He mumbled a curse and flipped another page, vaguely aware that hours had passed and he hadn’t left the room or eaten. All he’d done was go through this mountain of spreadsheets and contracts, trying to fill his brain with numbers, profits, investments, results, and business. Because that way, he didn’t have to feel anything.
Wiping his hands over his face, he pushed back from the desk and glanced at the still unmade bed. He could throw himself on those pillows and feel plenty. He could pick up the scent of sex from the night before, inhale a woman he wanted with every fiber of his being, and fall into those Post-it Note blue eyes and feel.
He could call her and get her back here, really convincing her that he had no intention of selling the winery. He hadn’t told her forcefully enough. She didn’t believe him, but he would prove it to her. Prove that he cared.
He didn’t know how that happened so fast, only that it did. He cared.
A low-grade hum of fear buzzed through him at the thought, and instinctively, he moved back to the desks and documents. James didn’t think about it, but when the ache of feeling something threatened, there was only one thing to do: work.
When had that started, he suddenly wondered. When had his muscle memory formed so that anything that made him uncomfortable could be erased with the business of business instead of the business of feeling?
He knew exactly when. Weeks after Mom died, when he’d assumed the job of running that crew and Dad went from a busy guy to a workaholic. When Colin Brannigan finally left his office and came home to the ranch at nine, ten, eleven o’clock at night, six of his seven sons had already crashed. Only James stayed up, having cleaned up the mess of cookies and games and toys left by his brothers. He’d wait to give his daily report, sitting dutifully in front of his father, watching the old man pour a Bushmills 21. Many nights Dad would vent or share some problem, likely because he had no one else to talk to after his beloved best friend had been buried.
James became a young employee and a substitute ear for Colin to fill, and he credited those years with building his appreciation for the fine art of replacing life with work. Those years taught him how to shove feelings into a file drawer and focus on a good, solid accounting of profits and orderly agendas.
He wove his fingers into his hair and dragged his hand over a head that ached from lack of sleep and food. Again, on instinct, he returned to the papers, and to that one in particular that was bothering him.
He’d already put two calls into Hayward’s office to let him know the Whitehouse Wineries deal was dead, and was frustrated at being told the business manager wasn’t around. He hadn’t had Hayward on his payroll that long, bringing the man in for the exclusive job of managing certain off-the-mainstream assets, primarily this winery.
The guy should be thrilled with James’s news; he’d keep his job longer. If James had sold to Whitehouse, he might have had to let Hayward go. So why didn’t he take James’s call? He tried again, got the admin with excuses, and flipped through the documents. His gaze settled on the list of distributors, including one named Blue Key Distribution, the one that had to be a US-based company.
Frowning, he remembered asking about that because he knew Villa Pietro wine wasn’t distributed in the US. That was one of the “opportunities” that had attracted Whitehouse Wineries. Had Hayward answered? Of course, James didn’t know because he’d spent days wrapped up in Kyra Summers and not paying attention to his business.
Stupid.
But Blue Key Distribution was an American company. That might be the perfect place for Kyra, so at least she might still be connected to the wine industry, and she’d be closer to him.
He grunted at how pathetic he was. Grasping at straws to find ways to make her leave the place where she was so happy. Why would he even think that? Still…
He tapped his laptop screen and Googled the distribution company, which was based out of New Jersey. New Jersey? So close to Manhattan, a little voice in his head said. And this company was…currently out of business.
What? He clicked through some more, but there it was. Blue Key Distribution had closed down a year ago. Then why was it still showing as a line item on his spreadsheet? And why was money being sent to them?
Someone at Villa Pietro was paying a regular fee to that company, he realized. Sorting through more documents, he found pages of inventory, assets, and accounts payable. There it was, thousands of dollars to BKD, which had to be the same company. A distribution company.
That fell into Bruno’s area.
His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it, grateful to see William Hayward’s name. “You’re not going to believe what I found,” James said as he accepted the call.
“You’re not going to believe what I found,” the other man shot back.
“Someone is embezzling from Villa Pietro.”
Hayward went silent for a beat. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Possibly. Look into payments to a company called Blue Key Distribution and find out where they’re coming from and who’s writing the check and where they’re getting deposited.”
“I will, but let me tell you what I’m holding in my hands.”
“What?”
“A second offer. Cana Hills Wines just came in at double the price Whitehouse offered.”
James dropped back on the chair. “Son of a bitch.”
“When it rains, it pours, my friend. They are Whitehouse’s biggest competitor, and they want an Italian presence now.”
“I’m not accepting that.”
“Oh hell, I knew you’d say that, Mr. Ethical. And I know I told you we can’t get out of the Whitehouse offer, but I’ve already got a call in to them to start a bidding war. Are those not your two favorite words?”
“Not exactly. Listen, I’m not taking either offer.”
He hooted. “You want more? Of course you do. You’re James Brannigan.”
James cringed.
“Fine,” Hayward said, the thrill of the deal making the man a little too enthusiastic. “I’ll open up the offer again, but we have to move fast. Cana Hills is looking at another winery about six miles away from you this week. If you accept, they won’t even go on the trip.”
