Kissing Under the Mistletoe

chapter 2





Regan debated changing her order from a Sangiovese to a shot of Jack. The invitation had specifically said “cocktail attire.” Apparently Oregon’s definition and the Napa Valley’s differed.

It had taken four laps around the lobby, three visits to the ladies’ room, two pep talks, and a partridge in a pear tree for Regan to muster the courage to walk into that ballroom. She’d decided that her simple red sheath wasn’t dressy enough and her heels not name brand enough and was making a beeline for the circular, rotating glass door when she passed the hotel’s Christmas display.

Beautiful crystal ornaments, which told the story of the Twelve Days of Christmas, sparkled under the massive chandelier. Regan’s eyes fell on the partridge ornament, and immediately she thought of Holly and her Christmas tree wish. Swallowing her nervousness, Regan marched into that party, determination locked and loaded.

From the outside, the Napa Grand Hotel looked like your typical high-end boutique hotel: a ten-story, stone-faced structure with marble end casings and ornate windows and doors. Once inside Regan couldn’t decide if she was in a ballroom, a hotel, or on one of the sets from Titanic. And the man in the corner surrounded by security was quite possibly Francis Ford Coppola.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d passed out in a moving box. I was about to send in Search and Rescue,” Jordan said from behind.

Tall, poised, and impeccably dressed, Jordan was the epitome of fashion. Her shoulder-length red hair was sexy in that effortless way Regan had never mastered. To accomplish the same look she would need a gallon of hair products and enough tease to cause permanent scalp scarring.

“Thanks for the gift basket—oh, and the use of your daughter,” Regan said. Jordan had not only come over, welcome basket in hand, which had enough smelly cheeses and Ryo wines to get an entire house of Kappa Gamma Sigma trashed, she had also bribed her teenage daughter, Ava, into babysitting Holly tonight.

Jordan waved a hand, her lips making a raspberry sound. “You have to know what our wine tastes like to really sell it. As for the sitter, you are doing me a favor. This way I know Ava’s new friend”—she threw air quotes around the last word—“isn’t at my house, trying to get into her pants. As far as I’m concerned, she could be your live-in nanny if it means she doesn’t round third before Christmas. Oh, look, the reason we all came.”

A jacketed waiter circled through the crowd with a tray of wine-filled goblets. Jordan removed one and handed it to Regan. “Here, drink this and everything won’t seem so overwhelming.”

“Really?” Regan took a gulp. She didn’t feel any different unless you counted the peppery zing, which woke up her taste buds and tickled her nose.

“No, not really, but it takes the edge off. A few of these and everyone will start to resemble famous people. Or past lovers.”

Regan felt eyes burn through the back of her dress, caress their way down the length of her, and settle on her hips. Twisting her body slightly, she looked over one shoulder.

She couldn’t tell the shape of his lips, the color of his eyes, or even who he was—the distance was too far and her last job hadn’t included eye care in the benefits package. But her nipples apparently had twenty-twenty, because they went into full party mode.

The man shifted slightly, as if he, too, was ready to party. That was a bad sign. Because men did not—repeat, did not—fit into her five-year plan. There was Holly, her career, and creating a home. Period. None of those included the penis-carrying members of society.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t add him to her dream bank, though.

“Quite a sight to behold, isn’t he, dear,” said a woman who looked so regal she could give Queen Elizabeth a run for her money. Her accentuation of the hard consonants and rolling of the vowels screamed Italian origins—as in Italy, not the local pizzeria. The nonchalant way she wore her vintage Armani advertised that she came from old money.

“Excuse me?” Regan asked, but it came out more an apology than a question.

“The gentleman that you are currently ogling,” the woman clarified, her eyes resting proudly on the man in question. “My grandson.”

Regan opened her mouth and stopped. Caught sizing up anyone, let alone someone’s grandson...talk about embarrassing. Should she apologize, deny, or perhaps qualify? Denying would cost her a quarter, qualifying would be even more embarrassing and cause her to say something that would no doubt cost her multiple quarters. Apology it was, then.

