“So,” she said in a tone that could freeze alcohol. “What is your background? What do you know about food manufacturing, wholesale and retail sales, marketing, ranching…?” Slender golden brows arched above cool eyes.
He gave her his most charming smile, the one that always worked.
Tara stared coldly back at him, waiting for his response. Christ, for someone who looked so sultry, she was as cold as the Pacific Ocean in winter. She needed to be warmed up. She need to be turned over his lap and spanked. That would warm her up. His palm tingled at the thought.
“I have a degree in operations and supply-chain management from Golden Gate University,” he said, focusing. He worked to keep his face carefully neutral as he prepared to talk about his former employer. “For the last five years I was with a pharmaceutical manufacturing company in San Francisco. The last year I was there, I worked in finance. Before that I was senior manager of quality and standards.”
They’d been doing cross-training to groom him for a more senior management position, but he wasn’t going to say that. That would just lead to questions about why he no longer worked there, which he wanted to avoid as much as he wanted to avoid an STD. “I also have some experience with sales and marketing and with business process reengineering. I have to admit, however, I know nothing about olive ranching.”
She nodded, her mouth in a tight twist. “I figured that.”
Anger began a slow simmer. His attempts to be warm and charming kept slamming into her wall of ice. Once again the urge to pick her up and turn her over his lap reared up inside him. His next words came out in a sharper-edged tone. “I’m sure the olive business is extremely complicated and highly technical. And what is your business background, Tara?”
Her eyes narrowed, mouth firmed. “My background is this business,” she stated. “And that’s all I need. Do you know anything about olives?”
“Well, I’ve never been involved in the olive business, but my family owns several Italian restaurants in San Francisco. Olive oil is a big part of our culture. And olives.”
She rolled her eyes and his annoyance rose. Christ, what a witch. A hot, sexy witch, but still…an intense urge to tame her spiked inside him.
“Domestic olives have traditionally been inferior to imported olives,” he said tersely, as if reciting something he’d memorized. Which he had. “Only recently has domestic olive oil been able to compete with imported—Italian, French, Spanish, Greek—although the olive business in California has been changing over the last few years.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve done some research.”
“I’d be a fool to take a job like this without knowing anything about the company.”
“So you know some of our history?”
“What’s on your website.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Our website is crap,” she muttered.
A grin broke through his annoyance. Their eyes met and her lips actually quirked.
“You should do something about that,” he said, hoping she would know he was teasing.
“Ya think?” She appeared to soften microscopically. She sighed again. “That’s what my meetings Monday are about. Not just designing the website—my goal is to expand our retail business to the web. Not only the store,” she jerked her head, indicating the retail enterprise below them, “but e-commerce that could service the entire country.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”
“Of course it makes sense!” Passion warmed her voice, sparking interest inside him. “We have so many tourists here in Santa Barbara. You wouldn’t believe the people who call us or contact us through the website, wanting to order olives, oil, specialty products…”
“So what’s the problem with that? You sound like you expect me to argue with you.”
Her mouth pinched together again. In that brief moment of passion, she’d been gorgeous—eyes glowing, mouth soft. “My grandfather doesn’t agree with that plan. He’s quite suspicious of the internet.”
Joe laughed. “Really? It’s been around awhile now. Even my grandmother has e-mail.”
Her lips twisted a bit. “I know. I don’t know why he’s like that.” She shook her head. “But I’m going forward with it anyway.”
“Whose final decision is it? Tyrone gave me to understand he’s pretty involved in all decision-making around here.”
Tara sighed again and he felt a tug of sympathy at the frustration in her face. “Yes. He still has final authority on most things. But sometimes I just go around him. Like, he thinks I’m just updating the website right now. He doesn’t know I’m actually going to start selling product online.”
As soon as she’d said the words, he saw she regretted letting that little piece of info slip to him.
Christ. He ran a hand through his hair. What was he supposed to do with stuff like that? Run to Tyrone? Or go along with her and risk his job if Tyrone found out? His gut sank like a stone in water.
Tara eyed him warily. The silence grew, thick and sticky.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him,” Joe finally said, not sure if he was totally fucking up or making a smart move here. He could have added the words, “for now”, but that sounded too much like holding something over her head, and right now he just wanted to establish some kind of working relationship with her.
She shrugged, although concern still tightened the corners of her eyes. “He keeps catching me up and then he gets so pissed off at me.”
He was getting a sense of what was going on at the Santa Ynez Olive Company. Two very strong personalities going head to head. Fuck. Joe had always liked a challenge, but how much was he going to be caught in the middle of these two? That old “rock and a hard place” thing was becoming an uncomfortable reality for him.
“Tell me about the company,” he said, reclining in his chair and hoping a change of topic would soften her up.
“Well.” Tara rested her elbows on her desk and leaned forward. “My great-great-grandfather founded the company in 1855. He started off growing olives on a small ranch near Santa Ynez. We’ve grown quite a bit since then.”
“You certainly have.”
“Most of the olives were grown for canning.” She made a face. “Canned black olives.”
“You don’t look too impressed.”
“After I graduated from high school, I spent a year in Europe. I wanted to learn the olive business from a European perspective. They’ve been doing it a lot longer than we have. The culture of olives is completely different there.”
A year in Europe. Wow. “Where did you go?”
“France and Italy. I made quick trips to Spain and Greece, but most of the time—Provence. Tuscany.” She sighed and her eyes grew a little dreamy. He sat there, fascinated by her wistful expression. “It’s amazing. I learned so much there. I learned what I want this business to be.”
“What do you want the business to be?” He had to ask, couldn’t resist knowing what was behind the passion.
Her topaz eyes sparkled. “In Europe, olive oil is like wine. Olives are more than just a crop, they’re revered. People live off them. Here, they’re just a crop. Well, until recently, anyway. That’s what I’m fighting against. My grandfather grew the business on canned black olives and to him it’s a crop, nothing more.”
She paused, pursed her lips. Her luscious, lickable lips. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s very knowledgeable about olive cultivation. Without him, we’d be nothing. But I think Americans need to be educated about olive oil, about the different tastes, different types of oils. And now that people are starting to recognize the health benefits of olive oil and the Mediterranean diet, it’s really starting to take off.”
Her eyes met his, a flame glowing in their amber depths. “I want to grow the best olives,” she said. “I want to grow the best varietals we can grow here in California. I don’t want to just imitate Italy or France, I want to produce a world-class California olive oil.”