The Sassy One Page 3
Relief blended with the flavor of the cheese. “Okay.”
“And you? Any current or former Mr. Marcellis floating around?”
“No. Actually, Marcelli is my maiden name. But I was married several years ago. He passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “You must have married young.”
“At eighteen. Right on time, according to my rather twisted family’s expectations.” She speared a slice of apple. “I come from an Irish-Italian family. Very large, very traditional. We’re supposed to marry young and procreate with abandon.”
“Kids?”
She bit back a smile. “Not that I know about.”
He chuckled. “I had an ill-fated marriage. I was all of twenty-two, off in Europe, out of college, and on my own. We didn’t make it to our first anniversary.” He shrugged. “We were both too young. No kids, which is good. Divorce is tough on them.”
“I agree.”
He picked up his wine. “Enough serious conversation. Do you plan to seduce me later?”
If Francesca had been drinking, she would have spit. All promises and plans made in the presence of her sisters aside, this was a first date. She might want to throw herself in the deep end, but not in the first hour.
She was reasonably certain Sam was teasing, but just in case there was a grain of truth to the question, she decided on the most sensible, mature course of action.
She ignored it.
“Has your company always been based in Santa Barbara?” she asked.
Sam chuckled. “Chicken.”
“Cluck cluck. Now graciously accept the change in subject, please.”
“Okay. My grandfather had a branch office in Los Angeles for a while, but the base of operations has always been here.”
They talked about the changes in the city in the past ten years, how celebrities both wanted and thwarted a bodyguard’s ability to protect, and the various experiments she’d set up to help her with her research.
Sam had nearly finished his steak when he glanced at her nearly full glass.
“Don’t you like your wine?”
She touched the stem. “It’s fine.”
“Francesca. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m not a big fan of Wild Sea Vineyards.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Do you have any other plans for tonight?”
Plans? With him? Now that he mentioned it—
She deliberately broke off in mid-thought. “Not really.”
“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be,” he said. “So tell me a story.”
“All right.” At least this was a safe topic. No double entendres, not even a hint of sexual tension.
“In 1923 two friends, Antonio Marcelli and Salvatore Giovanni, came to America from Italy. They were both second sons with no hope of inheriting their families’ businesses. They vowed to show their respective families that they would be big successes. They settled in Central California and carefully tended the treasures they had brought with them.” She paused and smiled. “Grapevines.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. She was one surprise after the other. “Francesca Marcelli? As in Marcelli Wines?”
“That’s me.”
He motioned to the bottle on the table. “The Giovanni family, I presume.”
“Uh-huh. The virgin soil, the windswept hills, the temperate climate were all perfect for growing grapes. Antonio and Salvatore bought land next to each other. They shared labor, celebrated victories, and together toasted their first harvest. In time they returned to Italy to marry, then came back to California and settled down to have happy lives. Wild Sea Vineyard and Marcelli Wines were born. Antonio and Salvatore each had one son and two daughters.”
She paused to take a drink of water. He leaned forward. “You grew up listening to that story.”
“I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
“Your voice changes when you talk about the family history.” More than her voice. Her eyes stared past him to focus on a long-ago place.
“My grandmother talks about the old days. I guess I’m repeating what she says.”
She drew in a breath and continued. “Events in Europe in the late 1930s worried the friends. With the German occupation of France and threats to Italy during the Second World War, there was great concern for the state of the vineyards. Would generations of healthy stock be destroyed? Antonio and Salvatore went to Europe, where friends offered cuttings. They traveled, collecting more and more cuttings from the most famous vineyards in France and Italy. Then they returned home to graft their legacy to their strongest vines. Whatever happened in Europe, the traditions would continue in America.”
“I’ve noticed a more European flavor to Wild Sea wines,” he said, “but I wouldn’t say the same about Marcelli wines.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “No one knows exactly what happened or why. At first both sets of cuttings did well, but over time those planted on Marcelli lands began to die. Antonio accused Salvatore of cursing his lands or poisoning his grapes. The two men had a falling out, as did the families. Friendships ended, engagements were broken. To this day, Marcelli Wines and Wild Sea Vineyards are mortal enemies.”
He liked the story, but then he found that he liked everything Francesca had to say.
“Any spilt blood?” he asked.
“Not our style,” she said with a smile. “We’re more the heated conversation types. Actually my grandfather, Antonio’s son, is the one most interested in carrying on the feud. My parents have never been that enthusiastic about old fights, and my sisters and I don’t really have the invested emotions.”
“Who runs Wild Sea now?”
“Salvatore’s great-grandson, Nicholas.” She rested her fingertips on the bottle. “They flourished with their new European cuttings. While we’re a successful enterprise, they are an international conglomerate.”
“You study psychology, not wine. Why?”
“Grandpa Lorenzo says the vines must be a passion. They never were for me. My sister, Brenna, has them in her blood.”
