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On the other side of the fountain, a woman is sitting alone at a table. She’s partially blocked by the waitress, but as I continue forward, she comes into full view. The voice, unlike my wine, doesn’t disappoint.
The woman is stunning.
And a witch.
The first thing I notice is ash-blonde curls cascading over one shoulder. Big, loose curls, not the tight ringlet ones. Her skin is a soft golden hue that tells me she’s naturally pale but spends a lot of time in the sun. I can tell she’s tall and willowy, even sitting down. And as her lips continue to move as she argues with the waitress, I can’t help but stare at them. Full and pink and just waiting to be put to better use somewhere else.
I pivot and stop at the waitress’s shoulder. “I’ll take it from here,” I say.
She turns and her eyes widen when she sees who it is. “Y-yes, sir.” She spins and flees.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance here.” My eyes flicker down to the blonde and I take a puff of my cigar. If she wants to throw around that big-dick-energy, two can play at that game.
“I certainly hope so,” she says in that soft purr of a voice. “I was looking for an exceptional bottle of wine to enjoy on a beautiful day.” She waves at the sky, and then at the chair across from her. “Please, have a seat.” As if she owns the place.
I grin and sit down, legs splayed wide, and take another puff. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Ms….?”
“Ms. Stone.” She leans forward and offers me her hand. “Luciana.”
A lie, at least partially. Which piques my interest even more. I reach out and take her hand, my forefinger grazing across the underside of her wrist. The skin is so delicate there, and there’s that elegant line of tendons beneath the surface. It’s one of my favorite parts of the female body. As my finger strokes across it, I’m rewarded by a spike in her pulse. And that’s even before I dust my lips over her knuckles.
I let go of her fingers very slowly and lean back in my chair. “So, Luciana, something tells me you know exactly what you’re looking for. Do tell.”
“Well,” she says, batting her lashes demurely and shooting me serious sex-kitten vibes, “I’ve heard that 1999 was the best year for your Le Rêve Blanc de Blancs.”
Another grin. “You know your wine. You know then, of course, that the ’99 is a $4,000 bottle of wine. We don’t sell it out here at the patio bar.”
“Then where do you sell it?” She crosses and uncrosses her long legs, just to make sure I notice them. As if I hadn’t already.
“I actually don’t sell that bottle.” I hook my gaze on hers. “They’re kept in my personal wine cellar.”
“I see,” she says. She purses her lips ever so slightly. “And what exactly does one have to do to get an invitation there?”
Several things involving nude bodies run through my head, and I pause long enough, holding eye contact, for her to guess my thoughts. The coy smile on her face tells me she’s riding along in the gutter with me.
I stand up and offer her a hand. “Why don’t we let inspiration guide us?”
Luciana takes my hand and rises from her chair. She’s every bit as tall as I thought she was, and curvy as hell. No tiny, fragile thing. I step closer to her and slide my hand to the small of her back, guiding her back toward the winery and my office. Her eyes flick over to mine, and I can see they’re a deep hazel with flecks of green. That small smile plays over her lips as we walk.
This is exactly what I need before my brother and the rest of the asshole demons arrive and start their dramatics… a glass of wine and a hard fuck to unwind.
We go in the same door I’d come out of a couple minutes ago, but instead of heading up to my office on the second floor, I head down a flight of stairs to my cellar. Stone steps, stone walls, electric lanterns in sconces on the wall. I call it castle chic. We reach the floor of the cellar, revealing a row of oak barrels stretching along the right wall, and on the left, floor-to-ceiling bottles stored carefully in racks. A rustic farmhouse style table sits near the base of the stairs, and on the farthest wall hang two sets of chains and handcuffs. Why have a separate sex dungeon when I can just have it here in my wine cellar?
I follow Luciana’s eyes and can tell that she has not missed this detail.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, releasing her hand and walking over to the wine racks.
I can feel her gaze on my back as I hover over the racks, looking for the bottles of 1999 Le Rêve. A moment later I find it and I pull a bottle down. I stride back over to where Luciana is leaning against the table, moving past her to the rapid wine chiller that’s embedded in the wall. I insert the bottle and type in the desired temperature—44 degrees Fahrenheit—on the digital keypad.
“Just a few minutes,” I say, turning back around and walking over to Luciana. I lean up against the table next to her, arms crossed over my chest.
“You’re so kind to show me your personal stores,” she says, her gaze sweeping over the room again. “I guess I lucked out that you happened to be passing by.”
I chuckle, low and velvety. “I’m not sure kindness has anything to do with it. When I see a beautiful woman such as yourself, I try to take advantage of the moment.”
She smiles with those luscious lips. “Mmm. I’m a fan of seizing the moment, too.”
I lean toward her and run one finger along her curls. My other hand moves to her hips.
