A Taste of Merlot (7 page)

M
ark guessed right. Gloria had brought Dick around to her point of view while she had him alone at the travel agency. By the time they buzzed Mark at the end of the afternoon to discuss the buying decision, there was nothing to discuss.

Mark left Gloria's office and trudged back down the hall to his own. It fell to him to make two crappy phone calls, one to Rainn to inform her that Harrington's would be picking up her Día de los Muertos line, and the next, a rejection call to Meri. He glanced at his watch. Four-thirty already. He could keep them waiting until tomorrow, but he might as well get it over with. This day couldn't get any worse.

He didn't know which call he dreaded more.

On second thought, yes, he did. He punched in Rainn's number, feeling like a coward for putting off Meri 'til last.

Keeping his comments brief and impersonal, Mark outlined quantities and delivery dates. “Any questions?”

“There is something I was wondering about.”

Mark propped his free arm on his desk and rubbed his forehead. He couldn't wait to get off the line with Rainn, but as soon as he did he'd have to call Meri. One thing was for sure. There was a beer in his near future.

“Are you picking up Merlot's line, too?”

The hand rubbing his forehead stilled. “Whose?”

“
Merlot's
. Gilty Artisanal Jewelry,” she added impatiently, “down the hall from me.”

He frowned. “You mean Meri Peterson?” Rainn had trailed Gloria and him into the hallway of the co-op after their impromptu meeting that morning. She'd seen them enter Meri's atelier next.

“I mean Merlot.
St. Pierre
. That's her name.”

At Mark's confused silence, Rainn barked a laugh through the phone. “Is that what she told you? Her name is Merlot. She goes by Meri. Her last name is St. Pierre. You know.” There was an awkward pause.
“The wine family?”

Mark seemed to have permanently lost the power of speech.

Rainn forged ahead. “She didn't tell you?” She snorted. “Maybe she changed her name. Kind of makes sense. Probably thinks that'll make people take her more seriously . . .” She kept talking, ostensibly to fill the void left by Mark's mute shock. “. . . not that it matters. We knew each other at college—that is, 'til she quit.”

“Wait. When I asked you who Meri—er, Merlot was before, you denied knowing her.”

She laughed. “Honestly, I was only trying to save you from making a big mistake. For people like Merlot, art school is just a lark. Just something fun to do to pass the time.” She let out a dramatic, wistful sigh. “Must be nice to be loaded, right? Different ball gown every night . . .”

“Yeah. Must be nice.” Only a select few of Mark's vendors knew he was more than simply a buyer. Even fewer that his grandfather had left him rock-star rich. But the guys who watched the Forty-niners on fall Sundays with Mark knew—and couldn't care less. If he ever started acting like some entitled jerk around them, he'd be in for a serious ass-kicking.

“Then again, maybe she has something to hide.”

But that last comment of Rainn's didn't even register with Mark. He was still trying to digest the fact that his budding star in ripped jeans was a wine heiress.

“Er, I can't talk about other vendors. If you don't have any more questions, I've got things to catch up on here,” he managed to get out. “I'll be in touch.”

“Awesome. I'll look for your e-mail with the signed orders.”

Mark sat unmoving for five seconds while his mind zoomed ahead at warp speed, before he leapt up to tear down the hall.

Once Mark broke the news, Gloria called Dick back up from where he was waiting in the lobby to launch an emergency pow wow. The CFO leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded, while Mark paced and Gloria studied a photo of Meri that Mark had pulled up for her on his iPad.

“That
is
Merlot St. Pierre. I can't believe I didn't recognize her at the co-op. Heaven knows, we've all seen enough pictures of the St. Pierre girls over the years.” Mark watched his aunt as she scrolled through photo after photo. “Those oval faces, those endless legs . . .” she mused, half to herself. “Their mother was Lily d'Amboise, you know.” She glanced across the room. “Remember her, Dick, from back in the day? All three of those girls have their mother's figure, don't they?” She tilted the tablet his way.

Grudgingly, Dick abandoned his post against the wall to take a look.

“Look at this one, taken at last month's Challenge Gala up in Napa. They're practically triplets, except for their hair color. Though I grant you, each has found her own unique way of dressing. Sauvignon has on Chloé in this shot—come to think of it, the three of them posing like that personify a Chloé ad—and Chardonnay's in Chanel.” She adjusted her readers. “Who's that Merlot's wearing? Looks like vintage.”

Mark didn't read the gossip rags, but he still had a couple of bottles of a St. Pierre red left from his last visit to the wine country. And to think—that lavish estate was where Meri called home. Why hadn't she said something when he brought it up at the diner?

He was growing impatient with all the talk about dresses.

