Authors: Katy Regnery
He’d been so excited about the prospects, so enamored by the possibilities, that the morning had slipped away and he’d almost missed his appointment with Barrett. Even with the support of English & Sons, he couldn’t muster an ounce of the enthusiasm he’d felt for Margaret’s vineyard when it came to keeping his hand in C & C Winslow.
You don’t
need
to sell.
Hell, deep in his heart, he
wanted
to sell. In fact, he wanted to unload C & C Winslow for the specific purpose of taking the money he’d make on the sale and offering a partnership to Margaret Story:
You handle the grapes and wines. I’ll handle the tourism, groups, events, and tastings.
And if all went well? They didn’t have to stop at Newtown. They could apply their business model to any region of the United States where Margaret wanted to grow grapes and Cameron felt that the tourist trade could be solid.
Business partners.
But there was a problem with that, as well.
His attraction to Margaret, which had always been fucking potent, had recently hit almost uncontrollable levels of desire. And his infatuation with her, which had been there for as long as he could remember, had grown into something far deeper over the past several weeks. He genuinely liked her, and there were even moments when he
more than
liked her—when imagining a future with Margaret seemed like the closest thing to heaven that earth could offer.
Mixing business and pleasure was the oldest cautionary tale in the book. Surest way to kill a relationship
or
a business? Mix the two together. That was the rule. And though Cameron didn’t always follow the rules, he imagined Margaret did. Renovating the winery was a one-shot deal for the convenience of his sister’s wedding. Actually going into business together? That would be a whole different story.
“Cam?” prompted Barrett.
“Mind if I think about it?”
Barrett shook his head. “Not at all. But to be clear, you’re offering us a stake in C & C Winslow either way, correct?”
Cameron nodded, hoping that his father wasn’t weeping in heaven, but feeling a huge weight slip from his shoulders as he answered, “Yes. Whether I sell it all or just a majority share, C & C Winslow is—at least partially—yours.”
“Sounds great to me. I’ve been jealous of some of your deals for a while. Can’t wait to get involved.” Barrett grinned. “Now, I want to hear more about this vineyard. Emily’s going to want all the details.”
***
It didn’t surprise Margaret, who was prompt for brunch, that Priscilla arrived ten minutes late.
She was dressed in another multicolored muumuu, but today her wavy hair was pulled back in two long, brown braids, and she wore none of her usual flamboyant makeup. Still, she was Priscilla. You certainly wouldn’t miss her in a crowd.
She had four earrings in one ear and three in the other, and a delicate diamond stud in her left nostril. The light brown henna tattoo on her right hand and wrist was new since Margaret’s disastrous dinner at Forrester several weeks ago, and a set of five dark-wood bangles adorned her wrist, covering her newest tattoo.
Never one to mince words, Pris pressed a kiss to Margaret’s cheek, plopped down, and said, “So Daddy’s on the warpath. I’m
guessing
it has to do with you, since he keeps muttering your name the way he did Alice’s after she walked out of Story Imports last year.”
Priscilla was also the only daughter who called Douglas Story Daddy, which Margaret had always thought odd, since he seemed to dislike her more than the rest of them. But Priscilla was good at wearing people down—at showing up in her odd getups, pierced and tattooed, and still leaving the country club cotillion with three new friends. People sensed they could be themselves around her, and that was a relief in stuffy Mainline society. Perhaps calling their arrogant, stubborn ass of a father Daddy was Priscilla’s quiet way of wearing him down too.
“I was fresh. He fired me.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much,” Margaret said, unwilling to go into the ugly details of yesterday’s fiasco.
“You going to go grovel for your job back?”
Margaret shook her head. “No.”
She’d spent Friday afternoon and evening in her apartment in a state of semishock, tears coming and going, wishing she had enough time to drive out to The Five Sisters, or the courage to take the elevator upstairs and knock on Cameron’s door.
His words,
If you asked me to be with you, I wouldn’t be able to say no
, taunted her in a persistent, comforting, infuriating way. That he wanted to be with her was supremely heady. That he felt her presence in his life was untimely, but inevitable, was strangely comforting. That she couldn’t have him last night was so frustrating, she’d slid her fingers over her stomach to the aroused, damp flesh between her thighs, imagining it was his touch, not her own. And after she’d climaxed against her hand while picturing Cameron’s face, she’d finally found peace and, soon after, sleep.
“Marguerite? Où es-tu?”
Where are you?
“Right here,” Margaret said, looking up from her coffee. “Sorry.”
“Who is he?” asked Pris, taking a muffin from the bread basket between them and slathering it with butter.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Meggie,” she said, shoveling the muffin into her mouth in one huge bite. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“You’re disgusting,” said Margaret. “Can you swallow before you talk anymore?”
Priscilla made a show of swallowing, then swiped her napkin across her lips, and somehow her henna-tattooed hand managed to be elegant and kooky at the same time. “You only get distracted like this when you’re thinking about a boy. Who is he?”
Margaret shook her head. She wasn’t ready to share her burgeoning feelings for Cameron with her sister. She still wasn’t sure what was going to happen between them, and it would hurt if her sister knew she’d been falling for him and it ended up not working out.
“I’ll tell you if it actually goes somewhere, okay?”
Priscilla searched her sister’s face, her expression serious. “It’s, uh, it’s not Shane, is it?”
“No. But speaking of Shane, it’s
your
turn on the hot plate. What’s the deal between you two? Did anything ever happen between you and Shane?”
