Ms. Money Bags

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Whomp!

Presley landed on a solid warmth that cradled her body perfectly.

No. Not landed. Not exactly.

“Whoa, there,” a man’s voice sounded in her ear.

Muscled arms were wrapped under her back and knees. They pulled her against what felt like a man’s chest. His clothing was heavy and rough, and Presley smelled freshly cut wood and dark spices emanating from him. Her eyes still filled with irritated tears, she blinked madly, but could see nothing. Feet kicking wildly in dissent she pushed away from the unknown person who was holding her.

“Let me go,” she commanded.

But the stranger did not obey. He held her like a she was a bride and he was carrying her over the landing on their wedding night. She imagined that this dirty, sweaty, landscape laborer was getting muddy handprints all over her clothes. Not to mention plotting on copping a feel as he did. She pushed harder on his chest, but his arms held her in a vice grip.

“Hang on a second,” the voice growled.

Presley was no longer falling, but she was still mid-air and being manhandled by God knew who. Her rescuer/kidnapper was moving far too slowly. She felt his breath on the side of her face and heard the scuffing of his feet.

“Put me down,” she insisted. Louder this time. She was prepared to scream b****y murder if this Neanderthal didn’t release her at once.

“Gladly,” the voice said, and she felt her body lower until her bottom rested on a hard surface. The arms disappeared and Presley kicked in the direction she thought they had moved, hoping to keep them away.

“What do you think you were doing?” She spat the question in the general direction where she could hear sounds of someone catching their breath. He had placed her on some kind of patio furniture from the feel of it. Presley rubbed the tears out of her eyes with a scowl.

“Um…catching you?” he responded.

Though his voice was masculine and not entirely unpleasant, she assumed he was uneducated. Blue collar. Obviously slow witted. Presley blinked up at him, he was only a blurry blob of blue and brown hovering over her. Her eyes were still watery and had barely adjusted to the sunlight.

“Who are you?” she demanded to know.

There was a moment’s hesitation before he answered with, “You’re welcome.”

She huffed air out of her lungs. Honestly. The nerve of some people. A thought occurred to her and she began to madly feel around the patio chair and the tiles at her feet.

“What’s the matter?” the smart aleck asked.

“My purse,” she snapped. Presley watched the blob of blue and brown move away.

“It fell into the shrubs. I’ll get it,” he called out to her from what must be the edge of the patio.

Presley didn’t respond. Her eyes were finally adjusting to the light and she took a few moments to inspect her shoes for scuffing and her clothes for muddy handprints.

“Here you go,” the man was back. His jeans and clunky brown work boots moved into her peripheral vision as he shoved her clutch under her nose.

She snatched it away from him and looked up, ready to give him a piece of her mind. But at the sight of him, words failed her.

His jeans and work boots were labor ready, for sure, but dirty and sweaty he was not. He was tall and lean like a swimmer, but with more hair. Much more hair. In fact, he had a tumble of thick, dark, curly hair that almost reached his shoulders and a short, semi-unkempt beard. Topping his jeans was a denim shirt, no tie, and a dark brown corduroy sport jacket.

Denim on denim, Presley wasn’t sure she approved.

Yet, somehow, on him it worked. In many ways he was quite handsome and his overall demeanor was not one of a random field worker, so her defenses lowered. He must work for the winery. Winery guys always had that earthy, tousled look about them. Almost like an architect, but not quite as put together.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His expression did hold concern, but with an equal amount of amusement.

“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Presley said as she stood, waving away his hand when he reached out to offer assistance.

“No, it’s not funny. You could have cracked your head open.” He gestured with a quick jerk of his head toward the edge of the patio where an iron gate hung open over steep stone steps. She must have grabbed the gate thinking it was a solid handrail.

“Hmmph,” Presley half snorted at the shoddiness of the patio’s build then shot a grudging look at her rescuer.

He was eyeing her with curiosity. “You’re Presley Monroe, aren’t you? Mr. Money Bag’s daughter?”

The sheer audacity of his questions insulted her senses. Who was this ridiculous person who she had unfortunately allowed to catch her when she fell? She leveled a cold stare at him.

He smirked. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“Hobie,” he said as he touched his chest, obviously expecting her to recognize his name. He tried again. “Hobie Brent?”

Presley watched with disdain as he tapped his chest again. Did he not realize he was acting like Tarzan? She furrowed her brow and gave him a shake of her head. She didn’t know him and, more than that, she didn’t want to know him.

He sighed then continued, his original hope defeated. “Hobart Brent. Barcom.”

“Barcom?” Presley’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She knew that name. Her father’s old partner from the early days of Mack Extras stores had gone on to start Barcom Incorporated. Her father had named Barcom Incorporated as the company he wanted to do a joint venture with involving this whole winery, eco-tourism plan that had been so loosely thrown together. She looked more closely at her rescuer’s face.

“We went to school together?” he added.

A vague recollection of a tall, skinny boy who hung out with the band kids came to her. He was the younger brother of Danny Brent. Danny, she remembered. Danny was the dreamy rowing team and basketball star who was two years ahead of her in high school. She definitely remembered him.

Presley peered more closely at the man in front of her. Tall, lean, dark and handsome. She supposed he could be Danny Brent’s little brother. All grown up. “Hobie…” she said slowly, trying to remember. “You moved or something before we graduated?”

A shadow fell over his face and he nodded. Then, changing the subject, “I’m here to meet with you, actually. And Count Bolsena.”

She lifted one eyebrow. He was a little late to the meeting, not a good sign. Then she remembered–the meeting! She had lost track of time.

“It’s already started, I need to get back,” she said as she turned to the door almost forgetting to add, “I’ll show you the way.”

“Um,” he faltered.

