“I’d be happy to,” said a smooth, almost forgotten baritone. “As soon as I…” His voice trailed away as Dixie stepped in behind Mercedes.
He hasn’t changed. That was her first thought—and it was quite wrong.
Cole was still lean as a whip with mink-brown hair cut short in an effort to tame the curl. He had neat, small ears set flat to the head, a strong nose and straight slashes of eyebrows. But the face that had been almost too good-looking eleven years ago had acquired character lines that rubbed off a bit of the gloss.
Then there was the way his mouth was hanging open. That was definitely different. She liked it.
Dixie smiled slowly, hardly noticing when the door closed behind Mercedes. “Hello, Cole.”
Cole’s face smoothed into a professional smile. “Welcome to The Vines. As I was saying, I’d be glad to show you around…as soon as I’ve killed my little sister.”
Dixie burst out laughing. “And here I’d been thinking you’d be all cold and businesslike.”
“And I know how you feel about businesslike. I’ll try to avoid it.” He gave her a thorough, up-and-down appraisal that stopped an inch short of insult. “You’ve always tended to run late, but eleven years is excessive, even for you.”
She shook her head. “You aren’t going to fluster me that way.”
“I can try.”
Time to switch topics, she decided, and glanced around the office, which was ruthlessly neat everywhere except for the big, dark-wood desk. A spotted canine head poked around the corner of that desk, brown eyes looking at her hopefully. “Oh!” She bent, smiling. “Who’s this?”
“Tilly. She won’t let you pet her.”
“No?” Challenged, she held out her hand for the dog to sniff—and the animal cringed back out of sight behind the desk. “She is timid, isn’t she?”
“That, yes. Also neurotic and not too bright,” he said, reaching down to fondle the animal Dixie couldn’t see. “Tilly’s scared of storms, other dogs, birds, new people, loud noises—you name it, she’s afraid of it.”
Dixie moved around to the side of the desk so she could see the dog. “She’s some kind of Dalmatian mix?”
“That and greyhound, the vet thinks, with maybe some plain old mutt mixed in. I found her on the side of the highway about a year ago.”
“How in the world did you get her to go with you if she’s scared of everyone?”
He glanced down at Tilly, his smile amused—and slightly baffled. “She seemed to think she’d been waiting for me. I stopped, opened my door, and she jumped in.”
Dixie shook her head. “She is female.”
“But not my usual type.” His crooked smile hadn’t changed—a downtuck on one side, uptilt on the other, as if he were wryly hedging his bets. “All right, Tilly, that’s all. Lie down.” Amazingly, she did. He looked back at Dixie. “Are you waiting to be invited to sit down? By all means, have a seat.”
Dixie thought that the dog seemed just Cole’s type—obedient. Consciously virtuous, she forbore to mention that as she sat in the chair in front of the cluttered desk.
So far so good. The tug in the pit of her stomach was mostly memory, she told herself, a response to remembered passion. It had nothing to do with the man in front of her now. “You’ve done wonders with Louret Wines.”
“Eli is the wonder worker. I’m just the bottomline man. How’s life been treating you? You’re looking good.”
“My life’s been full of the usual ups and downs, thank you. How’s yours?”
“Busy. You’ve made a name for yourself. Congratulations.”
A laugh sputtered out. “This will teach me to make a big deal out of things. You wouldn’t believe how I’d built up this meeting in my mind. Now, after only a couple of quick jabs, we’re exchanging polite compliments.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re disappointed.”
“No. Well, maybe a little.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if I wanted to be treated to that frigid way you have with people you don’t like. You can do cold better than the North wind’s granny.”
Something flashed in his eyes, but his smile was easy. “I’m a warm, lovable guy these days. Mellow.”
That made her grin. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You’ll be here a few days, I understand.”
“Poking my nose into everything. That’s how I work.”
“Hmm.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been compared to Maxwell and Rockwell—not in terms of style, but recognition. I’m wondering how we can afford you.”
Dixie let herself look amazed, which wasn’t hard. She’d had no idea he’d paid attention to her career. “Didn’t you read the contract?”
“For some reason Mercedes wanted to handle everything herself,” he said dryly.
“Well, you’re buying reproduction rights to my paintings, not the paintings themselves. They’d cost you a good deal more.” She planned to give one to Mercedes, but that was friendship, not business.
“So you’re not doing this as a favor to Mercedes?”
She shrugged. “That’s part of it.”
At last he stood. “Would you like that tour now?”
“Let’s go.”
Cole waved for Dixie to go down the stairs first, which left him looking at the top of her head. It shouldn’t have been an enticing view, but her hair had always fascinated him. Dirty blond, she’d called it. Sand colored, he’d thought. A dozen shades of shifting sand falling fine and straight, like sand poured from an open hand.
“Mercedes will have told you in general what we’re looking for,” he said as they reached the short hall at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re planning a series of ads in some of the upscale magazines and want a painterly look for them, nothing high-tech or mass-produced. We want them to convey the handson, personal quality of our wines.”
“She did.” Dixie had a slow smile, as if she liked to take her time and enjoy the process. “She also said you gave her a hard time about some aspects of the concept.”
“You can see who won. You’re here, even though it’s winter—not the best time for pictures of the vineyard.”
“But I’m not painting the vineyard. I’m painting the people.”
“She said something about that, but I don’t see how a picture of Eli fondling the grapes will sell wine.”
“She also said you don’t listen to her.” Dixie shook her head. Her hair swayed gently with the motion. “There are thousands of good wines out there. Yours may be the best, but how do you show that in an image?”
“Wine, grapes, the vines themselves—they’re strong images. A good artist could make them memorable.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I could paint you a picture of grapes that would make teetotalers weep for what they’re missing. But everyone’s seen beautiful pictures of grapes. One more, no matter how well done, won’t identify what’s unique about Louret. Your ads shouldn’t sell wine. They should sell Louret.”
“I’m familiar with the idea of branding,” he said dryly. “But why pictures of people?” He’d heard Mercedes’ reasons—and they were good, or he wouldn’t have signed off on the idea. He wanted to hear Dixie’s take on it.
“Because