Tycoon's Temptation

‘Of course there’s something in it for me.

‘I need this deal finalised. So I’ll replace Tom and help you prune. And when the pruning’s done and dusted, to your satisfaction of course, then you will sign the contract.’

‘But—’

‘No. You’re the one who made it clear you’d never do business with a Chatsfield and that anyone with the Chatsfield name should be tarred with the same brush. I’d like the opportunity to show you that you can’t just write us all off that way. I’d like the opportunity to prove that you can do business with a Chatsfield and not regret it.’

‘Six,’ she snapped. ‘At least.’

That long? A moment’s hesitation before he nodded. ‘Six weeks will be perfect. And if there are any scandals involving my family—any at all in that time—then you can choose to walk away from the deal. Otherwise, at the end of six weeks, you sign the contract and the deal between Chatsfield and Purman Wines is done. Do we have a deal?’

Holly couldn’t say anything. Not right now. She was too busy working out how she’d lost an advantage that had seemed to her, such a very short time ago, unassailable.

She’d had the high moral ground. But the rock-solid ground she’d been so sure of such a short time ago had turned to quicksand. She’d been moments away from being rid of this man of the cool grey eyes and the too big feet, moments from freedom, and suddenly events had overtaken her and the goal posts had shifted.

Because Franco was staying and certainty had departed.

It was supposed to be the other way around.

Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.

Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …

Welcome to

Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!

For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.

Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?

Let the games begin!

Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.

Ref: 00106875

www.thechatsfield.com

TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true.

Visit Trish at her website: www.trishmorey.com

Tycoon’s Temptation

Trish Morey

www.thechatsfield.com

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Family Tree

With grateful thanks to Sue and Sean Delaney from Sinclair’s Gully Wines.

Thanks for your advice, your know-how and most of all, your friendship.

Raising a glass of Rubida to you both,

Trish

xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Family Tree

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Readers’ Extras

Discover The Chatsfield

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘BE NICE TO him, Holly.’

Holly Purman smiled and put on her most innocent expression, the one she reserved for when her grandfather was asking something of her that she didn’t want to give. The one that usually worked like a charm. ‘When am I ever not nice to anyone?’

‘I mean it,’ Gus growled, refusing point-blank this time to be swayed. ‘I know what you’re like when you get a bee in your bonnet about something or somebody, and I reckon there’s an entire hive buzzing around up there right now.’

‘Nobody wears bonnets these days, Pop.’ She stooped down to kiss her grandfather’s creased forehead, adding with a grin, ‘They’re old hat.’

‘This is no joking matter, Holly! I want you to take this visit from Franco Chatsfield seriously. It’s a big deal, him coming all this way to talk to us, and the money he’s talking—well, it could set us up for life.’

Holly sighed, abandoning the plans she had to head out to the paddock to let the sheep into the vineyard. The sheep weren’t going to starve in the next thirty minutes and the winter weeds would still be waiting for them in the rows between the vines. Besides, she was hardly going to convince her grandfather that a deal with Chatsfield wasn’t going to be the deal of the century without having the conversation she’d been stewing over ever since Gus had taken the phone call agreeing to some representative from Chatsfield’s visiting with an offer.

She pulled up a chair opposite her grandfather and sat down, putting her hand over his where it rested on the arm of his wheelchair. ‘Okay, Pop, I’ll be serious. We have interest from the Chatsfield Hotel Group. This isn’t so surprising, surely? After winning gold or silver at nearly every wine show going, suddenly everyone wants a piece of Purman Wines. We’ve had loads of interest from potential buyers from all over Australia and from that big supermarket chain in the UK, and I thought you were happy with those. So why are you so excited about some guy coming from Chatsfield? What can hooking up with them give us that none of the others can?’

‘Exposure, that’s what! You know as well as I do that a deal with Chatsfield will give us a global exposure we won’t get through any of our other offers! Chatsfield can take our wine to the world and give it a five-star tick of approval into the deal. You can’t buy that kind of promotion!’

She rubbed her temple where a pulse beat insistently beneath, wishing she’d been in the office the day the call had come in—the call her grandfather had taken in her absence and been so excited about since. She wouldn’t have been so quick to agree to the visit. In fact, she would most likely have told Franco Chatsfield or whatever his name was not to waste his time and effort.

But by the time she’d found out, he was already on his way. And her grandfather was right, she’d been fuming about it ever since. She patted his hand now, willing herself to calm down before she spoke.

