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Sheila eyed Noah dubiously. “To make money, obviously.”
“But the winery wasn’t profitable.”
“Only in the last few years,” she countered. Was he testing her? “It’s true that we’ve had a run of bad luck, but now—”
“We?”he interrupted abruptly. “Do you manage the operation?”
“No,” Sheila admitted honestly. Her face clouded in thought. “No . . . I don’t. Dad took care of that. . . .” Her voice faded when she thought of her father.
Noah’s question was gentle. “Your father was the man who was killed in the fire?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that you can take over where he left off?”
Sheila squared her shoulders and smiled sadly. “I know I could,” she whispered.
“You worked in the winery?”
“No . . . yes . . . only in the summers.” Why couldn’t she think straight? It wasn’t like her to be tongue-tied, but then Noah Wilder was more intimidating than any man she had ever met. “I helped Dad in the summers, when I was free from school and college. I’m a counselor at a community college.” Sheila purposely omitted the five years she had been married to Jeff Coleridge. That was a part of her life she would rather forget. Her daughter, Emily, was the only satisfying result of the sour marriage.
Noah regarded her thoughtfully. He pinched his lower lip with his fingers as he turned her story over in his mind. His eyes never left the soft contours of her face and the determination he saw in her gaze. “So what, exactly, qualifies you to manage the operation—a few summers on the farm?”
She recognized his ploy and smile. “That along with a master’s degree in business.”
“I see.” He sounded as if he didn’t.
Noah frowned as he stood and poured himself another drink. The woman was getting to him. Maybe it was all of the worries over his son, or the anxiety that plagued him at the office. It had been a long, hard day, and Sheila Lindstrom was getting under his skin. He found himself wanting to help her, for God’s sake. Without asking her preference, he poured a second drink and set it on the table near her chair. After taking a long swallow of his brandy he sat on the edge of the recliner and leaned on his elbows. “What about the vineyards? It takes more than a college education to oversee the harvest and the fermentation.”
Sheila knew that he was goading her, and although she was provoked at the thought, she replied in a calm voice that overshadowed his impertinent questions. “The winery employs a viticulturist for the vineyards. Dave Jansen is a respected viticulturist who grew up in the valley. His research has helped develop a stronger variety of grape, hardier for the cold weather. As for the actual fermentation and bottling, we employ an enologist who is more than capable—”
“Then what about the losses?” he demanded impatiently as he frowned into his drink. Why did he care? “Assuming that your father knew what he was doing, he made one helluva mess of it, according to the latest annual report.”
Sheila’s throat was hoarse and dry. The pent-up emotions she had kept hidden within her for the last month were about to explode, and she knew that if prodded any further, her restrained temper would be unleashed. She had expected a rough business meeting with a member of the Wilder family, but she was unprepared for this brutal inquisition from Noah and the way his overpowering masculinity was affecting her. She found it impossible to drag her eyes away from his face. “As I stated before . . . we’ve had a run of bad luck.”
“Bad luck?Is that what you call it?” Noah asked. He wondered why his words sounded so brittle in the warm den. “The tampered bottles found in Montana, and the expensive recall? The damaged crops last year because of the early snowfall? The ash and debris from the Mount Saint Helens’ eruption? And now the fire? From what I understand, the fire was set intentionally. Do you call that bad luck?” His eyes had darkened to the color of midnight as he calculated her reaction.
“What would you call it?” she challenged.
“Mismanagement!”
“Natural disasters!”
“Not the fire.”
For a moment there was a restless silence; Sheila felt the muscles in her jaw tightening. She made a vain effort to cool her rising temper. It was impossible. “What are you inferring?’ she demanded.
“That your father wasn’t exactly the businessman he should have been,” Noah snapped. He was angry at himself, at Ben and at Oliver Lindstrom. “I’m not just talking about the fire,” he amended when he noticed that the color had drained from her face. “That loan to him from Wilder Investments. What was it used for—improvements in the winery? I doubt it!”
Sheila felt the back of her neck become hot. How much did Noah know about her? Would she have to explain that most of the money her father had borrowed was given to her?
Noah’s tirade continued. “I don’t see how you can possibly expect to turn the business around, considering your lack of experience.” His fingers tightened around his glass.
Sheila’s thin patience snapped, and she rose, intending to leave. “Oh, I see,” she replied, sarcastically. “Cascade Valley doesn’t quite hold up to the sanctimonious standards of Wilder Investments. Is that what·you mean?”
His eyes darkened before softening. Despite his foul mood a grim smile tugged at the corners of Noah’s mouth. “Touché, Miss Lindstrom,” he whispered.
Sheila was still prepared for verbal battle and was perplexed by the change in Noah’s attitude. His uncompromising gaze had yielded. When he smiled to display straight, white teeth and the hint of a dimple, the tension in the air disintegrated. Sheila became conscious of the softly pelting rain against the windowpanes and the heady scent of burning pitch. She felt her heart beating wildly in her chest, and she had the disturbing sensation that the enigmatic man watching her wistfully could read her mind. He wanted to touch her . . . breathe the scent of her hair . . . make her forget any other man in her life. He said nothing, but she read it in the power of his gaze. Was she as transparent as he?
