Kissing Under the Mistletoe

chapter 3





“Wait? She’s still here?” Marco asked, resting his pool stick against the wall and dropping onto the nearest bar stool. Gabe’s middle brother could barely hold his head up and his eyes were bloodshot. Gabe felt for the guy—he’d recently sunk all of his money into renovating a local hotel. Whereas Marc’s sleepless nights came from having more sweat equity than the liquid kind, making it a slow and risky venture, Gabe’s stemmed from one fiery brunette with exotic eyes who seemed damn set on ruining his life.

Gabe faced down his brothers over the green felt top of the pool table and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s still here.”

That was the reason all four DeLuca brothers had decided to meet here, at the plaster-sealed wine cave that sat smack in the side of a mountain and doubled as the town’s watering hole.

The Spigot was the only place in St. Helena that served something out of the tap, and since it wasn’t off the main highway, tourists didn’t know it existed. It was loud and dirty and a cash-mandatory, shoes-optional kind of place. And it fit his mood perfectly right about now. Because they needed to come up with a plan—fast.

“I talked to Rocco over at Chiappa Vineyards. Regan interviewed there yesterday.”

“And?”

“And the position was no longer available.” Gabe leaned down and broke. Not a single ball went in.

“Your game is crap.” Trey, the youngest brother, aimed and shot. The one ball went in the right corner pocket, the three ball in the left.

“Tell me about it,” Gabe mumbled.

Over the past few days, Regan had interviewed at six different wineries, all owned by friends of Gabe’s, and all with the same result: position officially closed.

Gabe stayed true to his promise that wherever Regan went, he’d turn up. Monday, she was having lunch with Alessandro of Graziano Vineyards over at the Martini House. She had just pulled out her portfolio and had Alessandro drooling over her ideas—and her toned legs that were exposed from red-tipped toes to well past midthigh as she leaned over the table to point out some detail—when Gabe sat down and asked if he could join them, effectively ruining Regan’s lunch, and her interview.

On Tuesday, while Regan was taking a tour of The Cellar, the premiere wine cave and distributor in the Valley, Gabe showed up to talk with the owner about their new inventory. The DeLucas being one of their biggest customers, Regan’s interview was delayed—permanently. Just yesterday he’d been at Picker’s Produce, Meats and More, buying some beer and burgers for the Niners’ game when he rounded the chip aisle, headed for the buns, and came across the best set he’d ever seen in the produce aisle. Encased in a tight black skirt and offset by a pair of pointy black heels, Regan was squeezing a cantaloupe and looking like some X-rated corporate type with her hair wound up in a complicated knot. All that was missing were the glasses and briefcase.

Instead of slapping a restraining order on him, like most women in her situation would have, she asked him how many quarters he had. When he pulled out five, she chucked two melons at his head and let loose three derogatory words about his sex, then turned on those spiky heels and stormed out, her hips swaying with anger, each step doing stupid things below his belt.

Gabe needed a night to clear his head, and that meant no Regan. Plus, he and his brothers needed to figure out what they were going to do with the woman who was stubborn enough to try and make St. Helena her home.

“So, what cup size are we talking?” Marc asked.

Not the image Gabe needed. But he answered. “Definitely C.”

“Was hoping you’d say D.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman fitting your description with a full C just walked in and is headed straight for Jordan and Frankie.”

“Holy shit,” Trey said, his eyes glued to the front door.

Game face firmly intact, Gabe turned in his chair and—Sweet Mother of God. In her tight gray skirt, mile-high heels, and nothing but leg in between, Regan was, in a word, edible.

She gave a cute little wave, and Jordan—the traitor—waved back. So did Frankie and just about every man in a ten-foot radius of their table. Not that Gabe blamed them. Regan wasn’t just beautiful, she had something exotic about her that made it impossible not to stare. And everyone was staring. Including Gabe.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” said Nathaniel, the second oldest and, until that moment, Gabe’s favorite brother, setting down a pitcher of beer while ogling every delectable inch of Regan.

“Holding out?” Gabe shot for the six ball and missed. “That woman is crazy and unpredictable.”

“And hot as hell.” Marc leaned back, rocking his stool against the wall, a smug grin on his face. “And here I felt bad for you, spending your days following around some crazy woman. She could throw her cantaloupes at me any day of the week.”

