And in my illustrious history of Very Bad Ideas, this one might just take the cake.
Of course, I'd be thorough in my research before making a final decision. And I'd make a list of pros and cons—it always helped me see things in a clearer light. This one required some due diligence.
Kimberly sighed. "God rest her soul. Your gram was an amazing lady."
"Yes, she was," I agreed. "Kiss the boys for me. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay. Talk to you then. And Kira, I'm so glad you're back. I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you, too. Bye, Kimberly."
I hung up and sat in my car a few minutes longer. Then I picked my phone back up to do a little Internet sleuthing and to find a hotel room I could afford.
CHAPTER TWO
Grayson
"Pump can't be fixed, sir, gonna have to be replaced."
I swore under my breath and placed my wrench back in my toolbox, standing up straight. José was right. I used my arm to wipe the sweat on my forehead and nodded, leaning against the useless piece of equipment, just another thing that needed to be fixed or replaced.
José gave me a sympathetic look. "I got the destemmer working, though. Good as new, I think."
"Well, that's some good news," I answered, picking up the toolbox I'd brought with me. One piece of good news to add to the long list of bad. Still, I'd take what I could get right now. "Thanks, José. I'm gonna go clean up."
José nodded. "Any news from the bank, sir?" I stopped, but didn't turn around.
"They said no to a loan." When José didn't respond, I kept walking. I could practically feel his disappointed gaze burning into my back. I had vowed to keep my family winery running, and nothing on earth was more important to me, but José had a family to feed, the newest member only weeks old. If I failed, I wouldn't be the only one out of a job.
If you were worth more . . .
I clenched my jaw against the way those words had stabbed, implying more to me than just my financial value. Reminding me I'd never been worth much.
If you were worth more . . .
If indeed.
With that mighty IF and four quarters, I could buy myself something off the dollar menu at McDonald's.
I'd gone over the "what ifs" of my life more times than I could count. It was a painful, useless waste of time.
And I hardly needed another reason to despise myself.
I shut those thoughts down, though. I was slipping dangerously close to self-pity, and I knew from personal experience that was a deep hole to climb out of once you'd let yourself descend. Instead, I made a concerted effort to wrap myself in the coldness that kept the desperation at bay. And allowed me to continue to do the work that needed to get done.
In the end, I reminded myself, my father had found me worthy. And I'd made a vow not to let him down—not this time.
The late afternoon sun was high in the sky when I stepped outside, the smell of the roses my stepmother had planted so long ago filling the air, the lazy drone of a buzzing bee somewhere nearby. I stopped to survey the rows and rows of grapes ripening on their vines, pride swelling in my chest. It was going to be a good harvest. I felt it in my bones. It had to be a good harvest. And that was going to keep me going today, despite the fact that I'd have no way to use the fruit if my equipment wasn't ready by fall. I'd sold almost everything of any value in my family home to raise the money to plant those grapes . . .
A few minutes later I was stepping inside the house, a grand stone estate built by my father, designed with plenty of vintage, old-world character. It had been a showplace in its day, but it needed as many fixes as the winemaking equipment. Fixes I had no way to finance.
"The pump's unfixable."
I gritted my teeth as Walter, the family butler, turned jack-of-all-trades around the place, greeted me. "So it seems."
"I've made a spreadsheet of all the equipment needing to be fixed, what requires replacement, and color-coded it according to priority." Great. Just what I needed—a visual aid of the hopelessness of my situation.
I paused in my rifling through the mail on the foyer console. "You're my secretary now, too, Walter?"
"Someone needs to be. Running this place is too big a job for one person, sir."
"Let me ask you this, Walter."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you come up with a list of ways I might pay for those color-coded items that need to be fixed or replaced?"
Walter shook his head. "No, sir, I don't have any ideas that you haven't already thought of. But I hope the list in and of itself is helpful."
