CHAPTER FIVE
WHATANIGHT.
Stifling a yawn and wishing she didn’t feel quite so bleary-eyed, Orla climbed into the car and fired up the engine to drive the seven kilometres that lay between her hotel and Duarte’s estate.
To say she hadn’t slept well was an understatement. Two fitful hours, from three to five, was all she’d managed, and that was on top of the sleepless, stressful night before. She was therefore running on empty, which didn’t bode particularly well for a day during which she needed all her wits about her, but at least she was fortified with coffee and the conviction that nothing was going to go wrong.
There was no reason it should, she assured herself as she turned out of the hotel’s entrance and onto the road. She was meeting the housekeeping team she’d hired in an hour. She’d confirmed the time and printed off a copy of the instructions she’d already emailed to them, and all other arrangements were on track.
Of course, it would help enormously if she could stop thinking about what had happened yesterday evening. The memories of the kiss she and Duarte had shared had tormented her for most of the night, rendering her so hot and bothered that she’d wondered if she was coming down with something.
The heat and skill of his mouth moving so insistently against hers... The rock-hard muscles of his chest flexing beneath her hands... The glazed look in his eyes and the faint flush slashing across his cheekbones and the heady satisfaction of knowing she’d caused both... And then the abrupt, mortifying way it had ended.
She hadn’t had the chance to contemplate the notion that the mediocre sex she’d experienced to date might not be her fault after all or regret the time she’d potentially wasted. She hadn’t had the wherewithal to find out how the venue mix-up could have happened. Distressingly, she hadn’t had the head space for anything other than the actual kiss itself.
But at least today she’d be so busy concentrating on the job she was here to do she wouldn’t have time to dwell on these things. It wasn’t as if she and Duarte’s paths were going to cross. She’d made it very clear she didn’t expect to see him until the conference and there was no earthly reason why someone like him would bother himself with anything as mundane as housekeeping. He had a billion-euro global wine business to run and presumably multiple demands on his time. So there’d be no awkward moments involving stuttering conversation and fierce blushing. No gazing at his mouth and remembering. There was nothing to worry about at all.
Orla swung off the road and onto the wide, sandy drive that led to the Quinta, the awe rippling through her as fresh as it had been when she’d rushed over the day before yesterday, shortly after her initial, monumental mistake had come to light.
As conference venues went, this one was spectacular. The house had been built on the north bank of the Douro at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the year the estate was bought by an ancestor of Duarte’s who’d travelled from the UK to try his hand at making port. Against a cloudless azure sky the white walls of the three-storey building sparkled in the early morning sunshine beneath a terracotta tiled roof. Green shutters were open at the ground-floor windows that stretched out either side of the huge oak front door, and at those above on the next floors up.
Behind the facade, the original building had gradually tripled in size and been regularly modernised. It now boasted ten en-suite bedrooms, countless reception rooms, a dining room that could seat fifty, and a ballroom, which was where the meetings would be taking place. At the rear, the courtyard that was decorated with jewel-coloured mosaics featured a fountain in the shape of a cherub holding aloft a bunch of grapes. And beyond that, a vine-covered pergola stood over a wide stone patio that ran the length of the house and had stunning views of the terraces.
Over the years, the success of that intrepid eighteenth-century winemaker had led to the expansion of the business and the acquisition of further estates, and almost all of the winemaking had since moved to Porto. But, given its size and idyllic setting, this magnificent building had been used for entertaining for the past three centuries and still was.
Quite honestly, Orla still couldn’t work out how she’d got it so wrong. The house she’d originally and incorrectly identified as the venue for the conference was lovely—now that it wasn’t a complete tip—but it wasn’t a patch on this.
She should have questioned the keys that didn’t fit, she thought for what had to be the thousandth time. She should have paid more attention to the odd curious glance she’d received over the ten days or so, which she’d attributed to miscommunication as a result of her poor attempts at Portuguese. She shouldn’t have been so confident she knew what she was doing that she hadn’t triple-checked the instructions.
However, now wasn’t the time for unfathomable conundrums. Now was the time to focus on the day ahead, a day free from distractions and lapses in concentration, a day devoid of slip-ups.
Everything was going to go brilliantly, she reminded herself as she pulled up at a wing of the house to the rear, the tradesmen’s entrance, got out and bent to retrieve her satchel from the back seat. She had her lists and the order of play. She knew what she was doing, and, more importantly, she knew what everyone else was doing. Everything was under control.
‘Bom dia.’
At the sound of the deep voice somewhere behind her, Orla jumped, narrowly avoiding hitting her head on the roof of the car, and whirled round. Her heart gave a great crash against her ribs and then began to race. Duarte was striding her way, his gaze fixed on her, a faint smile hovering at his mouth.
Oh, no, she thought, her heart sinking as the memory of last night’s kiss, the wantonness of her response and the way she’d been all over him instantly slammed into her head and flooded her cheeks with heat.
This was bad.
Very bad.
What was he doing here? Why wasn’t he doing something brilliant with wine? What had happened to their paths absolutely not crossing? So much for a day free from distraction and loss of focus. Ten seconds in his vicinity and already panic was beginning to flutter inside her. Already she was on edge and wired in a way that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of caffeine she’d consumed earlier. But what could she do? She could hardly order him to leave. It was his estate.
‘Good morning,’ she replied, hitching her satchel over her shoulder, locking the car and deciding that denial and professionalism while she figured out a way to get rid of him were the way forward here.
‘Did you sleep well?’
No. She hadn’t. She’d slept appallingly. ‘Perfectly well, thank you,’ she said, setting off for the back door. ‘You?’
‘Barely a wink,’ he said as he fell into step beside her. ‘You kept me up for hours. Literally.’
Her pulse thudded, her mouth went dry and she very nearly stumbled. Why would he say that? How did he expect her to respond? Was she supposed to apologise?
She’d never been in this situation before, working in such physical proximity with a client. She didn’t know how to handle it. But she was pretty sure that if he’d decided to start flirting with her it wasn’t going to help at all. It wasn’t helping much that despite his allegedly rough night he still looked unfairly gorgeous. No washed-out skin or dark, saggy bags under the eyes for him. He hadn’t had to slather on the concealer or paper over the cracks.
‘Did you finish the wine?’ she asked as she walked through the door he held open and into the beautifully cool house.
‘I lost the taste for it.’
What a frivolous waste.
Heroically resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Orla started down the long flagstone-floored passageway that led to the kitchen and tried to ignore how near he was. The passageway was as wide as the Douro. There really was no need for his arm to keep brushing against hers. Every time it did, tiny shivers scampered through her body. She even felt them in her toes, for goodness’ sake.
‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked, aiming for politeness and trying not to let her frustration show.
‘I thought I could lend a hand.’
With what? What did he think he was going to do? Make up a bed? Did he even know how to? Judging by the mess she’d found at his house, assuming it had been caused by him, it didn’t seem likely.
‘I have everything under control,’ she said, deciding that on balance it was probably better not to be thinking about beds, hands or, in fact, any other body part of his. ‘I’m meeting the housekeeping team here in,’ she glanced at her watch, ‘half an hour.’
‘Local?’