‘Sure, Pop, you’re right. We’ll get international exposure if we hook up with Chatsfield, nothing surer, but is it the sort of exposure Purman Wines really wants? Every week it seems there’s another scandal involving that family. What with Lucca Chatsfield caught in a … well, let’s just say “compromising situation” … Do we as a quality brand want the Purman name linked with theirs? We’ve both worked so hard to ensure its success, and I don’t want to see the Purman name dragged through the mud.’

‘Chatsfield is the most prestigious hotel chain in the world!’

‘It used to be, Pop. Once upon a time it used to stand for something special. It still clings to its heritage every chance it gets, but these days the brand is more synonymous with scandal than style.’

His eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. Emphatic. ‘No, no, no! That’s all in the past. Things are turning around. That’s what he told me. There’s a new CEO in charge and the entire chain is getting a makeover. Overhauling their menu and wine list is part of the deal. They’re spending big dollars, Holly, to get the very best. They’re offering the big bucks. Why shouldn’t we cash in on it?’

Holly gave her grandfather a wan smile. ‘We’ve met men with fat wallets who promised the world before, Pop, remember? I don’t recall you being quite so excited then.’

Gus snorted and crooked an eyebrow, his eyes still a piercing blue and sharp as a needle, although the skin around them was creased and tanned from a lifetime of working outdoors. ‘Is that what this is all about? Something that happened ten years ago?’ His gaze grew more intent, his expression deadly serious. ‘He was never good enough for you, Holly, and you know it!’

‘I know that,’ she said, sucking in air at that old familiar stab of hurt, dulled now with the passage of time, but still lurking. Still hurting if she let it. And sometimes she did, just to remind herself never to be so naive again. ‘But that’s not what I meant. Because I recall what happened after you’d sent him packing—when he did his best to drag the Purman name through the mud. Don’t you remember all those poisonous articles in the papers he wrote where he called us “Poorman Wines”? And all those calls from clients cancelling orders, worrying we couldn’t deliver? Don’t you remember all those phone calls from reporters believing we wouldn’t be in business twelve months down the line? Do we really want to bring that kind of exposure on us again?’

‘But this will be different. The money alone—’

‘Money isn’t the only consideration. This is about protecting our brand! If Chatsfield is trying to improve its public image, bully for them, but I don’t see why we should lend our name and our success and risk losing everything we’ve worked to build up, just to make them look good.’

Pop shook his head, the leathery skin between his brows more creased than ever. ‘It’s not just about the money, I know. Just talk to him, Holly. He’ll be here soon. Listen to what he has to say. Give the man a chance. Give Chatsfield a chance.’

The thought of doing a deal with them and risking what had happened before gave her the shudders. ‘Why don’t you talk to him if you’re so keen?’

‘I will. But since I’m reduced to this useless device—’ he slammed the palm of one hand against the wheel ‘—it will be you showing him around the vineyard and the winery. It will be you explaining your vintages, that’s as it should be. Because it’s you everyone wants to meet—the wine whisperer. Dionysus’s handmaiden, the woman who turns the humble grape into nectar of the gods.’ His eyes misted over. ‘My Holly.’

She sighed and squeezed his hand. ‘Those wine writers talk such rubbish.’

‘No, it’s true. All true. You have a gift, my girl, a God-given gift for the grapes and the wine. I’m so proud of you.’

She smiled, a soft smile she hoped told him just how much she loved him, before leaning over to add a kiss to his leathery cheek for good measure. ‘If it is true, it’s only because you taught me everything I know.’

He caught her hand within the iron grip of his bony fingers, blinking to clear watery eyes as he turned his impassioned expression up to hers. ‘Don’t you see, Holly? This Chatsfield deal could be the opportunity of a lifetime.’

She could see how he’d think it so. The dollars alone were enough to make anyone’s eyes water. But it could also turn out to be the biggest blunder of all time, given the parlous state of the Chatsfield family and its hotel chain.

But she didn’t say so, not when her grandfather seemed so set on making a deal with them. ‘I’ll talk to him, Pop,’ she said simply and even honestly with a smile for the man who had been the centre of her existence for so long she didn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been there for her. ‘I’ll give him a chance and I’ll listen to what he has to say.’

And then I’ll tell him to go to hell.

CHAPTER TWO

FRANCO CHATSFIELD DIDN’T appreciate having a gun held to his head, especially not by Christos Giatrakos—the man his father had hired in to bring his siblings into line… . Him into line.

He tossed away the business magazine he’d been attempting to read on the descent into Adelaide Airport, giving up all pretence of being able to focus on the words. Because the closer he got to landing, the more resentful he grew.

In normal circumstances he wouldn’t have given someone like Giatrakos five minutes of his time.

In normal circumstances he would have told Giatrakos where to well and truly get off.

Except that Giatrakos’s last email had stopped him in his tracks.