"Not in the least, Walter," I said as I headed for the main staircase. "And I've told you a million times to dispense with 'sir.' You've known me since I was a baby." Not to mention that I hardly deserved the respectful title. Walter was worth three of me, and he surely knew it. Nevertheless, I also knew he would never let go of the professionalism. Walter Popplewell was from England and had been with our family for more than thirty years.
Walter cleared his throat. "And there's someone waiting to see you, sir."
I turned. "Who is it?"
"Someone," Walter cleared his throat again, "looking for a job, sir."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Jesus. "Fine, let me get rid of him. What kind of idiot is trying to get a job here anyway?"
Walter swept his hand toward the kitchen where I heard his wife, my housekeeper, Charlotte, laughing with someone.
When I entered the kitchen, I saw a man sitting at the large, wooden table, a plate of cookies in front of him. When he saw me, he stood quickly, knocking the plate to the floor where it crashed onto the tile and splintered into a million pieces.
"Oh dear!" Charlotte exclaimed and rushed from where she was pouring a glass of milk at the counter. "Don't worry about that, Virgil. You just talk to Mr. Hawthorn and I'll clean that up. Not to worry a bit."
The man before me was large—at least six six—wearing khakis, a red and blue striped shirt, and a Giants’ baseball cap on his head. His round face was full of fear as he glanced between the shattered dish and me.
I walked toward him and held my hand out. "Grayson Hawthorn."
His eyes darted to my hand. He reached out hesitantly and shook it, and when his glance finally met mine, I could see in his guileless eyes he was mentally slow.
Good God.
"My name is Virgil Potter, sir, Hawthorn, Grayson, sir." He let go of my hand and looked down shyly, glanced over at Charlotte sweeping up the plate and cookies, winced slightly, and then looked back at me. "Like the wizard, sir, only I don't got a scar on my forehead. I do got a scar on my backside, though, where I got too close to our electric heater once when I was—"
"What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"
"Oh, you don't got to call me mister, sir. Just Virgil."
"Okay, Virgil."
Charlotte gave me a sharp look from where she was kneeling on the floor. I looked back to Virgil, ignoring her.
Virgil hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other, glancing again at Charlotte, who looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. He took the baseball cap off his head quickly as if he'd suddenly remembered he was wearing it, and held it clutched in his big hands. "I was hoping, sir . . . that is . . . I need a job, sir . . . and I thought I might do something for you. I heard some people talking in town and saying you was going to have a heap of trouble keeping this winery running, and I thought I could help. And I would come for cheap, seeing as that I'm not as smart as some other people. But I'm a real hard worker. My mama told me so. And I could work for you."
I sighed. This was just exactly what I needed. I was barely scraping by with the staff I had now—far fewer than needed, but all I could afford—and the only ones who'd stayed. I could hardly take on one more. Much less one I'd have to supervise around the clock, no doubt. "Virgil," I started to let him down, but he interrupted me.
"See, sir, my mama, she can't clean houses no more on account of that her back is so bad. A
nd if I don't work, we won't have enough money to get by. And I know I can do a good job. If someone would just give me a chance."
Good Lord. When Charlotte caught my eye as she stood to empty the dustpan, I gave her my most icy glare. She was behind this. What was she thinking? When this place failed, both she and Walter would be out of jobs. I closed my eyes for a second and then opened them. "Virgil, I'm sorry, but I—"
"I know you probably think I'm not worth much, just looking at me, but I am. I know I am, sir. I could work for you." His large, child-like eyes were filled with hope.
If you were worth more . . .
The broken pieces of the plate clattered into the garbage can loudly, and I glanced again at Charlotte who still had her eyes trained on me despite her busy hands. I pressed my lips together.
If you were worth more . . .
"Fine, Virgil. You're hired," I said, keeping my glare trained on Charlotte whose lips curved ever so slightly in a tiny smile. When I finally looked back to Virgil, his eyes were wide with joy. I raised my hand as if I could hold back the intensity of his happiness with my gesture. "But I can't pay you much, and we're going to do this on a trial basis, okay? Sometimes we work past dark, and I didn't notice a car outside. I have a set of bunks down at the winemaking facility. You can stay there if you ever need to. One month and we'll see how you do." If this vineyard is even still running in a month.
