A Taste Of Desire

“Now your shoes will be even heights. We’ll get you another pair,” he said with a smirk as her jaw fell open. Suddenly everything was just too much. She should put this guy in his place. She should put Elliot in his place! She should bill this little visit by the hour. She should—

Destin stood abruptly, his hand on his hips and his pelvis right in her line of sight. She blinked. What was she thinking?

“I don’t have any ice,” he murmured as he looked around the room. “You’ll just have to keep it elevated.” Sliding another bench close to her, he propped up her leg. She focused on keeping her skirt down as it bunched up to midthigh, the rip in the fabric straining wide. “How does that feel?”

“It’s fine. Really...” As in really attractive, maybe even more so in his casual clothes than he’d been in a jacket last night. His face was all angular planes and strong jaw. That perfect brow remained in a frown, unsatisfied. He stepped around her and disappeared through a door she hadn’t noticed.

She took a moment to scan her surroundings. Empty light sockets dominated the walls, but a few strategically placed bulbs illuminated the room with a soft warmth. Stone walls and high ceilings were accented by long archways and dusty cherrywood beams.

The wine cellar was in her files, but there was no mention of it being in working order. She assumed it had been above ground and destroyed. Across the room, white sheets were draped over other furniture. The ghostly round outlines suggested bar tables that probably once sat in a lounge area. Glass display cabinets were empty. Oil lamps sat unused on the shelves, and wires poked from the ceiling, suggesting a chandelier had hung over the table at one time.

Sitting and dining rooms in a wine cellar weren’t uncommon, especially in new wineries. They could have had tastings there, or offered tours and events. The winery in Bordeaux hosted weddings in their cask room.

She leaned against the lip of the dining table and ran a hand over the smooth wood. Could the furnished cellar be a selling point? Maybe, depending on who the client was. It could be a storage room, a novelty playroom of some sort, even a fun office space. She could come up with a ton of ideas.

She made a mental note to ask Destin if he was planning on keeping the furniture.

Scrapes and shuffles behind her echoed from the open doorway to her left. Bracing herself on her arms, she leaned over and peered over the threshold. The large chamber accommodated stacked oak barrels and a wall lined with black corked bottles. Nicole felt a shiver of excitement. The cask room—where the wines matured in oak barrels before bottling.

She twisted farther, trying to see the expanse, only to be met with a wall of chilled air. Goosebumps tightened her skin, and she started to pull back but stopped when she noticed one barrel was standing upright and away from the rest. A spigot was tapped into the top, a small empty wine glass off to the side. PH strips were strewn on the spigot lid.

During her time in France, Nicole had participated in many batch tests where acidity levels were checked before fermentation and again at bottling time. Titration kits were preferred, but PH strips were good for a quick read. Could there be wine in there still? Since the fire had happened four years ago, she supposed there could be several batches about to reach maturity.

Nicole’s brain began running through the property file she’d read over several times. Nowhere did the asset sheet mention viable wines. She was sure of it. Everything on the property should have been calculated into the property value. She made a mental note to check again.

She heard Destin’s boots before she saw him. Unaware he was being watched, he walked to a corner of the room and then tapped a few buttons on a wall panel. A fine mist—so fine you could barely see it—lifted from three or four tiny sprinklers placed strategically around the casks.

No way. She’d heard of the innovative cooling system designed to control humidity, but had never seen it in action.

Oh, yeah. There was wine in there. Lots and lots of wine.

With his back still to her, Destin bent over and placed his hand in the mist, waving his fingers to catch the temperature. Her thoughts jumbled a bit. She was unable to do anything but stare. Her gaze ran over his back.

She whipped herself to a proper sitting position. What was happening—had it been that long since she’d been with a man? Her last boyfriend had been eight months ago. And now she was laid up underground in another country with a French wine lover.

Why was she thinking about this? Was this the beginning of Stockholm syndrome?

Destin shut the door behind her. He presented several wool blankets, and with those gentle hands, he tucked a folded mound under her ankle. Then he unfolded another and, shaking it out high into the air, let it float down over her body.

