Crazy about her Spanish Boss. Rebecca Winters
“On this one it doesn’t show.”
No. The Senor was a breed apart from everyone else.
“See you later, Remi.” He made a slight bow to her and walked toward the main house.
“If you’ll get in the truck, I’ll take you around the property so you can see if this is what you’d visualized. We won’t do anything on foot because it’s too hot.”
“Would you still say that if I hadn’t just had an operation?”
“No.”
Well, that answer was direct enough.
“I have no desire to be forced to send for another helicopter because this time I allowed you to suffer heat exhaustion.”
Her flushed cheeks darkened in color. “You weren’t responsible for what happened to me.”
“I’m responsible now,” came the obdurate response, bringing out the dark side in his nature. “Shall we go?”
He opened the door and helped her inside. She wasn’t able to prevent the hem of her dress riding up her thigh. The attempt to pull it down came too late. His dark eyes didn’t miss anything before she moved her sandaled foot inside so he could shut the door.
Remi climbed in the other side. When he started the motor, the air conditioner came on, much to her relief. He drove them behind the main house to the area where she could see a large number of outbuildings. The complex was more like a living museum and much bigger than she’d imagined.
“This is a part of the estate we don’t use anymore. You’re looking at the spot where Soleado Goyo had its earliest beginnings.”
“What does Soleado mean exactly?”
“Sunny, like your hair.”
The personal comment confused her. Sometimes at his most distant, he inserted some remark that quickened her pulse. Jillian forced herself to concentrate as he pointed out the old mill house and the primitive olive press house with its orange-tiled roof and tower. With the huge shade trees, she found the whole scene had an old world charm all its own, like a painting. She drew out her camera and began snapping pictures.
A little farther on beneath the trees they came upon a well and, beyond it, a barn. He drove the truck to the opening, where she could see one of those gorgeous black carriages from the past she’d envisioned being drawn around the courtyard. Near the entrance she noticed half a dozen huge antique storage jars once used to hold the precious oil.
“The moving and lifting in those days must have been backbreaking work,” she cried.
“It still is,” he muttered. “The only difference is that the oil processing and packaging is done in air-conditioned buildings. It might interest you to know that many of the homes in the region didn’t have ovens because of the heat. Fried foods ruled the day, making olive oil a necessity.”
She couldn’t learn enough. Everything he told her would be fascinating to tour groups.
They drove through several miles of neat rows of olive trees, providing her an unforgettable sight. “The harvest won’t take place until December,” he said, reading her mind.
“Do you use machines for that?”
“We grow the cornicabra olives. They must be handpicked in order to make extra virgin oil.”
“Cornicabra?”
His lips curved. Once again he seemed amused by her inquisitive nature. “The olives are pointed like a goat’s horn.”
“There’s so much to learn. It would take a lifetime.”
“Sí, Senora,” he answered.
He sounded so far away just then, it struck her that this personal guided tour was the last thing he’d wanted to do with his busy day. Because of his misplaced sense of guilt over the car accident, he’d taken several days off from his work to see to her welfare and now he was playing tour guide.
While she sat there deep in thought, he drove on until they came to the newer buildings now in use to receive the olives and make the oil. Another one did the bottling, still another prepared the crates for shipping within the country and abroad. He had a huge concern to run.
It dawned on her that if there’d been no accident, she had a gut feeling she wouldn’t have gotten to even speak with him over the phone. Once she’d introduced herself as representing EuropaUltimate Tours and had explained her reason for wanting to talk to him, no doubt he would have been congenial, but he wouldn’t have had the time or the inclination to entertain the idea of tour buses stopping at his property.
This wasn’t a winery where the tourists could get off the bus and enter a wine cellar for a tasting party. Any visit guaranteed that the tourists would need a bathroom, a cold drink and respite from the heat. Without those amenities, she couldn’t possibly make this stop part of a day’s activity for the people in her charge.
Remi already knew that. It was the reason why he’d told her they couldn’t discuss business until after she’d seen the estate. He wasn’t set up to accommodate tour groups, but instead of giving her a flat-out no, he’d allowed her to figure it out for herself.
Her host always managed to do everything right, but she felt the fool. If her company hadn’t included an olive grove on their tour itineraries long before now, she should have known there was a practical reason why. Leave it to her to get so caught up in the excitement, she couldn’t see beyond the end of her nose.
Maybe her accident had impaired her thinking along with her vision. Intruding on his time had already inconvenienced the Senor, though he’d never admit it.
She shifted in her seat, glad the truck tour was over. Besides everything else, being confined in the cab with Remi made her cognizant of everything masculine about him. Jillian needed to be gone from Soleado Goyo as soon as possible. Hopefully he’d meant it when he’d said one of his staff would be glad to drive her back to Madrid. She couldn’t take being alone with this incredible man any longer.
She felt his dark gaze slant her way. “Had enough?”
That was no idle question. He couldn’t wait for this experience to be over with so he could get on with his normal life. Jillian lowered her head, wondering what he’d do if she told him she could never have enough of him. Instead she said, “I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, but I confess I’m ready to go back.”
“I thought so.”
She thought she heard relief in his tone before he circled around and headed home, nodding to several workers walking to their cars. Not much longer now and he’d be a free man. He was probably counting the minutes until he didn’t have to feel responsible for her. If he hadn’t talked to David, none of this would be happening.
As she sat there staring blindly out the passenger window, she could feel a strange tension building between them. To save him the necessity of having to spell things out for her, she decided to jump in and get it over with.
“I want to thank you for showing me around the estate. It’s an experience I wouldn’t have missed. The next time I’m back in my apartment in New York and have friends over for dinner, I’ll tell them about this incredible day while they enjoy chocolate mousse made from your cornicabra olive oil. Maria gave me the recipe. They won’t believe how good it is.”
“That won’t be happening for a while,” came his dampening response.
“True,” she said in a quiet tone. The doctor had warned her no flying for a whole month, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take a train to the charming town of Cáceres and stay there until the week was out. Anything to get away from the temptation… Tomorrow she would be on the first train that headed in that direction.
By the time they’d reached the courtyard, the sun had dropped much lower in the sky. They’d been gone longer than