She snapped her head back to look at him impatiently. “What?”

“Do you need to freshen up or anything after your accident?”

She scoffed at him. “No, I’m fine. And it wasn’t an accident. I just slipped.”

Still Hobie hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I think I know when I need to freshen up or not,” she said stiffly. Turning her back on him she finished, “If you want to come with me that’s fine. I don’t care. But I’m returning to my meeting.”

She refused to look back at him, but could hear the shrug in his tone as he said, “Okay, whatever you say.” He followed her back inside.

The meeting commenced and Presley took over with the utmost efficiency. She was motivated by the addition of Hobie to their meeting and felt compelled to take over and whip everyone into shape. Feeling exposed after the accident–or tiny slip–that had ended with her falling literally into Hobie’s arms, Presley strove to appear as in control and competent as she knew she was. After all, it was Mack Industries who was being asked to put up the bulk of the financing for this misadventure. She wasn’t about to stand down if she wasn’t sure that it was in the best interest of her family and the shareholders.

Hobie’s presence at the table was annoying. His rumpled appearance, casual posture, and easy manner in how he treated the Count, the other executives at the meeting, and even the wait staff was too base for her taste. The man was too unkempt to be in charge of anything, let alone Barcom. She certainly didn't want his influence over this project. In fact, Presley wasn't sure she wanted this project at all. As they drove deeper into the numbers, permits required, marketing plans, and cost versus revenue it became clear to her that this was not a sure thing. What had her father been thinking?

To make matters worse, Jaxson was acting strange. Ever since she returned to the meeting with Hobie on her heels he kept giving her tiny lifts of his eyebrows while she was speaking, or softly clearing his throat and tapping his temple when there was a pause in the discussion. Since he would have gestured to her cell phone in his lap if her father was calling, she ignored these other meaningless signals. She was on a roll and she was not going to pause for anything unless her father called. When she glared at him to stop he didn’t return to note taking, but instead glanced nervously around at the Count and the others, including Hobie.

During moments when she was not speaking, which were few and far between, Presley found her eyes drawn to Hobie and his relaxed man posture. He looked like he was ordering a beer at a country music bar, not sipping some of the most expensive wine in Italy while making a multimillion-dollar deal. Once again she was struck by his good looks, despite his course, down home demeanor. She wondered if that was why Jaxson kept looking at him, though Jackson didn't normally allow attractive men to distract him from the task at hand when he was working.

“What are your thoughts, Drew?” Presley asked her European division president after a long, drawn-out response she had just given to the Count’s admission that much of the marketing would be focused on a demographic of people who made less than $100,000 per year. These were not, in her opinion, the kind of people who could spend the kind of money necessary to make the whole thing viable. Presley didn't see how any of this was going to pan out and she expected Drew felt the same. Drew’s brows knit together as he studied the numbers on the report in front of him with concern.

“I think there are some real questions about the profitability,” Drew responded, though he did not look at her.

Vindicated by Drew’s agreement, she shook her head, feigning disappointment as she watched the Count’s face fall. She opened her mouth to say that they would put all of this on the back burner for now and wait for some projections that promised more of a return for their money.

“But it's not about profitability,” Hobie interjected, stopping her from speaking. He hadn’t said anything since he complimented the prosciutto and cheese. All eyes turned from Presley to him. “The meaning behind all of this is to open up this beautiful area to more people. To bring joy. To do it in a way that is sustainable and actually keeps the culture and the natural beauty of the area in tact. To ensure that all of this,” he opened his arms and gestured to the ancient, cool wine cellar. “Stays the way it is and is accessible to everyone.” He paused again and looked directly at Presley before continuing, “And to remove some of the elitism that surrounds this industry.”

Heat rose in Presley's chest. She feared it was going to enter her cheeks and look like a blush, which it was not. It was fury. She glared at him and opened her mouth to respond when Jaxson’s gaze jerked down to her phone in his lap. The movement caught her attention and Jaxson looked at her with meaning. Her father was calling.

Self-editing what she was about to say, Presley replied instead, “That is something we will have to look at. If you will excuse me, I need to take this call.” She stood and all of the men followed suit. She was not so charmed this time. Presley snatched her cell phone from Jaxson, answering it as she headed to the restroom for privacy.

“Hi Pumpkin,” her father's deep voice resonated confidence.

“Dad, what took you so long to call me?”

“Oh, we've had some dealings with your brother. I couldn't get away.”

Presley's stomach dropped. “Pete? What happened?”

“Nothing for you to worry about right now. He’s fine and everything is calm. How's the meeting?”

Presley pushed open the restroom door and stepped in, glancing around to make sure she was alone.

“Dad I don't know what you want me to do with this. It's a mess. I mean it's beautiful here and everything, but as far as the numbers go even Drew thinks this is not a money-making proposal. I think it would be a waste of time and resources.”

“Look, honey, that’s all well and good, but I want this. I don’t care if it loses money.” The heat that already sat in her chest like a knot, swelled and blocked her throat so she couldn’t respond. He was undermining her decision, which always made her feel like she was ten years old. “It’s important to an old friend of mine and it’s important to me. I want you to make sure it happens.”

He was not giving her any wiggle room. Presley looked distractedly around, hoping for a response that would convince him to change his mind. Her eyes fell on her reflection in the full-length mirror and she gasped in dismay.

The makeup around her eyes had smeared when she’d been blinded by the bright sunshine and teared up outside, leaving huge black circles around her eyes. She looked like a raccoon. Ever since she had returned with Hobie from the patio she had looked like a raccoon. Mortified, she leaned against the wall and listened meekly to her father’s demands.

“I want you to do this for me, Pumpkin. I’m counting on you.”

“Okay, Dad,” was all Presley could say.