“So here's what we'll do,” he said, wearing a path in Gloria's Aubusson. “Imagine this: a whole luxury lifestyle collection based on the pairing of wine and jewelry. We'll start out with her existing work for spring, then launch a tabletop line in time for next Christmas—Merlot St. Pierre wineglasses, china, holloware. The following spring, I see a St. Pierre fabric collection. We'll have the linens woven in Provence . . . cross-advertise in the big wine journals. . . . It'll open up a whole new market.”

“Yes!” Gloria caught Mark's enthusiasm faster than the Norovirus on a cruise ship. She hopped up from behind her desk like a woman much younger to join Mark in his pacing. “The whole campaign will be shot on the St. Pierre grounds, with Merlot modeling. We'll set a picnic table right out in the vineyard, with lanterns hanging from tree limbs and massive baskets of flowers and . . .”

Mark couldn't keep himself from interjecting, “What about a fragrance? If we get on it now, we could have it on the shelves within twelve months.”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, Mark, this is exactly what we've been looking for to recharge the business!”

They'd struck the proverbial gold mine. The St. Pierre brand was ready-made . . . just waiting to be expanded upon. That Meri was young and untried no longer mattered one bit.

But Mark had stopped in his tracks. Here they were, planning Merlot's future without her. She should have a say in all of this. He reached out and retrieved the iPad from Gloria's desk.

“I've got to go tell Meri.”

“Come back here. We can do a conference call.”

Mark whirled around from the doorway. “No. Meri's mine. I found her. I'll be the one to break the news.”

She didn't bother arguing. “Very well.” Mark heard her buzz her assistant on his way down the hall. “Cancel our flight to New York. No sense going to the Javits now.”

He was already pulling out his phone as he dashed into his office to grab his car keys.

“Mark?” Meri answered expectantly. His name on her lips triggered a powerful physical response.

“Any chance you're still at work?” With his free hand, he rescued the discarded Gilty POs from out of his wastebasket.

“
Oooh.
My shoulders are getting stiff ”—funny, so was he, hearing her moan like that—“but I'm still here, finishing the vine ring I showed you earlier.”

“Can you hang out there for another forty minutes or so? I'd like to take you to dinner. To celebrate.”

Through the phone, he could almost see her lush lips curling into a smile.

“Ms. Harrington signed the orders?”

“I'll tell you all about it at dinner. In the meantime, why don't you pick a nearby place for us to grab a bite?”

 

Mark flew north, anticipation building with every mile. The business deal wasn't all that had him pushing the speed limit. Now, everything had changed. He'd found this woman with glitter in her veins—gorgeous, talented, and sweet—and she had plenty of her own money. Which theoretically shouldn't mean squat, but to Mark it meant everything.
He could trust her.
If there was something even better than Gloria signing those orders, it was that. He rubbed a hand over his jaw as he left the Porsche in the next lane in the dust, wishing he'd taken the time to shave. He hoped Meri didn't mind a little stubble.

He was so caught up in Meri's true identity and all its ramifications—that, and keeping the Audi between the lines—that any thoughts on why she'd wanted to remain anonymous were brushed aside for the moment. He'd wanted Meri's work even when he'd thought she was a penniless, inexperienced nobody. That she was part of the wine aristocracy didn't have anything to do with her vision as a designer. Or her appeal as a super-hot woman.

With a split-second glance in his rearview before changing lanes yet again, he made a decision: he'd let Meri choose the right time to open up about her famous family. He, of all people, understood the urge to hide one's past.

A
t Our Little Italian Place, a snug eatery warmed by brightly painted walls hung with original artwork on consignment, Mark made a ceremony of handing Meri the signed purchase orders.

“I don't normally make a big deal of this—it's usually a formality that doesn't even see the printer—but tonight is special. Your first big sale, and to a major chain.”

Meri took the documents in both hands. Seeing the name Peterson in black and white gave her a start. What were the legal implications of using a faux name? Too late now. Someday maybe she'd learn not to be so impulsive. In the meantime, Savvy would know what to do. Besides, nothing could take away her thrill at her sale.

“We're going to want to increase your debut collection to five bracelets, six earrings, and six rings. Keep it small and tight, for now.”

When she looked up again her cheeks were the same shade of rose as the body-hugging top she'd had on since their meeting with Gloria. Hard to fathom that had been only that morning.

Mark reached out to shake her hand. It was warm and capable in his, and he had an urge to stroke her palm with his thumb. Instead, he settled for a squeeze. “I hope this will be the start of a mutually beneficial relationship.”

Her eyes shone with promise. “I hope so, too.”

The waiter set down the salads and giant pizza they'd ordered. Thin slices of tomato and little pools of olive oil dotted its rich golden surface, and it was all Mark could do not to attack it. First, he pulled away a cheesy slice and passed it to Meri.

