Margot tilted the decanter until the vintage bled like a bruised plum into the crystal glass. If he truly didn’t remember the way she had tasted against the mahogany bar six hours ago, why were his knuckles white as he watched her hands?
“You have a heavy hand today, Margot,” Julian said.
His voice was a low, velvet rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards of the cellar. He sat on the edge of the tasting table, his bespoke suit jacket discarded on a nearby crate, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension.
“It’s a heavy vintage, Julian,” she replied, her voice steady despite the frantic thrumming in her throat. “It requires a certain… force of will to open up.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Forcing me?”
“I’m pouring wine for the man who bought my life’s work before the sun was fully up. I’d say the power dynamic is fairly lopsided in your favor.”
She set the decanter down with a sharp clack against the stone. The cellar, known as The Vault, was a sanctuary of damp limestone, aged oak, and the faint, sweet scent of evaporating alcohol. Candlelight flickered in the draft, casting long, dancing shadows across the thousands of bottles that lined the walls—bottles Julian now owned.
Julian reached for the glass, but he didn’t take it. Instead, his fingers brushed against hers, a slow, intentional slide of skin against skin. Margot’s breath hitched. His touch was a brand, a searing heat that made the cool air of the cellar feel suddenly stifling.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“It’s cold down here.”
“Then why is there a flush creeping up your neck?”
He stood, his height suddenly a wall between her and the exit. He smelled of rain, expensive tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of the storm that was currently rattling the street-level windows above them. He was a predator in a five-thousand-dollar suit, and Margot was the one trapped in his cage.
“Let’s talk about the 2012 Syrah,” she said, desperately trying to reclaim the professional ground. “It’s bold, unapologetic. It has notes of black pepper and—”
“And smoke,” he interrupted, stepping closer until she could feel the radiator-heat of his body. “A lingering, charred finish that stays on the tongue long after the glass is empty. Much like our meeting this morning in the lawyer’s office.”
Margot looked up at him, her eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “You were cold. You acted as if you’d never seen me before. You called me ‘Ms. Laurent’ and didn’t even look me in the eye when I signed the deed over.”
“Strategy, Margot. Business is conducted with the head, not the pulse.”
“And what is this?” she whispered, gesturing to the narrow space between them. “An audit?”
