Текст книги "Savor"
Автор книги: Monica Murphy
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Savor
Billionaire Bachelors Club – 3
by
Monica Murphy
Chapter One
Matt
“CAN YOU BECOME addicted to someone’s smell?” My voice is nonchalant, my thoughts turbulent. I keep my gaze locked on the woman I’m talking about. The one I think I’m slowly becoming addicted to though my brain is screaming at me that this particular addiction is a huge mistake. Bad for me. Bad for everyone.
Ivy Emerson turns to look at me, her expression incredulous. My friend’s fiancé and the mother of his future child also happens to be one of the best interior designers in all of the Napa Valley and she’s working for me. “Who exactly are you talking about?”
Hell. I actually said that aloud? I didn’t mean to.
We’re sitting in my office, the door wide open, allowing me the perfect view of the outer lobby, where my assistant’s desk is. Bryn James. Miss James, she of the intoxicating scent that makes my head swim and my cock hard.
Also she of the bland wardrobe and quiet ways, meaning she’s not my usual type. So why the attraction? Why does her scent drive me fucking crazy?
It makes no damn sense.
“No one in particular,” I lie with a shrug. Ivy has stopped by to go over the latest invoice for her services. Combine her astronomical costs with Archer Bancroft’s wealth and these two will end up taking over the entire world. Or they’ll just buy it all.
“You’re such a liar,” she mutters, shaking her head. “And you’re also in denial.”
“About what?” Grabbing a pen, I scribble my initials on the invoice as Ivy settles into the chair across from my desk. “Give this to Bryn and she’ll cut the check for you. Do you want it now or would you like to come by and pick it up later?”
Ivy smiles. “You’re also a classic avoider, aren’t you? Ah, men. You’re all the same.”
I frown at her, wondering what she’s referring to now. I’ve known Ivy since she was a teenager, when I became good friends with her brother Gage and her now fiancé Archer. The problem with knowing Ivy for that long is she constantly crosses professional boundaries when we work together. She has no problem telling me exactly how she feels.
Most of the time, like now, I don’t want to hear it.
“Ivy.” My voice lowers, and I glower at her, but she smiles at me as if she thinks I’m one big joke. The woman is completely oblivious. “When do you want your check?”
She waves a hand, the bracelets clasped around her wrist jangling with the movement. “Just drop it in the mail. Bryn will know what to do and where to send it. She’s so efficient, don’t you think?”
“Extremely.” I push the invoice farther across the desk, closer to where Ivy’s sitting, hoping she gets the hint. I’d like her gone, so I can get back to work. Get back to possibly researching if one really could become addicted to another’s scent. I’ve heard about pheromones before.
“She also smells amazing. I’ve asked her before what perfume she uses, but she won’t tell me. I think she wants it to be her secret.” Ivy’s grinning so widely I bet her cheeks hurt.
Damn it. Why the hell did I ask her that question anyway? It just popped out of my mouth without thought, which I’ve been prone to doing lately when I stare at Miss James for too long.
As in, I stop thinking. My brain just shuts down. All I can do is watch and imagine what she might do if I pushed her onto her desk, grabbed hold of her long, dark hair, tugged her head back and kissed her with all the pent-up intensity that’s been brewing within me since she started working for me.
Which is basically the day I first took over the winery. She came along with it. A built-in assistant, just for me. The previous owner had called her a gift.
Quite the tempting gift. One put on this earth—and right outside of my office—to make me freaking crazy with need.
All because of the way she smells.
Oh, and that sexy little voice of hers. The one she doesn’t use much since she’s so damn quiet. And all that hair—hair she keeps tightly bound in a bun or restrained in a sleek ponytail.
There’s something going on under those bland, downright unflattering clothes too. I can tell. I’m not an idiot. She’s hiding breasts and an ass that are probably pretty damn amazing.
Of course, this could all be wishful thinking since I’m still bothered by the fact that I’m attracted to my assistant—my very plain, yet very tantalizing employee.
It makes no damn sense.
“Forget I ever asked that question,” I growl at Ivy, which only makes her laugh.
God, she’s infuriating. I don’t know how Archer can stand her sometimes.
“Don’t be so cranky. It’s okay to admit you have a thing for Bryn.” Ivy leans forward in her chair, a secretive smile curling her lips. “I have a feeling she has a thing for you too, you know.”
I do know. And I can’t act on it. Bryn James works for me. She’s my assistant. She’s by my side constantly; we spend more time with each other than probably anyone else in our lives, especially lately what with the winery’s grand reopening approaching. She’s a representative of my business. If I were to fuck around with the help and the relationship fell apart, I’d be in huge trouble. She could screw me over financially every which way by suing me for sexual harassment and I’d be left with a limp dick in my hand and a ruined business.
