Boardroom Rivals, Bedroom Fireworks! Page 12

“Spit it out, Bren. If you’re not just jealous of Libby, then what is the problem?”

  Brenna dropped the handle of her suitcase. That was good news. At least he’d kept her from running out on him.

  She crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow at him. “The problem is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You want a list?”

  The gauntlet was down now; he couldn’t wait to hear this. “Please. No need to hold back.”

  “Fine.” Brenna stomped across the room and sank gracefully onto the couch, her spine ramrod-straight with anger. Her voice dripped with icy, sarcastic politeness as she started on her litany. “We’ll skip over the lateness, since that’s just par for the course.”

  Personally, he felt that statement deserved addressing, but Brenna moved on before he could.

  “We’ll also skip past the fact you let everyone dismiss me as just your ex, since technically I am. The five minutes in the rehearsal room notwithstanding, of course.”

  He nearly choked at the insult. Five minutes? It had been closer to twenty really good, intense minutes, and he was tempted to remind her how she hadn’t been complaining at the time, but he bit his tongue for the moment.

  “Half the time you treated me like I wasn’t even there. And you let everyone else do it, too. Just because I don’t travel in the same circles and I don’t know the same people, that doesn’t mean I’m invisible.”

  He was damned no matter what he tried to do. “I know you don’t like these kinds of events, and after leaving you on your own for so long I thought you’d like not having to be on the spot for the rest of the evening.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You thought I couldn’t handle it? After I’d been handling it for the last hour just fine? Why the hell did you want me to come in the first place?”

  Brenna wasn’t known for her reasonableness when she was angry, but now they were going in circles. He tried to keep his frustration in check. “I know you can handle it, Bren, I just thought you didn’t want to.”

  “And you didn’t see how we’d time-warped back ten years?”

  Brenna was getting more worked up instead of calming down. This was not his plan for tonight.

  Brenna shook her head when he didn’t respond. “Hell, you and Libby seemed to forget I was even standing there.”

  Back to Libby. So Brenna was jealous. Not that her other complaints weren’t valid, and they probably did deserve addressing at a later time, but Brenna’s jealousy—obvious now, even though she tried to hide it—was definitely more interesting and pertinent to the matter at hand.

  “Libby Winston might be a terrible flirt,” he said as he crossed the space between them and joined her on the couch.

  “In many ways,” Brenna muttered.

  He bit back a smile. “But she’s no threat to you.”

  Jack’s sincerity shook her. As did his proximity. The tension simmering between them had moved from hostility to something more, and taken on a sharper edge. This was exactly why the make-up sex was always so intense. One type of heat led to another. Even now.

  “I am not threatened by Libby and her surgically enhanced self,” she countered, but even she could hear the outright bluff in her voice and she hated it. She scooted back a little, trying to put distance between the meaningful glow in Jack’s eyes and her already weakening resolve.

  She didn’t want to be jealous of Libby Winston. She didn’t like what that implied about her and her inability to fit into that part of Jack’s life. Again.

  And she definitely didn’t want Jack’s assurances that he wanted her, not Libby, to affect her the way they did.

  It meant she was already too far in. She was going to get hurt, and neither her heart nor her ego could take that punch. While part of her wanted to end this right now, to take her pride while she still had it and head back to the safety of Amante Verano, she couldn’t seem to gather the energy to get off the couch.

  “Bren…” Jack’s hand was on her knee, his fingers tracing a small circle and causing goosebumps to rise all over her body. Damn him. No, damn herself. She was mad at him. Really mad, yet her body had already forgotten everything else, and her blood was beginning to surge through her veins in anticipation.

  “Jack…” She tried to protest.

  “If I’d known you didn’t mind the whole of San Francisco knowing exactly how we spent the weekend, I would have gladly corrected anyone who tried to categorize you as simply my ex.”

  His hand moved higher, distracting her from his words. She forced herself to concentrate.

