No Ordinary Fortune. Judy Duarte
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Don’t embarrass myself or the family.”
The call ended without a goodbye.
Schuyler turned up the volume on the radio dial, just in time to catch the beginning of the Beatles song “Can’t Buy Me Love.” She belted out the lyrics she knew by heart and continued her drive, wishing there was some way she could convince her well-meaning father that he didn’t need to use money to keep her in step—or to buy her affection. He already had it free and clear.
She didn’t particularly like being so different from everyone else in the family. Deep inside she feared that she’d never live up to their expectations, so as a teenager, she learned to embrace her inner maverick.
And that’s what she was doing now. As she peered out the bug-splattered windshield, she hoped she didn’t hit any more traffic in Austin. If she continued at this pace, she’d reach the Mendoza Winery offices before they closed.
If truth be told, she was nearly as eager to meet the Mendozas as she was the Fortunes. There’d been quite a few marriages between the two clans. And from what she’d learned, Alejandro Mendoza, the owner of the winery, had a lot of handsome, single cousins. If Schuyler played her cards right, she’d be able to charm one of them into providing her with the info and the intros she needed.
Besides, it wasn’t a total fact-finding mission. She’d heard their business was expanding, and she’d like to get a closer look at the inner workings of their company. At least, that’s the excuse she’d give them for showing up today.
That wasn’t too big of a stretch. If what she’d heard was true, their stock was going to soar in value. So she might be interested in making a personal investment.
The Houston society papers had pegged her as a ditzy trust fund baby, no matter how many charities she spearheaded. But they were wrong. And she had an impressive financial portfolio to prove it.
Either way, she hadn’t set herself up for a difficult role. She was a people person, and she’d also taken several improv classes at the local junior college. So how hard could it be to win over the Mendozas and then move on to the Fortunes?
* * *
Despite the cool afternoon breeze, Carlo Mendoza had worked up a pretty good sweat as he unloaded the company truck and lugged cases of wine into the family’s distribution center at Austin Commons.
Six months ago, his cousin Alejandro had asked him if he’d be willing to relocate to Austin, become the Mendoza Winery vice president and take charge of refurbishing the small, on-site restaurant.
Most of Carlo’s friends had expected him to decline the offer and stay put. At thirty-five, he’d made a name for himself in Miami, working in the food-and-beverage industry. He’d managed several floundering restaurants and, in a short period, had turned them all around. He’d done the same thing with a run-down nightclub, which was now one of the most popular beachfront nightspots in Florida. But he’d jumped at the chance to become a part of the growing family organization in Texas.
Within hours of entering city limits, he’d gone right to work, planning the expansion and remodel of the eatery, overseeing the demolition and reconstruction, creating the perfect ambience and then hiring a talented chef who came up with an impressive menu.
Carlo usually preferred to stick close to the winery, as well as La Viña, the name they’d chosen for the new restaurant. But Alejandro was in the process of expanding the family business by opening a retail shop in Austin Commons. Plans were also under way for a new wine bar and a nightclub, both of which would be located on a popular downtown street. So that meant they all had to pull together.
Carlo had no more than stacked another case of wine on the cart he would wheel inside when Esteban, his father, stepped out of the distribution center. “Is that the last of it?”
“Not quite. I still need to unload the chardonnay.”
After that, he would head for The Gardens at the nearby Monarch Hotel, where he’d scheduled an important tasting this evening for a group of chefs and restaurant owners attending a big culinary conference. This was the Mendoza Winery’s chance to get its best vintages in the right hands, and Carlo had gone all out when setting it up. There’d be tiny white lights adorning the trees, exotic flowers on linen-draped tables and an impressive variety of gourmet cheese, crackers and hors d’oeuvres.
When Carlo had first come up with the idea of hosting carefully planned tastings, his cousin had given his hearty approval and said, “That’s your baby. Run with it.”
So Carlo had done just that. And up until an hour ago, things had gone exceptionally well. Then the model they’d hired to pour wine for the tasting called and said she was sick. As soon as the line disconnected, he’d immediately contacted the agency and asked them to send over a replacement. There was a lot riding on tonight’s event. If things went as planned, it would launch the winery into the big leagues.
Carlo could, of course, serve the wine himself, but he’d rather be free to schmooze with attendees and lock down the sales he expected.
He glanced at his wristwatch, a TAG Heuer Carrera he’d purchased last summer, and swore under his breath. It was getting late, and the agency had yet to call back or to send another hostess. They’d told him they’d try their best to find someone. Hopefully, they wouldn’t let him down.
When a car engine sounded, he glanced over his shoulder to see a red late-model BMW approaching. After parking in front of the office, next to the truck Carlo was unloading, the driver, a petite blonde, climbed out, shut the door and locked the car. When she spotted him watching her, she flashed a pretty smile.
The sight of her face alone was enough to set a bachelor’s blood on fire. Add that to a pair of black skinny jeans that hugged her feminine curves and a colorful, gypsy-style top that suggested she had a playful side, and it took all Carlo’s restraint not to let out a tacky wolf whistle.
She gave a little wave, as if they’d met before, then closed the distance between them with the grace and assurance of a woman who knew she had the power to knock a man off his feet. She also bore a remarkable resemblance to singer Carrie Underwood, which was merely an observation on Carlo’s part. He didn’t give a damn if she could carry a tune in a bucket. As long as she could pour wine, she’d work out just fine.
He’d run in the upper circles of Miami society long enough to recognize the black Chanel purse and the snazzy red Beamer, both of which announced that she lived the good life. Or that she hoped to one of these days and was trying her best to fake it until she did. He supposed that also meant she wouldn’t come cheap, but at this point, he didn’t care. He was desperate.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said. “I’m Carlo Mendoza, the one who placed the call to the temp agency. You’re just in time. Let me show you what we need you to do.”
She pulled up short, her expression sobered and her brow creased ever so slightly. Then her pretty smile returned and she reached out to shake his hand. “Schuyler Fortunado, at your service.”
* * *
Not much took Schuyler by surprise, but when the handsome Latin hottie set aside the box he’d been carrying and swept toward her, she didn’t much care what project he had in mind for her to do. She was up to the task, especially since he bore the correct last name—Mendoza.
He also had the perfect looks. He was tall, with dark hair that curled at the collar and expressive brown eyes. A killer smile revealed white teeth against a tanned complexion. He was definitely what she’d call eye candy. If she were a casting director, she’d sign him in a New York minute to star as the romantic lead in a major production.
She had only one question. How did he fit into the family hierarchy?
Black slacks and a white button-down shirt—crisply pressed, rolled up at the sleeves and open at the collar—announced that he was in upper management. Yet a light sheen of sweat from his labor suggested he wasn’t afraid of hard work.
He reached out to shake