From: Christos.Giatrakos@TheChatsfield.com

To: Franco.Chatsfield@TheChatsfield.com

Subject: CONDITIONS OF TRUST CONTINUATION

Despite numerous attempts to make you see sense, be aware that failure to seal the deal with Purman Wines will leave me no choice but to use the power your father has given me and lock down your access to your trust funds.

This is your last warning.

C.G.

Jeopardising the income stream from the Chatsfield Family Trust was the one thing Franco couldn’t let happen.

So he’d play the game by Giatrakos’s rules. He’d even let Giatrakos think he’d won the day if it was that important to him. Because he’d spoken to Angus Purman and it was clear from his enthusiastic response to his offer that getting his signature was practically a done deal. No wonder, really, given he’d had one hell of a budget to play with and he’d teased Purman with that knowledge.

Getting the paperwork should be a mere formality, in which case, he’d be back in Milan with this deal sorted and signed and on that jerk CEO’s desk before the ink was even dry on the contract.

And if his father—his famous father, who hadn’t given him two minutes of consideration since he’d been born—had thought for a moment that he would be cowed by the prospect of sorting out a new wine contract for Chatsfield’s prestige hotel chain, he had another think coming.

He might have dropped out of school at sixteen and fled the Chatsfield media circus before it could consume him, but he’d still managed to learn a thing or two along the way. Maybe his father might finally realise that?

He snorted.

Not that he cared either way.

The plane bumped through clouds on its descent and he looked out the window, searching for his first glimpse of Adelaide, but there was still no sign of anything approaching a city. Instead below him spread an undulating carpet of green dotted with tiny towns connected by winding ribbons of bitumen. There were forests of pine and the dull grey of eucalypts, interspersed with open fields, and vineyards too, marching in regimented lines across the hillsides. Somewhere down there, he figured, must be Purman’s cool-climate pinot-chardonnay block that provided the fruit for their award-winning sparkling wine.

A burst of rain spattered against his window, obliterating the view, and Franco reclined back in his seat as the plane bumped its descent over the hills. Not that he had to know where exactly, because as soon as the plane landed and he cleared customs, he was heading straight to Purman’s Coonawarra head office, one more short flight away. He didn’t want or need to see anything else. His job was to fill in a few final details on the contract he had ready and get a signature. It wasn’t like he was here to have a holiday. In fact, the sooner he’d put Giatrakos—the jerk—back in his box and ensured the funds from the Chatsfield Family Trust kept flowing where he wanted them to, the better.

Right now, that was all he cared about.

It might be winter but the weather was worse than wintry, it was foul, and Holly had come in from the vineyard to escape it while she made them both a sandwich for lunch. Above the pounding of the rain on the roof she barely registered the noise at first. Even when she did make out the distinctive whump-whump of chopper blades, she didn’t pay it much attention. They weren’t that far from the airfield after all, and there was a steady trade in sightseer flights, although admittedly more common in the warmer months.

But the noise grew progressively louder and closer and Holly stopped slicing cheese as a shiver of premonition zipped down her spine. Could it be him?

She grabbed a tea towel to wipe her hands as she crossed to the glass doors that looked out over acres of vines, now mostly bare and stripped of their leaves, to see a helicopter hovering above the lawns that doubled as a rudimentary helipad when occasion demanded.

Her grandfather wheeled alongside her as the chopper descended slowly to the ground.

‘You reckon it’s him?’

‘Who else could it be? Clearly it’s somebody who likes to make an entrance. It figures it’d be a Chatsfield.’

‘You don’t know that, Holly.’

Her hackles did.

Her bones did.

‘It’s him,’ she said, before balling the tea towel in her hands and unceremoniously flinging it across the room to land in the sink with the same unerring certainty. She slid open the door to air that was so cold and crisp it might snap, the rain squalls moved on for now, and from the edge of the verandah they waited as the chopper’s motor wound down, the blades’ revolutions slowing.

And even though it was near-freezing outside, her blood simmered with resentment. Did he honestly imagine they’d be impressed at such a grand entrance?

Not likely.

The passenger door popped open and their visitor jumped out and Holly’s skin prickled.

Tall, she registered. Around six foot if she wasn’t mistaken, though it was hard to tell given how far he had to duck his head under the rotating blades. And then he straightened and she could see his face and he could be nothing other than a Chatsfield, with his chiselled good looks and the tendrils of his bad-boy hair flicking like serpents in the down draft from the blades.

The prickling under her skin intensified and spread until even her breasts tingled and peaked. The cold, she told herself as she clutched her arms over her chest and pressed her fingernails tight into her flesh. Damn this cold and damn this man who was smiling as if he was welcome here.

