Backstage with Her Ex (18 page)

To them, Rick Burgess would always be every bit the renegade who had walked away from a job with the family wine business to become a professional extreme sports personality. What did he know about the modern wine trade?

And they were right.

If Tom was still alive his business ambitions would have stayed in the world he knew—professional sports and adventure tourism. They had always been his passion and still were.

But Tom was dead. And there was nothing he could do to bring him back.

Just like he couldn't change that fact that his parents were both in their sixties and needed him to take Tom's place and work for Burgess Wine.

It had never been his decision or his choice. But as they said, there was nobody else. Burgess Wine was a family business and he had just been promoted to the son and heir whether he wanted the job or not.

Mostly not.

He didn't like it. They didn't like it. And they still didn't completely trust him not to mess things up or run back to his old life.

Emotional blackmail only went so far.

This was probably why they'd set up this sales meeting with an important client he had never met. Of course they would deny it if he questioned them, but he had been long enough in the sports world to recognise a challenge when he was presented with one.

This sales pitch was just one more way they were asking him to prove that he could pull off his crazy idea to open a flagship wine store for Burgess Wine in London.

Which in his book was even more of a reason why he had to make the wine world take him seriously.
And fast.
Even if he did detest every second of these types of business meetings.

The upbeat rhythm of a popular dance track sang out from the breast pocket of his jacket and Rick flipped open his smartphone.

‘Finally! Were you actually planning to check your emails some time this morning, Rick?'

‘Angie, sweetheart.' Rick chuckled. ‘How delightful to hear your welcoming voice. I have just got off the plane and getting used to being back in London. Turns out I miss my chalet in France almost as much as I miss you.'

‘Sweet talker! Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you. Oh. I remember now—you pay me to sort out the boring stuff in your life. But forget sightseeing for the moment—I'll take you on a tour later. Right now I need you to take your head out of the latest extreme sports magazine and flip over to the message which I am sending...now. I have some news about the sales meeting this morning, but don't worry, it's all under control.'

Rick straightened his back and turned away from the river, suddenly very wide awake.

‘Good news or bad news? Talk to me, Angie. I thought we locked down this meeting weeks ago.'

His personal assistant knew him well enough to immediately gush out, ‘We did. But do you remember those two TV wine experts who we approached to help promote the new store in the build-up to the launch? The ones who were so terribly busy appearing on cookery shows to get involved with yet another wine merchant? Well, guess who emailed me late last night. Apparently they heard a rumour that Elwood House might be investing in the new generation wines and suddenly they might be interested after all.'

Angie laughed down the cellphone. ‘Turns out your mother was right. The Elwood Brothers connection has paid off.'

Rick exhaled slowly, pushed back his stiff shoulders and flicked through the research information on the people he was going to have to convince to take him seriously.

‘Got it. I should be there in about ten minutes. And thanks for sorting out things at the London end, Angie.'

‘No problem. We have an hour before the presentation. Catch up with you soon.'

Rick closed down the phone and stared at it for a few seconds before popping back into his pocket with a snort.

So that was how the game was played.

The top wine experts he needed were only prepared to turn up and listen to what he had to say if he had the credibility of a famous name in the wine trade like Elwood Brothers behind him.

Yet another example of exactly the kind of old world narrow-minded network he detested. Instead of asking what he could bring to the business, all they were looking for was the validation of the old and worthy established family of wine merchants.

Rick exhaled slowly.

Was this how it was going to be from now on?

This was not his life! His life was base jumping and pushing his body to the limit under blue skies and cold air. Not walking into a conference room and selling the idea for Rick Burgess Wines to closed minded traditional hotel owners who had already made up their minds before they heard that he said.

He was about to take the biggest leap in his life and launch a flagship wine store in the centre of London. His name above the door. His future on the line.

Only this time it was not about him or his reputation as a daredevil sportsman. This time it was about passion. A passion for life, a passion for wine, and a new passion for championing small businesses.

Rick Burgess the mountaineer. Rick Burgess the champion paraglider. And now Rick Burgess the wine merchant. Same passion. Same determination to prove that he was up to the challenge he had set himself, even if it had been foisted onto him.

Frustration burned through his veins.

He inhaled slowly, pushed off from the railing and strode away over the bridge.

He needed this to work for the employees and winemakers who relied on him and for his parents who were still locked inside their grief.

He had the presentation in his head. He had time to spare to calm down and clear his head before facing one of the greatest challenges in his life. Bring it on.

* * *

Ten minutes later Rick turned the corner towards the address that Angie had given him, his hands in the trouser pockets of his designer denims and the breeze at his back.

A flock of pigeons swooped down in front of him into the tall oak and London plane trees which filled the small residential square. Families and dog walkers flittered between ornamental flower beds and wooden benches in the broken sunshine. On the face of it, just another quiet city square.

But one thing was certain, in the crazy world that was his life—you never knew what to expect.

Like now, for example.

It wasn't every day that you saw an executive secretary having a row with a delivery driver in the middle of a prestigious London street, but it certainly made a change from dodging tiny dogs on glittery leads. Even if the pretty girls on the other end of those leads had been trying to catch his eye.

Rick slowed his steps.

He needed to take some time out before facing an incredulous wine buyer around a conference table in some soulless, stuffy meeting room. Or the first person to mention the words ‘dead man's shoes' would end up being decked, which would be a seriously bad move in more ways than one.

