Malbec Mayhem
Malbec Mayhem
By
Cathy Perkins
Table of Contents
Title Page
Malbec Mayhem (A Holly Price Mystery, #3)
Malbec Mayhem
Malbec Mayhem | By | Cathy Perkins
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
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Ebook
ISBN – 10: 19420003045
ISBN – 13: 978-1942003045
Red Mountain Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Malbec Mayhem
Successful restaurateur Alex Montoya’s charmed life has hit a snag. His trusted business partner turned out to be not exactly trustworthy, and Alex could be facing jail time over some of his partner’s shady financial deals. As if that weren’t bad enough, creditors are calling in loans he didn’t know he had and he’s desperate to prove his innocence before all his businesses are repossessed.
After a career-building stint in Napa Valley, Sofia Pincelli has returned home to eastern Washington to take over the family’s winery. Running the family business, however, means dealing with her ailing father’s constant micro-management—and his disapproval of Alex. Her father’s condemnation of Alex’s rumored involvement in his business partner’s schemes runs so deep, it threatens Alex and Sofia’s blossoming romance...along with the Pincelli family’s signature red wine. She desperately needs the Malbec grapes their family bought from Alex’s company to convince her father she has what it takes to make award-winning wine—and save both the reputation and finances of the family winery.
When the Malbec grapes go missing, Alex and Sofia must join forces to find the fruit before it spoils—or risk destroying both their businesses and their hearts.
Malbec Mayhem
By
Cathy Perkins
Chapter One
Thursday
"Dammit to hell!” Alex Montoya crumpled the bank's letter and hurled it at the trashcan.
Way to start the day on a crummy note.
“Bastards!” He leapt to his feet and slammed his foot into the metal can. It bounced and rolled, spewing an arc of paper across the floor. Pain shot through his toe, giving him another reason to curse.
Nostrils flaring, he wrestled his temper under control. He sucked in deep breaths and willed his head and heart to quit pounding. Hands splayed against his desk, he stared at the red-splashed financial reports littering the surface. Blatant visual evidence of the restaurant's huge cash drain didn't improve his mood or his blood pressure. Reservations, sales, and cash flow had plummeted when news about Tim Stevens’ misdeeds hit the airwaves and exploded in the newspaper, on the internet, and God only knew where else.
He'd expected the initial hit. He hadn't anticipated weeks of crappy business.
But this... he stomped on the crumpled letter as if he could grind the bad news into the carpet. He hadn't worked his ass off becoming a chef for this. Their three-generation family business was not going down the drain while he was in charge.
He snatched up the phone and punched in the number for Desert Accounting. “Holly Price.”
No “please.” No “may I.” Just, put the woman on the phone.
Now.
“I told you not to call me.” Holly's distant tone made her sound like a complete stranger.
At least she hadn’t sent him to voicemail. He might've finally committed a felony if she had.
“You have to fix this.” His hand tightened around the phone. “You backed me into this position.”
“I didn't make this mess. Tim Stevens—your partner— did.”
Holly's tone stayed level. It was the professional, CPA, I'm-in-control voice that infuriated him.
“Silent partner. I invested with him. Period. He ran things.”
“You're still his partner.”
Dammit. He'd regret joining forces with Tim Stevens for the rest of his life. He strode across his office, his cell pressed to his ear. He jerked aside the curtain and stared at the parking lot which should've been full of cars. “You stirred everything up. If you'd left it alone—”
“It was all going to come out anyway.” Holly cut him off—another habit of hers that annoyed him.
He stormed around the office. “You didn't have to drag my name into it. I didn't do anything wrong.”
“I don't have any idea what you did or didn't know. It was your business, after all.”
“My investment. Not my business.” His free hand lashed through an arc that encompassed the office and the restaurant beyond it. “I'm a chef, remember?”
Holly stayed silent. He could imagine her weighing the pros and cons. For a second, he hoped she might actually offer something helpful.
“Last I heard, the Prosecuting Attorney's office is still investigating—the entire business.”
“Then talk to him.” Alex's blood pressure spiked again. “Do you know what happened this morning? My bank threatened to cut off the restaurant. The bankers, who were my 'best friends' because I was a 'best customer' a month ago, will barely talk to me. This bullshit is hurting my business, my family. People won't come here to eat. My mother cries herself to sleep.”
“Gee. Sorry to hear that.”
How could Holly be so unfeeling? He grabbed a fistful of curtain, wishing he could grab her and shake some sense into her.
Her tone penetrated his anger.
Damn. Mentioning his mother was a mistake. The women hated each other. That fact alone should have warned him not to get even casually involved with Holly. To add insult to injury, after hauling his name through the mud, Holly had dumped him for the cop who'd arrested Tim.