“For all we know she showed up here to extort money out of us somehow,” Nate said, kicking the legs of the stool, which almost sent Marc to the floor and won back Nate’s role of favorite sibling. “She knows Abigail is our soft spot. She might try to use that.”

Abigail was more than their soft spot. She was their only sister. Which meant that from the time she could walk, Gabe and his brothers had threatened, bullied, or intimidated anyone who even considered looking cross-eyed at her. When she grew boobs and guys started sniffing around, the DeLuca brothers rallied, beating the crap out of every douchebag who tried to get in her pants. Not much had changed over the years. Until Richard.

“And if she shows Frankie her portfolio, Frankie’ll hire her in a second,” Gabe said, knowing it was true. The woman had skills. And they weren’t limited to seduction.

“Frankie would hire her just to screw with us,” Nate said, staring at the table.

Francesca Baudouin was the granddaughter of Charles Baudouin, a man who knew his grapes and who, in a desperate attempt to win over the woman of his dreams, had declared his love for ChiChi on the day she married Gabe’s grandfather. Fists were thrown, secrets exposed, and the two men walked out of the chapel sworn enemies. Although this generation had avoided the feud, old habits were hard to break. If hiring Regan would screw with the DeLuca clan, Frankie wasn’t above it.

Except that people in St. Helena protected what was theirs, and feud or not, the DeLuca name was as old as the vines in the valley. And Gabe knew that Frankie was secretly looking into buying a plot of land to start her own boutique winery. The only other company interested was his...because the plot sat directly between the DeLuca and Baudouin vineyards. Both families had been after that land for over sixty years.

“What if we make Frankie an offer she can’t refuse?” Gabe ventured.

“No way.” Trey had lined up the five ball for the right side pocket, but when he placed the stick on the table, all that easygoing charm he’d mastered from years of selling the family wine vanished. “I see what you’re thinking, and there’s no way we’re giving up that land. The only thing Nonno asked for when he passed was that the Baudouins never own that land.”

“What part of Abigail and Regan meeting don’t you get? Hell, the only reason they haven’t run into each other is because I’ve spent the entire week following Regan.” Which was messing with his head. Every time she got refused for a job, her stubborn chin would shoot up, her determination would increase, and it was the biggest turn-on in the world.

“Gabe’s right,” Marc said, flagging down the waitress and ordering a round of scotch before continuing. “If Regan gets that job, then she’s here for good.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Nate, the resident expert on risk to exposure. Game over, the brothers set their pool sticks down and gathered around the table.

Only two years younger than Gabe, Nate was the self-appointed arbitrator of the family. Over the years, he’d perfected the art of balancing Trey’s tendency toward wanderlust, Marc’s need for high-stakes living, and Gabe’s desire for order. His talent for analyzing calculated risks made him one of the most acclaimed viticulturists in the country. And a big reason DeLuca wines were in such high demand.

“We’ve been searching for Richard for five years, with no luck,” Nate began.

Hunting him down was more like it. As soon as Abby went from victim to suspect in the investigation, Gabe and his brothers hired a guy who specialized in tracking down missing things—thieving SOBs included. Richard hadn’t just broken their sister’s heart; he’d cleaned out their company’s account. Not only was his sister still married to that bastard, since one couldn’t serve divorce papers to someone who couldn’t be found, she had been left to pick up the pieces of a failed winery and explain to the investors, many of whom were family friends, that they had all been played.

Gabe knew exactly what that felt like. Richard had played him too.

The summer before grad school, Gabe’s father had set up an internship for him on a vineyard outside Tuscany, working for a family friend. Richard was apprenticing under one of the winemakers and offered to show Gabe around. He defied rules, took huge risks, and was making his own way in the world of wine—something that Gabe admired, but because of his family name and responsibilities, he could never do.

When the summer ended, Richard convinced Gabe to get him a job at a DeLuca vineyard in Santa Barbara. After Gabe’s parents died, Richard stepped in to help run things down in Southern California. The year Abby graduated from college, she was fresh off of a breakup and Richard swooped in. And when his best friend said he wanted to build a winery with Abby, Gabe had lined up the investors—no questions asked.

“Think about it. Why would we chase off the last person to see him? At least before we get some answers. For all we know, Regan is the key to nailing Richard.”

“You want me to back off?” No way would Gabe let Regan stay here in St. Helena. He’d just gotten Abby home.

“I’m saying we do whatever it takes to find Richard. And if that means capitalizing on whatever is going on between you two, then—” Nate shrugged.