Virgil nodded exuberantly, wringing the poor cap in his hands so much it would probably be unwearable now. "You won't regret this, sir. No, I won't let you down. I'm a hard worker."
"Okay, good, Virgil. Come back tomorrow morning to fill out the paperwork, and bring your ID. Nine a.m., okay?"
Virgil still hadn't stopped nodding. "I'll be here, sir, even earlier. I'll be here at seven."
"Nine is fine, Virgil, and you can call me Grayson."
"Yes, sir, Grayson, sir. Nine a.m. Okay."
Virgil turned his large, clumsy body, grinned and waved at Charlotte, then darted out of the kitchen, presumably before I could change my mind. I stood, silently watching out the window as Virgil left the house and started a lumbering run up my driveway toward the decorative steel gates at the beginning of the property. I swore under my breath for the hundredth time that day and gave Charlotte another icy glare. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to sabotage me from the inside out."
"Ah, but you do know better, my boy. I only ever root for your success."
Of course I knew it. I snorted anyway, for effect.
Charlotte grinned at me and started humming at the sink.
I turned without another word and headed for the shower. I didn't do it often, but tonight, I was going to drink myself into a stupor.
**********
Morning sunshine streamed through the windows, bathing the foyer in golden light as I descended the stairs, way too early seeing as I'd only returned home a couple hours before. I flinched, shielding my eyes against the too-bright glare. My head was pounding. No less than I deserved. But the alcohol had drowned out my problems for a night and so it'd been worth it. I'd been working from sunup until sundown most days, and it still wasn't enough. And after yesterday at the bank . . . Well, I'd deserved a night of drunken oblivion. A man could only take so much.
"Gray, dear, there's someone here to see you. Good morning." Charlotte smiled at me as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "Oh," she frowned, "you look just like something the cat dragged in, don't you?"
I ignored her last remark. "Who is it now?" First thing in the morning? What exactly couldn't wait until a decent hour? It was barely past sunrise. And I felt like hell. "I suppose it's someone else wanting a job? Someone with no limbs perhaps?"
Charlotte only smiled. "I don't think she wants a job, but I didn't ask what her business was about. And she has all the appropriate limbs. She's waiting in your office."
"She?"
"Yes, a young woman. She said her name is Kira. Very pretty." Charlotte winked. Okay, well, maybe this wasn't the worst way to start the day. Unless it was someone I'd slept with . . . and likely wouldn't remember.
I downed a couple Tylenol, grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and walked to the large office at the front of the house that had once belonged to my father.
A young woman in a loose, cream-colored dress, in some sort of silky material, belted at the waist, stood with her back to me, perusing the large bookshelf against the wall opposite the doorway. I cleared my throat and she whirled around, the book in her hands falling to the floor as she brought her hands to her chest. Her eyes widened, and then she stooped to pick up the book, laughing tightly. "Sorry, you startled me." She stood, moving suddenly toward me. "Sorry, um, sorry. Grayson Hawthorn, right?" She placed the book on the edge of my desk and held her hand out. She was barely average height, slender, with hair a deep, rich auburn pulled back severely into some sort of knot at the nape of her neck. Not my type, but Charlotte was right, she was pretty. I tended toward tall elegant blondes. One tall elegant blonde in particular, actually. But I shut that painful thought down immediately. No use going there. It was only when the girl named Kira got close that I really noticed her eyes—large and framed with thick lashes, brows the same rich shade as her hair arching delicately above them. But it was the color of her eyes that stunned me. The greenest I'd ever seen. They were luminous, like twin emeralds. I got the sudden feeling those eyes saw things other eyes didn't. Bewitching. Magnetic. I felt like I couldn't take a deep breath.
