Summer in Napa

chapter 11

Are you done eye-f*cking the neighbor girl? Or do you need another moment?”

Marc didn’t move, but he stopped staring at Lexi, who was cooking away in her kitchen, wearing that tiny lavender apron and cutoff shorts. He knew the apron well. It had played a starring role in his dreams lately, and when she stood at just the right angle, and he squinted a little, she looked like she was in nothing but the apron. And it was a damn better sight than the e-mail sitting on his desktop.

Forcing himself to focus, Marc took one last look and turned. His two oldest brothers stood in his office doorway, and by the way Gabe was shaking his head and mumbling threats, they were doing their best to remind him that he was a screwup. And in this case he knew it was true.

“Where’s Trey?” Marc asked. He’d called his brothers earlier that morning as soon as he’d seen the e-mail.

“Trey is in New York. Last-minute meeting,” Nate said, calmly sitting in one of Marc’s leather barrel chairs, while Gabe plopped down, elbows on knees, eyes hard, looking slightly harassed and completely exhausted.

“One that didn’t exist until this happened,” Gabe said, flapping a rolled-up newspaper a few times before smacking it against his palm with a reprimanding thwack.

Marc couldn’t see what was on the paper, it was moving too fast, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out from Gabe’s intense expression and the fact that Trey was missing that this was about one of two things: the Showdown or the Monte deal. Either way it had to be bad, because when there was family drama, Trey ran. He’d started when their parents died and made a habit of it after Abby’s marriage crumbled.

“Will he be back in time for the Showdown?”

“Depends if Abby stops running these.” Gabe tossed the latest issue of the St. Helena Sentinel on the desk.

Marc didn’t need any more bad news right now, but he walked over to his desk, spun the paper around, and—“Shit.”

There on the front page, nestled between “DOP Calls Tie in Taste-Off” and the ad for the Showdown, was a full-color and full-sized photo of Richard with a “My Dick Is Still Missing” headline plastered above his head.

“I’m happy she’s finally divorcing the tool and moving on. But front page? The Showdown is next week. What the hell was she thinking?” Abby was a sweetheart, but when riled she had a mean streak as wide as the valley.

“According to her, she didn’t do it,” Nate said, and Marc raised a disbelieving brow. “She copped to the headline, but swears she only paid for a small ad in the wanted section.”

“Under missing pets,” Gabe said seriously. “And don’t you dare laugh.”

Marc couldn’t help it. His sister could be a pain in the ass, and these ads running at the same time he was trying to convince people to drop a thousand dollars a pop for an “elegant and exclusive” event only made his job a whole lot harder, but the girl had spunk.

“Okay, dick jokes aside, if she paid for back page, why is she getting headline service?”

“Three months ago Kimberly Meyer was promoted from advertising manager at the Sentinel to editor-in-chief,” Nate said, not needing to point out that Kimberly Meyer used to be known as Keg-Stand Kim: dance-team captain, all-around party girl, and Marc’s homecoming date. Her name also used to be Baudouin.

“Wait, that was right after they announced that the Showdown was going to be at the hotel.”

“And right after Charles threw a fit about it being held at a DeLuca property,” Gabe said.

“It was also right after he became a silent partner in the paper,” Nate added.

“Which explains all of the odd timing with articles about the family, placing the Showdown ads next to Abby’s mess of a divorce. He’s pissed that the committee picked you.”

“It’s pretty incredible that old man Baudouin is still this hung up on a feud that involves a dead man and a seventy-nine-year-old grandmother.”

Gabe laughed. “Have you met ChiChi?”

He had a point.

“Getting back at us is one thing. But if he ruins the Showdown, it will hurt the whole town.” Marc shook his head. “There is no way he would be willing to do that. What could he possibly gain besides a town boycott of his wine?”

“I have no idea, but a man who lost the love of his life and his best friend on the same day when his only crime was being honest?” Gabe gave a low whistle. “Yeah, I don’t think he needs much more of a motive.”

“If you didn’t know about the ad, then why did you call?” Nate said, looking at Marc.

Because I didn’t want to admit that I screwed up—again—over the phone.

Marc ran a hand through his hair and shifted in his seat. He didn’t know why, but he had the sudden urge to see Lexi, even if only through the window. A little smile or her cute wave sounded nice. Only she wasn’t there.