“There, you’re still a bit damp. These will keep you warm,” Destin said, tucking the fabric around her legs, making a cocoon from her upper body down and around her feet. Subtle scents of laundered wool filled her nose, again giving her the feeling that those blankets hadn’t remained there untouched for four years. The cellar was a valid asset.

But all thoughts were erased when he stroked her thigh with his palm.

She found herself slightly lifted onto one side as he wrapped her in the blanket like a burrito. He made painstaking efforts to tuck her in, leaning over her body, bunching the blanket under her legs and behind her back. His soft hair brushed her nose, and the clean scent had her insides dancing.

She was achingly aware of the man in front of her. She didn’t move on account of his handiwork, but the most intimate part of her was screaming to get out.

It was unlike her, this physical reaction to someone she barely knew, and yet here she was, lusting after his body like a teenager who’d just hit puberty. Honestly, she’d seen plenty of hot men. Had slept with...well, who was counting, but she was in her late thirties and dated maybe one or two guys a year, which equated to...oh, God. Well, she’d seen a man before, anyway, and this one was average.

He lowered himself onto another bench across from her, glancing at the dog before bring his blue eyes up to hers.

Okay. He wasn’t average.

“Thank you. Again. I, uh... I’m a little embarrassed,” Nicole said, searching for conversation, hoping to distract herself from his allure.

“Don’t be. I’m just glad you’re all right. You could have gotten stuck on the roads. Are you warm enough?”

“Yes. These are bulletproof,” she joked, pulling her arms out and tucking the blanket under her armpits. “I’m already getting hot.”

“Good. The temperature stays pretty cool down here, so being wet isn’t a good idea. Trust me. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten stuck in here.” Destin looked around, as if trying to think of things to say.

After a long moment, Nicole spoke on autopilot. “So, this is the wine cellar.”

His nod was slow, and he had a sad look in his eyes. “This was the wine cellar.”

Her heart twisted. “You have a lot of furniture down here. Did you do tours?”

“We had plans for tours and tastings, as well as a sustainable dining experience in the future. Everything was to be farm to table, from the wine to the produce—we had just started a garden. My neighbor, Bruno, has a free-range animal farm. He would have provided the meat.”

“Free range?”

“Meaning they have shelter but no cages. He has acres, and the animals roam freely within his land borders.” He chuckled. “They’ve been known to get spooked and break out on days like this. After a particularly bad storm, we found a herd of his cows grazing on our lawn.”

Nicole thought of New York during a storm. The subways slowed, cabs were impossible to find and umbrellas were instruments of death to pedestrians who couldn’t bob and weave. Maybe being in a wine cellar with a handsome man wasn’t so bad, especially when he laughed like that.

“How often do these storms happen?”

“Four to six times a year, I’d say—mostly when the seasons change. Nina, my wife, was good at planning for disasters. Hence the blankets.” His gaze stayed on the table for a minute. Then he jumped up and grabbed a leather backpack from the floor. He took out a wrapped sandwich. “How about some food? It’s a Bauru—roast beef, tomato, mozzarella and pickles on French bread. A classic Brazilian sandwich. We can share.”

She hadn’t realized she was hungry until he mentioned food. “Sounds delicious. Do you always carry lunch in your bag?”

“Only if I know I’ll be busy. I’ll warm it for us. There’s a lightly stocked kitchenette with a hot plate through that archway.”

“Nice. It’s like a combination wine cellar and bomb shelter. Our buyers will definitely be into this.”

Destin lowered his gaze and swallowed whatever he was going to say. He just smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted something important,” she said quickly.

He glanced at the cask room, then to her. “No, just cleaning it out.” There was a strain in his voice that said otherwise.

He wasn’t ready for this sale, her instincts told her. It wasn’t the first time she had come up against reluctant sellers. But something was different. She couldn’t put her finger on it; maybe it was because of the tension between him and Elliot at dinner the night before, but something was off.

He placed the sandwich on the table and fished in his bag again. He gripped a bottle of water and a Red Bull in one hand. “And I have these.”

“You really are a lifesaver.” She reached for the water and he slid it across the table. She twisted off the cap and drank deeply.

“You need to save some of that.”