married,” Eileen added. “Okay, so maybe another interesting man will come along for you.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” Lissa said, not at all convinced. Then she took her dishes into the house, eager to get back to work, to return to the world where she could shine.
Once inside the kitchen, she put the dishes in the sink, while the rascally pup jumped at her feet, trying to get her attention by whining and yapping. When her hands were free, she picked up the little dog.
Barney nuzzled in her arms, then gave her several wet kisses on the cheek.
“I love you, too, little guy.” Lissa smiled wistfully.
At the rate things were going in her life, the closest thing to a baby she would ever have was this wetnosed bundle of joy.
And the closest thing to romance and lovemaking she’d ever experience was waiting for her in one of the paperback novels on the nightstand in her bedroom.
Thirty minutes later, in the wood-paneled vineyard office where Lissa spent most of her time, she heard a car pull up and assumed Sullivan Grayson had arrived. She quickly organized the files she’d spread across her desk, ready to meet the man her father had hired to help the vineyard over a financial slump.
With the assistance of the topnotch consultant and investor, they hoped to create a marketing strategy to promote the new blend of varietals Lissa had developed and jumpstart the struggling, family-owned vineyard.
A light rap sounded at the door.
“Come on in,” she called.
As a tall, broad-shouldered man entered, the dark walls seemed to close in on them, and Lissa nearly fell out of her swiveled desk chair.
From the open doorway, the morning sun highlighted a dark shade of burnished-copper in his hair and gave him a rugged, mystical aura that stirred her imagination. His face and stance reminded her of a young Scottish laird.
He wore khaki slacks and a green button-down shirt, open at the collar. No tie. Yet, for a moment, she wondered what he would look like in a kilt, with a broadsword in hand.
“Hello.” He flashed a crooked smile. “I’m Sullivan Grayson.”
There had to be a mistake. She’d expected an older gentleman who’d been doing business long enough to achieve the mile-long résumé of successful ventures her father had shown her. Not someone whose lively eyes and flirtatious smile made her feel like a gawky adolescent.
A hodgepodge of words seemed to jam in her throat, but she cleared her voice and uttered a belated, “Hello.”
“You must be Lissa Cartwright,” he said, picking up the conversational ball she’d dropped.
She nodded, then stood and extended an arm across the desk in greeting. “How do you do?”
Gosh, could she get any more stiff and formal than that?
Sullivan gave her hand a gentle squeeze, sending a tingle of warmth to her core.
Her knees wobbled, but she didn’t think he’d noticed, and she tried desperately to regroup, to swallow her surprise and ignore the heady attraction to a man who was way out of her league.
Still, she couldn’t help staring, taking inventory, so to speak. Nor could she help thinking of him as a Scottish highlander standing on a windswept moor—ready to battle a foe of the clan. Or to tease the lassies.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. She scolded herself and tried to rein in the silly fantasy provoked by those historical romances her sister had given her. Lissa knew better than to waste her bedtime hours reading that unrealistic fluff, no matter how much she secretly enjoyed them.
She slowly pulled her hand from the Scotsman’s grip, aware of the calluses on his palm that belied the image of the manicured businessman she’d expected. “Won’t you have a seat?”
He took the leather chair across from her, then shot her another grin that continued to rock her usually calm nature.
Where in the world was her dad? He’d get this conversation on the right track.
“My father will be coming along shortly,” she said, reminding herself that this was a business meeting. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Besides, what would a good-looking, successful guy like Sullivan Grayson see in a woman like her?
He scanned the room until his gaze landed on the tri-colored bundle of fur chewing on a red rubber doggie ball by the potbellied stove in the corner. “You have a cute puppy.”
“Thanks. His name is Barney.”
“I like dogs.” Sullivan flashed her another one of those grins that rattled her senses. “And dog-lovers.”
She cleared her throat, hoping it would also clear her mind of a fantasy that had become far too vivid. “We can wait for my dad. Or we can get started. Your choice.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
She wasn’t comfortable at all. Not with him or this meeting.
“Your father mentioned you’ve developed a new wine,” he said.
“Actually, it’s a new blend of varietals.” Lissa clasped her hands on top of the desk, glad to steer the conversation and her thoughts away from the Scottish highlands and back on Valencia Vineyards, where they belonged.
Men like Sullivan Grayson didn’t take a second look at women like her. And if he did? Good grief. She wouldn’t know which way to run.
Sullivan studied his new client’s daughter. Lissa Cartwright was an attractive woman, even though she didn’t seem to know it. Or maybe she preferred a plain-Jane image, intentionally downplaying her looks by wearing her hair in a bulky, spinster-type bun and hiding her figure behind baggy gray slacks and a lackluster blouse.
She wasn’t a beauty, but he’d still felt a spark of attraction when he’d first spotted her behind that desk. Maybe it was those mesmerizing green eyes that held his attention and made him want to tease a smile from her, just to see them come alive.
He figured she’d felt something for him, too. At least her nervousness suggested she had.
But Lissa Cartwright was definitely off-limits. After all, Sullivan never mixed business with pleasure. And since he was working for her father on a family-owned vineyard, he’d put his interest on permanent hold.
Besides, she had business savvy. And from what he’d learned after researching Valencia Vineyards, she was too serious-minded to be considered dating material, especially for a man who’d learned the hard way to keep his relationships light and meaningless.
Since his divorce at the ripe old age of twenty-five, Sullivan preferred his women to have nothing more going for them than a pretty face, a great body and an impressive rung on the social ladder.
The door opened, and Ken Cartwright entered the office. He extended a hand to Sullivan. “Forgive me for being late. My daughter, Eileen, just announced she’s expecting