“Oh, stop gulping, dear. He’s quite a specimen—takes after my side of the family. With three brothers equally as stunning, I’ve gotten used to women gaping at them in front of me.” Her hands made a wide gesture, encompassing every woman in the room. “He’s a bit too stubborn and way too responsible for his own good, but he has potential. A lovely choice on your part.”

“What most people miss,” Jordan jumped in with a smile that came from speaking of someone you admired and loved, “is that behind that impressive portfolio is an honorable and generous man.” She leaned in and whispered, “With the most impressive package. I mean, look at him. Hands down, best ass in the Valley. If I hadn’t played ballerinas with him as a kid, I would toss him in the nearest stall.”

Regan turned for a better view of the man’s impressive package. But he was gone.

“When Steve left me, I was a wreck. No marketable skills other than managing a house and playing hostess. He took me on as his assistant and—” Jordan paused, collecting herself.

Assistant? As far as Regan knew, Jordan was managing director of Ryo, which, according to Regan’s research, was a female-owned-and-operated company.

Before she could question the information, or the identity of the mysterious man, Jordan spoke. “Let’s just say he made me and Ava feel like part of the family.”

“Well, since I don’t have his naked baby pictures on me to complete this touching moment, why don’t you tell me who this lovely child is?” the older woman said.

“Oh.” Jordan shrugged, totally unfazed by her lapse in etiquette. “This is Regan Martin, marketing guru and appointed savior for Ryo Wines. Regan, this is Chiara Amalia Giovanna Ryo, founder and president of Ryo.”

“You can call me ChiChi, dear.” The older woman extended her arm like royalty. Regan didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. She settled on a shake.

“As soon as I phase myself out of the day-to-day operations at Ryo, you will report directly to ChiChi,” Jordan explained.

During the phone interview, Jordan had explained that she’d been brought on to hire staff and set up operations for the winery. Once the company found its footing, she would take on a smaller role, leaving Regan with plenty of opportunity for lateral growth. It was another aspect that had attracted Regan to the position.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Regan said, still pumping the woman’s hand.

“I was thinking the same thing,” the older woman said with a smile. “And Holly is just precious.”

Jordan must have seen the look of confusion on Regan’s face. “In addition to making a mean Syrah, ChiChi is also the chairwoman of the Community Action Committee, which means she heads up any and all community events and a lot of the arts programs at Holly’s school.”

“Right now we are working on the Christmas musical. And if that busybody PTA will leave me alone, it will be brilliant,” ChiChi said, frowning at a group of ladies standing at the bar wearing entitled gowns and designer attitudes.

“The musical is all Holly can talk about. She was so excited about tryouts, she’s been practicing her purr all day. And she just loves her music teacher...Mrs. Dee? I was afraid when we moved midyear that it would be hard on her, but everyone has been amazing. It really has made the transition so much easier,” Regan gushed, all in one gigantic breath.

She felt like Holly, all big eyes and blabbering on, but she couldn’t help herself; she was talking to the woman who had made this move a success. So she did what she always managed to do in these kinds of situations. She went on. And on.

“I can’t even begin to thank you for recommending Holly. I know how long the wait list for St. Vincent’s Academy is, and after you called them, they moved her to the top, and, well...” Regan forced herself to be quiet, afraid she’d burst into tears. ChiChi had single-handedly gained Holly admission into a school that Regan could never afford—and offered to pay for the full tuition as a benefit of working for Ryo Wines.

“One less vineyard brat to ferment the barrel. And she’s quite the linguist. Most children today can’t even speak one language properly, let alone three. Her grasp of French is remarkable, spoken like a true Parisian, and her Spanish...” ChiChi paused, leaning in to Regan. “You can let go of me, dear.”

Regan released her death grip on the woman and blushed. “My mother made me take French in school and only spoke Spanish at home. I guess I wanted the same for Holly.”