As if he imagined he was going to get a slice of Purman Wine action.

Not on her watch.

‘Angus Purman?’ he said, extending a hand to her grandfather. ‘Franco Chatsfield. It’s good to meet you.’

‘Gus will do just fine,’ the older man said with a nod, and Franco felt his hand enveloped by a weatherbeaten paw that housed a grip of steel. ‘And this here’s my granddaughter, Holly. She’s the real boss of the show.’

Really? ‘Holly,’ he said, taking her hand in turn, and there could be no greater contrast between the two handshakes. For while the older man’s had been certain, his leathery skin calloused and hard, hers was cool and way too brief to decide if that buzz he’d felt on contact had been any more than his imagination. She made no attempt to acknowledge him or return his smile, but then, she didn’t look happy at all. Instead she looked—He searched for a word as he took in her khaki work pants, dusty boots and a faded long-sleeved polo jumper bearing the Purman Wines logo. Drab. In fact, if it wasn’t for blue eyes in a make-up-free face, she’d be completely colourless.

‘I apologise if my arrival has taken you unawares,’ he said, realising she must be angry because she hadn’t had time to get herself ready. He knew how women liked to preen.

‘No, of course, we were expecting you,’ the old man said genially.

‘We just weren’t expecting you—’ the woman added, gesturing towards the helicopter ‘—in that.’

So she was angry with him. But what the hell for? ‘I had to take it from Mount Gambier. Storms closed the Coonawarra airfield so my charter flight couldn’t land here.’

‘There were no hire cars?’ Gus asked as he wheeled himself inside and gestured Franco to follow.

‘No,’ he said as he followed, discounting the offer he’d had of a car so tiny his knees would have been around his ears. ‘At least, nothing that was suitable.’

‘They were all out of Maseratis?’ quipped the woman. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’

‘Holly!’ Gus growled over his shoulder, and Franco pulled his lips into a smile in spite of his building irritation. He was here with a fistful of dollars in his pocket and a deal that anyone would be mad to turn down and yet she was acting like he wasn’t welcome. What the hell was her problem?

Warmth enveloped him as he stepped into a spacious living area, a kitchen one end and a dining area dominated by a massive timber table the other, all warmed by a stone-walled fireplace pumping out the heat. Stone and timber featured largely in the interior, working in combination with the high ceilings and windows that afforded a view over the surrounding vines. And not that he’d given it much thought, but he hadn’t expected to be reminded of his own stone villa in the Piacenza hills outside Milan and to actually like what he found half a world away in the southeast corner of South Australia.

‘We were just about to have lunch,’ Gus said. ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us?’

Franco held up his hands. ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ he said, and Holly caught the gleam of a gold watch at his wrist. Ridiculously expensive gold watch, by the looks, just like the ridiculously expensive hand-stitched leather shoes on his feet. Big feet, she registered absently, and in the very next instant wished she hadn’t.

Tall.

Big feet.

What did they say about tall men with big feet?

And heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace suddenly blossomed hot and heavy in her cheeks. She turned her back towards the men, launching an attack on a loaf with the bread knife, furious with herself. She didn’t even like the man. Why the hell would she even think such a thing?

‘A man can’t be expected to do business on an empty stomach,’ Gus said. ‘It’s no trouble, is it, Holly?’

‘No trouble at all,’ she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. ‘I do hope you’re a fan of corned beef sandwiches?’

‘But of course,’ he said, and not for the first time, Holly wondered at his accent. She’d expected him to sound upper crust and privileged, and he did—for the most part. But every now and then there was an unexpected texture to his accent that curled the edges away from Sloane Square and headed for somewhere entirely more earthy.

Maybe because of his Italian mother? Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.

‘That’s the spirit,’ her grandfather said. ‘Holly not only makes the best wine in the district, it’s a little-known fact she also makes the best sandwiches. She makes the relish herself, you know.’

‘Then I am indeed fortunate. It appears I couldn’t have timed my arrival better.’

A charmer, she thought as she put together a platter of doorstop sandwiches, adding this latest discovery to his list of crimes, a list that was growing longer by the minute. A Chatsfield and a charmer with a posh accent, who wore handmade shoes and gold watches and who hired helicopters when mere mortals hired cars—and usually the budget model at that.

She didn’t care for charmers with fat pockets.

She didn’t trust them.

She glanced over her shoulder at their guest, her father and Franco engaged in conversation. Another squall had hit, the rain coming in fat drops that belted onto the tin roof and splattered over the windows when the wind blew it horizontally under the wide verandah, and over the din, she could barely hear what they were saying. It was just a shame the noise didn’t dull her vision. He’d shrugged off his jacket while her back had been turned, revealing a fine-knitted sweater that skimmed his powerful shoulders and chest like a second skin. Some tall people looked like weeds. Not Franco. He looked hard packed. Built. He seemed to own the space around him. Not an easy thing in this room when he was surrounded by so much of it.