He turned back around. “I got an e-mail this morning from Bo Brock’s manager.”

“Ah, shit.” Gabe leaned back in his chair.

“It was to inform me that Mr. Brock must regretfully decline to participate in the Tasting Tribunal.”

“Christ, Marc. Do you have any idea how screwed we are?” Trey said from the doorway, looking both constipated and like he needed to punch someone. And from his pointed glare that someone was Marc. “Without a celebrity judge, the Tasting Tribunal will be—”

“Yeah, I get it.” Marc let out a breath. “No celebrity judge, no panel. No panel, no Showdown. You don’t need to explain, Trey. Plus, I thought you were on your way to New York.”

“And I thought you were handling your shit.”

“I am,” Marc grumbled.

“Yeah? Well, then, explain to me how a guy who signed a contract would bail at the last minute,” Trey challenged, taking an aggressive step forward.

Marc had been trying to figure that out for himself. The e-mail gave no concrete reason for why Mr. Brock wanted out, just a few lame lines about a serious man with serious commitments who took his job seriously.

“Take a seat,” Gabe said, kicking out the spare chair in invitation, although his tone left no room for refusal.

“Do you know how important this event is?” Trey demanded, but took his seat.

“We could sue,” Nate threw out, trying to get them back on track. “Who knows, maybe the threat of a public suit will scare him into coming.”

“That’s all we need,” Marc said. “A pissed-off judge picking the winner. Not the way we want to start our first year as hosts.”

“First year? You expect to do this again?” Trey asked.

Marc stopped, his chest going heavy. Sure, there had been a few snags along the way, but outside of a dog on the jury and losing the judge, he had done an incredible job, and he didn’t understand why his brothers couldn’t see that. Their constant criticism was getting old.

The only thing keeping him from kicking his kid brother out was that if this went south, and it was looking like it already had, the fallout would affect everyone. And he couldn’t do that to his family. Especially Gabe.

His oldest brother might be a hard-ass when it came to the family name, but Marc understood. Gabe had sacrificed a lot over the years to ensure that his siblings could have as normal a life as possible after their parents died. He’d also worked tirelessly those first few years to keep the DeLuca vineyards running, and he’d eventually turned it into one of the largest wine empires in the country.

Marc had also worked hard, trying to make up for his wild youth and prove to his family that he had what it took to go the distance and make this hotel a success. He’d gotten into business school at Berkeley and, if he hadn’t dropped out his second year to take a job managing a small luxury hotel in Tuscany, would have graduated with honors. More importantly, Marc had worked in several hotels around the world, taking every job possible, busting his ass to move his way up the ranks to learn as much as possible about the hospitality industry.

In his mind, he’d cut his learning curve in half, and what his brothers dismissed as dropping out of school and floating from job to job Marc saw as the best possible way to master an industry. By twenty-six he had worked in some of the top hotel chains in the world, and under some of the most successful men and women in the industry. By twenty-eight he’d opened the doors to the first in his goal of many luxury boutique hotels catering to a specific jet-setting demographic. He’d put in the time and sweat, and now it was about to pay off. Hosting the Showdown at his hotel would not only put the Napa Grand back on the map, it also would have made his parents proud.

And he was damn proud. Which was why he’d called his brothers first thing. Everyone made mistakes, but a man knew when to admit that he was in trouble and had the balls to come clean and then ask for help. Doing it alone to prove he could wasn’t worth screwing this up.

“Yeah, Trey. I want to do this next year and the year after that and hold this event every year on Mom and Dad’s anniversary in my hotel. And I know what seems to you like a bunch of errors and spontaneous decisions on my part is really just a clusterf*ck of bad luck. I swear to you that I researched this, made sure the hotel was financially secure enough. But you all know that in business things happen. Even with the best planning and intentions, sometimes it goes wrong. That’s all this is.”

Marc held his breath, watching his brothers watching him, and waiting to see how they would react. If they decided to let him go it alone, he’d still come out on top, but he hoped that it didn’t come to that.

“Thanks for clearing that up,” Trey said, face hard. “Because we’d be totally screwed if you hadn’t intended or planned on sleeping with one potential caterer while playing grab-ass with the other in front of town hall.”

“You’ve been talking to ChiChi.”

