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“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 amount of money on the phones, Tony, maybe we should actually use them.”
And, boy, could that woman be bossy. “Hey,” he said into the speakerphone, “I just got off the phone with this guy—do you know a Pierre von Something-or-Another?”
She drew a swift breath. “Pierre von Shalburg?”
“That’s him!” He sagged in relief. “You know him. He yammered on like I should know who he is, but I didn’t have a clue—”
“Oh, God. Tony, did you say you just talked to him?”
“Yeah. He yammered on—”
“What did you say?” Francesca yelled.
Scowling, Tony tapped his pen against the desk. “I said yes.”
“To what exactly?”
“To him coming here for opening weekend.”
A long silence ensued. Then, “You’d better meet me in the kitchen.”
List in hand, he headed out of his office, down the hall and took the elevator to the kitchen. He’d been pleasant enough to the guy. Francesca acted as though he couldn’t deal with a simple reservation. He hadn’t exactly bubbled over with enthusiasm, though, and he doubted their guest-to-be would bend beneath his smile. Why couldn’t von Shalburg have been a six-foot blonde with legs to die for?
As he approached the open doorway, he saw Francesca standing behind one of the assistant chefs—sous chefs she called them—hovering as he cooked scallops in a big frying pan. She looked tired. Her usually jaunty ponytail hung limply against her neck. Sweat glistened on her face.
Actually… He angled his head. She looked really good sweaty. Not unkempt so much as…mussed. As if she’d rolled out of a bed she hadn’t wanted to leave.
He’d seen Francesca first thing in the morning many times. Throughout their teenage years, her parents had let him stay with them when his parents had gone out of town and they’d been between housekeepers—which was often, since his mother was forever accusing his father of sleeping with them, and he was always trying to make up for his behavior by taking her to Aspen or Paris or St. Croix.
That was Francesca—always around when he needed her, always willing to see him through any situation.
They had been best friends since they were ten, when Tony’s parents had decided he should start attending public school on Long Island, rather than going back to boarding school in England. Years later, he’d learned this change of heart hadn’t been prompted by his homesickness, but the hundred-thou-a-year his parents had saved by keeping him home.
Francesca’s tongue peeked out to flick across her bottom lip, and he groaned. How would she look with her long, dark hair loose and caressing her face? The strands looked silky, but how did they feel? He couldn’t recall ever gliding his hands through her hair. Why was that? Why hadn’t he—
Because she’s the only true friend you have.
He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Erotic fantasies about Francesca? He’d definitely been working too hard.
And last night didn’t count. He’d only been consoling Barbie on the breakup of her engagement.
He walked into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter. “I could use a martini.”
Francesca glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. “I’ll page the bartender.”
“Do we have a bartender?” He winced as she continued to glare. He was an owner now, not a guest. He really needed to come up with a mantra or something to help him remember that. “Hell, now I’m starting to sound like that pompous jerk.”
Crossing to the industrial-sized, walk-in freezer, he headed straight for the ice-cold bottle of Grey Goose on the third shelf. He mixed his drink—and one for Francesca as well. She’d been working as hard as he had. Probably harder.
Maybe he should volunteer to take her out. She deserved a night off.
“Pompous jerk?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “That would be Pierre von Shalburg, I assume?”
He sampled his martini, found it nicely balanced, so he pushed the second glass across the counter to Francesca, which she picked up by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and sipped. He smiled at the elegant picture she made—even in jeans, a stained T-shirt and an apron. “That would be him,” he said finally.
Eyes narrowed, she set down her martini glass with a clang. “What did you say to him?”
He cut his gaze right then left, looking for an escape. He drank again from his glass. “He pretty much did all the talking.”
He thought he saw smoke seeping from Francesca’s ears. “Do you have any idea who he is?” she asked.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“He’s the principle critic for A Vino magazine.”
Thank God. Finally, a name he recognized. Just last week Uncle Joe had gone on and on about the influence of the magazine, since A Vino was the resort industry’s premier review—
Oh, hell. He leaned heavily onto the counter. “He can make us or break us.”
Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. “You do have a talent for succinctness.” She glared at him. “When absolutely forced beyond reason.”
“I did okay. Really,” he added, when she continued to stare daggers in his direction. He grasped her hands, sliding his thumbs across her skin. “I wrote down everything he said and assured him we could accommodate his every desire.” He smiled. “You know how good I am at that.”
To his surprise, instead of returning his smile, she scowled and pulled her hands from his grasp. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Well, I could—
No, no, no. This is Francesca, you idiot. Your best friend.
He couldn’t put any moves on her.
He wasn’t a long-term guy—his personal relationship record was three months. Francesca needed more from a man. She’d told him so dozens of times. Usually after she’d broken things off with a guy who turned out to be “commitment-phobic.” And if there was ever a commitment-phobic guy, it was him. Again, a Galini family tradition—with the exception of Joe and his wife. And, really, he could modestly admit to himself that he had plenty of female attention. Why limit his talents to just one? It didn’t seem equitable.
Besides, he wasn’t attracted to Francesca. Not at all. Not in the least.
He drained his martini. “Well, anyway, here’s the list.” He pushed the scribbled note toward her. “When do we eat?”
“Any minute now.” Finally giving him a quick smile, Francesca glanced over the note. “Imagine Pierre von Shalburg at our resort. If we can impress him, we’ll have solid bookings for the next year. I’m sure the staff can handle the meal requirements. We’ve already been working on some grand opening specials. And Joe will be here to do the tour—”
“I’ll do the tour.”
Francesca eyed him skeptically.
“Ches, if there’s anything I understand it’s the vines. I’ve been pruning every winter and harvesting every fall since I was fourteen.”
She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Sorry.”
“Dinner, Ms. D’Arcy,” the sous chef announced, setting two plates on the counter in front of him and Francesca.
“Thank you, Kerry,” she said.
The scent of sautéed scallops wafted past him, and Tony put all thoughts of the cranky Pierre von Shalburg out of his mind. He selected a ’96 chardonnay from the fridge and poured the straw-colored liquid into two glasses. He paused with the bottle hovering over a third glass. “Kerry?”
“No, thank you, sir,” the sous chef said, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “I still have prep work for tomorrow.”
Tony set aside the bottle, then picked up his glass. He touched the crystal to Francesca’s. “To success.”
They had been eating like this, standing at the counter in the warm, busy kitchen in the basement, nearly every night for a month. Tony found himself checking his watch in the afternoon in anticipation of dinner with her. Must be a latent longing for all those impersonal meals he’d endured growing up with nobody but the housekeeper for company.
As they enjoyed the delicious meal, they discussed plans for the critic’s visit.
With the number of resorts in the area growing, they’d had to find ways to distinguish themselves from the competition. Since the wine production had always been their focus, it seemed logical to focus on food, wine and music, rather than spa services.
Would von Shalburg participate in their planned cooking classes?
Tony doubted it.
Would he relax in the jazz-themed bar at night?
Maybe. But certainly alone.
Would he like the wine-pairing sessions?
Only if he could tell everybody what he thought and have them bow and definitively agree with every word he said.
Finally, frustrated, Francesca shoved her plate aside. “Well, what do you think he would like?”
“How about a day at the spa? We could foist him off on Chateau Fontaine down the road.”
Francesca sighed. “No, do you plan to shuffle off every troublesome guest?”