All the more reason to resent him, she told herself as she set the plate of sandwiches on the table and retreated to the safety of the kitchen to snap on the kettle, watching him take a sandwich in his hands.

Long-fingered hands.

Long-fingered hands with big thumbs.

He’d taken her hand in his and she could still feel the tingle under her skin, the zap that had reminded her of science class where they’d scuffed shoes on the carpet and reached out a hand. It had been fun then.

It wasn’t fun now.

She lifted her eyes and caught him watching her and sensation skittered down her spine. She spun, looking out the window, looking anywhere but at him, wondering what was wrong with her.

‘You’re not eating,’ he said.

She shook her head, wondering what had happened to her appetite. She’d felt hungry when she’d first come in from outside, but she was too wound up now to eat, too busy thinking he should never have come. Wishing she’d taken the call and told him not to. Thinking there was no point to all of this …

‘You must take Franco out to the vineyard,’ Gus said, ‘when this latest shower has passed. You should show him our terra rossa soil, and why our grapes do so well.’

‘Pop, have you looked out the window? I’m not sure it’s a good day to take anyone outside.’ Especially if it meant being alone with him.

‘Nonsense!’ He looked at their guest. ‘Franco would never have come all this way without wanting to see everything there is to know about the vineyard and the winery.’

‘Of course,’ he conceded, his words and smile both tighter than a trellis wire. ‘Naturally, I would appreciate seeing as much as I can while I am here.’

‘Excellent,’ said Gus, slapping the palms of his hands on his legs, triumphant. Holly wasn’t so convinced. Their guest hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance. Maybe he was afraid of getting his pretty shoes wet. ‘Now, you’d better get going before the next squall hits. Holly will find you a coat.’

Franco rose to his feet.

‘Oh, and, Gus, after the tour, perhaps we could sit down together and go over the details of Chatsfield Hotel’s offer?’

Holly’s head snapped around. So here it was. ‘You sure don’t waste any time, do you, Mr Chatsfield?’

‘Please call me Franco. And no, I don’t like wasting time, neither yours nor mine. In fact, I have a contract with me all ready to be signed. I told your grandfather on the phone the terms were generous and I can guarantee we’ll better any other offer on the table. I’d appreciate the opportunity to discuss the proposal with you in more detail.’

‘I look forward to it,’ said a bright-eyed Gus, who was looking like a kid itching to unwrap the biggest present under the Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come out myself while I’m confined to this infernal thing. Holly, I’ll be in the study doing some paperwork. Let me know when you get back and we’ll all sit down together and see if we can’t do business.’

The sky outside offered a rare patch of blue and Holly reckoned they had ten minutes before the next bank of dark cloud rumbled overhead and dropped its load.

‘This is going to ruin your snazzy shoes,’ Holly warned as she climbed into her creaky-with-age Driza-Bone oilskin. No way would his feet fit into Gus’s boots.

‘It’s no problem, really,’ he said. ‘They’re only shoes.’

She smiled at that as she pulled on her knee-high gumboots.

Only someone used to buying hand-crafted shoes would think they were only shoes. Clearly the Chatsfields had more money than sense.

Another crime added to the list.

She strode before him across the sodden lawn in her work boots, hands wedged deeply in the pockets of her coat. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know Franco was right behind her. She could feel him in the prickling heat of her skin. She could sense him in the swirling air of her wake—thick, smug air—just one more dark cloud on a stormy day. At least this cloud would soon blow away. Back to his privileged world and his scandal-ridden existence.

‘Be nice to him,’ Pop had told her, and she reined in on the resentment that bubbled up under her skin at him being here, at his film-star good looks and his entitled accent and his damned big feet and thumbs, but nowhere near enough to quell it completely. No. She could not find it in herself to be nice. But she supposed she could at least try for civil. He wasn’t going to be here long. She could do civil.

At least until he put his offer on the table.

‘We have around fifty hectares of prime Coonawarra land under vines,’ she started, and Franco tuned out, toying with a new and unexpected discovery. Because he’d seen her smile back in the mud room, maybe only because she’d been laughing at his shoes, but still she’d smiled. And it had been a revelation, because she was almost pretty when she smiled, when she let her frosty guard down and let the light play about her blue eyes and tweak her lips. They’d become startling blue eyes when she smiled, a burst of colour when she was otherwise clad in so much drabness. Who would have thought it?