“ChiChi, Abby, Mrs. Moberly, my damn postman.” Trey shook his head. “You’re the tiebreaker, man. No matter which one you choose, it will look bad. I get it, they’re hot, but couldn’t you keep it in your pants for just another few weeks?”

Now it was Marc’s turn to stand and take an aggressive step forward, around his desk and right into his kid brother’s face. “Natasha is old news, and Lexi is off-limits. Understand?” He underscored his stance on the topic with a shove to the shoulder. “And since when is my personal life any of your business?”

“Since you decided to crawl into bed with the ex-wife of our business partner.” Trey moved forward until they were breathing the same air and fighting over the same space. Trey was not only the youngest, he was also the shortest by two inches, a difference which he made up for with the enormous chip on his shoulder. “What part of litigation don’t you get?”

“Even if I was sleeping with Lexi, which I’m not—”

“But you want to,” Gabe stated quietly.

Marc opened his mouth and immediately closed it. He did want to sleep with Lexi. So bad. Even though every piece of his moral fiber dictated that he stay away, he was finding her harder and harder to resist.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Gabe said, patting him on the back. “Now have a seat. In about ten minutes my wife is going to start calling to ask where I am. About a minute after that I’ll remember that today is Tuesday, which means that Holly is at ChiChi’s and my wife, who has had a long month and needs some pampering, was calling me from bed.”

“Is that what they are calling it these days?” Nate asked.

Gabe shot Nate a look. “Do you want to fix this mess or let them bitch at each other some more? Because either way”—he looked at his watch—“in nine minutes I’m out of here.”

A few months ago, Marc would have thought Gabe was joking. The mighty head of the DeLuca family, business god and wine tycoon, choosing to pamper a woman over going to battle for the family business. Marc and Gabe might have different styles, but the one thing they had always shared was the love of business. The bigger the stakes, the bigger the rush.

Yet somehow over the past few months Gabe had become domesticated. Then again, Gabe looked happier when he was with Regan than he’d ever looked in a boardroom, and suddenly Marc wanted to solve this problem. Not for the stroke to the ego, but because he would rather be next door tasting Lexi’s new creation that dealing with this BS.

Resigned, Marc shot Trey a challenging look. Trey shot back one of his own, coated in eat-shit and with a little screw-you at the end for good measure, and then, silently, they agreed to table the discussion until later and took their seats.

“Great,” Gabe said, kicking back in his chair, a big smile forming on his face. He looked to Trey. “Now, why don’t you tell us why you really missed that plane?”

Trey leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Last month I convinced Monte that the perfect place to announce the partnership was at the Showdown.”

“At the Showdown?” Marc asked. “Why?”

“Because there will be a lot of press, and it could create a lot of hype.” Marc opened his mouth, and Gabe silenced him with a single raised brow. When no one spoke, Trey dropped his head to his hands and mumbled, “And I think Monte is getting cold feet.”

Marc stared in disbelief. “And we’re just hearing about this now?”

“You’re not the only one who has a lot going on,” Trey admitted, and Marc finally understood. This was Trey’s Napa Grand, his chance to prove to the family that he had what it took. Oh, he’d made the DeLucas millions selling their wines into new markets, one hotel and restaurant at a time. But if he closed this deal with Montgomery Distributions, he would accomplish what their father had been trying to do for years.

“Okay,” Marc said, not wanting to fight with his brothers anymore. “Monte is coming, and we don’t need to give him any reason to rethink the deal.”

“Right.”

Gabe was silent for a minute, and then he leaned forward. “Okay, Marc, you aren’t breaking the tie, the Tasting Tribunal will. That puts you out of the limelight because no matter who is chosen, the paper can’t blame you.”

“You do know what you’re saying, right?” Nate said warily. “Putting Mrs. Rose in a position over the DOP is asking for trouble.”

Mrs. Rose was not only the current wine commissioner of St. Helena, and therefore the fifth required member of the Tasting Tribunal, she was also the former DOP president who’d lost her seat over a disagreement when she motioned to reinstate concealed-carry permits for active senior board members. The disagreement had included a junior leaguer who vetoed Mrs. Rose’s motion, followed by Mrs. Rose shoving a gun, which was not concealed or permitted, in said junior’s face.

