Are You Lonesome Tonight?

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. How would she look with her long, dark hair loose and caressing her face? The strands looked silky, but how did they feel? He couldn’t recall ever gliding his hands through her hair. Why was that? Why hadn’t he—

Because she’s the only true friend you have.

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Erotic fantasies about Francesca? He’d definitely been working too hard.

And last night didn’t count. He’d only been consoling Barbie on the breakup of her engagement.

He walked into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter. “I could use a martini.”

Francesca glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. “I’ll page the bartender.”

“Do we have a bartender?” He winced as she continued to glare. He was an owner now, not a guest. He really needed to come up with a mantra or something to help him remember that. “Hell, now I’m starting to sound like that pompous jerk.”

Crossing to the industrial-sized, walk-in freezer, he headed straight for the ice-cold bottle of Grey Goose on the third shelf. He mixed his drink—and one for Francesca as well. She’d been working as hard as he had. Probably harder.

Maybe he should volunteer to take her out. She deserved a night off.

“Pompous jerk?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “That would be Pierre von Shalburg, I assume?”

He sampled his martini, found it nicely balanced, so he pushed the second glass across the counter to Francesca, which she picked up by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and sipped. He smiled at the elegant picture she made—even in jeans, a stained T-shirt and an apron. “That would be him,” he said finally.

Eyes narrowed, she set down her martini glass with a clang. “What did you say to him?”

He cut his gaze right then left, looking for an escape. He drank again from his glass. “He pretty much did all the talking.”

He thought he saw smoke seeping from Francesca’s ears. “Do you have any idea who he is?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“He’s the principle critic for A Vino magazine.”

Thank God. Finally, a name he recognized. Just last week Uncle Joe had gone on and on about the influence of the magazine, since A Vino was the resort industry’s premier review—

Oh, hell. He leaned heavily onto the counter. “He can make us or break us.”

Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. “You do have a talent for succinctness.” She glared at him. “When absolutely forced beyond reason.”

“I did okay. Really,” he added, when she continued to stare daggers in his direction. He grasped her hands, sliding his thumbs across her skin. “I wrote down everything he said and assured him we could accommodate his every desire.” He smiled. “You know how good I am at that.”

To his surprise, instead of returning his smile, she scowled and pulled her hands from his grasp. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Well, I could—

No, no, no. This is Francesca, you idiot. Your best friend.

He couldn’t put any moves on her.

He wasn’t a long-term guy—his personal relationship record was three months. Francesca needed more from a man. She’d told him so dozens of times. Usually after she’d broken things off with a guy who turned out to be “commitment-phobic.” And if there was ever a commitment-phobic guy, it was him. Again, a Galini family tradition—with the exception of Joe and his wife. And, really, he could modestly admit to himself that he had plenty of female attention. Why limit his talents to just one? It didn’t seem equitable.

Besides, he wasn’t attracted to Francesca. Not at all. Not in the least.

He drained his martini. “Well, anyway, here’s the list.” He pushed the scribbled note toward her. “When do we eat?”

“Any minute now.” Finally giving him a quick smile, Francesca glanced over the note. “Imagine Pierre von Shalburg at our resort. If we can impress him, we’ll have solid bookings for the next year. I’m sure the staff can handle the meal requirements. We’ve already been working on some grand opening specials. And Joe will be here to do the tour—”

“I’ll do the tour.”

Francesca eyed him skeptically.

“Ches, if there’s anything I understand it’s the vines. I’ve been pruning every winter and harvesting every fall since I was fourteen.”

She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

“Dinner, Ms. D’Arcy,” the sous chef announced, setting two plates on the counter in front of him and Francesca.

“Thank you, Kerry,” she said.

The scent of sautéed scallops wafted past him, and Tony put all thoughts of the cranky Pierre von Shalburg out of his mind. He selected a ’96 chardonnay from the fridge and poured the straw-colored liquid into two glasses. He paused with the bottle hovering over a third glass. “Kerry?”

“No, thank you, sir,” the sous chef said, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “I still have prep work for tomorrow.”

Tony set aside the bottle, then picked up his glass. He touched the crystal to Francesca’s. “To success.”

They had been eating like this, standing at the counter in the warm, busy kitchen in the basement, nearly every night for a month. Tony found himself checking his watch in the afternoon in anticipation of dinner with her. Must be a latent longing for all those impersonal meals he’d endured growing up with nobody but the housekeeper for company.

As they enjoyed the delicious meal, they discussed plans for the critic’s visit.

With the number of resorts in the area growing, they’d had to find ways to distinguish themselves from the competition. Since the wine production had always been their focus, it seemed logical to focus on food, wine and music, rather than spa services.

Would von Shalburg participate in their planned cooking classes?

Tony doubted it.

Would he relax in the jazz-themed bar at night?

Maybe. But certainly alone.

Would he like the wine-pairing sessions?

Only if he could tell everybody what he thought and have them bow and definitively agree with every word he said.

Finally, frustrated, Francesca shoved her plate aside. “Well, what do you think he would like?”

“How about a day at the spa? We could foist him off on Chateau Fontaine down the road.”

Francesca sighed. “No, do you plan to shuffle off every troublesome guest?”