An Exquisite Challenge. Jennifer Hayward

You’re the vice president of De Campo Group. You have a wine to get out the door in a few weeks. You really want to be approving catering menus?”

      “I’m creating a brand,” he returned harshly. “Everything depends on first impressions. So if I want to approve a catering menu, I will.”

      “What about one of your marketing people back in New York? Surely they can work with me?”

      “They’re not close enough to the ground.”

      “Then get them here.”

      His scowl grew. “This launch is mine, Alex. The culmination of years of blood, sweat and tears. I want to be intimately involved. You play by my rules or you don’t play at all.”

      She pressed her lips together. “Do I need your approval to go to the bathroom, too?”

      “Scusi?”

      “Nothing.” She tapped her fingernails on the desk in a staccato rhythm. “Those poor buggers,” she muttered under her breath, feeling sorry for the last agency. But maybe it should be poor her. Because she was going to have to spend the next month of her life working for him.

      “What did you say?”

      She looked up at him, the tilt of her chin defiant. “I said, ‘poor buggers.’ As in I feel sorry for the old agency to have had to work with you. Are you sure they didn’t quit?”

      His eyes glittered. “Are you sure you want to talk to your boss like that?”

      “You’re not my boss yet.” She threw his words from last night back at him, wishing that didn’t put her head squarely back on that kiss. “I haven’t signed the contract yet. You realize I could walk out of this office right now and you’d be screwed, right?”

      “But you aren’t going to do that.” He waved her portfolio at her. “I thought it was odd you weren’t booked solid, so I did some homework this morning. You just lost your biggest client, Alex. Swallowed up by a multinational. You need me.”

      Her stomach dropped. “It had nothing to do with our work.”

      “I’m sure it didn’t. Your reputation is exemplary.” He threw the portfolio down on the desk. “What remains are the facts. It’s me or Jordan Lane, and I can guarantee you, you want to pick me.”

      She could guarantee that, too. She stared mutinously at him, hating nothing more than being boxed into a corner, but unfortunately, that’s exactly where she was. “You know what they say about great leaders, Gabe? They surround themselves with good people, they don’t get caught up in the minutia and they let their disciples make them look good.”

      His gaze cooled. “Earn my trust, then. Although something tells me you are far from trainable.”

      She held her hands up in the air in mock surrender. “You’ll get every menu. You might want to consider joining us at the hip, though.”

      Her attempt at a joke didn’t seem to have the intended effect and she wondered if she’d hit a nerve with the leadership thing. “Elena has a room ready for you at the house,” he said abruptly. “It makes more sense for you to be there where you’ll have much more access to me.”

      And why did that sound like a very, very bad idea? The kiss from last night flashed through her head again. Her burying her hands in his shirt and begging for more. Him walking away. Sure, it would be more convenient for her to stay at the winery, given the event was going to be held there, but her and Gabe in the same house? Was that asking for trouble?

      “I can stay in one of the bed-and-breakfasts,” she suggested. “So I’m not underfoot.”

      “You’ll stay at the house.” He pointed to the conference table. “Shall I walk you through the brief?”

      She nodded. They moved to the table and Gabe took her through the brief he’d given the other agency. Five hundred people, an outdoor venue where weather could be a factor, VIP tours of the winery and a press junket to see the wine-making process. Oh, and no theme in existence.

      Totally doable in three weeks, right?

      She almost turned around and ran out the door. Except the desire to conquer was stronger. And maybe the urge to show Mr. Perfection she was a whole lot more than he thought she was.

      She might have been describing her entire life.

      CHAPTER THREE

      HOW COULD SHE be freezing now?

      Uttering a string of purple prose that would have made a trucker proud, Alex got up from her PC before she did something crazy, like throw it across the room. She stalked to the window and looked out over the vineyard, lush and green on a hot summer day. The sunroom Gabe had given her to work in was a wonderful, quiet space, but right now it felt like a prison. She’d said she wouldn’t leave until she had a theme. But it wasn’t coming. At all.

      The only thing she’d been able to spew out thus far was a lame idea about how the rich boldness of De Campo’s new wine, The Devil’s Peak, was a feast for the senses.

      Ugh. Clichéd. Boring. Done. It could have been coffee for all its originality. Which she’d had more than enough of by now, by the way.

      She rubbed her fatigue-stung eyes. Of all the moments for her to have a total creative meltdown, this was not the one she would have chosen. She had forty-eight hours left to conjure up an event theme that would have De Campo on the lips of every wine lover on the East and West Coasts, but nothing was coming.

      She picked up her bottle of water and abandoned her office for outside. The De Campo homestead was done in an open-concept, New England–style design that blended in perfectly with the beautiful countryside. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows let in the gorgeous Napa light, bounded by a wraparound porch, terrace and pool area. Up the rolling hill in front of her sprawled the vineyard. Maybe some sunshine and a walk into the vines would inspire her. Impart some fantastic oh, my God idea into her brain.

      She walked up the hill and into the Cabernet vines, which stretched all the way up to the edge of the escarpment. A band of green topped by the pure blue Napa sky. Harvest, Gabe had told her, would be the end of summer or early fall, but the grapes on the vines already looked like perfect replicas of the most glorious still lifes. Smaller and more perfectly rounded than a supermarket grape, they were a vibrant, luscious purple. Inspirational, certainly.

      Channeling hard, she tried the word-association games they used to brainstorm at the agency. Nothing came. Nada. She was officially in a slump. A ninth-inning slump, at that. A building sense of panic tattooed itself through her veins. It was Saturday. The invitations had to go out by Tuesday, latest, if they were to get into people’s busy summer calendars. Which meant Gabe had to approve a theme and invites by Monday. She had confidence in her graphic designer’s ability to turn a concept and invitation around in twenty-four hours. He was brilliant. But she needed to give him something to work with.

      “A feast for the senses” was just not going to cut it.

      She plopped herself down in the middle of a row, drew her jeans-clad knees up to her chest and propped her elbows on them. The Devil’s Peak, Gabe’s star wine, was a Cabernet blend. Cabernet was the most popular grape in Napa, compromising a whopping 40 percent of the harvest. Complexity, Gabe had said, the way the varietals were blended together, was the key to this wine. But what the hell did complexity mean?

      That was what was freezing her brain. She didn’t understand the product. Didn’t understand what she should be brainstorming about. What was The Devil’s Peak’s key differentiator?

      Gabe found her there a half an hour later, still staring glumly at the beautiful purple grapes. Her fried brain took him in. Clinging T-shirt plastered across a muscular chest, dirt-stained jeans and a sweaty, man-working-hard look provided more inspiration than the last half hour had in total.

      He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

      “Thank