Actually, she wanted more for Holly. Regan’s mother had been 100 percent Mexican, a Spanish-speaking cleaning lady with no degree, no papers, and no identity other than “illegal.” And stubborn to a fault. The only thing Regan inherited from her diplomat French father was a few extra inches, piercing blue eyes, and the understanding that she was unwanted.

Regan was adamant that Holly have a childhood filled with opportunity and roots—and, above all, one where she knew that she belonged.

“Excuse me, but I believe this is our dance,” a deep—she refused to say sexy—voice cut in from behind.

Startled, she whipped around and tried to convince herself that she was not staring down Gabe DeLuca for the second time in less than a week.

His request came off as cordial, but the reprimanding hand shackled around Regan’s wrist was pure a*shole. She pulled back. His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt, but rendering her unable to break free. Furious, she hit him with a look—a hard one.

But it was difficult to appear fierce when facing a mountain of angry testosterone. Gabe wasn’t just angry, he was hot. She hadn’t seen it the other day because she’d been thrown off by his smart-ass smile. She had only ever seen his snarl. And he was snarling now. Even though it should piss her off—which it did—it also made her panties wet.

Okay, time to pull it together, Regan!

She jerked with enough force to disengage her arm, rubbing at the strange tingling left by his fingers and cursing her hormones. That was what happened when young, healthy women avoided men for six years. They went sex-crazy.

“I know she’s exquisite, Gabriel. But you know better than to manhandle a lady,” ChiChi scolded, though she appeared to be smiling at the sparks flying between the two.

Regan wanted to tell the sweet older woman that it was loathing, not lust-inspired sparks, but she was afraid it might be a little of one and a sleigh full of the other.

“I apologize, Nonna.” Gabe smiled—the first honest smile Regan had ever seen from him.

Nonna? Grandmother?

Gabe’s eyes softened and he leaned down and gave ChiChi a kiss on both cheeks, pulling her in for a hug. Regan felt a strange tug of longing watching the obvious flow of affection between the two.

“Jordan, you look gorgeous as always.” Gabe glanced around the room and grinned. “Incredible job tonight. You should be proud.”

Regan blinked. This man who she thought didn’t have a nice bone in his body was actually quite charming, and his fondness for the two women was genuine. What surprised her, though, was the way the women embraced him. It spoke of mutual admiration and heartfelt respect.

Great, the man was admired and endearing.

“I’m surprised to find Miss Martin here,” Gabe continued. “Astonished really.”

“Likewise,” Regan snapped, crossing her arms.

“Careful.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Your eyes are going all shifty. Sure you don’t want the number for that anger management class I told you about?”

“What is wrong with this world? Anger management classes!” ChiChi snapped. “Just the other day Gabriel took me to the market to buy the meat for dinner and some crazy destroyed my car. Santa was thrown through my back window, and they still haven’t found poor Randolph.”

“You mean Rudolph,” Regan casually corrected, going for innocent.

“The rest of the world has Rudolph. St. Helena has Randolph,” ChiChi said as two of her fingers moved from forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder, while mumbling something about the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. “A cardinal sin, I tell you! They should lock that crazy up.”

“I agree,” Gabe said, crossing his arms, which pulled his tuxedo jacket tightly across his chest. A chest that had absolutely nothing to do with the way her mouth went dry. “Don’t you agree, Regan?”

“Yup,” Regan mumbled, polishing off her second glass of wine in one gulp, surprised that Gabe hadn’t ratted her out—and making a mental note to drop a whole roll of quarters into the Dirty Jar.

“You two know each other, then? How interesting,” Jordan said with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Interesting,” Gabe deadpanned. “Regan and I go way back.” His stormy-blue gaze flicked to her hands and back to lock on her eyes, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now about that dance.”





“I’ll sit this one out, thank you though,” Regan replied with a serene smile, in direct contrast to her eat-shit-and-choke-on-it bat of the lashes.