“Let them. I’m not—”
“Hang on, hang on, hang on. Oh yes. Whitehouse on the other line. This could take a little bit of dancing, but I’m all over it. I’ll call you when we have a final offer.” Hayward disconnected before James could finish his sentence.
He texted Hayward instead, making it clear he had no intention of selling the winery. Period.
Sighing, he put down the phone and stood up to shower and dress because he had some business of his own to attend to.
An hour later, when James stepped off the Eden Roc shuttle bus outside the gate of the Villa Pietro, his gaze shot immediately to the thick branches of the tree that hung over the path, easily spotting the two undersized guards who protected the property.
When the bus rumbled away, James waited for their high-pitched screech of his name, the swing of a seven-year-old like a little Tarzan, and the full-body bulldozer of a four-year-old’s greeting that would nearly knock him over.
But Nico and Gianni didn’t move.
He rattled the gate, surprised to find it unlocked, and let himself in. As he walked under the tree, he looked up, noticing how still the boys were as they stared down at him.
“Anyone home?” he asked, fighting a smile and bracing for falling children.
“You sell us, Brannigan.”
Did he hear that right? His heart fell harder than any child hanging from a tree. She’d told them. She’d told them all, even the littlest Sebastianis. He opened his mouth to tell them they were wrong, but closed it again. They wouldn’t understand, and it was Lorenzo who deserved the explanation. Lorenzo and Kyra.
He pointed up at them with a playful warning. “I’m going to be on the bocce court later.” Unless they kicked him out. “Who can beat me?”
He waited for Nico?
??s loud cry or Gianni’s youthful swagger, but neither of them said a word.
He closed his eyes and headed toward the main house, knocking on the screen door that led into the kitchen. “Nonna?”
The smack of dough on a hard surface was all he heard. No answer to his call. Was the old lady giving him the silent treatment, too? “Nonna?”
The only answer was a muttering in Italian that he suspected was one of many Hail Marys she was reciting. He suspected she wasn’t praying for him.
He backed away and rounded the house to the entrance that led to the cellars, pulling the heavy door and stepping down toward the limestone corridor. Men’s voices, all Italian, floated up to him, and as he rounded the corner, he cleared his throat to let them know he was there.
Antonio and two of his winemakers looked up from a flatbed of oak barrels and froze.
For a long moment, no one spoke, and James suddenly felt completely and totally out of place. “I was, uh, looking for Kyra,” he said, the first thing that came to mind.
Antonio lifted a shoulder. “We are preparing a shipment, Signor Brannigan. Very busy.”
In other words, get lost.
He backed away, sensing this wasn’t the time or place to announce there had been a misunderstanding. Anyway, there hadn’t been a misunderstanding; there’d been a lie of omission when he hadn’t told them his original plans.
Outside, he took one of the paths that led toward the three stone houses, coming up on a very pregnant Sofia hanging clothes on a line. After clipping a sheet, she paused, rubbing her back and her stomach, letting out a soft moan.
The image was so earthy and moving that he had to stand there for a moment and watch. The delicious scents of lemons mixed with salty, clean air permeated everything, even his heart. The young Italian country woman moving slowly, thick with child and close to delivery, was like some kind of Renaissance painting come to life.
She turned suddenly, sensing him there. “What is it?” she asked in halting English, her breath catching like she was in pain.
“Are you okay, Sofia? Do you need help?”
“No. No help. I’m fine.” She scooped up an empty basket and waddled toward the house.
He shook his head, once again feeling like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. But he owned the place, damn it.
But not the family. He didn’t own the soul of Villa Pietro. All he had was a piece of paper and some valuable land, and the profits from a small winery. None of that was what made Villa Pietro magic.
As Sofia reached the door, she turned back to him. “Try the lemon grove,” she said.
James frowned, not sure he understood.
“The lemon grove.” She pointed to the other side of the winery, rubbing her protruding belly with a frown. “Kyra is there.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
He wasn’t going to get anywhere at Villa Pietro unless he had Kyra with him. She might as well own the place, not him. He walked toward the lemon grove he’d visited with Kyra, planning exactly what he’d say to her when he got there.
Please forgive me, it was my mistake, let’s kiss and make up and get back to where we were.
How hard could that be? Pretty damn hard if she responded as coldly as the others were.
He reached the edge of the grove and peered into the thick trees. He heard her before he saw her, the sound of her voice already familiar and wonderful to him.
Who was she talking to?
He took a few stealthy steps forward, spotting her on the ground under the tree his parents had claimed for their own. She was on her back, her legs straight up the tree trunk, crossed, her feet bare. She stared up as if challenging one of those fat lemons to fall on her face.
And she talked.
He took a few more steps, about to announce himself when her words reached him.
“Attachments are the issue, aren’t they, Colin?” she asked the air.
Colin? She was…talking to his dad?
“That’s what hurts people, in the end,” she said. “A broken attachment. It’s like this branch attached to the tree, getting life from it until…” She reached her arms up and snapped a twig she held. “It breaks and dies.”
