The Perfect Someday (A standalone novel ~ Book three in The Mathews Family) (25 page)

“Yours? She is not yours. What are you going to do with her? All you know how to love is your land and the wine,” Antonio goaded, reacting to his brother
’s outburst.

Vincent rammed
his forearm into his brother’s shoulder, pinning him hard against the stone wall. “I don’t want you near her.”

Tracy only had one brother,
but she recognized the macho demonstration of possession. She cleared her throat, loudly, tugging on Vincent’s arm. “What are you doing?”

Antonio retorted, “Bella…”

Vincent smashed his full weight into his brother’s shoulder, knocking the wind from his lungs. “You do not ever call her that!”

Tracy shook her head in irritation, plucking the tissue from Antonio’s hand and dabbing at the brown stain covering her breast. She glanced down t
he hallway, thankful it was still too early for any visitors.

Antonio struggled briefly, attempting to get free.
His eyes narrowed, shocked by his brother’s impulsive display of protectiveness. Hostility wedged into the thin slice of air between them. The brothers didn’t argue, only cursed a few words struggling for power and Vincent had the upper hand.

“
Vincent, stop,” Tracy said softly, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His chest raised and lowered in laborious breaths. After getting no reaction, she discreetly slipped her hand up under the tail of his shirt, rubbing small circles on his lower back. This caught his attention.

One b
row lifted, politely indicating he needed to knock it off. The grey of his eyes, stormy with anger, tempered. Vincent backed away releasing the death grip from Antonio’s wrist, bringing his arm around Tracy and hauling her close to his side.

Antonio
rolled his neck and smoothed his shirtfront. He fumed through clenched jaw, “Would you please give us a moment?”

“Are you two going to behave?
” Her glare darted between them, fixating on Vincent.

“Si`.” Vincent grumbled
, sweat beading on his upper lip.

After disappearing to the bathroom to rinse
and blot the coffee stain from her shirt, she returned to her office. The door to Antonio’s office stayed shut. She stood at the open door to her office taking Vincent in. He half-sat on the edge of the desk. His head was bowed, and fingers knotted together rested in his lap as if he were praying. He glanced up at her, looking contrite and sexy as hell. The sun cast through the window, playing shadows on the silky waves of dark hair. She folded her arms over her chest hoping to conceal the thrashing of her heart.

“So,” she dragged out the vowel. “
What’s that all about?”

“We are brothers.
” He gave a frayed sigh, riddled deep with history. “We fight, we make up. It’s what we do.”

“Umm, he looked pretty surprised.”

He reached out snaring her softly by the waist, bringing her between his thighs. Her arms draped over his shoulders, rubbing at the tension in the muscles of his neck.

“We were both surprised.
” A catch of cynical laughter. “I’m sorry. I reacted without even thinking. I don’t want him flirting with you. Or touching you.” His jaw clenched. “He won’t do it anymore.”

“
Vincent, it’s not as if I would’ve stood there and let him touch me. Even before…last night.” She added. The heated scent of him filled her nose as she drew in a deep puff of air. His thumbs rotated small circles over her hip bones. “Your brother is a bit of a scoundrel.”

He cuddled her close, resting t
he side of his cheek on top of her head.

“Where were
you going when Antonio dumped coffee on you?” Vincent questioned with a brief nod toward her laptop now sitting on her desk.

“
Huh? Me?” Tracy pursed her lips together, dropping an awkward stare straight to the floor. Brown leather loafers and whip stitching filled her sight. “Nowhere.”

Vincent eased her away from his frame. Concern
wore in the creases near his temple. “You weren’t leaving, were you? I like it when you work here.”

She gave a quick shake of her head.

“No?”

“No, not really leaving.
” Guilty conscious worked its way over her face in a nice hue of red. “I just needed to decompress.”

One brow lifted, he forced a quizzical smile.

“Fine. I was going over to the villa.” She waved her hand idiotically toward the window. “I can’t help it! I swear that place calls to me, Vincent. I know it’s your spot, but I stare at it the whole time I’m here. It’s so beautiful, just something about—“

Vincent
cupped his hand in the shape of a C near his ear. “I do hear it. It’s calling us. Let’s go.”

Taking
her by the hand, Vincent led her down the corridor, through the property and past his office to a separate out-building. Turning the corner, the first of six garage doors was rolled open. A dozen farm workers huddled at a long picnic table enjoying their lunch and glass of wine. She’d gotten used to the fact that nearly all of Italy enjoyed their favorite vino during lunch and many establishments closed for the daily occasion.

The men ranged in age
s from twenty to sixty. Their discussion came to a hush and smirks of intrigue plastered all of their faces noticing Vincent’s grip on her hand. His grin broadened, nodding at the workers as he snagged a bottle of white wine from the center of the table.

One of the older men spoke to Vincent, in a scolding manner, his accent heavy and rushed
. Disappointment weaved through the scowl furrowing between his thick black brows. Each defined line plotted near his eyes telling a chapter of his long life. He stood from the table and all of the workers followed suit standing from their benches.

“Scusi
, where are my manners.” Vincent scoffed a smile at the obligatory introduction. “Tracy, this is Maurizio, Damiano, Giani, Vittorio, Dante, Stefano, Andrea, Alessandro, Francesco, Marco, Marcello and Roberto.”

One by one, each man
eagerly greeted her with a wealth of warm kisses and a lively, “Piacere.” These men worked for Vincent, yet she felt the admiration they held for him. Judging by the happy looks of surprise they wore, it was not often they saw him with a woman.

A
s they left the building, the young man named Francesco whistled and called to Vincent, tossing him half a loaf of Italian bread. Dante followed suit, pitching him a block of cheese wrapped in plastic wrap.