Gabe might have laughed if he hadn’t been scanning the room for his sister. Between Richard’s wayward dick, his sticky fingers, and last year’s grape-ravaging frost, Abigail had had to claw her way back from bankruptcy—fiscally and emotionally. She’d spent the first four years after Richard left in Santa Barbara, avoiding the family, her friends—anyone who knew what had happened, which was pretty much the entire Napa Valley.

Then, two years ago, ChiChi convinced her to go in as partners in a new winery. With ChiChi heading up wine production, Abby designing the winery and handling the build, and a team of amazing women running the day-to-day operations, Ryo would become the only female-run winery in the DeLuca family.

Abby had finally agreed, under the conditions that her name stayed off the paperwork and that she could do the preliminary designs from her house in Santa Barbara. Over the past year, Ryo Wines had become her baby, the project that pulled her through a difficult time in her life.

Tonight was to be Abby’s big moment, her I’m-back-and-stronger-than-ever party. It was her chance to prove to herself, and to everyone else, that she’d recovered from Richard’s blow—it was not going to become a reminder of what a bastard he was.

“Too late for that, don’t you think?” Gabe said. “Besides, they’re playing our song.”

“We don’t have a song.”

“No, but we do have an audience,” he said softly, his eyes going from his grandmother to Jordan and back to Regan, who was now looking panicked.

“A dance,” ChiChi said, clasping her chest. “What a lovely idea. You two go catch up, and I will entertain Isabel.”

Isabel, right. Isabel Stark was blonde, stacked, and the woman ChiChi had blackmailed Gabe into bringing as his date tonight. She was a head of the local PTA, heir to the newest cork empire in the Valley, and had her recently divorced sights set on Gabe, who was not interested in anything other than a good time.

He looked around the room and found Isabel standing by the bar, looking entitled and irritated, right where he’d left her when he’d spotted Regan. At his party. Laughing with his family.

“Thank you, Nonna. And Jordan, remind me to give you a raise. You did a fantastic job tonight.” To avoid his grandmother discovering just who Regan Martin was, Gabe extended an arm. “Shall we?”

When Regan’s eyes met his, they were wide with understanding. Smart girl. She’d pieced it all together. Ryo Wines may not bear the DeLuca name, and he might not be allowed to set foot in their production house because he lacked the right number of X chromosomes, but it was still a DeLuca company. And his employees were loyal to him and his family.

“It was, um, so very nice to meet you, ChiChi.” She set her wineglass on a passing tray and turned to Jordan. “Gabe is right, Jordan. It really is a wonderful party. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a dance.”

Head high, Regan walked right past Gabe and headed straight for the exit. And straight for Abigail.

“Dance floor is this way.” He clasped her arm firmly and led her back to the room, ignoring her protest and the pointy heel digging into his big toe. He’d have thrown her over his shoulder if it meant avoiding a scene.

“What makes you think I’d ever want to dance with you?” She jerked her arm away.

“How about because we are going have a conversation. The one where I remind you how you f*cked over my family, and you promise to waltz your sweet little ass back to Oregon.”

“I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Great, because this is a rumba.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he slid his hand down the exposed part of her back. Shit. She was soft and smelled incredible and was so damn sexy he went hard immediately.

Gabe spun her out and back in, then gently swayed to the music. To anyone else it would appear as though they were a couple enjoying a friendly dance. No one would notice how Regan’s knee rose up within striking distance, her nails digging into his chest, while Gabe’s arms tightened around her like a vise.

Unfortunately, his body couldn’t help but notice her dress, red and silky and hugging every curve. Or the way their bodies brushed against each other. Or that when he looked down he had a damn-near perfect view of black lace and the most incredible cleavage he’d ever seen.

Based on the cold glare coming off Regan, which was enough to freeze his nuts off, she knew exactly what he was staring at. He looked at the walls, the band, anywhere but at her. Not that it helped. The woman smelled like gingerbread cookies and sex, and all he could think about was getting her under the mistletoe three feet away.

“We have to stop meeting like this, Vixen.”

Her eyes narrowed into two rage-induced slits and she opened her mouth. Gabe placed his finger against her lips. “Careful now, it looks like you’re getting ready to say something you’ll regret later.”

