His eyes changed. “That quickly?”
“Yes. That’s why I needed a tour today.” He looked shocked, or rather, devastated. “You don’t look happy.”
He blinked, then turned his back to her. His voice came out in a half whisper. “I am. Of course I am.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Destin, you can voice your concerns. The transition is always difficult for the seller.”
Destin turned and fixed a cold blue gaze on her. “I look forward to the sale, Miss Parks. The faster the better.”
Destin strode to the kitchenette and fired up the hot plate, his mind racing. She wasn’t supposed to get this far. The previous agents had never seen the inside of the cellar—he’d seen to that.
Destin replayed the words his father had said to him at the beginning of the year. Armand Dechamps had stood at the head of the board of directors table, his hair graying, leaning on a gold-tipped cane, but still formidable. His business advisors surrounded him.
“Between your start-up costs, the insurance company refusing to process our claim and the property taxes on idle land, Brazil is financially draining us. We have to sell now, unless you have another idea to make revenue.” Armand had narrowed his gaze. “Are you sure there is no more wine in that cellar, Destin?”
Stunned and speechless at the turn of the discussion, he’d looked at the man who’d taught him how to tell time by the sun’s placement in the sky and simply said no. He’d lied; there was wine, and remembering how his father tried to take it from him, he didn’t feel bad about lying.
Destin knew his father’s techniques like the back of his hand, and he’d applied everything he knew to make the awarding-winning Cab Franc for Dechamps France. But he’d experimented in Brazil, making his own signature Cab Franc—lighter bodied, ruby red, tart berry flavors with ethereal hints of earth, rose and violet.
Dechamps Brazil ended up in Wine Spectator magazine, was featured in blogs across the world and began to win awards of its own. Local businesses were supplied with Dechamps wines at a discount and every week they were sold out at the Saturday market.
Wine was for the people, and they implemented a direct-to-consumer subscription plan. After three years up and running, Dechamps Brazil surpassed expectations.
And that’s when their father tried to shut them down.
His father’s jealousy was a blow Destin hadn’t seen coming. Suddenly he’d found himself in a legal battle with his father over the rights to his own wines. The French team had taken over production of Destin’s signature Cab Franc, and distribution was to be solely commercial—no more direct to consumer.
Destin and Elliot had fought to split from Dechamps France, but under their contract, anything produced under the Dechamps umbrella belonged to their father. Even if they split, they couldn’t take the wine with them. Even Elliot, the one who was so much like their deceased mother, hadn’t been able to reason with Armand.
Destin had been prepared to go to court. He’d never gotten the chance. The fire took everything he’d loved, except the cellar.
For months after Nina’s funeral, he’d eaten little, said little and seen no one. The château where he lived now had originally been a place for their father to stay when visiting. Destin had spent six months on that couch, grieving. Food would magically appear in the kitchen—Elliot’s doing, although they never spoke about it.
One morning he’d walked the three miles to the winery and seen the damage—scorched earth, melted metal and crumbling stone. The air had still smelled charred and ash had still been blowing in the wind. But he’d noted that the outer, more dense foliage had begun to regrow. Shining green leaves were poking out of the wreckage and quivering on shaky new stems. The terroir had lost water and nutrients, but the land still lived.
With renewed hope, he’d run through the thousand vines. Once vibrant, all were broken, wilted and black. As far as he could see, no grape had survived. He’d worked his fingernails into the branches, looking for life on one after another. And found nothing.
Tears had blinded him when his gaze dropped to a dead vine in the very last row. Gnarled and bent, at first glance it seemed to have nothing left, and the vine had somehow twisted itself half out of its planting hole. Destin had run his fingertips down the rough stem, then stopped when they met a yellow, half-gone leaf. Under the leaf had been one small, rotting grape. Again, with his fingertips, he’d picked at the gray bark on the curved underside of the vine and peeled it back. It was green. A healthy, bright green.
He’d checked every vine, marking those with potential to live and immediately replanting them in the untouched soil behind the cellar. There was no man-made irrigation there, and the place had had to be cleared in order to let in the sun. And sixty of the eighty-six vines he’d replanted had survived.
Now, everything was done by hand, from the de-stemming to the bottling. He didn’t even have a label. Only two batches were about to reach maturity. With the help of a few of their old farm hands, they were on track to produce about two thousand bottles this year.
And it was on the strength of those batches that he’d planned to rebuild. But he had to do it alone, since Elliot had moved on to other business ventures, and was afraid of their father’s wrath. His bother had promised to keep Destin’s plans a secret.
It had taken almost a year, but Destin had amassed a small team of investors—friends from school and business contacts who were ready to help—and with a relatively small upfront investment of his own, he could replace the production equipment. He just needed to secure the land from his father.
It was his one shot to keep what was rightfully his. And he wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way.
He had been checking the vines when the sky opened up, and then Nicole had come crashing through the doorway.
The sight of her, drenched and out of breath, had burned itself into his brain. She had been light as a feather in his arms, her skin hot and slippery from the rain. He’d breathed in the subtle scent of coconut from her hair. Her shirt had gaped from a popped button, and he’d glimpsed her full cleavage, which was barely restrained by a brown satin bra. He wondered if she wore panties to match, then pictured her nude, before deciding that line of thinking wasn’t helping.
She was too capable, too unpredictable...too beautiful.
Deep in his thoughts, Destin placed the sandwich on the hot plate and accidentally burned his knuckle. He hissed and popped the singed flesh into his mouth.
“Do you need help back there?” Nicole called out.
Destin realized he had been hiding for several minutes. “No, I just...” Was thinking of making love to you and almost burned off my fingers. Destin spied a lone mason jar of stew he’d left there a few weeks ago. “I found some stew for us.” He grabbed a small pot, emptied the mason jar into it and placed it on the hot plate alongside the Bauru.
Quietly, he peered around the corner into the main room. Nicole was checking her ankle, the blanket shoved aside and her lower leg visible. She swatted at Magnus, who was inspecting her every movement with his wet nose. The dog planted his butt on the floor, and she praised him with cute noises as she lightly stroked his head.
She had no gloss on her full lips, and her eye makeup had washed off, leaving small black smudges under her eyes. Her hair was still damp and was transforming into tousled waves. And those legs...even the night before, they’d had him mesmerized. Recalling the softness of her calf and the rip in her skirt, he cursed under his breath. Those legs were going to be the end of him.
Dammit—he had no time for sexual attraction, especially under the circumstances, but there was something about this woman. She was smart, ambitious and knowledgeable