He just stared at her, silent.
“That’s why attachments terrify me, Colin.”
Me, too, lemondrop.
“And yet, that’s all I want in the whole world. Someone I can count on forever, someone who will put me first, someone who will never break the attachment.”
Uncertainty and hope crashed in his chest like two mighty rogue waves trying to discount each other. Could she ever count on him like that? Could he count on her?
She let her arm fall with a thud.
“So, what do you have to tell me, Mr. Brannigan? What should I do?”
James stepped forward. “You should talk to the living Mr. Brannigan, for starters.”
She whipped her legs down and shot up with a soft gasp. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” He looked up into the tree. “Seeing ghosts?”
Color deepened her cheeks. “I needed someone to talk to.”
His heart cracked like the twig she’d just snapped. “Talk to me.” He closed the space between them and folded right down next to her. “Always talk to me.”
She pushed some stray hairs off her face. “Why did you come here?”
He inhaled and let out a long sigh. “I came to tell your family that I’m not selling the winery, but no one wants to talk to me.”
The shadows of her dimples showed she was fighting a smile. “Honey, they’re not my family.”
“You know what I mean.”
“But they’re not, although they will welcome that news. But, I can’t go on pretending that they are. I need to leave, James. I need to pack up and move on and do what I do, which is not stay anywhere long enough to grow a root. This is not my home, no matter how badly I want it to be.”
“Come to New York. Be with me.”
Her eyes flared for a minute. “James.”
“Okay, too soon. But maybe don’t decide anything for a while?”
Her shoulders sank with relief. “I can’t leave when there’s a shipment, and tours next week, and Sofia could have her baby any day now. I don’t want to miss that.”
He took both of her hands in one of his. “I’ll stay for a while and you stay for a while and let’s see where that takes us.”
She held his gaze, her blue eyes locked on his. “What if it takes us nowhere?”
“What if it takes us somewhere neither one of us has ever been before?” Her eyes shuttered closed as if the suggestion hit somewhere too tender. He pulled her closer. “Please give me a chance to prove myself to you.” He glanced up the tree. “It’s what my dad would tell you to do.” He eased her closer and pressed his lips to her ear. “And my mom.”
He felt her smile against his cheek. “I was just going to ask her next.”
“Kyraaaaaaaaaaaa!”
They broke apart at the shriek that cut through the silence of the grove, turning to see Nico and Gianni running toward them, wild-eyed.
“Il bambino, il bambino, il bambino di Sofia!”
“Sofia’s baby is coming.” Kyra pushed up and yanked James with her. “We have to go!”
He didn’t argue but scooped Nico into his arms, and each of them took one of Gianni’s hands, then they all hustled back to the family.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time Kyra got back from the hospital, it was nearly midnight and there still wasn’t a baby. Not a single Sebastiani would leave until there was, though, so Kyra decided to go back and spell James, who had graciously agreed to stay with Nico and Gianni while the entire crew went to the hospital.
She tiptoed into Filippa and Enzo’s living room and found the three of them passed out on the sofa. Nico had his head on James’s lap. Gianni was curled under his arm. An unfinished board game was on the table in front of them, along with a selection of snac
ks that told her the kids had done the choosing.
James’s head was back, his mouth slack with sleep.
For a long, achy moment, she stared at the sight and let her poor, tired heart imagine. What would it be like to come home and find this man and a couple of amazing sons crashed after a night of fun and games? She actually couldn’t think of a word that could describe something that amazing, but the longing for it clutched at her belly.
Suddenly, James’s head shot up, and his eyes popped open. It took a millisecond for him to get his bearings. “Baby?”
The question damn near folded her in half. “Not yet. But close. I came to relieve the sitter.”
“We’re…” He started to move his arm but froze when he realized it would wake Gianni. Instead, he slowly repositioned himself, sliding his arm out of place without disturbing the child. Then he put his hands under Nico’s head and slipped out from under him, grabbing a pillow for the sleeping child’s head.
And Kyra had to stifle an audible swoon.
James put his fingers to his lips and came around the snack- and game-laden table to reach for her. Taking her in his arms, he whispered in her ear, “I played Gioco Dell’Oca for four straight hours.”
“The goose game?”
“You are looking at a spectacular goose player right here. Although, I let Nico win, because, you know.”
She knew. She leaned back, hating that her eyes stung, but too tired to fight it. “You had fun.”
“That would be what they call it.”
A billionaire playing the goose game…and liking it. “It’s a breakthrough.”
He kissed her forehead. “They’re great kids, in any language.”
“You’re a great…” She almost said father. “Guy for helping us out in a pinch.”
“No problem. Is Sofia okay? Everything normal?”
She nodded. “Just first-baby slow. Thank you for staying with the boys. It meant the world to me to be there tonight, and I would have stayed with the kids if you hadn’t been here.”
“Did you tell everyone?” he asked. “Did you tell them I’m not selling the winery?”
“I did. And they are relieved and happy and…” They all want us to get married. She tamped down that particular truth, because it would ruin the perfection of this quiet, somehow intimate moment.