She bit his finger, smiling when he jerked his hand back. She wouldn’t be smiling if she knew that his hand wasn’t the only thing that jerked.

“Actually, I was going to say thank you for not ratting me out to ChiChi about the car.” A*shole went unsaid. So did liar, liar, pants on fire. “So if you could please tell her that the crazy lady said she’s sorry. That she didn’t know it was her car.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t be sorry if it had been mine?” He took her in a close embrace, this time sliding his fingers between hers while guiding them even farther toward the back of the ballroom.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Gabe laughed and “Vixen” looked ready to bite again.

“Is this funny to you? Screwing with my life?” Even though she didn’t miss a step, her words came out low and steady and full of fury. “What was your plan, to hook me with some fake job offer, make me leave behind everything I know and love so you could you get me down here and publicly humiliate me? I have a red Sharpie in my purse if you want to draw the letter A on my forehead and get it over with.”

Gabe stopped dancing but didn’t release her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me.” She stepped back, ignoring the couple that nearly toppled over her and the other three who had slowed their pace to listen in. “Look, I get it. You hate me and want to ruin my life. Well, you win, mission accomplished. At least have the balls to own it!”

She patted down her sides as if desperately searching for a pocket. When she came up short she dropped her head back with a dramatic sigh and mumbled something about dirty language and being a lady.

“What are you looking for?”

“A quarter,” she huffed, and Gabe swore she stomped her left foot.

He reached into his pocket and offered her one, but she just stared at it, her shoulders slumping. When she looked up at him, her expression was one of defeat.

“Do you have any idea what your stupid game has done to my life?”

Gabe looked around the ballroom and found everyone staring back. He saw her throat working hard, her eyes blinking rapidly, and—shit!—she was about to cry. He hated when women cried. Especially ones who he was certain were too tough to cry. And especially if he was the a-hole who was the cause of those tears.

“Regan, I swear I had no idea that you were the marketing VP Jordan hired. She told me ChiChi had found the perfect person for Ryo, showed me the mock-ups, and I signed off.”

He’d been so blown away by the proposal that he hadn’t even asked questions. It should have struck him as odd that there wasn’t a name on any of the mock-ups, but it wasn’t his company—wasn’t his call. ChiChi had declared that this was the person she’d chosen to take Ryo to market; Gabe signing off was a mere technicality.

It was also a necessity. Ryo was heading into its first harvest, and they needed a marketing strategy—fast. But he needed his managing director back. Jordan had been on loan to ChiChi for nearly five months, three months longer than the agreed-upon time. Her only goal now was to get Ryo staffed and operating smoothly so that she could get back to what she was paid to do—making his life easier.

“You expect me to believe that out of all of the people who work in the wine and marketing space, I was selected purely on the basis of my talent?” Regan asked.

“And you expect me to believe that you coming to my hometown had nothing to do with screwing with my sister?”

“I had no idea you even lived here. And your people called me, Gabe. Not the other way around. I researched Ryo Wines after my recruiter contacted me with the offer. It was a startup winery, owned and operated by women, and in no way could I tell that it was connected to your family. I would have never accepted the job had I known.” Either she deserved an award or she really was as confused as Gabe, because he almost—almost—believed her. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m still out of a job, and Abigail is once again protected.”

“Yes, you’re fired. And believe me when I say that Abigail will always be protected.”

“Lucky her.” The words were spoken so softly Gabe barely heard them. But he couldn’t miss the look in her eye. It wasn’t anger or envy. It was almost admiration, underscored with longing.

They continued to silently face off as a crowd gathered. It looked as though ChiChi had invited the entire Napa Valley who were now witnessing what appeared to be Gabe making an innocent woman cry.

Regan must have felt the weight of the stares because she straightened her shoulders and, with the best screw-you flick of the hair he’d ever seen, glided toward the back exit, the fabric of her dress hugging that heart-shaped ass with every step. She rounded the bar and disappeared into the hall, leaving Gabe to wonder what had just happened.