Their waiter took away the plates. Francesca shook off an offer of dessert. Sam handed him a credit card.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said when they were alone again. “I’ve enjoyed this evening.”
“Me, too.” Sam smiled. “I’d like to see you again.”
Heat sparked to life inside her midsection. “Me, too.”
“Tomorrow night? Unless you already have plans.”
She supposed she should play hard to get. That’s what Mia, her baby sister, was always saying. Francesca had never been very good at following directions.
“Tomorrow is fine.”
Sam pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and wrote on the back. “My home number,” he said when he passed it to her. He drew out another card. “Yours?”
As she told him the number, he wrote it down. When he was finished, she glanced at his business card. She scanned the information, then visually stumbled when she read the title under the name.
President and CEO.
“You run the company,” she said, trying not to panic. Of course he did. Why would that change anything?
“For a few years now.”
She raised her gaze to his face. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
The waiter interrupted them when he handed Sam his credit card and a receipt to sign.
When Sam had finished, he glanced at her. “Have I converted you to Wild Sea wines?”
She chuckled. “Unlikely. I’m not sure I’ve had Wild Sea Cab before. It was actually pretty good. Not that I’ll tell my grandfather.”
“He would probably want to cut you out of his will.”
“That or throw me out of the family.”
Sam tucked the receipt into his jacket pocket, rose, and moved behind her. As she stood, he pulled the chair away, then settled a hand on the small of her back.
Surfer valet met them by the courtyard. He gave Sam a quick salute and pointed down the street. Francesca followed the direction and saw her truck parked behind a gleaming silver sedan. Sam held out his free hand, and the valet dropped two set of keys into them.
“He’s not going to get the cars?” she asked, confused by the circumstances.
Sam handed her the truck’s keys and slipped the others into his jacket pocket.
“I arranged for our cars to be brought around and parked down there.”
“Why?”
“It’s more private. It’s not as if I want an audience when I kiss you good night.”
3
Francesca told herself that a man with a plan was a good thing. She should applaud Sam’s sensible nature. Instead she suddenly felt awkward, nervous, clumsy, and just a little tingly. The odd combination of apprehension and anticipation did not sit well on her baked chicken entrée.
The hand resting on the small of her back propelled her up the street. Sam drew her off the sidewalk, between her truck and his car. She had to admit it was private. And quiet. Very quiet. Voices from the restaurant seemed distant. Somewhere a radio played. The night was warm and clear. Everything was in place and pretty darned perfect—except for her sudden need to throw up.
What had seemed sensible, even funny, when she’d talked with her sisters about having sex with a stranger now seemed insane. What had she been thinking? If she threw herself into the deep end, she was going to end up wet, cold, and quite possible caught up in a riptide. Not that pools had riptides, but still. There were—
Sam took her face in his hands, then bent low and kissed her. Just like that. She was stuck holding her purse and her keys, which meant she had nothing for her hands to do but sort of twist there on the ends of her arms. Real attractive. If she was the least bit—
Long dormant nerves came back to life with a loud yippee. She went from intellectual awareness of what he was doing to actually feeling it in a nanosecond. Sam was kissing her. His warm firm mouth brushed against hers, moving slowly, discovering, touching. She could feel heat, from him and within herself. His long fingers stroked her cheeks, then he dropped his hands to her shoulders. She felt both limp and energized. Nothing could have compelled her to move. She wanted the kiss to go on forever.
He tilted his head and pressed a little harder. Tingling sensations shot through her, making her heart pound harder. For the first time in years she remembered that her breasts were exquisitely sensitive. Her skin tightened everywhere, anticipating the touch of his hands. Hunger filled her and she realized she’d been starving for this kind of intimacy for what felt like three lifetimes.
He stroked her lower lip with his tongue. A shiver rippled through her as delight overtook whatever common sense she might have once possessed. She raised one hand—the one holding the keys—and wrapped her arm around the back of his neck. He was just tall enough that she had to go on tiptoes. Sam responded by pulling her close so that they touched… everywhere.
Hard to her soft. She’d heard the words a thousand times, read them in books, but never before had they made so much sense. Every part of him was hard, solid, and unyielding. Her curves molded around him. She felt soft and feminine. She felt safe. When he licked her lower lip again, she parted to admit him.
At the first brush of his tongue against hers, she felt as if she could fly. At the second, fire consumed her, heating without burning, exciting her to the point of confusion. She couldn’t remember sensations like this. Not when she’d been kissed in the past. She must have been doing something wrong before—or something right this time.
She wanted more. She wanted all of it. She wanted him to kiss her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel and want and need.
She tried to move closer. When that wasn’t possible, she started to kiss him back. Which was when he moved away, forcing her to pull her arm from around his neck.
“Street,” Sam said, stepping back a little.
