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“This is still my father’s house,” I huff, indignantly. “He’s been dead just over a week. You might not feel as though you need to show any respect now that he’s gone, but I still do.”
Antonio tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, and stills. His face is unreadable.
My little tirade surprised him. To be honest, it surprised me.
He doesn’t say another word about the door. Not a single one. It feels like a victory, and defying him is strangely intoxicating.
Once we’re seated a safe distance apart, I clutch the win tight and find my voice.
“We really don’t know each other—not as adults, anyway.” I look directly into his dark eyes, without flinching. “You paid your condolences at the funeral home. If this isn’t a business meeting, what is it?”
Antonio sits back, with his broad shoulders filling the chair. He crosses one leg over the other, an ankle resting casually on a knee, like he has all the damn time in the world to toy with me.
Sitting there, he looks like any other handsome businessman in a conservative striped tie and shoes polished to a high sheen. Aside from the scruffy jaw, there’s not a single sign of wear on him—not an errant thread or even a small scuff. His brightly colored socks are unexpected, though. They’re all the rage with dark suits, but they seem too whimsical for such a dangerous man.
There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when he catches me checking him out. Suddenly my earlier victory seems inconsequential.
“Let’s get something out of the way—since we’re bothadults,” he says, mimicking me. “I’m not interested in the grapes or the vineyards. This is exactly what I say it is: a social call. If it were something else, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you.”
I don’t believe a word out of his mouth, but I nod.
“Now that your father’s gone, who’s in charge of the day-to-day operations?”
Social call my ass.“I am.” I keep my head high and ignore the smirk he’s not trying very hard to conceal.
“As you know, my father didn’t die suddenly. When he was diagnosed with colon cancer at the end of last year, he knew it was only a matter of time. He put in safeguards, and shored up the workforce so that there are only trusted people in high positions. The vineyards are well-established, with a manager who has been with us for two decades. He knows every vine as well as he knows his children. And with Isabel’s help, I’ve been running the house since shortly after my mother died.”
And I don’t have to justify anything to you. But I did. Rattling off a laundry list to bolster my credibility, as though he might take everything away if I can’t convince him I’m competent.
“It’s a lot for someone who only recently turned eighteen.”
Since my father’s illness became known, there’s been a lot of public speculation about how an eighteen-year-oldgirlwould be able to carry on a family legacy. The mayor of Porto, suggested during a television interview, that I might need to find a suitable husband to help me. No one raised an eyebrow when he said it, although I suspect my mother rolled over in her grave.
“I’ve heard the gossip too. But no one needs to worry about me. I’m quite capable.”
Antonio doesn’t say anything as he adjusts the lower portion of his tie so that it doesn’t crease as it drapes over his belt buckle, but when he glances up, I see the incredulity in his eyes. It’s probably the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all day—or ever.
While he’s not entirely wrong, his self-righteousness makes me want to scream.
When the others came looking to buy the vineyards, they at least pretended to show me a modicum of respect. They spoke politely, and brought fancy pastries, flowers, and silk scarves to woo me. Huntsman brought his condescending attitude.
“Have there been many inquiries about the property?”
I flash him a small, impertinent smile. “I thought this was a social call?”
He glares at me, the way a parent might warn a naughty child before she’s sent to time-out. But at this point, I’m too irritated to fall in line for him, even though I have no doubt he’d be happy to punish me if I continue.
“It is,” he replies tersely, nostrils flaring. “I’m just making conversation. And trying to gauge how much pressure you’re under.”
So you can step in like some hero, and offer to buy the vineyards for a song.
“Why is that?” I demand more forcefully than is polite.
His jaw tics, and the silence is uneasy. Antonio doesn’t seem so amused by me anymore. Given his stony eyes, I should probably be more nervous, but getting under his skin feels like another victory. It’s almost as tasty as the last.
“I’m getting the sense you don’t trust me, Daniela.” He says it so quietly, the silence is virtually undisturbed.
Trust. Such a weighty word. I sit with it for a minute, maybe two, mulling it over. “Should I trust you?” I ask finally.
