A Taste of the Untamed

When Grace fell silent it gave them both a chance to think back. She broke the silence first. ‘I could see you properly then.’

Very cleverly, she gave him no clue as to whether that had been good or bad. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t changed—’

‘Hard luck,’ she flashed.

How was it possible to ignore a woman like this? Or ignore the way she made him feel? No woman had made him laugh in what seemed like forever. He was glad the so-called appeal of the Acosta brothers was lost on Grace, and he would be happy if he never had to hear again in his life that he looked like his father. His gaze returned to Grace’s slender hips, swaying to a rhythm that was all her own. One thing was certain: if this banter between them was a ruse to keep his interest, she had succeeded where many had failed.

‘I was over-awed by you,’ she admitted.

‘Why?’

‘Because you were so famous and seemed so aloof. And even compared to the other polo players you were huge—and so confident.’

‘And at the wedding?’

‘You frightened me half to death,’ she admitted bluntly.

He laughed for the second time in who knew how many years. ‘So how do you feel about meeting me again, Grace?’

‘Well, at least I can’t see you this time,’ she said.

Laughter was becoming a habit he would have to break if he was to retain his title as the hard man of the Acostas. ‘And does that help?’

‘It certainly does,’ she said.

It was a good, brave answer, but he was suspicious and couldn’t resist asking, ‘So, are you here to pick up where we left off?’

‘As I recall,’ she countered, ‘when we met at the wedding I was the one to leave.’

Correct. ‘Touché, Señorita Lundström.’

A blast of white-hot lust ripped through him when she angled her head as if to cast him a flirtatious glance—though of course she could do no such thing. He liked this verbal jousting. He liked the way Grace stood up for herself. And he liked Grace. A lot.

‘Is something wrong?’ she called back to him. ‘You’ve gone very quiet …’

‘I’m enjoying the day,’ he said, thinking it wise to confine himself, as the British so often did, to talk of the weather.

‘It is beautiful,’ she agreed, stretching out her arms.

Her arms were beautiful—slender and lightly tanned. Grace was beautiful. He only wished she could see how beautiful the day was—but that was a ridiculous investment of concern on his part. As was his growing admiration for Grace. Far better he got this conversation back to business, where Grace was sure to fall short and disappoint him. Then he could send her packing, and that would be the end of a fantasy where he changed from a hard, unfeeling man into the sort of hero Grace might admire.

‘Buddy’s certainly enjoying the weather,’ she said.

‘Oh, good,’ he said without enthusiasm.

He stared at the dog. The dog stared back at him. He loved animals, and they normally gravitated towards him—but not this one. The big dog’s loyalty was firmly fixed in stone. Nacho’s attention switched back to Grace. From the back you wouldn’t know anything had changed about her. Life could be very cruel sometimes, but that didn’t change the facts. What the hell had Elias been thinking? What use was a blind sommelier?

‘So, tell me about your job, Grace,’ he said, starting to seethe as he thought about how he’d been duped by the wily old wine importer. ‘How does that work?’

‘What do you mean, how does it work?’ she said without breaking stride. ‘I might be blind, but I can still taste and smell.’

‘And what about the clarity of the wine?’ he pressed with increasing impatience. ‘What about the sediment—the colour, the viscosity?’

‘The colour I have to take on trust, when people describe it to me, but like most people I can detect sediment on my tongue. And I wouldn’t expect to be offered thin or cloudy wine by anyone who took their wine seriously.’