Vincent bowed slightly in appreciation. “Grazie.”

Pink dusted her cheeks, she blushed from head to toe, waving goodbye. “It’s like having twelve uncles. They’re adorable.”

“
We have a devoted crew of workers and farmers. Many have worked in these fields for generations. Several I have known all my life.” Three golf carts lined the hard packed gravel parking lot. “No bikes, today we drive.”

Tracy
pouted at him. “You mean to tell me we could’ve taken one of these the other day when I was barefoot?”

“Si`, but it wouldn’t have been near as much fun seeing you get so mad.”
Hiding a devilish grin.

“Oh
you are terrible.” She teased. The sole of her boot caught stepping from the sidewalk. Tracy wobbled and he looped his arm under hers, pressing a quick kiss to her neck. “Why Pinot Grigio? Is this your favorite?”

“
It’s a bit sweeter. I’ve got to break you in slowly.”

Vincent continued, but
she didn’t hear anything, her mind blistered.

“You can break me in however you l
ike.” She mumbled under her breath, holding back a grin hearing his breath hitch. Seeing a thick wool blanket and a small cooler in the back of the cart sent her heart into overdrive. “You planned this?”

“Perhaps.”
His eyes glimmered removing the lid of the cooler, adding the appetizers to an already well-packed ice chest.

T
hey spent that afternoon at the villa nestled into the hill. What the castle lacked in polish it made up for in old-world appeal reminiscent of another age. Most of the land was overgrown and covered in forest, but the villa magically came to life with scuffed walls and exposed brick.

Strolling through the south-facing slopes of what was once crops of corn and olives, Vincent spoke about the soil as if it had a life of its own.
The sound of his voice and knowledge he shared warmed her to the bones.

Tracy kicked a smooth rock laying in the sandy topsoil
with the toe of her boot, exposing an ancient shell bleach white from exposure. She picked it up, rubbing off the crusted dirt. “A seashell?”

“Si`. It is scattered with seashells. Forty million years ago this land was under the sea.” He pointed to his property near the lower valley. “Our land is made up of a sandier soil providing excellent drainage, but this land is better. The nutrients far exceed ours.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

“How many acres are here?” Reaching up to knead the lobe of her ear, she raised to her tippy toes speculating where the property ended.

“
I would guess between three and four thousand.”

Numbers began to multiply in her head. Tracy folded her arms over her chest, her brow wrinkled, deep in calculations.

“I can see your brain is working very hard right now.”

“Hmm?”
She muttered. A smile flirting across his lips pulled her from a daze. “Have you considered buying this place?”

He raised a doubtful brow.

“Right.” Tracy nodded recognizing it was a silly question. Not many people could simply purchase a castle.  “How about a long term lease on the land?”

“No.”
A fissure of interest exposed in his melancholy. “The estate has never gone up for sale. It used to be a hunting lodge for a wealthy socialite. He and my papa were, how you say, not friends?”

“Rivals?”

“Si`.” He held her hand as they walked, recanting stories of the enmity between the men. The man’s hunting dogs and horses got loose on several occasions trampling through his papa’s crops. Tracy laughed out loud listening to Vincent’s child-hood memories of finding the horses, hooves, and lips stained red and purple from their overnight feasts.

Vincent spread out the wool blanket
in the middle of the vacant courtyard over the lawn turned yellow from months of winter. The mid-day sun streamed through tree branches warming the blanket beneath them. Tracy quietly took mental notes of every detail of the amazing architecture. Faded stucco looked like soft embroidery, loved by elements of time. It would be impossible to recreate the grandeur of age and appeal hidden in the mortar of bricks surrounding them.

“M
ay I ask a question?”

Tracy shifted to her left side, picking fuzz balls from the plaid blanket. “Yes.”

“Do you agree with my brother?” His voice transfixed and firm. Tracy got the feeling this issue weighed heavily on his mind and he needed to get it off his chest. “About exporting?”

The majestic oak, arms stripped bare and spindly, rustled
in the breeze swallowing up her silence. This wasn’t the line of interrogation she’d hoped for. What’s your favorite food or movie or musician would have sufficed just fine. Registering the question, she drew in a big breath of air and exhaled.

“Not completely.” Tracy hesitated before continuing bluntly, “Look, can we just take your brother out of the equation? Because, I have. To be honest, I’ve taken both
of you out of the equation. My focus is what’s best for the future and success of Castlello Giovanni, not Vincent or Antonio.”

“Success isn’t simply measured by how financially prosperous you are.”
Vincent stated slicing the cheese into thin wedges with his pocket knife. “Success is about the things you accomplish, the mark you leave on people.”

“I agree.” She held his hand, caressing her thumb over his palm.

“Successful winemaking requires an intimate relationship between the winemaker and the environment. The earth, the vines, the grapes, the process, the taste, even the bottle…it represents our family. Staying true to my heritage is important to me. More important than having it on a shelf in some supermarket halfway around the world.”

“The market is changing, Vincent. You cannot afford to ignore the fact that the industry is booming on a global scale. It’s no longer Italy, France and California dominating the market. Wine is being produced in more than forty count
ies around the world.” Tracy nibbled on a delicious piece of hard cheese. “And that number is growing every year. I’m not suggesting you do what is trending to keep current.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Vincent, if you don’t alter your business plan or at least vary your output…you risk the chance of losing everything…in a matter of a few years.” She placed a long kiss to his palm. “You need to consider all avenues and carve out a new path. A path that you can leave for your children and your children’s children.”

“It would no longer be my family’s heritage. The nuances of the right blends and maturity have been passed down from generation to generation. They will be lost if we alter the process.”