“Which is why I think you should handle getting the judges to that tiebreaker,” Marc said, liking this plan. Nate’s patience and rational thought process made him the perfect person to handle the tribunal.

“What? No way.”

“Marc’s right,” Gabe said, and Marc felt his chest swell with pride. “You manage ChiChi better than any of us. After the granny mafia, one little old lady should be easy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Trey cut in before Nate could object. “Without Brock we’ll be at four judges. There could still be a tie.”

“Three judges and a dog,” Nate pointed out.

On cue, Wingman came loping into the office. Leash in mouth, he set his front paws on Marc’s desk. Too distracted to scold him, Marc gave his head a pat—and stopped as everything sank in.

Son of a bitch.

Thoroughly screwed, he closed his eyes and banged his head back again the chair. “What if old man Baudouin picked his dog as a judge not to send a message to his kids, but to make sure the celebrity judge canceled and the Showdown got canceled?”

“How would he know that Brock would be scared off by a dog? Most celebrities would dig that,” Trey said.

“Not a celebrity who, until recently, was using a meat supplier under investigation for cruelty to animals,” Marc said.

“How come we didn’t know this before we asked him to judge?” Gabe said, but Marc noticed that this time the we didn’t imply Marc messing up. The DeLucas were in this together, and it felt good—right, even.

“Because it was never in the papers. He dumped the supplier before it went to press.”

“Then how do you know?” Nate asked.

“Jeff used the same supplier.”

“Oh boy,” Nate said, leaning back and getting comfortable. Everyone in the room knew that this was about a whole lot more than a lost judge.

Marc also settled in for the long haul. He had trusted Jeff, taken his word for too many things, and as a result Marc had let his family down. Now he had to figure out how to give his brothers enough of the story to get a good understanding of the situation, without divulging anything that would betray Lexi’s trust.





“Room service,” Lexi said, stopping short when she saw that all three guest chairs were filled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

“It’s okay,” Marc said, smiling and standing. “We were just finishing up.”

His brothers did the same, and Lexi felt her mouth go dry. How was it possible for one room to contain so much hotness? One DeLuca was potent enough. The lot of them together packed enough testosterone to turn a convent of nuns.

Even though they all had that trademark DeLuca hair and eyes, dark and melt-in-your-mouth darker, they were as different as they were similar. Gabe was handsome in that sophisticated, corporate kind of way. Known for being the most impeccably starched and tailored of the brothers, today he had opted for faded jeans and an old college tee with glue and pink glitter stuck to the sleeve, and even though he looked tired, she couldn’t remember a time growing up when he’d seemed so happy.

Trey, on the other hand, seemed irritated, which wasn’t unusual. Like Marc, Trey had inherited their father’s charm and panty-melting grin. Unlike Marc, though, he’d come out more hotheaded than easygoing.

Lexi wouldn’t describe Nate as easygoing or hotheaded. More serious and intense, which on him was seriously sexy. He was rangy and athletic, with olive skin and work-roughened hands that spoke of long days in the vineyard, and his weighted smile advertised that their parent’s deaths had hit him hard. And he was still recovering.

And Marc, well, he was everything that his brothers were, just more. Taller, bigger, brighter, funnier, sweeter, and, as far as Lexi was concerned, sexier. Although right now he didn’t seem his usual charming, laid-back self. He seemed tense and frustrated and was staring right at her. They all were.

Her palms went sweaty as she took in the tight faces, felt the energy all but crackle in the room and knew that they weren’t almost done, and by the way Wingman, leash in mouth, skulked over and plopped himself at her feet and how Marc looked ready to snap, she had interrupted a pretty heated discussion.

She smiled, and Gabe was the only one who smiled back. The other two busied themselves with glaring at Marc, who was glaring back, which let her know that she had been a part of that discussion.

“Um, I’ll come back later.” Like never. Carrying on this fauxmance in front of the town had been harder than she thought. Trying to convince his brothers would be impossible. One look at the two of them together and his brothers would know the truth.

“Nah, we were just heading out.” Gabe reached down and grabbed a newspaper from Marc’s desk, stopping midreach. He sniffed the air and closed his eyes, releasing a small groan before standing. “What is that?”

“That,” Lexi said, opening the lid just enough to let the aroma fill the room, “is what’s going to land me my new client.”

