on the bottom, so that I can’t see them when you swap them round.’
‘An even playing field,’ she agreed.
She had to concentrate fiercely and not think about that husky voice with its intriguing accent, or those dark eyes watching her every move.
As she tasted the first sample she could only wish Nacho’s thoughts were as easy to read as the wine. Elias had described him as a gifted amateur, and when it came to wine no doubt that was true, but where women were concerned Nacho was a master of his craft. It was a thought that made her tremble with awareness.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think so far, Grace?’
What did she think? Where wine was concerned she was utterly confident. Where Nacho was concerned she was out of her depth.
‘Grace?’
She tensed when he came to sit beside her on the bench. She hadn’t expected that.
‘Spit or swallow?’ he said.
She almost laughed. Nacho’s blunt question while his hard thigh brushing hers was just the wake-up call she needed.
‘At this initial informal tasting I’m going to drink a mouthful of each wine.’ She explained why. ‘I like to hold it in my mouth and then feel the wine run through me. My stomach usually has something useful to say. I’ll need water and coffee beans—to clean my palate and clear my nose. Every sommelier has their own way of doing things and this is mine. Don’t worry, I’ve brought them with me.’ She reached into her bag.
‘Whatever it takes,’ Nacho agreed.
‘Not bad,’ she commented after tasting the first couple of wines. ‘But not great. And don’t even ask me to touch this one,’ she added when Nacho pressed a third glass in her hand. The smell was enough to put her off. ‘Please don’t waste my time with cheap tricks or rejects. I thought time was important to both of us.’
She felt his surprise, though he made no comment. He was cool. She’d give him that.
She wasn’t cool, and breath shot out of her lungs when their fingers touched over the next glass.
‘Very good,’ she said, recovering fast. Burying her nose, she inhaled deeply. ‘This is really very good.’ She lifted her chin and wished she could see Nacho to show him her enthusiasm.
‘It’s a deep cardinal-red with bluish purple tones,’ he explained.
‘Young,’ she added, taking another sniff. ‘Full of the scent of ripe black fruit …’
‘And?’ Nacho prompted.
‘And very well balanced,’ she said, sensing his face was very close. Swallowing deep, she tried to concentrate. ‘This is one of the best young wines I’ve tasted this year.’
‘I have another, older wine I think you’re going to like …’
She relaxed as he pulled away, and yet ached with disappointment that he had.
More wine was poured. She heard Nacho take a sip and imagined him savouring the ruby liquid in his mouth. ‘I hope you’re not cheating.’
‘I don’t need to cheat, Grace. Here—taste this …’
Somewhere in the room a clock was ticking as the tension mounted between them.
‘What do you think?’ Nacho prompted, ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes …’ She straightened up. ‘This is an exceptional wine. It’s older, richer and more complex than any wine I’ve tasted in England. I can detect more than one variety of grape.’ She named them.
‘You have an extremely discerning palate, Grace.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re paying me for?’ she said with amusement.
He liked the fact that Grace stood up to him, but as she went on to describe traces of chocolate and cinnamon, with hints of blackcurrant and cherry, he liked her a lot more. Not because of her expertise in wine, but because of the way his thoughts were turning to ruby-red wine moistening beautifully drawn lips, and drinking from those lips before sinking his tongue deep into Grace’s mouth to capture the last drop, before moving on to lap more wine from the soft swell of her belly.
With his mind happily employed, he spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘Is there anything I can do to speed things up?’
‘If you mean can I guarantee an order now?’ she said, breaking the spell, ‘I’m afraid the answer’s no. I need to know a lot more about your production methods before we can reach that stage.’
He was disappointed in Grace’s businesslike manner. He was more disappointed in that than in the fact that placing an order for his wine wasn’t immediately forthcoming. The Acosta name generally provoked a certain type of response—and delay or refusal was unheard of. But not with Grace, it seemed.
His brooding gaze lingered on her face. She had stood out for him at Lucia’s wedding amongst all the flashy birds of paradise and she was lovelier than ever now. He found her bewitching, and he knew there was steel lurking beneath that calm exterior, making the playing field between them more even. So where he might have stood off at one time, bound by respect and restraint, those barriers no longer stood between them.
‘I can reassure you that so far everything looks very promising,’ she said.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said.
Grace had missed the irony. Or had she? What was hiding behind that composed front? Familiar with secrets, he knew the signs and suspected Grace’s brave front hid a world of self-doubt. It occurred to him then that she must have cried at some point about her loss of sight. She must have railed against her fate. Who had held her when she had broken down in tears? Had anyone? She reminded him of a wounded bird that was determined to survive—which made his recent thoughts seem like those of a cold-hearted predator wheeling overhead.
‘The flavours of this wine are complex, and the aroma is particularly distinct,’ she said, burying her nose and inhaling deeply.
‘On that we’re agreed,’ he said, far more interested in watching Grace now than in tasting the wine.
‘Then why are you frowning?’ she said.
‘Am I?’
‘Don’t deny it. I can hear it in your voice, Nacho.’
‘I’ll have to frown less,’ he said.
When she laughed her soft blonde hair, which had only been loosely held, escaped the band she had tied it up in and came to drift around her shoulders like a gold net veil.
‘Oh, damn!’ she exclaimed, impatiently grabbing her hair as if it was one of her most annoying features rather than one of her loveliest. ‘Let me tie this back.’