Why couldn't women be like his sister Lucia and want to stay home? To have families and be the anchor that held everything together like his mother did? What could be more important than that? Besides, his mother had found plenty of time to meddle in the family—and the family business—after his brothers and sisters were grown.
“What do you expect me to do?” Holly's voice brought him back to his immediate problem.
“Be supportive for once.” He released the curtain. “Remember how mad you were when that ass—that cop you're dating now—was messing with your business?”
She made a noise but he overrode her. “Show the Prosecuting Attorney I wasn't involved. You have Tim's records. You were the Stevens' Ventures accountant. You found all that crap he was doing. I need you to stick up for me.”
“I keep telling you. I. Can't. Do. Anything. You aren't my client. I'm not an attorney. I'm out of it. No one is going to talk to me about this case.”
“You're my friend. At least I thought you were.”
“We are friends, but do you want me to risk my license?”
“Of course not.” He prowled the office, shoved t
he trashcan back toward the desk. “How am I supposed to prove I didn't do something?”
“You can't. Like you said, I've been there. You have to finally grow a pair and own the problem. Talk to the PA yourself.”
“Grow a pair?” Renewed fury surged through his veins. “I live with this problem. Every. Damn. Day.”
“Really? It sounds to me like you want to blame everyone else for your problems and expect someone else to clean up your mess. Well, guess what, Alex? It's not my problem.”
And she hung up.
Alex slammed down the phone and rattled off every curse word he knew in two languages. Head down, he leaned on his desk.
What the hell was he going to do now?
Chapter Two
Late Thursday afternoon
Alex slammed another file folder onto the growing stack on his desk. Break it down, his attorney had instructed. Sort your investments by company, then raw land or planned or ongoing development.
“The Prosecuting Attorney wants more records,” Ben Sullivan had said. “He’s asking a lot of questions.”
Which they’d answered already. Alex hung onto his anger rather than give in to fear. Anger at the PA, the banks, his former partner, the world.
He tugged more papers from the file cabinet. Through the open doorway, he caught a whiff of ragout, tonight's dinner special. He'd rather be in the restaurant kitchen, cooking and supervising final prep work, than dealing with financial catastrophe.
“Where are my grapes?”
The cool, demanding tone jerked Alex's attention away from his personal disaster. He spun toward the office entrance. The emotional warning in her voice registered, but his girlfriend appearing at his door beat sorting papers any time, any day.
Sofia Pincelli stood silhouetted in the doorway. Her thick blonde hair and piercing blue eyes gave her an All-American look, but a keep-your-distance reserve made most men think “Ice Princess” instead of “Cheerleader.”
He knew better. Fiery, northern Italian passion simmered beneath her cool surface. His gaze drifted down her body. Even in jeans and a tailored jacket, she was stunning. Full breasts above a narrow waist flaring to luscious hips demanded he sit up and notice. For a moment, he considered several ways she could make his day one-thousand percent better.
“Did you hear me?” Eyes and chin level, she stepped forward.
Of course, he'd heard her. His brain had slipped out of the “talking” gear. Hopefully his jaw wasn't hanging open with his tongue rolling out.
Damn, Sofia was everything he'd wished for in a woman, volcanic temper included. A smile crept past his irritation. “Hi, Sweetheart. Glad you could stop by. I'm having a minor crisis, thanks for asking.”
Sofia moved her death glare away from him and raked a glance over the papers strewn across the polished mahogany surface. “Unless you blew an inspection at the restaurant, I really don't have time to hear it.”
And he didn't have time for a drama queen routine. He dropped into the swivel chair. The chair groaned as he leaned back and stretched. “What's wrong?”
Her lip quivered.
Alex blinked. Sofia, crying? He'd never seen her cry. He leaned forward, ready to leap across the desk and put his arms around her.
She pulled in a deep breath and slammed her hands onto her hips.
The momentary weakness was gone so quickly, he wondered if he'd imagined it.
Her eyes narrowed and her body tilted forward as if she were spoiling for a fight. “Our vendors expect us to deliver. Our customers expect wine. We'll ruin the winery's reputation if we don't meet those expectations.”
“Yeah, I know all about ruined reputations.” He glanced at the piles of paper.
“The winery defines our family.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You know how important my family is to me.”
After her father's recent heart attack, Sofia had left her position with a California vineyard and returned to take over the Pincelli's family winery. Her willingness to put her family first was one of the things that had drawn them together.
“I know.” He scraped stray papers into a pile. “Join the club.”
“Listen to me and quit dodging my question.” She stepped closer. “We put a deposit on those grapes and expected an update days ago.”
He planted his elbows on top of the papers and propped his chin on his fingers. “What grapes are you talking about, specifically?”
She waved an impatient hand. “The Malbec grapes. The ones you are supposed to deliver.”
