CHAPTER THREE
ORLAHADLEFTDuarte’s house with a longer to-do list than she’d had going in, but as she’d carted her things to the hire car she’d parked round the back first thing she’d refused to entertain the possibility of not getting through it.
She had to pour all her energy into delivering on her promise, she’d told herself resolutely, firing up the engine and driving away. She had to temporarily forget the fact that her job and all that was attached to it hung in the balance. She couldn’t afford to panic. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to achieve what would no doubt turn out to be her toughest challenge to date.
The minute she’d arrived back at her hotel, after paying the site of the old winery a visit to scope out the venue she should have been focusing on, she’d called the office back in London. On learning, to her distress, that the mistake had been entirely hers, she’d doubled down on her efforts to fix it.
She didn’t know how or why she’d misread the email that contained the details of Duarte’s instructions but she hadn’t wasted time dwelling on it. Instead, she’d been spurred into action. Since the Quinta was three times the size of the Casa and time was marching on, she’d sourced and hired a team from a local company to prepare it. A company new to her and an untested team, she’d recognised, but she had no doubt that she would be there to supervise.
Once that had been sorted, she’d set about tracking down the wine, which had been as challenging as she’d assumed. Although she reckoned she’d done a good job of concealing the sheer panic that had surged through her at Duarte’s revelation that only three bottles of the wine he wanted existed, her confidence had been knocked for six. But she’d kept her cool, and on learning subsequently that all three bottles had been sold individually at auction fifteen years ago, she’d rallied. She knew the auctioneers well, and a ten-minute phone call had eventually furnished her with details of the sales.
The owners of the bottles she’d traced to Zurich and New York hadn’t budged for anything. As for the bottle located in France, well, that had been a tough negotiation too, but ultimately a successful one—thank God—and as a result she was back at the top of her game, which was where she intended to stay.
There was no possible way that this evening Duarte would have the same impact on her as he had yesterday, she assured herself as she marched through the former manufacturing section of the winery, passing between rows of oak barrels that reached the roof and breathing in the rich scent of port that permeated the musty air. Those circumstances had been extraordinary, brought on by shock and, when he’d whipped round to face her in the corridor, so fast and unexpectedly she’d nearly crashed into him for the second time, the kind of proximity that punched her hard in the gut and flooded her with heat.
He’d looked at her for the longest of moments, she recalled, feeling a flush wash over her before she could stop it. That dark, hostile gaze of his had fixed to hers as if trying to see into her soul, and weirdly, time had seemed to stop. Her surroundings had receded and her focus had narrowed until all she could see was him. Her breasts had tightened and her mouth had gone dry. She’d felt very peculiar. Sort of on fire, yet shivery at the same time, and it had taken every ounce of strength to haul herself under control.
These circumstances, however, were anything but extraordinary. Given that they’d arranged this meeting an hour ago, there’d be no surprises. No head butts or strange spells of dizziness. No stopping of time, no galloping pulse and certainly no tingling of body parts. Her job was safe. She’d achieved the impossible and proved her value to him—and more importantly, to herself—and that was all that mattered.
Coming to a stop at the threshold of the room in which he’d told her to meet him, Orla pulled her shoulders back and took a deep breath. The anticipation and adrenalin crashing through her were entirely expected. The success of a project was always a rush, and with the added pressure of this one, and the sky-scraping stakes, the high was even higher.
On a slow, steadying exhale, she knocked on the door and at the curt ‘Entra’ opened it. The room appeared to be half-office, half-sitting room. She briefly noticed a sofa, a coffee table, a sideboard and a pair of filing cabinets, but then her gaze landed on Duarte and yet again everything except him faded away.
He was sitting behind a desk, all large and shadowy, with the setting sun streaming in through the open window behind him and bathing the room in warm, golden light. If she’d been able to tear her eyes away from him she might have admired the twinkling river that wound through the landscape and the gently undulating hills beyond, their terraces covered with vines that were dense with verdant foliage stretching to the horizon. She might have found serenity in the big, airy room with its cool flagstone floor and rough, whitewashed walls.