Gabe blinked. “Nothing is going on.”

“Really. Then why are you two straddling the line between eye-f*cking and strangling each other?”

Gabe was about to tell Nate to shut up when all three brothers looked over at Frankie’s table. Regan had just taken a sip of her wine and her tongue poked out to lick her lips. Gabe heard someone moan. Unfortunately, it was him.

As if hearing him, Regan’s head snapped up and they locked eyes. There was a charged beat during which neither one broke contact. The longer they stared, the harder it was to remember that this woman had slept with Richard. Then Regan’s gaze dropped to his mouth, jerking back up when Gabe grinned. Making sure to let her know she’d been caught checking him out, he sent her a wink.

Her face folded into a frown and her big blue eyes narrowed. His lowered to take in the silky number she wore, whose top button had come undone, and he saw her swallow—hard.

He couldn’t help but smile. Vixen wanted him. Almost as much as he wanted her.

“Let’s say I give her a reason to stay,” he said, shocked that he was even considering this. “What makes you think Richard still talks to her?”

“A guy doesn’t forget a woman like that,” Nate said.

And that was quickly becoming Gabe’s problem.





“I was sure you’d get it,” Jordan said, taking a long swig of wine. “Juliette said they had an opening, and your work is phenomenal. I don’t understand what happened.”

“Gabe DeLuca happened,” Regan mumbled, then finished her wine in one gulp and seriously considered, not for the first time this week, doing something immature, like sticking Randolph right up Gabe’s ass...

“Regan.” Jordan sat back in her chair, her brows raised, lips pursed in disbelief, reminding Regan of the time she’d been called into the principal’s office for shoving Sarah Carter’s face in the toilet. Sarah had told everyone that the only reason Regan got into St. Joseph’s Academy for Girls was because her mom cleaned the toilets. So Regan wanted to let Sarah see just how clean those toilets were, and that her mom and her career as a cleaning lady were not up for discussion. “I’ve known the DeLucas since I was a kid. They can be stubborn and annoying, but they don’t have a cruel bone in them.”

Jordan had also never slept with their sister’s husband.

“He showed up at every interview, Jordan. Every single one.” Regan worked hard to soften her voice. “I know he’s your boss, which makes it that much more amazing that you still want to be seen with me let alone help me find a job, but the man has it out for me and he won’t be happy until I am homeless and broke.”

“Over a failed marketing campaign?” Jordan scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

“Is that what he told you?” Regan had to swallow. She also needed another glass of wine. Maybe the whole bottle.

Why would Gabe have lied?

“Don’t tell me you were former lovers?” Jordan leaned in, eyes wide with interest. “Because if so, I want details. All of them.”

There was no point in lying. Regan had never hidden what she’d done, and her mom had raised her to own up to her mistakes, to learn from them. These women had every right to hear the truth about who they were aligning themselves with.

“We were never lovers.” Although, Gabe had been appearing in some pretty steamy dreams lately. “But what I did wasn’t very far off.”

“Oh my God, you slept with Trey.” Frankie looked horrified. “I mean, he is way closer to your age. But he is such an asshat.”

“No, I dated Richard for a little over a year.”

Jordan was the first to react, her eyes going hard. “You’re the one?”

And here it goes, Regan thought.

“Shut your face,” Frankie exclaimed, her hand over her chest, the first feminine gesture Regan had witnessed from the winemaker. The chipped nails and thorn-scratched hands ruined the effect. “You slept with Abby’s husband?”

“Yes, but before you crucify me and tell me what a slut I am, or that I’m a home-wrecker—” She’d heard it all before. “I had no idea he was married.” Something the rat bastard conveniently left out when expressing his undying love and sliding that diamond on her finger.

“How could you not know?” Jordan countered. “Their wedding was all over the society pages.”

“I lived in Oregon. I was trusting and stupid and nineteen. I had no idea who Richard was, other than this handsome, sophisticated man from Italy who made me feel special.” And wanted to take care of me. Something Regan would never let happen again.

“You were nineteen?” Frankie slammed her palms on the table, silencing the entire bar. “He must have been, what?”

“Thirty,” Regan whispered, hoping Frankie would take the hint and lower her voice. She didn’t.

“Talk about daddy issues.”

They had no idea. “Sophomore year of college I interned with the National Vintner’s Historical Society for the summer. Richard was my mentor. It was a rough summer, my mom was sick and, well, I found out about Abby the night Gabe found out about me.”