Francesca stared at him. “Street?”
His gold-brown eyes seemed darker than they had before, and brighter. His lips were damp, making him look even more sexy and powerful. Desire swamped her.
One corner of his mouth turned up. “We’re standing on the street.”
Okay. And that mattered how ?
Then reality sank in. The street. She glanced around and realized there were several houses nearby and cars. People out walking their dogs, patrons from the restaurant.
She swallowed. “You’re right. I guess—”
She stopped talking because she didn’t know what to say. A confession that she’d been overcome by passion would only be embarrassing. If not for him, then for her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
All right? She was perfect. She was so good, she could have started singing opera.
She went for a cool, confident, I-do-this-sort-of-thing-all-the-time smile. “Absolutely.”
She turned toward her truck and headed for the driver’s door. Whatever sophistication she might have faked crumbled when she completely missed the door lock and nearly put the key through the side of her truck.
She felt herself blush. “Oops,” she muttered.
“Francesca?”
She glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing behind her.
“I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon and set up a time for tomorrow night. Will you be in?”
In? She would probably be curled up on the sofa, reliving the best kiss since Kelly McGillis and Tom Cruise did the tongue thing in Top Gun. “Sure. I have to work on my dissertation.”
“I’ll talk to you then.”
She nodded and climbed into the truck. Sam stepped close.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said and carefully closed her door.
She wanted to respond in kind, or say something clever. But her mind was still reeling from the kiss. So she settled on a wave, then she started her engine and pulled out onto the road.
As she drove through the intersection, she began humming a peppy tune from Toscanini.
• • •
Francesca didn’t sleep much that night, and woke with the sun the following morning, so it took half of a second pot of coffee to get her brain functioning.
Once she was able to think in complete sentences, she cleared her tiny kitchen table of a stack of textbooks, grabbed a sheet of notebook paper and sat down to make a list.
There were the usual chores of laundry, grocery shopping—always a challenge with her budget—and vacuuming. Then there was the outline for her dissertation that had been due ten days ago and was yet to be started. Finally there was the thrill of doing her best not to think about Sam, their previous date, their future date, and the impending phone call.
She felt giddy. She felt wonderfully alive and in tune with the cosmos. She felt more than a little stirring low in her belly. Her heretofore silent female bits were currently line dancing in anticipation of rousing activity.
“You don’t actually know he’s going to want to have sex,” she told herself sternly as she poured a fourth cup of coffee. “One kiss does not a physical relationship make.”
True. But it had been an amazing kiss. One that deserved, if not its own national holiday, then at least a stamp.
The way Sam had pulled her close and taken charge. The feel of his mouth on hers. The taste of him, the heat that they’d—
A knock on the door interrupted her musings. Reluctantly Francesca banished her R-rated thoughts and crossed to the door. When she pulled it open, she found Mia, her baby sister, standing on the threshold.
“I came to say good-bye,” Mia said as she stepped into the small apartment. “Do you have coffee? Something for breakfast? I’m starved.”
Francesca laughed. “Anything else in your list of demands? How a
bout money? You want a loan?”
Mia hugged her. “No way. You’re broke.”
On that cheerful note she led the way into the kitchen.
Francesca followed, then leaned against the door frame as Mia poured coffee and added a large splash of milk. She took a sip, then set the mug on the counter and opened the freezer door.
“Did Brenna leave any doughnuts in here?” she asked as she rummaged through a couple of frozen entrées, ravioli sent over by Grandma Tessa, and an emergency pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
“I don’t think so,” Francesca said, then shook her head as Mia held up a foil-wrapped container.
“Don’t you check for stuff like this?” she asked. “Brenna lived with you for almost a month after she and Jeff split up. Didn’t it occur to you that she would have put doughnuts in the freezer?”
“Honestly, no.”
“For someone with a degree in psychology, you sure don’t know your twin.”
Francesca laughed. “I thought she’d take the doughnuts with her.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mia finished unwrapping the Krispy Kremes and slid them onto a paper towel. Then she set them in the microwave and punched in fifteen seconds.
The old machine whirred and shook slightly as it hummed to life. Mia frowned.
“Is this safe? Are we going to get radiation burns from this?”
“I don’t think microwaves use radiation.”
As if not willing to risk any potential danger, Mia took a step back. Francesca grinned.
When the timer beeped, Mia pulled out the paper towel and carried it to the table. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll share.”
“I should hope so. If Brenna left the food in the house, then it’s legally mine.”
Mia grabbed her coffee and pulled out a chair. Despite the relatively early hour on a Saturday, she looked alert and rested. Her big eyes were bright and clear. Her dark hair had been freshly streaked with blond highlights, and for once she wasn’t wearing enough makeup to make a Vegas showgirl proud.
Francesca settled across from her and took one of the steaming doughnuts.
“Where’s your face?” she asked.