I stepped back slightly and narrowed my gaze, but took her hand in mine. It was warm and small in my own. The warmth seemed to travel up my arm and down my spine. I frowned and removed my hand from hers. "And you are?" I hadn't intended on the hostility in my tone.
"Kira," she said simply, as if that explained anything at all. Okay. Kira closed those stunning eyes of hers, and I felt a momentary twinge of disappointment. She shook her head slightly, before she looked back at me. "I'm sorry, do you mind if we sit down?"
I inclined my head toward the chair in front of the large mahogany desk. I set my coffee cup down and moved to sit in the leather chair behind the desk. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" I asked. "I could call Charlotte." What did this girl want? She didn't look familiar.
"No, thank you," she shook her head, "she already offered." A lock slipped out of her pulled-back hair, and she made a small, annoyed frown as she attempted to smooth it back again.
I waited. My head pounded, and I massaged my temple absently. Her gaze followed my hand, and I wanted to squint against it.
She took a deep breath, straightening her spine, crossing her legs. As her chair was positioned away from my desk, my eyes could easily wander down her shapely calves, to her slim ankles that ended in a pair of blue, heeled sandals. The purse, which had been on her shoulder and now rested in her lap, had beads on it in the same shade as her shoes. I didn't know fashion, but I knew expensive when I saw it. My coldhearted stepmother had been the epitome of coiffed decadence.
"I don't mean to rush you, but I have a lot to get done today."
Her eyes widened. "Right. Of course. I'm sorry to hesitate. Well, I guess I'll just get right to it. I have a business arrangement to offer you."
I lifted one brow. "A business arrangement?"
She nodded, twisted the long gold necklace she was wearing. "Yes, well, in actuality, Mr. Hawthorn, I'm here to propose marriage."
I laughed, almost spewing the sip of coffee I'd just taken all over my desk. "Excuse me?"
Those magnificent eyes lit with something I couldn’t define. "If you'll just hear me out, I think perhaps this is something that could benefit both of us."
"And how exactly do you know anything about what might benefit me, Ms. . . . what is your last name? You didn't say."
She raised her little chin. "Dallaire. My last name is Dallaire." She eyed me with some sort of expectation.
"Dallaire?" I paused, frowning. I knew that name. "As in the ex-mayor of San Francisco Dallaire?"<
br />
"Yes." She raised her chin higher. Ah, haughty, that's what that gesture was. She was political royalty. An heiress. I didn't know a whole lot about Frank Dallaire, except that he’d been the mayor for two terms and was extraordinarily wealthy—a result of not only his political career, but I thought real estate dealings? Something along those lines. He was consistently on the list of the country's wealthiest men. So why in the hell was his daughter here?
"So I guess a better question, Ms. Dallaire, is how on God's green earth would a marriage to me benefit you?" This ought to be good. I reclined back in my chair.
She sighed, looking only slightly less haughty. "I'm in a bit of a situation, Mr. Hawthorn. My father and I are," she chewed on her lip for a second, seeming to be searching for the right word, "estranged. To put it bluntly, I need money to live, to survive."
I studied her for a second and then chuckled softly. "I can assure you, Ms. Dallaire, marriage to me would not benefit your financial portfolio. Very much the opposite actually. Someone's misinformed you."
She shook her head, leaning forward. "Which leads me to the part that would benefit both of us."
"By all means, please educate me," I said, not trying to hide the boredom in my voice. I massaged my temple again. I hardly had time for this.
She nodded. "Well, it's come to my attention that your vineyard is, uh, well, it's failing to be honest. You need cash."
Anger swept through me at the way this little rich girl summed up my situation. I jerked my hand from my temple and gave her my chilliest look. "And you know this . . . how?"
She raised her chin again. "I researched you."
"Ah."
"And, well, I was at the bank yesterday. I accidentally overheard part of your meeting. You were turned down for a loan." I froze as a slow stain of color rose in her cheeks. Well, at least she had the grace to be embarrassed. "Accidentally" overheard, my ass. But then that little chin went up again.