Regan had been five months pregnant. They’d been at the restaurant celebrating that they were having a girl.

“Oh. My. God! Is Holly Richard’s?” Jordan whispered.

Regan nodded. Trusting Richard had been the biggest mistake of her life. Too bad she hadn’t been the only one affected. Their relationship had not only broken up a marriage, it put Holly in a place no child should ever be in—unwanted by a parent.

It also got Regan wrapped up in a business venture she should never have been a part of. But she got Holly out of the deal. And that was what was important.

“Richard isn’t involved in Holly’s life.” At all. “He pretty much took off after...”

She looked over her shoulder at Gabe. A slow churning started low in her belly, and when he winked in that I’m-watching-you way, it dropped south. She hated that he hated her, but she understood why. Even more, she hated that she wanted him. How sick was that?

“And pretty much, that’s why Gabe is out to ruin my life,” she said, turning back to the table.

“Ruin your life?” Frankie snorted. “Girl, you screwed with the DeLuca Darling and you still have all your appendages. Impressive. I mean, in the third grade I accidently nailed Abby in the face with a pile of grape pulp.”

“How do you accidently nail someone in the face?” Jordan asked.

“I was aiming for Trey, who retaliated by holding my head in a vat until it turned my skin blue. Nate pulled us apart, eventually, but we all looked like Smurfs for our school pictures.” Frankie glared at the DeLuca table before going on. “And that was before the accident.”

“Accident?”

Jordan remained silent, as if speaking of the DeLucas to “the enemy” was a betrayal. Maybe it was. But when she crossed her arms and sat back, purposefully distancing herself from Regan and taking with her any warm fuzzies they had shared, Regan’s heart sank to her toes.

Is this what living here would feel like every day? No matter how much she had changed or how many times she tried to right her wrong, was she going to be a constant disappointment?

“I was in college, so Abby must have been sixteen or so. Her parents were driving her back from a music recital when a car veered over the divide on Silverado Trail, killing them.”

“Oh, my God. That is horrible.” She wondered how old Gabe had been and how losing his parents without warning had affected him. She’d lost her mom to cancer, and it was the most painful experience of her life, but at least she’d had time to say good-bye.

“It gets worse,” Jordan finally spoke. Any sign of judgment was replaced with sorrow—for the DeLucas. “No one found them for hours. So Abigail was stuck in the car with her parents as they...” She trailed off, her eyes misty. “They were such a great family. The whole town felt their loss.”

Which explained why people were so willing to denounce Regan at one man’s request.

“Gabe was back East in grad school,” Jordan went on. “The funeral hadn’t even ended and already he was thrown into his father’s shoes, figuring out how to run a pretty massive wine business and making sure that what his family had spent a century building didn’t fall apart.”

And that his family didn’t fall apart, Regan silently added.

This was not what she needed to hear. The more she learned about Gabe, the harder it was to stay angry at him. And the last thing she needed was to start feeling some kind of kinship with the man who had caused her so much pain.

She knew what it was like to lose a parent. More importantly, she could connect emotionally with how hard it was to be responsible for a family at such a young age. The only difference was that he’d had his grandmother and siblings and this town. After her mother died, Regan had no one. And just as Gabe would do whatever it took to protect what was his, so would she.

“I’ve been on the receiving end of the DeLucas’ games, and when riled they can be jerks. Ruthless jerks.” Whatever emotion was filling Frankie’s face went much deeper than childhood pranks. “Intentional or not, they blame you for breaking up their baby sister’s marriage. Watch your back.”

“If what you say is true, then why would you ever want to come here?” Jordan asked, and Regan shrugged off the slap of her friend’s doubt like a pro.

“It didn’t take long before everyone in the wine industry in Oregon had heard some rumor about me. Finding steady work has been really hard.” She swallowed. “So, when I got the call from my recruiter offering me the job at Ryo Wines, I jumped on it. I had no idea that it was a DeLuca company.”

Regan gave one last glance over her shoulder at Gabe’s table. He was deep in discussion with the rest of his party, who were all tall, dark, and seriously hot. If the identical black hair and dark mahogany eyes weren’t a clue, the sheer amount of testosterone wafting off the four men was as good as a DNA test. That was the DeLuca clan, most likely plotting her downfall.

