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Seven
Samuel Kane didn’t like mistakes.
Mistakes were costly.
Last night had been one of them.
As it had every morning since he was eight, the grinding, relentless engine of his mind had woken him at promptly 4:00 a.m. with a blast of inexplicable dread. He lay there in the predawn dark, helpless to stop the careful, detailed rendering of his every misstep committed the previous day. A helpful catalog of evidence detailing what he had always known to be true.
No matter how hard he tried, how fast he ran, failure haunted his heels like a shadow.
This morning had been no different.
Until.
Until his mind reached the moment where he’d held Arlie Banks in his arms and they’d kissed. She’d been so sweet. So eager.
It was every kind of wrong and destructive to his plan, but God, she’d felt so good.
Every cell in his body had demanded that he lift her off her heels, anchor her legs around his waist, and take her on the nearest horizontal surface. That’s certainly what his brother would have done.
But he wasn’t his brother.
He was his own, neurotic, complicated, cerebral self. So he had apologized for something that apparently required no apology.
Because it hadn’t meant anything to her.
Logically, he understood this was the best possible outcome given the wrench he’d thrown into his plans.
His body didn’t respond to logic.
It responded to her.
Try as he might, he couldn’t erase the feeling of her from his skin.
He could have made a call that evening when he’d arrived home. He had a dependable list of numbers for women willing to relieve whatever needs he might have and leave his life blissfully uncomplicated.
Arlie Banks was complication personified.
Clearly, more careful orchestrations for Arlie and Mason’s next encounter would be required. As it happened, the perfect opportunity arrived on his pristinely organized desk later that morning.
The marketing director for Willow Creek Winery, another of his father’s less than wildly successful pet projects, requested assistance from the corporate office in launching a new ad campaign after they’d been fired by the branding agency they’d engaged.
Again.
Located across the country in Napa’s Oak Knoll District, Willow Creek Winery had been a subject of contention since its purchase. A tangled history of fiscal mismanagement and poor planning, the winery had proved to be an epic pain in Samuel’s ass since the papers had been signed.
Luckily, the vineyards were a mere ninety-minute limousine ride away from San Francisco, where Supply Side West would be launching the very next week.
Surely a long weekend in Napa with the Paul Martine, food photographer to the stars, would be enough to lure Arlie into volunteering assistance prior to the show. Especially when Samuel had communicated to him precisely what he had been hoping to capture with this particular photo shoot.
Mason was, as always, the wild card.
Samuel was reasonably sure he could get his brother there physically. Willow Creek had been one of Mason’s favorite haunts since its purchase. A weekend alone with Arlie should add much needed incentive. But Samuel needed more than that.
He needed insurance.
And knew just how to get it.
Taking a deep, preparatory breath, Samuel stalked across the plush carpeting of his office and out into the hall, passing Charlotte’s desk on the way.
She nodded to him in their customary nonverbal greeting, the monitor’s glow making blue rectangles of her glasses as she squinted at an expense report.
“Nice job on the reception last night,” he said, pausing at the corner of her desk. Knowing firsthand that his father was stingy with compliments, Samuel made a regular habit of offering them up to Charlotte whenever he could.
Charlotte’s hunched shoulders lowered from her ears a fraction. “Thank you so much. I wasn’t overly impressed with the caterer, but—”
“You did great. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He had regularly seen how her face fell when their father railed about a missed detail or lack of excellence in execution.
He knew the feeling.
“Is he free?” Samuel asked, nodding toward Mason’s office.
“Until one,” Charlotte answered, not even glancing at her monitor.
“Thanks.”
Knocking brusquely on Mason’s closed door, Samuel entered before being granted permission.
Like his own office, Mason’s contained a collection of art and antiques the Philadelphia Museum of Art often asked to borrow. Unlike his, this precious collection was littered with discarded bagel wrappers, hastily scrawled notes, stacks of paper and scattered paperclips.