“How long have you been working for Harrington's?” she asked.

“About seven years. I majored in business at Berkeley, interning there in my senior year. Started out on the floor at the flagship. Eventually I worked my way up to senior buyer.”

“Did you grow up in the city?”

He took a swig of the long-awaited beer.
Man, what a day.
But it was all good, now that he sat across the table from Meri, the pizza sating his hunger, the beer smoothing away the rough edges.

“Pacific Heights.” He'd admit that much. He left out the fact that Aunt Gloria had taken him into her house on the most prestigious street in the swanky neighborhood after his mom died.

“Your parents still live there?”

Here, on a silver platter, was his opening. Now was the time to tell her he was more than just a Harrington's buyer. Now that he knew the truth about Meri, there was no reason to hide his own affluent background. So why wouldn't the words come out? Scary, how accustomed he'd become to holding back since the annulment. But he was still in the dark about Meri's own reasons for hiding behind an alias. For tonight, wasn't it enough to know she had no reason to use him the way Brandi had?

“No. They got divorced when I was a little kid.”

“I'm sorry.” She lowered her fork, empathy washing over her pretty features.

Time to get off the topic of
him
, before he dropped his guard.

“Your turn.” Maybe he could get her to open up first.

Meri sipped her wine. “I lost my mom a long time ago. But I still have my father. And I'm really close to my sisters. One's an attorney, the other's a social worker who runs a children's foundation.”

I know. I've read all about them. Me and half of California.
He took another swig from his long-necked bottle.

“Maybe I'll get to meet them sometime.”

It came as second nature to Meri not to refer to her parents as Papa or Maman outside the house . . . or, heaven help her, bring up anything remotely related to the wine business.

The sky outside the windows of the restaurant was a dusky lavender by the time the waiter brought their check. She and Mark went for it at the same time.

“I'll get it,” he said unequivocally.

“Why don't you let me treat? I'm so grateful for what you're doing for me. For making me legit.” Besides, she had a credit card with no limit in her bag.

But Mark insisted. It occurred to her then that he must have an expense account for taking vendors to dinner. Not for the first time, she was starting to realize what she'd missed during that last year at Gates. She was clueless as to the customs in the business world.

On the walk back to the co-op in the pleasant September air, Meri stepped lighter than she had in months. A little of it was the wine, a little more the signed purchase orders tucked safely in her bag, but most of it was the guy walking next to her.

Her pink platforms elevated her so that her hips were even with his hips, her shoulders even with his shoulders, as they matched strides. Judging by the leisurely pace they shared, he didn't want the evening to end any more than she did. When she inadvertently brushed against his side, he steadied her with a hand to her elbow, then slid his hand down to entwine his fingers with hers.

“I'm dying to show you how my ring came out.” she said when they reached the co-op.

She unlocked the exterior door. She had never been in the co-op after hours. Without the sun shining into the gallery, the old building was eerily dim.

Even when she flicked on the single overhead bulb in her studio, it didn't do much except blanket the room with a deep golden glow, the color of an old sepia photograph. “Geez,” she said, retrieving the ring from a drawer. “I didn't realize how much I was relying on natural light from the window in here.”

Mark held the ring under the dangling ceiling bulb. “You're right, this light doesn't do much good at all. Here, let's see how it looks on.” He lifted the fingers of her right hand and slipped the slender coil over her knuckle. “The vine motif is brilliant, and you did a kick-ass job setting the agate. It's contemporary, but timeless. It'll look right on any woman, from your age on up to great-grandmothers.”

But instead of dropping her hand, he surprised her by turning it over, bringing the center of her palm to his lips to kiss it as his eyes burned into hers through the gloom of the shabby studio.

Mesmerized, she watched him plant more slow, lazy kisses all over her palm, trailing down each of her fingers to their very tips, bringing a shiver to her spine. She waited for the inevitable scowl when he noticed how rough they were.

“That's what years of manipulating metal on a daily basis will do to your hands. No matter how much I moisturize, it's never enough.”

“Hands that work are way more interesting than those that don't.”

When there were no more fingers left to kiss, he took both her hands in his. “You smell great,” he murmured. “Like roses.” The shop on the Champs-Élysées still shipped bottles of Maman's bespoke fragrance to her daughters every year on the anniversary of her death.

He bent his head to bury his nose in the lock of hair that fell near her jawline. She shivered and arched her neck to give him access. His breath on her skin made her tremble with anticipation. For what seemed like forever, all he did was gently nuzzle her neck and toy with her hair, twisting a chunky lock around his fist to kiss, then drop, only to pick up another handful on the other side, raising and dropping it, watching it fan out in the dim light of the studio.

