would find her the same way.
So, in conclusion, all you stubborn, Tony-dazzled hormones back off!
She pulled up her e-mail and opened the one from Tony.
Hi, bella. Have I told you lately I couldn’t live without you?
Francesca sucked in a breath. Her hormones danced a jig.
She scrolled down further.
I’d never manage to eat a decent meal.
-T
“Did you get the message?” Tony called from the other room.
“Oh, yeah.” Clamping down on her disappointment and deciding two could play at this game, she typed,
Ecstasy awaits you tonight…
Then she skipped down a few lines and added,
We’re having fettuccine with scallops.
She hit the send button, rose from her chair, rolled her shoulders back, then marched from the office. The One was just around the corner, poised to save her from this impossible attraction.
He just had to be.
TONY LEANED across his desk and snagged the ringing phone. “This is Tony.”
“Mr. Galini, this is Alice in reservations, I have a Mr. Pierre von Shalburg on the phone. He’s making a reservation, but he insisted on speaking with you personally.”
Tony searched his memory, but came up blank on anyone named von Shalburg. “Who’s he?”
“I thought you’d know. He sounds important,” Alice said nervously.
Shoving aside a stack of invoices he had to get through before he could join Francesca for dinner, Tony sighed. “Put him on.”
How did anybody actually get any work done when people were always calling and interrupting?
This is a customer, Francesca—aka his self-appointed conscience of business responsibility—would have reminded him. Customers come first.
Who knew his impulsive decision to accept Uncle Joe’s challenge to make something significant of his life would involve actual work and stress? He’d only become a businessman to impress the uncle he regarded so highly. He wanted people to look at him with the admiration and respect they gave Joe. Unfortunately, his resort-owner fantasy wasn’t meshing with reality.
He’d pictured walking around the restaurant, smiling at patrons, offering suggestions and wine pairings. He imagined cocktail parties with plenty of lovely ladies in attendance.
But so far…zilch in the fun department. Why had he thought he could do this? He’d been perfectly happy milking his trust fund like nearly everyone else he knew. Hell, it was practically a Galini family tradition.
“This is Pierre von Shalburg,” said an unfamiliar voice.
The man paused at length, giving Tony the impression that he should recognize von Whoever’s name immediately. Which, of course, he didn’t. He fell back on a familiar skill—bluffing. “Ah, yes. What can I do for you?” he asked as he searched the piles of paper on his desk for a pad to take notes.
Von So-and-So cleared his throat importantly. “I believe, Mr. Galini, it’s what I can do for you that should be of interest to your establishment.”
Really? He’d worked his ass off for nearly six months just to have his first encounter with an actual guest want to make him bang his head against the wall. He’d left jet-setting for this?
“Fortunately for you,” the guy continued, “my schedule is free during the weekend you’re planning to open.” He paused. “You are planning to open on time, aren’t you?”
Tony raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” Who was this guy?
“I’m so thrilled for you,” Mr. von Snooty said in such a deadpan voice that Tony pictured him winning the fifty-million-dollar lottery and saying, “I suppose this will do.”
“I’ll arrive on Friday afternoon at precisely three o’clock. I’ll require a suite with a view of the vineyards.” He paused. “You do have rooms overlooking the vineyards, don’t you?”
“Naturally.” What else would they have views of?
“I want room service delivered at precisely seven o’clock in the morning…”
Sighing about the sad state of a world in which jerks like von Whatsisname existed, Tony nevertheless started scribbling notes.
“I’ll inform you of my dietary requirements when I arrive and peruse the menu.” He paused. “You do have menus, don’t you?”
Tony ground his teeth. “Yes, sir, we do.”
“Twelve o’clock, lunch; six o’clock, cocktails; seven o’clock, dinner. I will also require a tour of the facilities, including the winery, and, of course, a tasting.”
“I’m sure we can accommodate you.”
“That will be all, Mr. Galini. Expect me next Friday.”
“Ye—” A dial tone sounded in his ear.
Tony slammed the phone into its cradle. “What an ass.” He looked over his sparse notes and had the feeling he should have asked von Whoever-he-was more questions.
He ran a hand through his hair. What had ever possessed him to actually make something of his life? His friends were probably having drinks at the club about now, talking about their summer trips to Barbados. What was he doing? Sweating and stressing as he installed computers and got insulted by guys named von Something-or-Other, whom he probably could have snubbed under any other circumstances.
It was that look in Joe’s eyes. That look that asked Are you going to be a trust-fund waste like the rest of my brothers’ children? Guilt had suffused him. Guilt that apparently everyone else in his family—except two of Joe’s sons, who ran the family’s Tribiletto winery in Italy—seemed conveniently to have been born without.
Was he really up to this challenge? He had zero business experience. He clearly had no patience with demanding clients. His parents called the resort “Tony’s little distraction”.
His friends thought he’d lost his mind and kept telling him to call a shrink whenever he had the urge to do something productive.
But sometime in the last few months, a deep desire to prove himself had stubbornly sparked to life. He wasn’t selfish and spoiled like his parents. He wanted to prove everyone wrong about his ability to commit. He wanted respect. He needed it.
The question was—could he earn it?
First thing, though, he had to find out who von Snobby was. “Francesca!” he shouted.
A few seconds later, the intercom speaker on his desk phone beeped, then Francesca’s calm voice floated out. “We spent an unmentionable