“No deal. Nothing,” said Priscilla quickly, cramming yet another muffin into her mouth.
“What the heck, Pris? Are you eating for two or something?”
Priscilla’s face froze for a split second before she started laughing, yellow corn muffin crumbs falling from her lips. “Good one.”
Margaret laughed with her, but was determined not to be sidetracked. “Shane. You. Spill it.”
“Nothing ever happened. There’s nothing to share. I swear.”
“Maybe nothing
physical
ever happened, but
something
happened. Don’t deny it. You two are, I don’t know,
electric
around each other. It’s like . . .”
Me and Cameron
, she thought with a bit of surprise, feeling her lips wobble into a grin.
“Obviously he’s not my type,” said Priscilla, gesturing to the waiter to bring her another orange juice.
“That doesn’t always matter.”
“He doesn’t approve of me.”
“When he looks at you, his eyes say different.”
Suddenly Priscilla’s brown eyes grew desperate and deep. “Please don’t . . . don’t judge me, Mar. No matter what happens. No matter how things look. Okay?”
“Hey,” Margaret said gently, reaching for her little sister’s hand, trading teasing for worry. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” said Pris, sniffling softly. She squeezed Margaret’s fingers. “Life throws curveballs sometimes.”
“True enough. But you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s happened. Let me help, Pris.”
Priscilla bit her lip, sucking it into her mouth before letting it go. “You mean it? You want to help me?”
“Of course. Always.”
“With no strings attached?”
“I love you,” said Margaret. “Whatever you need.”
“Then promise not to ask me any more questions,” she said softly. “But help me dress like you for the gala tonight. I need to look like you. I need to . . . fit in.”
Margaret flinched, gripping her sister’s hand with more force and intensity.
“Like
me
? Pris, what the hell is going on with you?”
“You promised not to—”
“You’re
you
, Pris. You’ve always been a free spirit, since you were a little kid. Why do you want to dress like
me
tonight?”
“I
need
to,” she said softly, reaching for the last muffin. She stuffed it into her mouth, looking utterly miserable.
Margaret stared at her sister, trying to read her face. “You’ve got to tell me why.”
“I can’t. Anyway, no more questions . . . or I’ll leave.”
“Don’t leave.” Margaret nodded. “I’ll help.”
“You’re sure, Margaret? About Shane? You’re sure you don’t have any feelings for him? You’re sure he’s . . . available?”
“Pris, you don’t need my permission.”
“But I want it.”
“Then you have it.” Margaret grinned, trying to trust her sister, though her worries lingered. “And I won’t ask you any more questions for now. But fair warning, little sister. Someday you’re going to tell me
everything
.”
***
As a rule, Cameron didn’t mind galas.
He’d grown up attending them, and while his brothers sometimes found them tedious, Cameron liked big events. He liked the music and open bar. He liked checking out beautiful women looking their best. He enjoyed running into old friends and making new ones. Cameron was in his element at social events, which is probably why Margaret’s vineyard held such allure for him. It was a natural extension of his happiest self.
Well.
Usually
happiest self.
Unless the current object of his affection came strolling into a ballroom with her supposedly
ex
-boyfriend who had recently proposed to her. Then Cameron didn’t feel very happy at all.
Margaret had always known how to do that blow-your-mind thing where she lost the buttoned-up business suits and tight hair and came to galas dressed to the sexiest nines. Tonight was no exception.
Holding on to Shane
fucking
Olson’s arm, his girl walked into the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, Philadelphia in a floor-length black dress with a V front that went from her neck to her goddamned waist. He could just make out the gentle swell of her small breasts on each side of the fucking V that practically bared her chest to the entirety of Philadelphia. Taking several steps forward, he started shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket before stopping himself and freezing about twenty feet away. He’d been about to race to her side and cover her up, which would have made a scene, something he was quite sure Margaret wouldn’t have appreciated.
Stifling his caveman instincts wasn’t exactly an easy feat, however, and without taking his eyes off Margaret, he turned to the bar and ordered a dry martini. Taking a throat-burning gulp, he stared at her over the wide rim of the glass, feeling a small measure of relief when an almost unrecognizable Priscilla Story entered the ballroom on her own and took Olson’s other arm. Dressed in a conventional white floor-length gown with sheer white sleeves and a prim chignon, she was the very picture of traditional grace and elegance . . . which surprised Cameron for two reasons: one, because she’d always been the wild sister, and two, because she was looking at Olson like he hung the moon.
Cameron watched with increasing curiosity as Margaret smiled warmly at Shane, then detached herself, urging her sister and ex-boyfriend to go get a drink. And then, as if the heat of his eyes had alerted her to his presence, his Meggie turned her big brown eyes to him, and she stood her ground alone, offering him the barest hint of an amused smile.
So she fucking knows what she’s doing to me, huh? Okay, Meggie
, he thought.
Game on.
Ordering another dry martini and a glass of Cabernet, he held her eyes as he walked over and extended the wineglass to her.
“I’m so glad Priscilla walked in. I was about to break your ex-boyfriend’s neck.”
“That would have ruined your sister’s evening, I bet,” countered Margaret, running her gaze down the length of his body and up again. “Blood on the dance floor and all.”
“Drink that,” said Cameron, gesturing to her wine before tilting back his own drink, which, he noted with satisfaction, didn’t burn anymore.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because we’re going to dance in a minute, and I want you loose in my arms.”
She took a step closer. “I don’t need a drink to be loose in your arms.”
“Fuuuuuck,” he hissed.
“Eventually,” she answered softly.