“Where'd you get such beautiful hair?” he whispered. He wrapped one arm around her waist to ease her closer—but not close enough—and slowly, slowly drew his fingers through her hair from the top of her crown to the middle of her back in long, brush-like strokes. Tantalizing her. Provoking her imagination. She wished he'd do more with those hands soon, because she was about to melt. And then, when she couldn't have waited one more second, he closed his eyes and angled his head, barely brushing her lips with his, only to withdraw and peer into her eyes with half-closed lids.
Those eyes.
They were indescribable. Sexy. Kind. All-knowing. The eyes of a hot young man with a wise old soul.

He turned his head the other way and lightly kissed her a second time . . . and to her ever-building frustration, pulled back yet again. She gave him a desperate, searching look. What was he doing, torturing her like this? He smiled. He was
enjoying
teasing her.

Enough.
Meri tore her hands from his, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. In response, he took possession of her, enveloping her tightly in his arms. Their bodies came together perfectly, hip to hip, breast to breast, mouth to mouth—thanks to those four-inch pink wedges. She felt empowered, up there at his height. She leaned in with her chin, expertly—if she said so herself—sucking his lower lip into her mouth.

Again, he pulled away—but then surprised her by taking her chin firmly. “Is that how you like it?” But she could no longer speak. He delved into her mouth with his tongue and explored her until she was panting. “Like that?” Then he did it again.

When she was dizzy, her lips swelling from the friction, he broke off and half-opened his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers, his warm breath fanning her face, his heart pounding hard against her chest.

He raised his head to gaze at her yet again, and his eyes had changed. The green was gone, replaced by jet-black disks of desire. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse with passion.

“No.”

Concern washed over his face.

Meri had experience with the opposite sex. Way more than she cared to remember. She knew what came next. When was he going to get down to business?

“I want more.” How much clearer could she make it? She dove for her bag, pulled out a square foil packet and pressed it into his palm.

It was as if she'd hit a switch. Something came over him, turning the careful, tentative Mark into the all-systems-go, mission-oriented Mark. He performed a quick reconnaissance of the little room, zoning in on her scarred workbench. Backing her over to it, he slid his hands under her skirt to cup her rear end, boosting her up onto its surface. She felt a tight pull and heard a rip: the rough wood snagging her sheer panties.
Small sacrifice.
She spread her legs, and he stepped into the open space, forcing her short, stretchy skirt to ride up her hips.

“You sure?” he asked, when feminine instinct told her he had her exactly where he wanted her.

In answer, she pulled him in yet tighter, wrapping her legs around him until the coarse texture of his jeans bulged against her crotch.

With a one quick movement, he slipped her shirt over her head and tossed it away, exposing her lacy, low-cut bra. Slowly, maddeningly, he traced a feather-light line on its edge, where it sloped over her small breasts—along one side, dipping into the cleft created by her bra, and up the other, until her torso bowed toward him with urgency.

Gazing down on her body, he breathed, “Perfect.” It was what every woman longed to hear. But it was doubly flattering, coming from a man with such finely tuned tastes. He reached around and unclasped her bra so deftly she didn't even realize it until he was whisking it away as smoothly as he had her top.

When at last he cupped both breasts in his warm hands, she gasped. He palmed their tips, eliciting a throaty cry, and when he finally sucked them into his warm mouth, she threw back her head, reached around, and sifted her fingers through his short wavy hair, urging him even closer.

After thoroughly painting her nipples he brought his lips back to hers. Then he kissed a path from her mouth, across her jawline to her ear.

“Better?”

The rasping of her breathing was her answer, as was the cocking of her head to give him a clear pathway to her neck.

He stepped backward, holding her at arm's length, and studied her face, his breath coming fast and hard. “Last chance.”

Last chance? What's taking him so long?
No one had ever asked so many times for permission. Every other man had taken what she offered without hesitation.

In response, she took his face in her hands and guided his mouth to hers. He used a breathtaking combination of rough and gentle to press her thighs closed and zigzag her ruined panties down across her knees and over her shoes.

For a split second, she thought about splinters. But now his palm on her breastbone was easing her backward until she was leaning on her elbows, thighs spread, knees bent, rosy shoes perched on the rustic table's edge. Brazenly, she lowered her lids to see what he was seeing of her. While Mark was still fully dressed, he'd let her keep only her skirt, now encircling her waist like a high-priced ACE bandage.

While she watched, he leaned forward and kissed her flat stomach above her skirt—then below it. Along her inner thigh. The coarse beginnings of a beard brushed against her other calf, sending a wild chill through her core. Before she could think, he was thrusting his hot tongue into her most intimate place, again . . . and again . . . and still again. Her head dropped back until the intensity became unbearable and she began to mewl and squirm in protest, but he had no mercy, holding her hips fast until she shuddered and heard herself scream from some faraway place.