She was the one who should be apologizing. So why was he feeling like he’d just told a preschooler that Santa is a lie? That woman was the most confusing person he’d ever met. Whenever he was around her he felt off balance. Which was the only reason he could think of why, after he started chasing her down like some stalker, he found himself apologizing. To her!

“Regan, I’m sorry. There was no master plan to mess with you. It was just dumb luck. We’ve used the same staffing firm before, and there wasn’t any information connecting Ryo to the DeLuca name because ChiChi wanted this to be her and Abby’s thing.” She kept on walking. With her taking three steps for each one of his, he caught up quickly. “Look, to make things easier, you can just drop the keys in the mailbox when you leave town.”

That got her attention.

She stopped and slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Like she’d been crying.

Damn it.

“The keys?”

“To the cottage. You can just drop them in the box.”

At his words, Regan gasped and then took another breath, until she was breathing too fast and too hard. Gabe was doing some heavy breathing of his own, because Vixen was about to hyperventilate and all she kept saying was something about a kitty of her very own.

“Easy there.” He took her by the shoulders and her skin was cold and clammy. Steering her down the hallway, through the back doors and into an open courtyard, he lowered her to an empty bench. The night air was cold, but that wasn’t what was causing her to shake. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her.

“You still with me?” He knelt down and, taking her wrist, pressed two fingers to her pulse. “Regan, I need you to look at me.”

But when those baby blues went blank and her lower lip quivered he regretted asking, because something inside of him hollowed out and he found himself wishing they’d met under different circumstances.

After several long seconds, her breathing slowed and he could almost feel her fight to gain composure.

“You okay?” he asked, feeling her pulse return to normal.

“I think so.” Still a little dazed, she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I would have fallen, so thanks.”

“I think this is the first time we’ve been this close and you haven’t yelled at me or tried to inflict bodily harm,” he teased, keeping a careful watch on her.

“No, it’s not,” she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. “The night we first met.”

She was right. In fact, that night Regan hadn’t spoken at all. She’d only watched him and Richard, her eyes wide and filled with tears as they got into it about Abby. Even as Gabe dragged that cheating ass out of the restaurant, Regan had remained silent.

After he was certain Richard was headed home to face his wife, Gabe had chanced one last look inside the restaurant. Regan sat alone, staring down at a small, unwrapped box, tears streaming down her cheeks, making him feel like the ass.

Kind of like he felt now.

Once again, he reminded himself that it was all bullshit. None of this should be his problem. It wasn’t his fault Regan chose to sleep with a married man or that Richard didn’t have a loyal bone in his body. Except that it was. If it hadn’t been for Gabe, Abby would never have met Richard.

“You think you can stand now?”

“Of course,” she said, lifting her head and easing her hand out from under his. “I understand that the cottage is a perk for the marketing VP, which I no longer am. But could you give me a few days to find a new place?”

“How about next weekend. Is that long enough?”

She merely nodded.

What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to be getting her out of town, not offering her a way to stay longer. Then he took in her position, found himself eye level with the most perfect set of breasts, and blamed everything tonight on his dick.

Keeping her away from his sister for the next seven days would be difficult, but keeping his hands off her would be hell. Which was why, even though he felt like he was kicking a litter of puppies, he said, “It would probably be best if you settled down somewhere else after that. I wouldn’t imagine you’d find living here...well, there won’t be any warm welcome.”

And just like that the fire flickered in her eyes, her shoulders went back, and she stood. Had he not straightened with her, she would have taken him out in the process—and smiled while doing it. Even though she was only about five foot four in heels, she somehow managed to stare down her nose at him.

Sworn enemy or not, this woman drove him crazy, and he feared he was starting to like it.

“Thank you for the extension,” she said, not an ounce of vulnerability visible, making him wonder if she’d faked the entire panic attack to get extra time in the house. “I don’t think you have to worry about my feelings, since I don’t believe any welcome could be crueler than yours.”