The Villa

charm is a talent. Elegance is a skill. And it takes brains to know the right thing to say at the right time, and to make people feel welcome. You're good at those things, so why not use them? Second, if you think handling tourists and accounts at tastings and tours is fluff work, you'll find out different if you work up the guts to try it."
    "I don't need you to tell me—"
    "Apparently you do."
    She nearly gaped when he cut her off. It was something else rarely done. And she remembered just how he'd dealt with Tony the night of the party. He was using that same cold, clean slice with her now.
    "I'll remind you, I don't work for you."
    "I'll remind you," he countered, "essentially you do. Unless you're going to stalk off like a spoiled child, you'll continue to work for me."
    "Va' al diavolo."
    "I don't have time for a trip to hell just now," he said equably. "I'm suggesting you put your talents in the proper arena. You need to know the business to handle the winery tours, have the patience to answer questions you'll hear over and over again. To push the product without appearing to push it. To be gracious, informative and entertaining. And before you start, you have to take a good, hard look at yourself and stop seeing the discarded wife of a man who didn't value anything as much as himself."
    Her mouth fell open and her lips trembled before she could form words. "What a hideous thing to say."
    "Maybe. But it's time somebody said it. Waste bothers me. You've let yourself be wasted, and it's starting to piss me off."
    "You have no right to say these things to me. Your position with Giambelli doesn't give you a license to be cruel."
    "My position with the company doesn't give me the right to speak the truth as I see it. It doesn't give me the right for this, either," he added and jerked her against him. "But this time it's personal."
    She was too shocked to stop him, to manage even the slightest protest. And when his mouth was on hers, hard and angry, she could do nothing but feel.
    A man's mouth—hot, firm. A man's hands—demanding and strong. The jolt of having her body pressed up to his, to feel that heat, those lines. The sexual threat.
    The blood rushed into her head, one long tidal wave of power. And her body, her heart, starved, leaped into the flood of pleasure.
    On a low moan, she threw her arms around him. They bumped her worktable, sent pots tumbling. Clay cracked against clay with a sound like swords clashing. Nerves, needs, so long deadened, snapped into life to sizzle through her system. Everything seemed to waken at once, threatening overload as her knees went weak and her mouth went wild under his.
    "What?" She was breathless, managed only a gasp as he lifted her off her feet and plunked her down on the bench. "What are we doing?"
    "We'll think about it later."
    He had to touch her, had to feel her flesh under his hands. Already he was tugging at her sweater, fueled by a sexual rush that made him feel like a teenager in the back of a Chevy.
    Rain slapped against the glass walls, and the air was warm and moist, fragrant with flowers, with soil, with the scent of her. She was quaking against him, quick, hard trembles. Delicious little sounds were humming in her throat.
    He wanted to gulp her down, swallow her whole and worry about the fine points later. He couldn't remember when he'd last had this ferocious urge to mate plunging inside of him.
    "Pilar. Let me…" He fought with the button of her slacks.
    If he hadn't said her name, she would have forgotten it. Forgotten everything and simply surrendered to the demands of her own body. But the sound of it jolted her back. And brought the first flutter of panic.
    "Wait. This is—we can't."
    She pushed against him, even as her head fell back and her system shivered at the scrape of his teeth on her throat. "David. No. Wait. Stop."
    "Pilar." He couldn't catch his breath, find his balance. "I want you."
    How many years had it been since she'd heard those words? How many years had it been since she'd seen them in a man's eyes? So many, Pilar thought, that she couldn't trust herself to think or act rationally when she did.
    "David. I'm not ready for this."
    He still had his hands on her, cupped at her waist just under her sweater where her skin was warm and still quivering. "Could've fooled me."
    "I wasn't expecting…" He had such strong hands, she thought. Strong and hard at the palm. So unlike… "Please, could you step back?"
    He stayed exactly where he