Kissing Under the Mistletoe (5 page)

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.”

“W
ait? 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.”