Not just a client, she thought giddily. It was for a local Internet company, and if she got the account it would mean catering all of their events, including their weekly board meetings.

“There are four different choices.” Two of which she had already discounted but brought anyway, just to see what Marc thought. It had been their routine over the past few days. He would work in his office, she would cook in her apartment, and then, every few hours as she perfected a new dish, she would bring it and a few other choices over and have him do a blind tasting. She had come to love the last part of the process. “There’s enough for everyone.”

When none of them moved, except to get a better whiff, she shifted the tray higher on her palm and skirted around the desk, greeting each brother by name and only stopping when she was right in front of the DeLuca who mattered most. She couldn’t fool them by flirting or doing girlfriend-like things, but maybe she could distract them with her cooking.

She looked up at Marc and smiled. “You hungry?”

He conducted a slow, sensual inventory of her body, and even though she was wearing her old apron and cutoff shorts, by the time he got back to her face she felt completely stripped. God, he was hot. Especially when he leaned in and whispered, “Starved.”

Needing something to keep her mind off the heat climbing through her body, she set the covered tray on the desk and eyed the brothers, all gentlemen, and all still standing. “Sit. Please.”

Marc took his seat and gestured to his brothers with a grin. “Go ahead, she won’t let us eat until we’re all sitting.”

All three brothers dropped to their chairs, eyes riveted on the tray. Lexi smiled. Big, bad Italians were just like every other man on the planet, suckers for a good meal.

Positioning herself so that Marc couldn’t see inside the tray, she carefully removed the cover and slid the first two plates across the desk and stopped. Normally, had they been alone, she would have forked off a bite and, only after Marc promised to keep his eyes closed, fed it to him. He would moan and groan over the dish while she told him what he was eating. But with his brothers here, she set out the other two plates and placed them closest to Marc so he would be sure to try the best ones. Finally, she put a fork on each plate and took a step back.

Gabe took one look at the dishes and, with a few choice words and a grunt, dropped his head to his hands. All three brothers laughed.

Lexi didn’t laugh. In fact, she felt awkward and self-conscious. What was she thinking serving lasagna to a group of men who’d grown up eating ChiChi’s cooking? The comparison wouldn’t be flattering, Lexi thought, trying to figure out the best way to excuse herself.

A reassuring hand came to rest at the small of her back. “Gabe can’t eat dairy,” Marc said, his eyes warm and encouraging.

“Oh. Are you allergic?”

“No, his wife is pregnant,” Trey said, and they laughed again.

“At least no more Rocky Road for breakfast?” Nate offered.

“Regan claims it’s divine invention, therefore doesn’t count,” Gabe mumbled.

“More for the rest of us,” Nate said, digging into the traditional five-cheese lasagna and closing his eyes. “Oh man, this is incredible.”

Lexi felt herself beam. It wasn’t even her best one.

“Aw, Gabe. This is better than Nonna’s,” Trey said, polishing off her vegetarian lasagna roll, but not before darting a quick glance at the hallway and whispering, “She isn’t here, is she?”

“No, but one more moan and I might just tell her,” Gabe threatened, staring longingly at his brothers eating. Well, two of his brothers. Marc hadn’t tried anything, and Lexi didn’t know why.

“I could go make you one without cheese. I have some tofu in the fridge,” she offered.

“He has a wife. She can make him one if he wants.” Marc grabbed the cover and put it over the two closest dishes, right as Trey was about to fork off a bite.

“Hey,” Trey complained.

“You have a plane to catch and a client to appease,” Marc said, then turned to Nate, “and you have judges to contact.”

“What about Brock?” Nate asked, his eyes flickering quickly to Lexi and back to Marc.

“I’ll deal with Brock. You make sure everyone else is there on Saturday.”

Gabe, who had been silently watching everything unfold, stood and smacked the paper across his palm with a big smile, which was purposefully directed at Marc. “Right now a missing judge is the last of your worries, bro. But good luck with that.” He looked at Lexi, who immediately stopped fidgeting with her apron, and his smile grew larger. “Nice seeing you again.”

There was so much eye-darting and implied-but-unspoken communication going on that Lexi finally felt like laughing. Men and their code. It was obvious that they weren’t done talking and that whatever was so important wasn’t meant for her ears. But before she could make her exit, Marc had the guys out the door and he hadn’t even left his chair.