This was a far more entertaining option.

His girl was standing with her pretty hands splayed out on both hips and she was definitely a secretary but an executive one.

She was wearing a slim-fitting skirt suit in that strange shade of grey which his mother liked, but had never clinched a tiny waist with a cream coloured sash. He could just make out the tiny band of cream fabric at the cuffs of the jacket. Her long, sleek sandy coloured hair was gathered into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

Her very lovely long, smooth neck.

Now that was a neck he could look at all day.

As he watched, the shorter older man in the overalls who she was talking to in a low, patient, but very assertive voice, which reminded him of his junior school headmistress, suddenly shrugged, gave her a ‘nothing to do with me' flick of both hands, jumped into a white delivery van and drove off, leaving the city girl standing on the pavement, watching the tail lights of the van disappear around the corner.

She stood frozen to the spot for a few seconds, her mouth slightly open, and then turned to glare at a pair of large shiny navy blue ceramic pots which were standing next to her on the pavement.

A five feet tall cone of what looked to Rick like a green cypress tree spilled out over the top of each planter then whirled upwards in some deformed mutant spiral shape which had nothing to do with nature and everything to do with so-called style.

Rick looked at the two plants and then back to the girl, who had started to pace up and down the pavement in platform high heeled slingback shoes, which most of the girls at his mother's office back in California seemed to wear.

Not exactly the best footwear for moving heavy pots.

But they certainly did the trick when it came the highlighting a pair of gorgeous legs with shapely ankles.

So what if he was a leg man and proud? And she had brightened up his morning.

He could make time for some excellent distraction activity.

‘Good morning,' he said in a bright casual voice. ‘Do you need some help with those?'

Her feet kept walking up and down. ‘Do you have a trolley handy?'

He patted his pockets. ‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Then thank you but no.' She nodded, then stopped and stared at the huge plants, with the fingers of one hand pressed against her forehead as though she was trying to come up with a solution.

‘Good thing it's not raining.' He smiled. ‘In fact it is turning out to be a lovely September morning.'

Her head slowly turned towards him and Rick was punched straight in the jaw by a pair of the most stunning pale blue eyes that he had ever seen. The colour of the sky over Mont Blanc at dawn. Wild cornflowers in an alpine meadow.

Dark eyelashes clashed against the creamy clear complexion and high elegant cheekbones. Full-blown lips were outlined in a delicious shade of blush lipstick, and as she gawped at him a faint white smile caught him by surprise.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.' She blinked. ‘But, if you'll excuse me, I really do need to find some way of moving these plants—' she flung the flat edge of her hand towards the nearest plant and almost knocked it flying ‘—from the pavement into my porch and some time in the next ten minutes would be good.'

‘The delivery driver?' he asked casually.

She sniffed and closed her eyes, teeth gritted tight together, then lifted her chin and smiled. ‘Bad back. Not part of his job description. Just delivery to the kerbside.' Her voice lifted into a slightly hysterical giggle. ‘Apparently he was expecting a team of porters to be all ready and waiting. Porters! As if I could afford porters. Unbelievable.'

‘Ah. I understand completely,' Rick replied, nodding slowly and scratching his chin, which seemed rather stubblier than he had expected. ‘May I make a suggestion?'

She glanced up at him through her eyelashes as she pulled out a cellphone, and sighed out loud. ‘Thank you again, but I can manage very well on my own and I am sure that you have some urgent business to attend to. Somewhere else. In the meantime, I need to call a burly bloke moving company. So good morning and have a nice day.'

Rick chuckled under his breath. It was not often that pretty girls gave him the brush-off and maybe a city girl had reasons to be cautious.

‘Did your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? Relax. I can spare five minutes to help a lady in distress.'

Her fingers paused and she glared up at him, her eyebrows lifted in disbelief. ‘Distress?' There was just enough amusement in her voice to make him take one step forward, but she instantly held up a hand. ‘You are mistaken. I am not in distress. I don't do distress. I have never done distress, and I have no intention of starting now. Look.' She popped her phone in her jacket pocket and gingerly wrapped her fingertips around the edge of a pot. And tried to lift it an inch closer.

The pot did not move and she threw a single glance up at him, daring him to say something, but he simply smiled, which seemed to infuriate her even more.

This time she squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth and bent slightly at the knees to go at it again. The pot wobbled slightly then shuddered back to the ground as she hissed in disbelief and stood back with a look on her face as though she wanted to kick the pot hard.

Rick had seen enough. He stepped forward and gently took her arm. ‘No need for that. You have all the lifting power you need right here. It's a simple matter of leverage.'

‘Leverage!' She laughed and nodded. ‘In these shoes? I don't think so.'

‘I could move those pots for you. No problem.'

Biting down on her lower lip, the suit looked up at him and he could feel her gaze take in his new Italian boots, denims and leather biker jacket, slowly inching its way up his body until their eyes locked.

And stayed locked.

He watched her expression change as she mentally jostled between necessity and asking for help, which was clearly something she didn't like to do.

Necessity won.

Her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips before she lifted her chin and asked, ‘What exactly did you have in mind?'

ISBN: 9781460320051

BACKSTAGE WITH HER EX
Copyright © 2013 by Louisa George

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