  “And if Libby Winston or anyone else in that room was even the smallest bit deserving of your jealousy I wouldn’t have needed to coerce you to come tonight—or dragged you off to the rehearsal room.”

  There went the rest of her anger, smothered by the seductive promise in his voice. Breathing became difficult as he leaned closer.

  “Do you doubt me, Bren?”

  God, the man oozed pure sex appeal out of every pore. Even as he calmed her with his words, she could feel the desire he was holding carefully—if temporarily—in check vibrating in the air.

  “I don’t doubt that you want me. But I—I…” She couldn’t quite get the words out. Clearing her throat, she made her stand. “That’s not enough this time. I want more than that.”

  A look she hadn’t seen in years crossed his face. She’d almost forgotten it, but she recognized it the moment it appeared. And her heart skipped a beat at the sight. There. That was her Jack. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “More, huh?”

  “More.”

  He tugged slightly on her hand, and she slid across the leather until they were only inches apart. “More sounds like an interesting idea.”

  Jack’s hand trailed up her arm to smooth across the curve of her shoulder before it moved to her back.

  Focus. “I don’t know if we’re capable of that. We always end up fighting. Just like tonight.” Her voice trembled a little as her body fell into habit: they’d fought, and now it was time to make up. Her muscles loosened and her pulse kicked up in anticipation.

  “Some things are important enough to fight for. And you’re worth fighting with.” The husky undertone affected her almost as much as the words. She felt the zip of Dianne’s lucky dress give way as he eased it down.

  She was a goner and she knew it. She couldn’t fight it any longer, and she didn’t want to either. God help her, she was still in love with Jack.

  Chapter Eleven

  HER phone was ringing.

  The chirpy noise filtered into her dream and pulled her to semi-consciousness. No light filtered through her eyelids, so it had to be very late. Or maybe very early.

  Jack’s arm had her pinned to the bed. His body curved around hers, and her feet were tangled in the sheets. Getting out of bed wasn’t tempting at all—much less for what was probably a wrong number anyway.

  The noise stopped, and Brenna let sleep start to tug her back under. She was exhausted, thanks to Jack. Make-up sex had never been like that. Although neither one of them had said anything outright, the dynamic had shifted somehow, and they’d have to address that eventually.

  She was looking forward to it.

  When the chirping started again, she sighed. Even Jack stirred this time.

  “Is that your phone?” he mumbled.

  “Yes. It’s probably just a wrong number.”

  “Then you’re not going to answer it?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Jack pulled her closer and adjusted his hold on her, snuggling her in against his chest. His deep sigh of satisfaction seemed to slide through her, warming her soul. She could feel the smile on her face as she closed her eyes and—

  Jack’s phone blared like a Klaxon, jarring them both wide awake. As Jack cursed under his breath and pushed to a sitting position alarm bells started clanging in her head. The chances of both of them getting wrong number calls so close together…Something wasn’t right.

&nbs
p; Jack retrieved his pants from the floor and fished in the pocket for his phone, while Brenna made her way to the other room to find her purse. She pulled out her phone and flipped it open. She could hear Jack’s voice as he answered, but couldn’t make out any of the words as she scrolled through the menu on her phone. Two missed calls from Amante Verano’s main line. Her heart stopped beating.

  She didn’t seem to have any voicemail waiting, but deep down she knew Jack was getting whatever news there was right now. She should go in, eavesdrop on Jack’s side of the conversation and see what she could figure out, but something held her back. It couldn’t be good news. Not at this time of night.

  Then Jack appeared in the doorway, his phone still in his hand. The look of concern and pity on his face confirmed her earlier thought: the news—whatever it was—wasn’t good. Her knees shook a little.

  He seemed to be searching for words. “That was Ted.”

  Oh, God. “Was someone hurt? Di? Was there an accident?”

  “No one was hurt. Everyone is fine,” he reassured her, and the relief that washed over her staggered her. But the relief was painfully short-lived; she could tell the worst was yet to come.

