Sam’s words made her heart flutter like hummingbird wings. She felt giddy and nervous, but excited. “Hi, Sam.”

“Come on in.”

The large double wrought-iron gates swung open, allowing her to drive onto the property. A few hundred yards later, after rounding a bend, she stopped in front of an old two-story house built in the 1920s. The mock Tudor facade blended perfectly with the formal gardens stretching out on either side.

So the security business paid well, she thought as she opened the door and stepped onto the cobblestone driveway. Despite Sam’s elegant offices and his title as CEO, she’d never considered their economic differences. If she compared family fortunes, she would probably be in the ballpark, but personally she didn’t have a penny. Marcelli Wines belonged solely to her grandfather.

She glanced down at the simple sundress she’d worn. She’d taken the time to curl her long hair and put on a little makeup, but other than that, there wasn’t much she could do to dazzle anyone. Funny how she found herself wanting to dazzle Sam.

She crossed to the front door, which opened before she could knock.

“Hi,” she said before she got a good look at him. Which was well timed, because after she looked, she wasn’t up for much in the way of conversation.

She’d been picturing him in a suit, not that she’d wasted her entire day dreaming about him.

He wore a red polo shirt tucked into worn jeans and no shoes. Somehow the sight of his bare feet shocked her—as if she’d stumbled into his bedroom and accidentally seen him naked. They were just feet, she told herself. Big feet.

She held in a smile as she thought of what her sister, Brenna, would say about her observation on the feet front.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, smiling at her.

She found herself getting lost in those tawny-colored eyes she’d admired last night. His dark blond hair was tousled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. What was it about a slightly rumpled man that women found appealing? Why did he seem more dangerous now than he had before?

“Thanks for the invitation.” She glanced around the foyer. “So this is the great grill place, huh?”

“Actually the grilling magic happens on my back patio. There’s going to be a write-up in Food and Spirits next month.”

“You’re going to be busy. I’m glad I could get in before the rush.”

“I’d make room for you.”

“You mean in time I could get my own table?”

“Maybe a chair, if you’re good.”

This is the place where a sophisticated, experienced woman would purr something about always being good. The words hovered on Francesca lips, but she held them back. Throwing herself into the deep end was one thing, but promising an Olympic performance instead of the ungainly flailing that was likely to follow seemed like a mistake.

“I’ll give you the nickel tour,” he said. “You can meet Elena, so you’ll know I wasn’t lying about her, then I’ll take you out to the patio and impress you.”

His low voice seemed to brush across her skin like warm velvet. She found herself wanting to move closer, to stretch until all the kinks were out, then rub against him. Maybe she could purr without words.

He took a step, then paused. “Take your shoes off if you want.”

Francesca hesitated a second, then slipped out of her sandals and dropped her bag next to them. Somehow the thought of both of them barefoot was more than a little scandalous, but she was playing with the big guys now.

She followed Sam across the hardwood floor of the entryway, past a large living room. She caught a glimpse of a library, a home office, and a dining room.

“Big place,” she said. “I can see why you have live-in help.”

Sam smiled at her. “I didn’t used to. Somebody came in and cleaned. My grandfather lives a couple of miles from here. He’s getting up in years and needs more help than he used to. Not that he’ll admit it. I wanted to get him someone, but he’s stubborn and wouldn’t agree. So I complained about wanting to hire a full-time person and not having enough work. He pretended to believe me. Elena spends most of her time with him, but she has a suite of rooms here. It’s a game my grandfather and I play, but it works.”

They crossed by the kitchen and entered a small hallway at the back of the house. Sam knocked on a closed door.

“Elena? Francesca is here.”

A small, redheaded woman in her early fifties opened the door. She was casually dressed in sweats and a T-shirt.

“Elena, this is Francesca. Francesca, Elena runs the house. My grandfather and I would be lost without her.”

“Nice to meet you,” Francesca said.

“You, too.” She grinned at her employer. “Okay. I agree. This one was worth the wait.”

Sam sighed. “You weren’t supposed to say anything to get me in trouble.”

Elena’s smile broadened. “Me? What did I say? Did I mention a word about a man living alone for too long with only an old woman for company? No. Not a word. Did I say it was time he found himself a good woman? Not even close. I mind my own business. That’s what I’m paid to do. I keep my mouth shut.”

“Speaking of shutting,” Sam said, interrupting her. “I’m closing your door now. You sure you don’t want me to cook you a steak?”

“Yes. Red meat will kill you.”

“Without it, life isn’t worth living.”

“You need to eat more vegetables.”

“Good night, Elena,” he said and drew the door closed.

“Good night,” she called. “Have fun.”

Sam shook his head, then led the way back to the kitchen. “She makes me crazy.”

“You adore her.”

“I do. She’s great with Gabriel. He can be a real curmudgeon, but she doesn’t mind. As you may have noticed, she gives as good as she gets. He thinks she’s great, although he’d rather eat worms than admit it.”

Francesca glanced around at the spacious rooms they passed on their way through the house. “Do you rent out rooms?”