Yeah. Not going to take the chance. Saw it happen with my father. Not going to let it happen to me.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing can happen.” I send Ivy a stern look. “And this conversation can never leave this office.” Glancing over her shoulder, I try to see if Bryn is at her desk but the chair is empty.
Thank Christ.
Ivy’s expression goes solemn and she holds up three fingers. “This conversation stays here. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout,” I mutter, afraid she’s making a promise on an untruth. She’ll probably just blab to everyone. Or specifically Archer and Gage. I don’t need to hear their shit.
And I am worrying way too much over this.
She laughs again. “I won’t say a word, I promise. But I need to tell you something, Matt.” She leans in close, her voice dropping. “She’s got a major crush on you. You might not see it but it’s there—sounding in her voice, shining in her eyes, every time she looks at you, talks about you. The way her body turns into yours every time the two of you are together . . . it’s pretty obvious. A body language expert would have a field day with you two.”
Body language expert? What the hell is Ivy talking about? “I have no idea what you’re referring to, but office crushes are just that. Crushes. Harmless attractions no one ever acts on. Period. End of story.”
This is what I keep telling myself. I can’t pursue anything with Bryn, no matter how much I’m tempted to. Not only would it be wildly inappropriate, dating my assistant, but we come from two different worlds. She seems nice and normal, quiet and unobtrusive, and I am anything but. My life has been a circus sideshow for years.
“I get it. You’re trying to do the right thing, and I admire that. So, of course you don’t see anything beyond an efficient assistant in Miss James.”
Well. Ivy’s not too far off the mark. When I first met Bryn, she hardly said two words, kept her head bent when I spoke to her and offered lots of yes-sir and no-sir answers. She had this way of almost blending in with the walls, like she didn’t want anyone to notice her.
So I didn’t.
As we got comfortable working together though, something happened. I’m thinking Ivy had a hand in Bryn’s slow transformation. She actually makes eye contact when she speaks to me, and she’s become somewhat animated. Started to wear bolder colors as well, drawing my attention to her chest though I keep my eyes averted as best I can.
These subtle changes made me notice all of the little things—like the color of her eyes (blue), how her hair looks (like silk and I want to touch it), and the tempting fullness of her lips (they’re fucking spectacular).
Her gaze lingers when she looks at me and sometimes so does mine. Her smile softens, her voice drops lower when she speaks, sparking my imagination. Would she sound like that right before I kissed her? Took off her clothes? Took her to my bed?
Yeah. All of those are dangerous thoughts. I almost prefer the old Miss James. The one who was like the wallpaper—boring and nondescript. Mean to say, but hell, the last thing I need is a distraction.
And she’s become the biggest distraction I’m currently facing. The very last one I need.
“She’s a great assistant. That’s it. Stop trying to make something out of it that it’s not,” I say, sounding like an irritable old man.
“Oh, come on. You can admit you’re attracted to her. You won the bet, Matt—fair and square.” Her eyes sparkle. “Give in now and Gage and Archer can’t give you any grief over it.”
“I think you just like giving me shit,” I tell her.
The million-dollar bet—like I’ve collected anything from either of those asshole friends of mine who owe me five hundred thousand each. When we were at a friend’s wedding reception almost a year ago, they’d readily agreed to my suggestion, like fools. I’d proposed that the last single man standing would win one million bucks. It had started out as a joke. I figured Archer and Gage would be the last guys to fall in love, especially Archer. I never believed they’d take me or the bet seriously.
But surprisingly enough, they did. And I started to realize that I had them.
Archer had gone first. Gage fell right after him. They hadn’t been able to hold out for even six months. Hell, Archer ran out the very night we made the bet and hooked up with Ivy.
Crazy. It’s like the bet spurred them on to find a woman and fall in love.
Ivy’s laughter pushes me from my thoughts, and I glance up to find her standing, snatching the invoice from my desk and clutching it in her hand. “I do like giving you shit. And I should go. It was lovely as ever to spend a few minutes in your company, Mr. DeLuca. Can’t wait to see you next week when we start putting everything together for the reopening.”
“See ya,” I toss out, but she’s already gone, escaping my office and dropping the invoice off on Bryn’s desk before she disappears completely from view.
I lean back in my chair, scrub my hand across my jaw, the scruff on my face abrading my palm. I need a shave. I need a fucking vacation. I’ve been doing nothing but work, work, work, since I picked up this winery on a whim.