A frown furrowed his brow. Spanish salsa—the music the staff preferred during prep time—drifted into the office and filled the following silence. Underneath the music, he could hear the muted clatter of pans and voices from the kitchen and smell the sautéing onions and garlic. His cousin Stephan was acting head chef tonight, but Alex should be in the kitchen. Instead, more financial bullshit had rolled downhill and landed on his back. And now Sofia was riding his ass about grapes?
The proverbial light bulb flicked on. An eternity ago, Sofia—her family, their winery—had bought the grapes growing on property he co-owned with Tim Stevens. When he and Tim bought the land, the grape contract had been part of the deal.
Alex tilted his head and squinted at her. Harvest had been happening all over eastern Washington for weeks. “Shouldn't they have been picked by now?”
“Would I be here asking about them if they were?” One elegant blonde eyebrow rose above a tilted head and a get real expression.
Duh, me. He lifted his hands, palms upraised. “Tim took care of the grapes. He made a hobby out of it.”
He hurried past the horrified expression that crossed her face with the word 'hobby.' He kept his hands calm and tried to keep frustration out of his voice. “Tim hired some farmer for most of the work. I think it’s the same guy who grew the grapes before we bought that land. Anyway, he—the farm manager guy—is supposed to take care of everything, including arranging the harvest and delivery.”
“But it's your name on the contract. I really don't care who you subbed the work out to. I need to test those grapes. Now. Today. If they're still on the vine and they're ready, they have to be harvested. Today.” She poked a finger at him, underscoring each of her words. “I want my grapes.”
“What do you want me to do? I don't have the grapes. Call that guy. His name should be on your contract.”
“No one has contacted me.” She stepped back and spun around. Blonde hair still swinging past her shoulders, she stalked across his office. At the window, she turned. “Once those grapes are picked, they have to be processed. Immediately. Otherwise they spoil. The wine will be ruined.” Her voice rose with each word until she was yelling.
“Were you listening? I don't know anything about it.”
“Dad was right about you.” Her hands flashed, fingers spread. “You don't take responsibility for anything.”
“Stop. Right there.” He shot to his feet. The chair slammed against the wall behind him. He jabbed a finger toward the restaurant dining room. “I'm responsible for my family. For my family's business. Not for Tim's actions. Not for actions I didn't know a damn thing about.”
“How convenient. You are his partner.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone. “You're taking the easy way out.”
“If that's how you feel about me.” He stalked to a file cabinet, jerked open the top drawer and grabbed a scrap of black lace. He threw the panties at her. “You might want these 'delivered' too. You left them here the other night.”
“Oh, for God's sake, be serious.” She rolled her eyes and thrust her fingers into her hair.
“Why?” He tried to ignore the way her upraised arms pushed her chest forward. “You're the one who wanted a 'fun' relationship.”
“I'm talking about business. Business is serious.”
“What? You like the sex, but not me?” The file cabinet drawer slammed with a satisfying whack. “What is it with you women?”
“It isn't 'us women'. It seems to me,
it's you. You have a problem with intelligent women.”
“Bullshit. I prefer intelligent women.”
For a long moment, she studied him. Then she plucked the panties off the floor and stepped toward him. A smile hovered around the corners of her mouth.
“What?” He narrowed his eyes, glaring, more to keep her on-guard than to warn her off. Usually he liked not knowing what she'd pull next, but she loved a challenge—and to win—as much as he did.
She also liked make-up sex as much as he did.
“Nice shirt.” She trailed a finger inside his collar and paused at the first button. “You should wear this color more often. It sets off those gorgeous brown eyes of yours.”
She worked open the button. “Your olive skin...”
Desire rippled down his spine. “Thanks,” he managed. He eyed the open door behind them. Not that he cared who walked in.
She leaned closer. Her full breasts brushed his chest. Warm breath tickled his ear and sent a message straight to his groin. A cool scrap of fabric slid into his palm and her fingers closed his around the silk. “You might want to keep these.”
“Oh?” He managed to keep his tone merely interested while heat flamed through his body. If she kept this up, he could sweep all the papers off his desk. Or there were the chairs. The floor. Up against the wall...
“You keep up that crappy attitude though.”
His brain recalibrated. Problem, problem...
Soft lips brushed a series of kisses against his jaw. “And it'll be a while before you see a new pair.”
That zinger delivered, she pivoted on her heel, and strolled out.
Alex stared at her backside. He couldn't help but notice the sexy curve of her ass against the thin blue denim and remember how it had looked in the barely-there scrap of silk. He raked a hand through his hair. He'd sworn this relationship wasn't going to get messed up. That this time he'd get it right.
Dammit.
He hadn't started the argument and she'd picked a lousy time to land on him, but he could make sure it was a temporary setback.