  “What, Jack. Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath. “There was a fire.”

  “Fire?” Of all the possibilities…“Oh, my God. Where? When?” She was already in the bedroom, searching through her suitcase, pulling out clothes and trying to dress with shaking hands.

  Jack caught her arms and held her—forcing her to look at him directly, yet still offering his support. “In the winery itself. Bren…” He blew out his breath in a long, noisy sigh. She braced herself. “The building is a total loss.”

  “Tot—” She couldn’t get the word past the lump in her throat. “Oh, God.”

  “I’m so sorry, Bren.”

  Total. She couldn’t process it. Her winery was gone? “I need to…need to…” She looked at the clothes in her hand and had no idea what to do with them.

  “Finish getting dressed. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”

  She’d never been so tired in her life, but there was no way she could sleep. There was too much to do, and while her brain spun at top speed, she couldn’t shake the weight that kept her moving sluggishly and mechanically.

  They’d arrived at Amante Verano at sunrise, but the beautiful picture that normally greeted her had been scarred by the charred, blackened ruins of the winery. Everything else looked the same as it had when she’d left yesterday—God, had it really been less than twenty-four hours?—and the surreal disconnect only added to the problems she was having making her thoughts fall into logical order.

  Jack had been there for her, holding her hand while Ted filled her in on the details. When it came to what needed to be done next—calling the insurance company, talking to the Fire Marshal—he’d taken over, with her blessing and heartfelt thanks.

  In fact, Jack was in her office right now—where she should be, would be as soon as she could muster the strength to stand. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the ground, unable to stop staring at what was left of her winery. The walls leaned at drunken angles, barely holding up what was left of the roof. The giant hole in the side wall—caused when the tank full of neutral grape spirits exploded, Ted said—mirrored the feeling in her stomach.

  She needed to quit wallowing. Ted was burning up the phone lines, trying to find someone to take the grapes off their hands. They still needed to harvest next week, or else lose the crop entirely, but they needed somewhere to send those grapes once they did. She should be helping with that chore, or doing any of the dozen other things waiting for her, and she would.

  In just another minute.

  If Max were alive, Jack would gladly read him the riot act over the astounding lack of proper insurance this place had. This was a giant mess. Max had certainly known the implications of underinsuring, so Jack could only assume Max had figured he’d play the odds and use his own money should those odds ever not work out in his favor. It looked as if Brenna also knew the winery was underinsured, and had planned to remedy that, but for whatever reason hadn’t done so yet. The road to recovery would be rough, to say the least. Without a serious infusion of cash, Amante Verano might not recover at all.

  And he had a feeling Brenna understood that on some level.

  He hadn’t seen much of Brenna since shortly after they’d arrived. In a sort of unspoken agreement Brenna had taken charge of the “wine side”—conferring with Ted and Dianne on grapes and stock issues—while he had done what he did best and buried himself in paperwork and crunched numbers as night fell.

  In the wake of that thought he heard footsteps in the hall, and Brenna entered the office. She’d been pale and haunted-looking in the car on the way out this morning, and the events of the day hadn’t helped her any. For lack of a better word, Brenna looked fragile—a sharp contrast to her normal energy and strength—and dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  “How’s it look?” she asked as she collapsed into her chair opposite Max’s desk.

  “Honestly, Bren, it’s not great.” He wanted to cushion the blow if he could. “There are options, but…”

  “But they’re not great. I figured as much.” She sighed, and scrubbed her hands over her face.

  He noticed the soot on her hands. He should have known Brenna wouldn’t be able to stay away from the building entirely, as the Fire Marshal had recommended. “How are you holding up?”

  She laughed bitterly. “Not great. Ted’s having a little luck finding buyers for some of the fruit.” She sighed. “Box wine. My grapes are going to be made into cheap box wine. My mother is rolling in her grave.”

  “You’re doing the best you can under the circumstances, Bren.”

