in, she took a deep inhale, then put it to her lips. It tasted like heaven. Rose, wood, mint and truffle—bursts of flavor danced on her tongue and she mentally logged each one, a habit she’d learned at a summer work–study during college in Bordeaux.
Although she was eager to meet her client, she could feel the tension of her day leaving her body, and she took the opportunity to text her boss—she’d call him tomorrow—and sent several work emails from her phone. She was mid-email when a high-pitched giggling came from the other side of the room.
A young blonde woman in a low-cut minidress walked through a side entrance, but she stopped and turned with an annoyed stance, clearly waiting for someone. Nicole hoped it wasn’t more giggling girls.
Just as she was about to turn away, in strolled a tall, dark-haired, starkly handsome man. His square jaw was covered in a trim beard, but it was his eyes that held the most allure. Heavy lidded and thickly lashed, their blue color seemed to resemble translucent cobalt glass. She bet eyes like that glittered when he smiled, but right now he looked bored. And slightly sloshed.
Nicole didn’t usually go for the bearded, mountain-man type, but this one, even in a disheveled white button-down shirt, was fine.
And taken. The young woman grabbed his hand and practically pulled him toward the bar.
Turning back to her phone, Nicole noted that Elliot Dechamps was ten minutes late, but she didn’t stress. Not all cultures took punctuality as seriously as Americans, and sometimes it was nice to let go of those expectations.
She was in a country she’d never explored before, drinking a beautiful red wine. It didn’t get much better—
An elbow jostled Nicole’s forearm. The couple from across the room was right next to her, sipping champagne and speaking loudly in swift Portuguese. The tipsy woman was having trouble getting onto the stool in her spandex dress. After a few tries, with the help of her boyfriend’s outstretched arm, she finally made it.
In celebration, the young woman laughed and shot her elbows out again, knocking over her champagne...and Nicole’s wine.
Instantly Nicole’s Beaujolais became a pool of dark liquid and broken glass. Heads turned and the bartender sprang into action, gathering white cloths and swiping at the mess, which had begun to travel over the lip of the bar onto Nicole’s leg. She jumped from her barstool and stepped away, almost bumping into the blonde, who was no doubt hurrying toward the ladies’ room.
Nicole patted down her dress. Thank God she was wearing black, but some wine had gotten on her bare leg.
Suddenly a towel was being dabbed lightly at her thigh.
New York reflexes always on, she grabbed the wrist then tried to hide her shock as she eyed its owner. He was strong, she thought when she felt his arm stiffen and pull back. Dark brows slashed the blue of his eyes when he looked up.
He was even hotter up close.
“Desculpa,” Destin apologized quickly, noting the vice grip the woman had on his wrist. Her wary gaze told him she might not have appreciated his cleaning skills. “Eu não deveria ter...”
The woman let go of him and held up her palm. “Não entendo. I don’t speak Portuguese.”
English? Interesting. Just as he was about to explain himself, a birthday procession of sparklers and dessert trays came marching past the bar. Quickly he shot an arm out, pulling the woman closer to shield her from their path.
When the fanfare was across the room, he tried again. “As I was saying, my apologies. I was handing you a towel when I saw an errant drop of wine heading for your knee.”
Now in a half circle within his arms, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed her before. She was strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones and full lips accentuated by the rich brown of her skin, which was flawless.
Touches of fire still flashed in her eyes, and her body language told him that she was ready to fend him off if he crossed a line. With a slight bow, he offered her the white cloth and was pleased when he saw the suspicion leave her eyes.
He inspected her sophisticated dress. “I don’t believe there are any stains.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thank you for the towel.”
She backed away, her gaze raking over him this time, and he swore he felt the heat of it. He fought an urge to pull her back into his arms. “Allow me to buy you another drink.”
“It’s fine, really.”
She turned, and he watched as she glided back to her open stool. He couldn’t tear his attention away from the gentle sway of her hips, those long silky brown legs or her shining black heels.
He was about to insist, but saw that the barkeep had already replenished her glass. Destin took an involuntary step to follow her and then stopped, surprised at his reaction to this mysterious woman. He itched to engage her again. Was he drunk? Of course he was; he’d been drinking all night.
Speaking of which, his drink sat idle on the bar. Taking the seat one stool away from her, Destin propped both of his arms on the bar and took a burning sip of his drink, letting the amber liquid rip down his throat like fire. Relaxing a bit, he opened the top two buttons on his tailored white shirt, hoping his date took her time. She was a handful.
When Thereza’s brother had called Destin in a panic, begging him to escort his little sister to the art gala because he could no longer make it, Destin’s first answer had been no. He’d already thrown out his invitation. Every year the envelope arrived, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Destin Dechamps, and every year he stared at the names then tossed it into the trash bin.
He still donated, however. Nina would have wanted that, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to the fundraiser since her death. Until this favor. He blamed his father, too, for his lapse in judgment. Destin was supposed to be on a flight to Paris that night, but with their strained relationship, he hadn’t been looking forward to it. The gala had seemed like the perfect excuse to cancel.
Now he wished he’d stuck to his first answer. Being at the art gala that afternoon without his wife and seeing their old acquaintances had been jarring. Women who had known Nina for years aggressively invited him to their homes for “dinner.” And the men took one look at his date and said they envied his “bachelor lifestyle.” Little did they know he’d spent most of his time in his wine cellar, the only place that gave him peace.
And his friend should have told him that little Thereza wasn’t so little anymore. The young blonde had spent most of her time at the gala’s open bar, and the more she drank, the flirtier she got. She’d tried to climb on top of him in the car ride to the restaurant. He needed to get some food into her. But that wasn’t the only reason they were there.
His brother, Elliot, had conveniently forgotten to mention that he was meeting with the real estate lawyer tonight. Destin had found out by accident through their father, of all people—the man who was selling the property out from under them. The thought of Elliot and his father talking behind his back made him want to smash something.
Destin recalled the last conversation he’d had with his father, pleading with him to let him rebuild the winery. They could make the land profitable again. His father refused to listen, saying only that it was in the Dechamps’ best interest to sell and infuse the money into the French production. It had turned into a shouting match, with Destin walking out and vowing to do whatever he could to keep the acreage.
That meant keeping the buyers away from the property, and keeping the brokers from doing their jobs...by any means necessary. With the help of some friends, he’d been able to do just that. And this new American real estate lawyer was not going to be an exception. He almost felt bad for the poor bastard. Almost.
Lawyers, he hated them. The yearlong legal battle his father had initiated