Gabe looked over. This time there was no arrogant smirk or condescending gleam. She searched his face looking for the truth, for some kind of explanation as to how she’d gotten here. She was used to his anger, but the idea that he would cause her to sacrifice so much just to make a point didn’t feel right.

“Ryo is a female-owned and -run winery, ChiChi’s brain child. She wanted it to be separate from the DeLuca umbrella. But it’s still a DeLuca company.” Jordan’s face softened. “The DeLucas pretty much run the valley, Regan. There have to be other places you could move.”

Regan pulled out the letter she’d kept in her purse all week, the one she’d reread after every devastating blow. It was the same one that Holly had asked her to mail, that she had opened at the cost of a quarter for spying, and that held the words which made moving to a new town impossible.

She stared at the rudimentary letters and, with a sigh, slid it across the table. Even upside down they made her heart hurt for the little girl who had already missed out on so much.


Dear Santa,



I know youre really busy so you dont have to brings me anything this year cuz I already gots what I wanted. A forever home with my own room and a yard that gots grass and a best friend Lauren. She loves kittys almost as much as me. If you wants you can come to the St. Helena Community Christmas Muzikal cuz each kid gets two tickets. I hope I get to play Christmas Kitty and purr. Mrs. Dee says I purr really good.




Merry Christmas,

Holly Martin

St. Helena, California





“Oh, honey.” Jordan patted Regan’s hand. Not that Regan made a point of using her daughter for sympathy, but in this case, she’d make an exception. “And here I thought keeping Ava a virgin until Christmas was going to take a Christmas miracle.”

“Miracle or not, Holly is going to grow up here. She is going to play with her new friend. And there is no way I am letting that man chase me out of town. I want this Christmas to be perfect for Holly. Last year we didn’t even have a tree.”

“Which is why if I could hire you, I would. Just to stick it to the DeLucas,” Frankie said, way too loud. “But my family outsourced all of our marketing to a company in France a few years ago. It’s cheaper than having someone in-house.”

Regan was devastated. She had been sure that having drinks with the DeLucas’ biggest competition, combined with Jordan’s stellar recommendation, would guarantee her the job. Problem was, there was no job to be guaranteed.

Which brought up a whole new problem: in the Valley, no job meant no willing landlords. Regan had to fix one mess before she could fix the other.

“Working for the Baudouins would be like firing the first shot,” Jordan reasoned. “If Regan is going to make a life for herself here, she has to find a way to get on Gabe’s good side. If the head DeLuca accepts her, then the town will follow.”

Jordan turned to Regan, her expression serious, exposing just how difficult a task this was going to be. “The DeLucas’ reach goes a lot further than wine here, Regan. They own half the businesses in town. And what they don’t own, their friends do or they’re on the board.” Like ChiChi reigning supreme over Holly’s school. God, what a mess. “You going to war with him publicly will only hurt your family, not his.”

Jordan was right. And as far as Regan was concerned, Holly had already suffered enough. So if it meant Regan had to let go of the anger and resentment and the dream that involved her knee and his nuts, then so be it.

“Okay, get Gabe to tolerate me, win the town over, find a job, a new forever home that allows kitties, and all before Sunday when I have to turn over my keys to that ass—”

“Mary over at the Barrel Buyer is looking for an administrative assistant,” Frankie cut in, saving her a quarter. “It doesn’t come with corporate living or a car, and it’s not as sexy as marketing, but it’s a job. I’ll give her a call and see if she can meet you tomorrow morning.”

“And you know you could always crash with me and Ava. The more people in the house, the greater the chance that my daughter won’t get a lump of coal and a box of condoms in her stocking.”

Regan couldn’t form words past the emotions in her throat. Not ones that would express what she was feeling, anyway. She’d only just met these ladies and here they were, putting their reputations on the line to get her interviews. Offering her places to stay. For the first time in forever, she didn’t feel so alone.

“Oh, no,” Frankie said, leaning back as far from Regan as she could. “You shed one tear, and I’m out of here. I’m serious. I do not do crying.”

“I’m not crying,” Regan sniffed.

“Then what the hell is that?” Frankie’s hands swirled to encompass Regan’s entire face.

“This is the look of a woman who is too happy and too mature to take a pool stick to that behemoth, gas-guzzling man-truck in the parking lot.”

Regan could single out Gabe’s car at more than a hundred yards. Not a difficult skill, since it had shown up at every interview she’d had.

“And a happy holiday to you too, Vixen,” came a voice behind her.