LITMIR.BIZ

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Francesca for dinner, Tony sighed. “Put him on.”

      How did anybody actually get any work done when people were always calling and interrupting?

      This is a customer, Francesca—aka his self-appointed conscience of business responsibility—would have reminded him. Customers come first.

      Who knew his impulsive decision to accept Uncle Joe’s challenge to make something significant of his life would involve actual work and stress? He’d only become a businessman to impress the uncle he regarded so highly. He wanted people to look at him with the admiration and respect they gave Joe. Unfortunately, his resort-owner fantasy wasn’t meshing with reality.

      He’d pictured walking around the restaurant, smiling at patrons, offering suggestions and wine pairings. He imagined cocktail parties with plenty of lovely ladies in attendance.

      But so far…zilch in the fun department. Why had he thought he could do this? He’d been perfectly happy milking his trust fund like nearly everyone else he knew. Hell, it was practically a Galini family tradition.

      “This is Pierre von Shalburg,” said an unfamiliar voice.

      The man paused at length, giving Tony the impression that he should recognize von Whoever’s name immediately. Which, of course, he didn’t. He fell back on a familiar skill—bluffing. “Ah, yes. What can I do for you?” he asked as he searched the piles of paper on his desk for a pad to take notes.

      Von So-and-So cleared his throat importantly. “I believe, Mr. Galini, it’s what I can do for you that should be of interest to your establishment.”

      Really? He’d worked his ass off for nearly six months just to have his first encounter with an actual guest want to make him bang his head against the wall. He’d left jet-setting for this?

      “Fortunately for you,” the guy continued, “my schedule is free during the weekend you’re planning to open.” He paused. “You are planning to open on time, aren’t you?”

      Tony raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” Who was this guy?

      “I’m so thrilled for you,” Mr. von Snooty said in such a deadpan voice that Tony pictured him winning the fifty-million-dollar lottery and saying, “I suppose this will do.”

      “I’ll arrive on Friday afternoon at precisely three o’clock. I’ll require a suite with a view of the vineyards.” He paused. “You do have rooms overlooking the vineyards, don’t you?”

      “Naturally.” What else would they have views of?

      “I want room service delivered at precisely seven o’clock in the morning…”

      Sighing about the sad state of a world in which jerks like von Whatsisname existed, Tony nevertheless started scribbling notes.

      “I’ll inform you of my dietary requirements when I arrive and peruse the menu.” He paused. “You do have menus, don’t you?”

      Tony ground his teeth. “Yes, sir, we do.”

      “Twelve o’clock, lunch; six o’clock, cocktails; seven o’clock, dinner. I will also require a tour of the facilities, including the winery, and, of course, a tasting.”

      “I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

      “That will be all, Mr. Galini. Expect me next Friday.”

      “Ye—” A dial tone sounded in his ear.

      Tony slammed the phone into its cradle. “What an ass.” He looked over his sparse notes and had the feeling he should have asked von Whoever-he-was more questions.

      He ran a hand through his hair. What had ever possessed him to actually make something of his life? His friends were probably having drinks at the club about now, talking about their summer trips to Barbados. What was he doing? Sweating and stressing as he installed computers and got insulted by guys named von Something-or-Other, whom he probably could have snubbed under any other circumstances.

      It was that look in Joe’s eyes. That look that asked Are you going to be a trust-fund waste like the rest of my brothers’ children? Guilt had suffused him. Guilt that apparently everyone else in his family—except two of Joe’s sons, who ran the family’s Tribiletto winery in Italy—seemed conveniently to have been born without.

      Was he really up to this challenge? He had zero business experience. He clearly had no patience with demanding clients. His parents called the resort “Tony’s little distraction”.

      His friends thought he’d lost his mind and kept telling him to call a shrink whenever he had the urge to do something productive.

      But sometime in the last few months, a deep desire to prove himself had stubbornly sparked to life. He wasn’t selfish and spoiled like his parents. He wanted to prove everyone wrong about his ability to commit. He wanted respect. He needed it.

      The question was—could he earn it?

      First thing, though, he had to find out who von Snobby was. “Francesca!” he shouted.

      A few seconds later, the intercom speaker on his desk phone beeped, then Francesca’s calm voice floated out. “We spent an unmentionable amount of money on the phones, Tony, maybe we should actually use them.”

      And, boy, could that woman be bossy. “Hey,” he said into the speakerphone, “I just got off the phone with this guy—do you know a Pierre von Something-or-Another?”

      She drew a swift breath. “Pierre von Shalburg?”

      “That’s him!” He sagged in relief. “You know him. He yammered on like I should know who he is, but I didn’t have a clue—”

      “Oh, God. Tony, did you say you just talked to him?”

      “Yeah. He yammered on—”

      “What did you say?” Francesca yelled.

      Scowling, Tony tapped his pen against the desk. “I said yes.”

      “To what exactly?”

      “To him coming here for opening weekend.”

      A long silence ensued. Then, “You’d better meet me in the kitchen.”

      List in hand, he headed out of his office, down the hall and took the elevator to the kitchen. He’d been pleasant enough to the guy. Francesca acted as though he couldn’t deal with a simple reservation. He hadn’t exactly bubbled over with enthusiasm, though, and he doubted their guest-to-be would bend beneath his smile. Why couldn’t von Shalburg have been a six-foot blonde with legs to die for?

      As he approached the open doorway, he saw Francesca standing behind one of the assistant chefs—sous chefs she called them—hovering as he cooked scallops in a big frying pan. She looked tired. Her usually jaunty ponytail hung limply against her neck. Sweat glistened on her face.

      Actually… He angled his head. She looked really good sweaty. Not unkempt so much as…mussed. As if she’d rolled out of a bed she hadn’t wanted to leave.

      He’d seen Francesca first thing in the morning many times. Throughout their teenage years, her parents had let him stay with them when his parents had gone out of town and they’d been between housekeepers—which was often, since his mother was forever accusing his father of sleeping with them, and he was always trying to make up for his behavior by taking her to Aspen or Paris or St. Croix.

      That was Francesca—always around when he needed her, always willing to see him through any situation.

      They had been best friends since they were ten, when Tony’s parents had decided he should start attending public school on Long Island, rather than going back to boarding school in England. Years later, he’d learned this change of heart hadn’t been prompted by his homesickness, but the hundred-thou-a-year his parents had saved by keeping him home.

      Francesca’s tongue peeked out to flick across her bottom lip, and he groaned.

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