“Now,” he said, taking off the lid and, resting his arms behind his head, leaning back in the chair. His long legs were stretched out, his body relaxed, and his eyes were twinkling—up at her. “Which one first?”

She walked over to his desk and sat on the edge. “I’m sorry you lost Brock. What happened?”

“Food first, questions later.” With a wink he dropped open his mouth as though he expected her to feed him.

“You have two hands—use them.”

“All right.”

Before she could blink, he had straightened and rolled his chair so close that he had to part his legs so that they could slide around hers. Close enough that she could feel the heat from his body seep into her every pore, even though they weren’t quite touching.

He put his hands on her waist and gently lifted her so she was sitting on the edge of his desk. Her breath caught as one palm slid down the back of her thighs to rest on her knee, while the other wrapped around her.

She wanted him to pull her onto his lap and finish their lesson from the other night. They had rounded first, but were interrupted before they could slide into second—and as he leaned forward, his chest pressing her thighs farther apart, she decided she might even be open to a grand slam.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her eyes glued to his lips.

“Using my hands,” he whispered back, but instead of taking her into his arms and making love to her right there on the desk, he leaned back in his chair, plate in his hand.

He took a bite and closed his eyes, but not before she saw a look of triumph. The only thing that stopped her from smacking him was that he was finally tasting her food. He slid the fork out of his mouth and, eyes still closed, said, “Tell me about this.”

“The client wanted a classic meat lasagna.”

He opened his eyes. “But you didn’t give them that.” He took another bite.

She shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “Lasagna is heavy for a luncheon, so it’s my take on the classic meat lasagna. I sautéed the spinach in garlic and made the pasta from scratch. Oh, and I use lemon-infused ricotta.”

“Homemade ricotta?”

“Of course. I replaced some of the meat with locally grown porcinis, making them the star of the dish.”

“Nice. It is hearty without being heavy.”

“That was the goal.”

“Then goal beautifully accomplished. Next.”

She leaned back and grabbed the other plate. This was the one that she really loved, but she was afraid it was too out of the box. It was shredded skirt-steak lasagna rolls in a tart peach sauce. “Question first.”

Marc reached for the dish. “It’s getting cold.”

She batted his hand aside. “Then you better answer fast. Did you lose your celebrity judge?”

Marc sat back and sighed. “Yeah, Bo Brock pulled out this morning. Not that I blame the guy. The whole Showdown is kind of a mess.”

“You call this a mess? You are doing an incredible job. You have more entries than any year to date, national press covering the event, and more than half of the tables are already sold out.” Was Marc blushing? “I say losing Brock is a good thing. It will give you a chance to highlight a local celebrity, someone who is a part of the reason we are celebrating.”

“Local celebrity, huh? Like Coppola or Robert Redford?”

“No. I mean, they would be exciting, but they moved here after they got famous. When we were kids, it was always someone who grew up here and was noted for doing something unique. A local-grown celebrity.”

“Smart and beautiful. Impressive.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she asked, “Were you guys talking about me before I came in?”

For a second Marc was silent. Then he gave her his signature smile. It was slow and sexy and made her heart pick up a little. “You mean were my nosy brothers asking about me being your boyfriend?”

“Fake boyfriend,” she reminded him. Or maybe it was herself she needed to remind. Being anything more than friends would be foolish on her part. But she never knew foolish could feel so fun.

“Whatever. And yes, they asked. And no, I didn’t tell them anything, because it wasn’t their damn business.” He reached out and picked up one of the lasagna rolls off the plate, making a big to-do about studying it and smelling it until she was laughing. Then he popped it in his mouth.

“This is the one,” he mumbled around bits of meat and noodle.

“How do you know? You didn’t even try the other ones.” Not that there was any left. His brothers had practically licked the plates clean.

“You didn’t want me to try the other ones. They were distractions.”

“They were not.” He raised a brow. “Okay, they were. But how do you know this is the one?”

“I just do.” He took a single finger and dragged it through the peach sauce. “But to be honest with you, cream puff, I can think of one thing that would make it perfect.”

“What?”

“This.” He painted a line of sauce across the top of her thigh, then bent and licked off every last drop.