Page 9 of The Truth About De Campo

“But I can hedge my bets. Make my decisions based on the facts I have now.”

He picked up the wine and poured the last of it into their glasses. It occurred to her she should probably refuse any more but the legendary Brunello was just too good to turn down.

He fixed that intense dark stare on her, the one that made her pulse jump all over the place. “Why fourth, Quinn? Why originally rank us fourth when you so clearly want a pure wine play, not a big behemoth.”

Maybe the wine was loosening her tongue, but she decided he deserved to know. “In my mind, De Campo is an arrogant, self-satisfied brand. Yes, you make exceptional wine. Your lineage is impeccable. But you represent what Luxe used to be. Not where we’re going. Silver Kangaroo is young, vibrant and fresh. A bit on the eclectic side. It fits perfectly with where I intend to take the Luxe brand.”

A frown furrowed his brow. “De Campo is not an arrogant brand. A proud brand—yes. A brand with a century of heritage behind it—yes. But arrogant? You’re wrong.”

She tilted her head to one side. “I beg to differ.”

“I have third-party brand studies that will show you you’re wrong. That we appeal to a young, hip demographic.”

“Brand studies are a self-serving exercise in making a company feel good about itself,” she countered. “It’s an instinctual feeling I have, Matteo, and at the end of the day, that is how I will make my decision. Instinct.”

Frustration glinted in his eyes. “You need to visit Gabriele in Napa. He is light-years ahead of Silver Kangaroo.”

She nodded. “I will if time permits.”

A server came to take their dishes away. “That was fantastic,” she murmured, sure she could crawl into bed right now and sleep for twenty-four hours. “Maybe I should steal Guerino away from you.”

He flashed a lazy smile. “Sorry. He’ll never leave Italy.”

“So sad.” She tried to ignore how the dark stubble that covered his jaw was even more pronounced tonight as he spoke to the waiter in Italian. How it took his rakish good looks to a whole new dangerous level. But the warmth from the wine had turned her limbs into mush and her brain along with it. He had been mentally undressing her earlier, she was sure of it, and what had she done? Just let him keep on doing it. Insane, really, when this was all about business and this was Matteo they were talking about. The playboy who couldn’t keep it in his pants.

Unfortunately that didn’t stop her from studying his beautiful, elegant hands as he gestured to the server. It made her think of a quote she’d read in one of the tabloids while getting her hair done. One of Matteo’s exes—the curator of a Manhattan art gallery—had made an incredibly blunt comment about how he’d been the best she’d ever had. Then had gone on to suggest she’d like to sample him again—all while dating the studlike quarterback of New York’s pro football team.

He couldn’t be that good. Could he? Or would those gorgeous hands be the perfect instrument to seduce a woman slowly, taking the time to savor her?

“Quinn?”

Her gaze flew guiltily to his. “Sorry?”

The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “Crème caramel or chocolate torte for dessert? Personally, I think Guerino’s crème caramel is the best in Italy.”

“Definitely the crème caramel.” She might even manage to spoon some in her mouth before she did a face-plant in it.

Matteo relayed their choice to the server, then miraculously produced another bottle of Brunello. She held up a hand. “No more wine for me, thank you.”

“I’ll drink most of it,” he said smoothly. “Live a little.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Julian had said that to her all the time in that condescending, highbrow voice of his. “Live a little, Quinn. Show me you can have some fun or you might drive me elsewhere.”

“Just half a glass,” she said quietly.

“That was a joke, you know,” he murmured, his gaze on her face. “Although you are known to be a workaholic. Just as driven as your father, insiders say.”

Impossible. She’d never met a human being on this earth as driven as Warren. Her mouth twisted. “And what else did your intelligence turn up?”

“You made the top thirty under thirty business people in America this year. One of only two women. That must have made Warren proud.”

Questionable. He hadn’t much commented even though she’d been aching for him to. Quinn took a sip of the heady wine. Rolled it around her mouth and set the glass down. “No matter what people like to believe, there is still a glass ceiling for women. But I had advantages from the start.”

“Si, but you’ve also had the disadvantage of being very beautiful. Many men don’t take that seriously.”

“Do you?”

His smile flashed white in the candlelight. “I’ve never underestimated a woman in my life, beautiful or otherwise. You would rule the world if men weren’t physically stronger.”

He looked genuine when he said that. Quinn had the ghastly idea she might actually like Matteo De Campo after these couple of days. Which was really, really not a good idea.

“So,” she murmured, taking another sip of her wine, “what else was in your report?”

“The usual. Harvard, your rapid climb up the corporate ladder...” An amused glitter entered his eyes. “I have to say, the graduate-level Krav Maga caught me off guard. Interesting choice.”

How had he found out about that? She never talked publicly about it. Went to the most discreet school in Chicago specifically to avoid that type of publicity.

She waved her hand at him, brushing it off. “It’s an outlet.”

“Hardly.” That smoky, perceptive gaze stayed on hers. “Krav Maga is a street-fighting martial art, Quinn. The Israeli army trains its soldiers in it. It’s hardly a casual outlet.”

She shifted in her seat. And lied. “A girlfriend was doing it. It suits my competitive personality.”

It would also make any man think twice about putting his hands on her ever again.

“Since we’re trading interesting facts about one another,” she said, changing the subject, “I’m intrigued by the tattoo. What does it mean?”

He touched his fingers to his biceps, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “It means ‘never forget.’”

“Never forget what?” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Matteo’s gaze darkened to the deep slate of gunmetal. “My best friend, Giancarlo, died in a car accident recently. It was pointless. Unnecessary.”

Oh. The way he said unnecessary sent a chill through her. The grief she saw in his eyes was something she knew all too well. Dammit, she castigated herself, she should not have asked that. The wine had been a bad, bad idea.

“I am so sorry,” she murmured huskily, needing to say something into the heavy silence. “I lost my mother when I was ten. It makes you question everything, doesn’t it?”

He nodded. “Si. It does.”

The conversation stumbled after that. There was a darkness surrounding Matteo that contrasted strikingly with his earlier charming demeanor. When they’d finished dessert, he suggested she must be tired. She nodded and said that she was. Her head was starting to spin now. It was way past time for her jet-lagged body to be in bed.

They stopped by the kitchen where she gave Guerino her compliments, then walked over to the west wing. On the circular, steep stairwell to her turret bedroom, her head started to spin in a dizzying pattern that made the ascent in four-inch heels particularly challenging. Halfway up, her shoe caught in a rivet. She stumbled and teetered in the ridiculously high designer heels, and would have fallen if Matteo hadn’t been behind her. He cursed, swept his arm under her knees and caught her up in his arms.

“Wh-what are you doing?” She dug her fingers into his muscular shoulders and held on for dear life.

“Making sure you don’t break your neck,” he muttered, carrying her up the last flight and down the hallway to her room. “Why you women wear those heels is beyond me.”

She was too busy registering that wow, he was strong and so hot carrying her like this to pay much attention to the rebuke. He smelled delicious, too, the spicy, exotic scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils.

“I think I might have overdone the wine,” she offered faintly as he set her down on the floor outside her room. He kept his hands around her waist as if scared she would keel over, his fingers burning into her skin like a brand. Quinn looked up at his gorgeous, sexy face, at the dark stubble she was dying to run her fingers over and told herself this was business.

Business. Business. Business.

The heat that arced between them like a living, breathing thing was not. It had been there from the moment she’d laid eyes on him and it was getting worse. The reluctant but oh-so-interested glitter in those smoky gray eyes wasn’t helping.

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