Chapter 2

The air in the private cellar was thick, not just with the heavy, tannic scent of aged Bordeaux and the dusty aroma of oak barrels, but with the electric, suffocating tension between us. We had slipped away from the main salon, that crowded, laughing hub of socialites and vintners swirling their glasses, into a secluded alcove near the wine presses. It was quieter here, the hum of the event fading into a dull roar behind the thick stone walls, leaving only the sound of our breathing and the rustle of silk. I had already kicked off my heels. The pinch of the stilettos had been a constant, dull ache in my arches for the last three hours, but I hadn’t dared to remove them while standing among the crowd. Now, alone in the dim light, I let them drop to the stone floor with a soft thud, my bare feet sinking into the cool, uneven surface. I smoothed down the front of my emerald green dress, the fabric clinging to my hips like a second skin, and looked up at him. He was watching me. Not with the polite, assessing glance of a gentleman at a gala, but with a