Mrs. Sandringham is, unfortunately, both of those things—her family founded and continues to head one of the biggest film production companies in the world and her husbands (yes, pluralhusbandsbecause she buried two, divorced one, and is finally quote-unquote happily married to a fourth) all either owned, were on the boards of, or started multi-billion-dollar dot coms.
She’s a force of nature.
And there’s no way I can just brush her off.
Not even if pizza is calling.
“Hi, Mrs. Sandringham, how are you?”
“Summer, please.” She smooths a hand down my chest. “And I’ll call you Brooks.”
I catch her fingers, bring them up to my lips, ignoring the little titter she gives and the fact that the gesture gives me the creeps. I’ve got to give her something.
Otherwise she’ll get even handsier.
And seriously, happily married? Yeah, I’m still waiting for evidence on that front.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, knowing that she hasn’t stopped me to discuss the weather.
“What are you doing Monday morning at ten-thirty?”
“Working,” I reply honestly.
“At your downtown office?”
It’s impossible to miss the calculation in her eyes.
Still, what am I going to say?
“More than likely,” I hedge.
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“I—” I blink, mouth falling open. Then she’s leaning in, lips parting, getting so close I can see the faint wrinkles at the corners, the way the lipstick’s begun to wear off in the middle, the slightlyoffcolor of one of her bottom teeth. “Excuse me?”
She pecks my cheek then pulls back, patting the other one. “You’re excused.” She turns away, tossing over her shoulder, “See you Monday!”
She melts into the crowd and all I can do is stare after her.
“Now if that’s not the look of a man who’s just been befuddled by one Summer Sandringham, I’ll eat my hat.”
Turning, I smile at Chrissy, Jean-Michel’s daughter, and a woman who’s left many a man befuddled herself. “Summer strikes again.”
A wince. “I’m sorry about that. She’s a lot, but she’s supported the charity a lot over the years.”
“A lotis the right description for her.” I touch Chrissy’s shoulder. “And she’s fine. A little handsy but otherwise harmless.”
“Handsy?” Concern ripples across her face.
Shit.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I promise. Look,” I add before she can delve too deep into that, “I wanted to see you before I left. Is there someplace we can talk privately?”
Striking blue eyes on mine—and it has to be said that she has her father’s ability to use those eyes to pierce straight into souls.
Then she inclines her head and leads me from the room, down a corridor, eventually pausing outside a door. “My dad’s office,” she says before adding with a smile, “On the very rare occasions he works inside and not out in the vineyard.”
Jean-Michel Dubois—billionaire, hockey team owner, philanthropist, and complete and utter wine enthusiast, from grape selection to planting all the way up to uncorking the delicious stuff. Once, I took a meeting with him while he was fixing a tractor…he talked contract terms and then showed me how to repair a hydraulic leak.
