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‘Gus will do just fine,’ the older man said with a nod, and Franco felt his hand enveloped by a weatherbeaten paw that housed a grip of steel. ‘And this here’s my granddaughter, Holly. She’s the real boss of the show.’
Really? ‘Holly,’ he said, taking her hand in turn, and there could be no greater contrast between the two handshakes. For while the older man’s had been certain, his leathery skin calloused and hard, hers was cool and way too brief to decide if that buzz he’d felt on contact had been any more than his imagination. She made no attempt to acknowledge him or return his smile, but then, she didn’t look happy at all. Instead she looked—He searched for a word as he took in her khaki work pants, dusty boots and a faded long-sleeved polo jumper bearing the Purman Wines logo. Drab. In fact, if it wasn’t for blue eyes in a make-up-free face, she’d be completely colourless.
‘I apologise if my arrival has taken you unawares,’ he said, realising she must be angry because she hadn’t had time to get herself ready. He knew how women liked to preen.
‘No, of course, we were expecting you,’ the old man said genially.
‘We just weren’t expecting you—’ the woman added, gesturing towards the helicopter ‘—in that.’
So she was angry with him. But what the hell for? ‘I had to take it from Mount Gambier. Storms closed the Coonawarra airfield so my charter flight couldn’t land here.’
‘There were no hire cars?’ Gus asked as he wheeled himself inside and gestured Franco to follow.
‘No,’ he said as he followed, discounting the offer he’d had of a car so tiny his knees would have been around his ears. ‘At least, nothing that was suitable.’
‘They were all out of Maseratis?’ quipped the woman. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’
‘Holly!’ Gus growled over his shoulder, and Franco pulled his lips into a smile in spite of his building irritation. He was here with a fistful of dollars in his pocket and a deal that anyone would be mad to turn down and yet she was acting like he wasn’t welcome. What the hell was her problem?
Warmth enveloped him as he stepped into a spacious living area, a kitchen one end and a dining area dominated by a massive timber table the other, all warmed by a stone-walled fireplace pumping out the heat. Stone and timber featured largely in the interior, working in combination with the high ceilings and windows that afforded a view over the surrounding vines. And not that he’d given it much thought, but he hadn’t expected to be reminded of his own stone villa in the Piacenza hills outside Milan and to actually like what he found half a world away in the southeast corner of South Australia.
‘We were just about to have lunch,’ Gus said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us?’
Franco held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ he said, and Holly caught the gleam of a gold watch at his wrist. Ridiculously expensive gold watch, by the looks, just like the ridiculously expensive hand-stitched leather shoes on his feet. Big feet, she registered absently, and in the very next instant wished she hadn’t.
Tall.
Big feet.
What did they say about tall men with big feet?
And heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace suddenly blossomed hot and heavy in her cheeks. She turned her back towards the men, launching an attack on a loaf with the bread knife, furious with herself. She didn’t even like the man. Why the hell would she even think such a thing?
‘A man can’t be expected to do business on an empty stomach,’ Gus said. ‘It’s no trouble, is it, Holly?’
‘No trouble at all,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. ‘I do hope you’re a fan of corned beef sandwiches?’
‘But of course,’ he said, and not for the first time, Holly wondered at his accent. She’d expected him to sound upper crust and privileged, and he did—for the most part. But every now and then there was an unexpected texture to his accent that curled the edges away from Sloane Square and headed for somewhere entirely more earthy.
Maybe because of his Italian mother? Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
‘That’s the spirit,’ her grandfather said. ‘Holly not only makes the best wine in the district, it’s a little-known fact she also makes the best sandwiches. She makes the relish herself, you know.’
‘Then I am indeed fortunate. It appears I couldn’t have timed my arrival better.’
A charmer, she thought as she put together a platter of doorstop sandwiches, adding this latest discovery to his list of crimes, a list that was growing longer by the minute. A Chatsfield and a charmer with a posh accent, who wore handmade shoes and gold watches and who hired helicopters when mere mortals hired cars—and usually the budget model at that.