I thought it would be fun. Something different. I’d been looking for something to do after my spectacular demise from the National Baseball League.
I’d spent my formative years on a baseball field. I lived and breathed that shit and turned it into a career. I’d planned on lasting much longer than my father ever had. Planned on having a better career than he did too.
That had all come crashing down when I was running backward on the field, ready to catch a fly ball and fucking tripped. On what, I can’t even remember. My own feet? No one could figure it out.
All I know is I was on top of the world, practicing for a big game, and then I was in the hospital ready to be put under for extensive knee surgery.
My career was over and I’d only played eight seasons. My entire life had changed completely, and I was at a loss as to what I should do next.
Archer kept trying to encourage both Gage and me to come to the Napa Valley. And once I was pushed into early retirement, I decided to go on the hunt for an interesting investment and possible distraction.
Within days, I found it—an established winery that had once been the pride of the area and had fallen on hard times when the patriarch died. The winery was in foreclosure. Before it went to a bankruptcy auction, I scooped it up for a song.
And found myself with a handful of employees—including one Miss Bryn James—looking at me as their personal savior.
Turned out the problem hadn’t been the employees or the wine that was produced. It was the squandering of money on the part of the eldest son who’d taken over and spent lavishly on everything and nothing. He’d bled the company and his family’s coffers completely dry—left it to flounder with lackluster marketing, dated labeling, and no projected plan for the next six months, let alone the next five years.
The place had been destined to fail.
So I snapped up the property, slapped my name on it and the DeLuca Winery was born. I’ve worked these past months nonstop, preparing for the grand reopening. The majority of the locals, especially the local vintners, think I’m a joke. That I’m the big, bad, and early retired baseball player Matthew DeLuca coming into town and playing like I know how to own a winery. Like I came here looking for a hobby and the winery is it.
They’re sort of right, not that I’d ever admit it.
I want to prove them wrong. I want to show them I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. I want respect. Unlike my father, who’d held respect in his hands time and again and then crushed it until it disintegrated into dust.
I’m nothing like him. He’s a joke. The public tried to make me out to be a joke too. And they probably will again. I need to prove once and for all that just because I’m Vinnie DeLuca’s son, that doesn’t mean I’m just like him.
That’s why I need to stay far away from Miss James. She’s sweet, but she’s a female who works for me. And that could cause all sorts of trouble.
Trouble I absolutely do not need.
Bryn
I SETTLE IN behind my desk, grabbing the invoice Ivy left and add it to my stack of things I need to do before I leave for the day. Lately I don’t make my escape until past six, but today I have a feeling I’m going to stay even longer.
With the grand reopening happening in little over a week, there’s still so much to do. Plus I guess I need to make some time to go shopping this weekend with Ivy and find a dress. Not that Matt doesn’t pay me well, but I really can’t afford such a splurge, especially on a dress I’ll probably only wear once before I shove it into the back of my closet.
Still, I want to look my very best for Matt—as a representative of the DeLuca Winery of course.
Of course. It doesn’t matter that you think he’s so gorgeous your head spins every time he looks in your direction. Or when he flashes that smile. Or when you spend time in his office, just you and him, working together, his voice a low murmur, his clean masculine scent lingering in the air, driving you wild. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Like maybe he wants to slowly strip your clothes off and run his hands all over your bare skin. Followed up by his mouth.
Sighing, I hang my head, staring at my keyboard before me. Having the hots for my boss is just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done plenty of stupid things in the past.
I roll my eyes and start typing. Even my thoughts go round in circles. I make no sense in my head, worrying about the going-nowhere crush on my boss. So how can I ever make sense when I’m talking to Matt? I get around him and my brain literally short circuits. He approaches my desk, and I feel a little dizzy. He smiles at me, and my heart skips about five beats.
What’s worse? I’ve gone down this road before. And not only a crush; I let my former boss chase me around his desk a couple of times, his quick hands grabbing my ass. My breasts. I’d slapped him away but giggled. Then I’d gone and let him kiss me.
A lot.
Then I found out he had a wife and children and, oh my God, I’d wanted to die. I quit the very next day. I’d been all of nineteen, scared out of my mind and afraid his wife would come after me. And with just cause, since I kissed her husband. How could I do such a terrible thing? What was wrong with me?
You were born with that pretty body and that gorgeous face, my grandma told me long, long ago. It will bring you nothing but trouble girl. Y’all are too pretty for words.
I grimace, my fingers poised over the keyboard in mid-tap. Great. Now my grandma is haunting my thoughts. But those words she said—and what happened with my old boss—are the reason I began downplaying my looks. My face caused me so much trouble.