But to her bewilderment and distress she couldn’t look away. She couldn’t focus on anything but him. He was just so magnetic, so compelling, and now she was feeling anything but triumphant, anything but serene. Her skin was prickling and oxygen seemed to be scarce. The linen shift dress she was wearing was by no means tight—in fact, she’d deliberately chosen it because of its loose-fitting nature—yet when the fabric brushed against her body, shivers ran down her spine. She felt strangely on edge, alert and primed, as if waiting for something to happen, although she couldn’t for the life of her work out what.
‘Do you have it?’
The deep timbre of his voice scraped over her nerve endings, weakening her knees dangerously, and for a moment she wondered, did she have what? Her marbles? Her self-possession? Apparently not. Because despite her hopes and expectations to the contrary, his effect on her was still so intense she could barely recall her own name. The X-rated dreams that had invaded what little sleep she had managed to grab were cascading into her head, so detailed and vivid she was going dizzy, and God, it was stifling in here.
But enough was enough. She couldn’t go on like this. It was totally unacceptable. She was a professional. She was here to work. She had to get a grip. And breathe.
‘I do,’ she said, giving herself a mental shake before stepping forwards into the room and setting her precious cargo on the desk, which unfortunately put her in a position where not only could she see him better, but smell him better too. ‘There. Are you impressed?’
Duarte didn’t respond. She doubted he’d even heard her. He was wholly focused on the box she’d put in front of him. Staring at it with what looked like barely concealed awe, he leaned forwards, undid the catch and lifted the lid.
Her gaze snagged on his hands as he carefully removed the bottle and slowly twisted it first one way then the other. Strong tanned hands, she noticed, a tingling pulse beginning to throb in the pit of her stomach. Long fingers with a light dusting of dark hair, neat nails. She could envisage them tangled in her hair, on her body, sliding over her skin and—
‘Take a seat,’ he murmured, popping that little bubble for which she was grateful, yes, grateful, not resentful.
Orla sat. She didn’t know why. The plan had been to present him with the bottle, remind him of her competence and their deal, at which point he’d un-fire her and she’d get back to the business of preparing his estate for the conference. Sitting had not been part of anything. But then, nor had staring and hungering and magnetism, or indeed, weak, wobbly legs.
‘Tell me how you did it.’
Right. So normally she didn’t divulge her methods any more than she revealed her sources. Both were her currency, and her little black book of notes and contacts was worth a fortune. But in this case, since Duarte was directly impacted, she should probably disclose at least the bare bones of the transaction.
‘I made a few phone calls,’ she said, determined to ignore his potent allure and remembering instead the events of the last twenty-four hours. ‘I tracked one bottle down to Zurich, another to New York and the third to France. This one came from there. I had it flown directly here from Nice and took delivery of it an hour ago.’
He arched one dark, disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Just like that?’
Well, no, but there was no way she was going to go into how stressful it had been. How wildly her emotions had oscillated between panic and relief. How slowly the minutes had dragged as she’d waited first for responses to the approaches she’d made and then for the bottle she’d acquired to actually arrive.
So many things could have gone wrong. The plane could have crashed. The box could have been dropped. It could have been stolen en route. Anything. Her nerves had been shredded right up until the moment she had the wine in her hands. But he didn’t need to know about the roller coaster of a ride she’d been on today.
‘The logistics and insurance took some working out,’ she said coolly, as if it hadn’t taken every resource she had or wrung her emotionally dry, ‘and it took a while to establish that the bottle had been meticulously stored with temperature and humidity control, but essentially, yes.’
Her explanation did nothing to remove the scepticism from his expression. ‘So all you had to do was ask, and Antoine Baudelaire simply handed it over?’
If only. ‘Not exactly.’
Duarte’s brows snapped together, his eyes narrowing a little, and Orla shifted uneasily on her seat because this was where it possibly got a little awkward.
‘Monsieur Baudelaire gifted the bottle to his daughter six months ago as a birthday present,’ she said, mentally crossing her fingers that he’d be reasonable about the terms that had been agreed. ‘It was her I negotiated with. First over the phone, and then over Zoom.’
‘His daughter?’
‘That’s right. Isabelle.’