“I could. If the security business ever tanks, I’ll think about it.” He led the way into the kitchen.

She had a brief impression of bleached cabinets and tiled counters. French doors led to an open deck with the ocean in the distance. But she was more distracted by Sam’s words than the view. Very nice, she thought. Too nice. If Sam was so all that, why wasn’t he married with six kids?

“What are you thinking?” he asked as he took a step toward her.

“Nothing much. I’m in observation mode.”

“Exploring your environment?” he asked as he moved a little closer.

“Sure.” And him. Flawed or not, she wouldn’t mind exploring him.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He grinned. “You like my ‘executive at home’ look?”

“It doesn’t stink.”

He chuckled, then stepped in front of her and rested his hands on her waist. She had a half second of warning before he bent low and kissed her.

The light brush of his mouth made her sway toward him. Body parts slowly stirred to life. She rested her fingers on his shoulders, feeling the strength and heat of him.

Her insides warmed, then melted. Legs quivered. She sighed and leaned into him. This was going to be good.

And it was. He ran his hands up and down her back, then swept his tongue across her lower lip. She never thought of protesting, or even worrying that they were standing in a kitchen. There were counters and tables and lots of possibilities, not that she could think of even one when she parted her lips slightly and brushed her tongue against his.

Erotic excitement sizzled. Every inch of skin quivered as they pressed together. He smelled good—male, clean, sexy. He tasted even better. They danced and stroked and explored. He dropped his hands to her rear and squeezed. She instinctively arched against him, which brought her belly in contact with his erection. The proof of his arousal both delighted and terrified her.

He broke the kiss and stared at her. Fire danced in his gold-brown eyes.

“So you’re the kind of girl my grandfather always warned me about. The ones who get guys like me in trouble.”

His hands were still on her waist. She liked the weight of them there. She lightly squeezed his shoulders. “How on earth would I get you in trouble?”

“I can think of a thousand ways.”

She could only think of a couple, but she wasn’t prepared to share lists.

She studied his face, enjoying the way he watched her. As if he liked what he saw. They weren’t moving, weren’t touching, except for where their hands rested. The moment shouldn’t have been special or intimate, yet it was both.

The aching inside of her grew. It moved low in her belly, then flared out to her thighs. Her body felt heavy. She felt thick, swollen, and wet. All this and they’d only kissed.

She didn’t want to know. Well, okay—maybe she did.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Nothing I’m going to tell you.”

He laughed. “That sounds promising. Come on. We’ll open a bottle of wine and go sit on the deck. While we stare at the ocean, you can tell me about your day.”

He released her and crossed to the counter. As she watched him move, she realized she was completely out of her element. Sam obviously knew what he was doing. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to find herself well and truly seduced.

She walked over to lean against the counter. The sight of the familiar label made her smile.

“I see I’ve converted you,” she said, touching the Marcelli Wines bottle.

“It didn’t take much convincing.”

He pulled out the cork and poured them each a glass of Merlot, then led the way out onto the deck. The afternoon sun had warmed the redwood and the wicker chairs. When Francesca sat down, Sam pulled an ottoman over, positioning it between their chairs.

“To summer nights,” he said, holding out his glass.

She touched hers to his, then took a sip. Summer nights. She couldn’t remember one quite like this. There was still an hour or so to go until sunset. The view of the ocean stretched out in the distance, the vastness of the water offering endless possibilities. A handsome man who made her skin tingle and her heart flutter sat next to her. This was definitely a top-ten moment for the week.

“Tell me about your day,” he said as he shifted and lifted his feet to the ottoman. Francesca had already stretched out her legs to rest her heels on the white wicker. Their bare toes, the proximity, the casual acceptance all made her feel as if they’d done this a thousand times before. It was disconcerting. It was very nice.

“My sister, Mia, came to see me,” she said. “She’s leaving for Washington, D.C., in the morning. Mia is eighteen, a junior at UCLA, and brilliant. She’s majoring in political science and is probably going to take over the world some day. As if all that isn’t enough, she’s amazing with languages. This summer she’s taking a six-week language course. She’ll be studying Japanese.”

Sam glanced at her. “Is she your only sister?”

Francesca thought about her family. “How scared do you want to be?”

“I already know about your family history. Is it more intimidating than that?”

“You’ll have to tell me.” She sipped her wine. “My fraternal grandparents, my maternal grandmother, and my parents all live in a hacienda up by the vineyard. I have a sister, Katie, who is older by a year and a fraternal twin, Brenna. Mia is the baby—she’s nine years younger than me.”

Sam looked impressed. “I won’t complain about Gabriel anymore.”

“You’d better not. Grandma Tessa, my father’s mother, is pure Italian. For her, everything in life can be healed with more pasta. Mary-Margaret O’Shea is my mother’s mother. We call her Grammy M. She’s Irish, tiny, but strong-willed. We’re Italian-Irish and Catholic. The family is loud, volatile, and rosaries appear at the drop of a hat.”