When I was a little girl, the known pervert who lived in the trailer three spots down tried to drag me into his car. I’d done what my mama always told me to do if someone ever tried to snatch me up—I spit in his face and ran away.
And when I was in high school and three jocks from the football team cornered me in the empty gymnasium, shoved me to my knees and were ready to take turns using my services—by sticking their dicks in my mouth—until their coach found us and told them to get lost. No one ever talked about it again.
That had been the absolute scariest moment of my life, beyond the town pervert.
So when my former sweet-talking boss worked his magic charms and somehow I found myself kissing him with all the pent-up desire of a naive, nineteen-year-old girl who’s read too many romance novels, it’s no surprise that my silly dreams were crushed in an instant.
My silly dreams were always crushed. And the one thing that always got me in trouble was my too-pretty face.
I moved away, left Texas and headed for California, the land of dreams and fortune. I tried my best to stick it out in Hollywood, thinking if I had the looks, I may as well try and use them.
Instead, I realized quickly I was one of a bazillion pretty faces. I nabbed one local commercial for a TV station that only aired during late night programming. I posed at a couple of car shows in a bikini and had to slap at all the men’s grabby hands when they tried to rub my thigh or pinch my butt.
Dejected, I started searching online for a job. Any job, anywhere, I didn’t care, I just wanted out of Hollywood. Yet again, my dreams were smashed into bits. No one wanted to give me a job unless I had sex with them. Or gave them a blow job. For some reason they all wanted blow jobs.
Perverts.
Finally I came across a help-wanted ad on Craigslist for a personal assistant in the Napa Valley. That would get me out of Hollywood but keep me in California so I wouldn’t have to return home and hear how everyone thought I was an epic failure.
So I transformed myself. I got the job and started wearing no makeup, pulled my hair into a bun or ponytail and found a new wardrobe that consisted of neutral-colored, downright baggy clothing. I was a shadow of my former self. I was quiet. And I was a damn good worker.
Unfortunately, the previous owner of the winery was a terrible boss.
When he lost all his money and the property went into foreclosure, I thought for sure I’d have to return to my dusty hometown, the place where dreams went to die. I’d started packing my bags, looking for a way to sell what little furniture I had in my crap apartment that I could barely afford when my very own personal hero came into my life and changed it forever.
Matthew DeLuca.
The sexy-as-hell former pro baseball player was forced into retirement with a career-ending knee injury. With his movie-star good looks and the easygoing smile, he walked into the building and declared in that deep, rumbly voice of his—the one that stirs my body to life every time I hear it—that he was going to change our lives for the better.
And he did.
Not only did he give us all the back pay that our former employer cheated us out of when the last few paychecks started bouncing, he gave all employees of the Chandler Winery, now under the name DeLuca, a raise and then asked if we wouldn’t mind working a bit of overtime the next few months in preparation for the winery’s reopening.
He didn’t have to ask any of us twice. We were more than willing to do whatever it took to make our new boss happy. And to put more money in our pockets.
Not only did Matt save my life, he was also a good boss. Fair, intelligent, generous, he pushed me hard to want to perform at the best of my ability. And he didn’t try and chase me around his desk so he could steal a kiss.
Though I wish sometimes he would.
“Miss James, could you prepare an updated list of who will be attending next week’s party?”
Matt’s crisp, business-like tone shakes me from my thoughts, and I glance up to find him standing in front of my desk, a concerned expression etched into his features. His brow is wrinkled, his head tilted to the side, as if he’s trying to figure out exactly what’s wrong with me.
Certainly can’t tell him that he’s what’s wrong with me, now can I?
“Yes sir.” I give him a close-lipped smile, my new standard since my old one was bright and toothy and caused way too many problems. Gave men the wrong impression.
“You have plans to attend, correct?” One dark brow rises as he waits for my answer.
My mouth goes dry, I lick my lips, and notice the way his gaze falls to my mouth for the briefest moment before he looks me in the eye once more. “Correct,” I say, mimicking him. I need to be there to make sure everything goes well. Even though I’m beyond intimidated to even show up.
What if . . . what if he brings a date? I’ll be devastated. I’ll have to pretend everything’s fine and carry on with my job, but inside, I’ll die a little.
Which is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“Good.” He nods once. “I need you there.”
“I’ll be there,” I say weakly, thankful I’m sitting down since my knees feel a little wobbly. Heaven help me, I like the fact that he said he needs me there.
That he needs me.
“Thank you.” Matt nods once and heads toward the doorway that leads outside. “I’ll be out in the orchard. Text me if you need me.”