  “I know. It doesn’t lessen the feeling, though.” Another deep sigh, and Brenna shook her head as if to clear it. “Any other news I need to know about? What did the Fire Marshal say?”

  “Other than ‘Stay away from the building,’ you mean?” Brenna dropped her eyes. “It’s all preliminary, but he thinks he knows what started the fire.”

  That got Brenna’s attention. “Really? Already?”

  “Yeah. It was electrical in nature; that much he’s pretty sure of. It looks like a short in the main pump sparked it.”

  He didn’t think it could be possible, but Brenna went even paler behind her freckles as she pulled in her breath sharply. “The pump?” she whispered.

  She looked as if she was about to pass out. He came out from behind the desk and squatted in front of her as she took deep breaths. “Are you all right, Bren?”

  “Oh, my God. This is my fault.”

  “How could it possibly be your fault?”

  Brenna stood and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “The pump’s been acting up lately. I took it apart last week. Twice, actually.” When she looked at him, the horror in her eyes shocked him. “This is my fault. I burned down my winery.”

  “It’s not your fault. The findings are still preliminary, and they could change.” She started to protest, but in her current state he needed to talk her down. “Even if it was the pump, it’s still not your fault. I know you, Bren, and you could take that thing apart in your sleep. You didn’t cause this.”

  She didn’t seem comforted. If anything, she became more agitated. “Half a dozen owners, Prohibition, droughts, phylloxera—no problem. My family has produced the best fruit and the best wine in the valley regardless of the circumstances. But I take over, and I destroy everything in a month because I can’t put a stupid pump back together properly.”

  “Bren…” He reached for her, but she flinched away from his hand.

  “Don’t!” Her voice shook as she took two steps back. In a slightly calmer, although still shaking voice, she whispered, “Please don’t touch me. I can’t handle it. I’m barely holding myself together as it is.”

  All the more reason to give her someone to hold on to, as far as he figured, but Brenna was already
out of reach. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go rest for a little while? Or we could get something to eat if you want. Later we’ll sit down and come up with a plan.”

  She swallowed hard. “You’re right. I could use a break. I think I will go lie down. I’ll see you later.” She walked from the room, still muttering to herself. Probably still beating herself up over that damn pump.

  A ping from the computer brought him back to the other business clamoring for his attention. He couldn’t leave Brenna and the vineyard right now, so he’d emailed Roger earlier and informed him of the change of plans. He couldn’t postpone the meetings in New York on such short notice, so Roger would have to go in his place. Unfortunately, bringing him up to speed was taking a bit more time than he’d hoped.

  After an hour of back and forth emails and a phone call he finally had it sorted out. Brenna hadn’t reappeared, and all seemed quiet, so he went to the kitchen for a beer.

  A moment later Brenna stuck her head around the door. Her color was a bit better now, but she still wore that tired, haunted look. Her hair hung in a slightly damp curtain around her face. Obviously fresh from a shower, she wore a baggy T-shirt and pajama pants. Red toenails peeked out from under the floppy hems.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

  “It’s understandable.”

  “Thanks. It’s not been a good day. I feel like I’ve come loose from my trellis and I’m just flapping in the breeze.”

  “You’ll get through this. It may sound trite, but it’s true.”

  “The thing is…” She paused and took another of those deep breaths. “It really means a lot to me that you’re here. You didn’t have to come—”

  “Of course I did.”

  She shook her head. “Actually, you didn’t. And I overheard you talking on the phone earlier. I know you’ve canceled your trip to New York so you can stay here during all this. I really appreciate it.”

  Her hands pleated the hem of her T-shirt, telling him she had something more to say. “You know, I’ve been feeling kind of lonely out here, and when I saw the—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “When I saw what was left, I thought I’d hit bottom. I’ve never felt so alone and scared as I did at that moment. But you were there, and I realized I wasn’t alone. That I didn’t have to be.” Her eyes met his. “And that I don’t want to be.”