“Will do. And have fun,” I call to him, my gaze dropping to his jean-clad backside. He’d dressed casually from the very start, considering he spent much of his time out in the vineyards, learning what it took to produce a quality grape that would, in turn, produce a quality wine. He wears jeans and button-down shirts that he often rolls up to the elbow, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that make my mouth water.
On occasion, he shows up in a suit. Usually when he has a meeting at the office with someone important. An investor, a wholesaler, and the like. Those days are the worst. My concentration is shot. The man can fill out a suit like no other. Those wide shoulders and broad chest, the dark hair that’s a little longish in the back—a throwback to his baseball playing days, I swear. His thick, brown hair waves at the ends in the most appealing way. As in, always making my fingers itch to comb through it.
I barely restrain myself. The man is like a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted. Not only hopelessly, I’m happily addicted. It’s ridiculous, how much I think about him.
But he doesn’t seem to think about me whatsoever.
My cell phone rings, and I see that it’s Ivy, so I answer. I don’t like taking personal calls at work. Not that Matt’s ever said anything, but it doesn’t feel right.
And not that I get a bunch of personal calls. I don’t have a lot of friends since I’m still relatively new to the area. I don’t have a boyfriend because men are nothing but trouble, and my grandma certainly never calls me. She acts like I don’t even exist most of the time.
“You must come shopping with me this Saturday,” she declares when I answer.
Dread sinks my stomach to my toes. I wanted to. I let her talk me into it. But the more I’ve thought it over, the more I’ve realized I can’t afford the places she shops at. She’s loaded. I am definitely not. “Ivy, I appreciate you wanting to take me out, but I really can’t spend too much money on the dress,” I explain to her turning my chair, so I can stare out the window that faces the nearby vineyards.
I can see Matt out there, talking to the field manager, his hair gleaming in the sunlight, his white button-down stretched across his shoulders in the most appealing manner. “I’m going to hit up Ross or someplace,” I go on. “That’s more the price range I’m looking at for this.”
“You are so not going to Ross.” Ivy sighs, sounding completely bent out of shape. “I have a plan and you’re a part of it so you must come shopping with me. And I’m bringing a friend. You’ll adore her. She’s my brother’s girlfriend and she’s a total sweetheart.”
Great. I know Ivy’s brother Gage Emerson is a high-powered real estate hotshot who helped Matt find the winery in the first place. He’s rich and gorgeous. Just like Matt. Just like Ivy’s fiancé, Archer Bancroft.
And then there’s me, little ol’ Bryn James from Cactus, Texas who grew up in a doublewide and was dirt-poor my entire life. I shed my skin like the snakes that lived beneath our mobile home and started a new life. Here, in California, the Golden State.
Some of the gold’s become tarnished since I got here but it’s nothing a little polish can’t fix.
“Sounds—”
“Like your worst nightmare?” Ivy laughs while I sit there in shock. How did she know? “I like you, Bryn. A lot. And I think you like me too.”
“I do,” I say automatically, sounding like a robot.
Ivy laughs harder. “You just need to . . . loosen up. You’re too uptight. Do you have any friends? A boyfriend? Do you ever wear a color besides brown or tan?”
“Hey.” My feelings are hurt even though all Ivy’s saying is the truth. “I bought those bright tops at the Gap last month on your recommendation.”
“I know. And I’m proud of you for making the effort. But you need more color, Bryn. You’re so pretty—and don’t deny that you are because trust me, you so are. Let’s do your hair or take you for a makeover or something.” Ivy pauses. “Please? It’ll be my treat.”
“No way. Uh-uh. I don’t want your charity.” I turn away from the window and focus on my computer screen, my vision going blurry. Usually when someone wants to do something nice for you, they always expect something in return.
At least, that’s what always happens to me.
“It’s not charity, I promise. I just . . . I’ll explain everything to you on Saturday. We could all meet for lunch, I’ll tell you everything, and then we’ll shop around downtown. How does that sound?”
Like a nightmare. Like a handout. I should say no. I don’t want to feel beholden to anyone. Bad enough I feel that way toward my boss. I owe him so much and he hasn’t a clue.
I don’t want Ivy to feel like she has to take care of me either. So embarrassing.
“Just say yes, Bryn. Come on.” Ivy’s tone is cajoling, and I give in because I’m a weak suck, and I can’t help myself.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But I have final say on everything, okay? All the shopping options and whatnot,” I tell her, my voice firm.
“Yay! You won’t regret this, I swear.” I can literally hear the excitement in her voice. Maybe this shopping excursion means more to her than I originally thought. “Oh, and Bryn?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell Matt about this shopping trip okay?”
“Oookay.”
Well.
That was weird.
