TamingTara

Chapter One

Tara slid the wrist loop of the flogger over her hand and rolled the top ball of the handle in her palm, fingers loose. Biting her lip, she swung the tails in a smooth figure eight, alternating dragging them over the skin of Adam’s bare buttocks, changing to a circle, then snapping her wrist and giving him a stinging slap. This was a little different than practicing on a pillow. Restrained, helpless—he was at her mercy. Her teeth sank deeper into her bottom lip. Was she doing it right?

She’d been practicing. She flicked her wrist carefully, giving just the right amount of force to the stroke.

He cried out.

She did it again. And again.

The glass block wall behind the two men glimmered with reflected light from the candles arranged in a row on the floor. Dim lighting and black carpet kept the mood in the small play room dark, mysterious, edgy…

She turned to the man beside Adam on the spanking bench and laid another fall across bare flesh. She watched the warm flush creeping from rounded buttocks down to his thighs. Yes. His thighs. She flicked the flogger tails there too. She had to remember to vary the places she struck. Too many in one place could be bad.

“Oh please,” he begged. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” she demanded. Her hand started to heat from holding the flogger. She’d have a blister there tomorrow to remind her of her first night at Le Château. Her shoulders ached too. She rolled them, trying to not miss a beat with the flogger, then widened her stance in the above-the-knee leather boots she wore. She felt powerful. In control.

Scared.

The power she held in her hands at that moment—to inflict pain, to control, to dominate—had fear sizzling through her blood, knotting her stomach.

That wasn’t right. She wasn’t supposed to be afraid. She was supposed to love it. She wanted to be in control.

But as she swung the flogger again, she knew she held back.

The next morning, Tara sat in her grandfather’s office, staring at him across his desk. She rubbed her forehead, trying to push away the tightness between her brows with her fingertips. Her shoulders ached and she hadn’t slept well last night and now… “You did what?”

“I hired another manager.”

She stared at him, still unsure if she’d heard correctly. “Why? Who? Why would you do something like that?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You can’t run this company by yourself.”

Outrage rose up inside her, fierce and hot. “Grandpa! I am perfectly capable of running this business.”

He frowned at her. Tension hummed around them. They’d had this conversation so many times. He didn’t think a woman could run the family business, which was probably why he was still so involved, reluctant to step aside and let her take over. She was doing a good job; if only he could see that, dammit. Instead he just kept interfering in her decisions and refusing to acknowledge she really did know what she was doing. And now—now he’d hired an outsider, a total stranger, to do her job, to make decisions she should be making. Perspiration dampened her silk blouse and that unpleasant burning feeling in her stomach returned. “Who is this guy?”

“The grandson of an old friend of mine. He happens to be looking for a job right now.”

“What does he know about the olive business?”

“He has an MBA in operations and supply-chain management.”

She pressed her lips together. “Which means he knows nothing.” An MBA. Huh. A fancy degree meant zilch to her. “Where did he work before?”

“His last job was with a pharmaceutical manufacturer in San Francisco. I’m sure he’ll be able to learn everything he needs to know quickly. Apparently he was quite a star. He’s a smart boy.”

“Boy? A boy? How old is he?”

“Thirty.” Grandpa eyed her. “Two years older than you.”

So she couldn’t play the age card. Fine. Her heart sledgehammered under her ribs and blood pulsed hotly in her veins. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair in which she sat, the blister on her right hand stinging. She ignored it.

She studied her grandfather, sitting behind the big mahogany desk in his office. The afternoon sun shining through the window behind him lit up his white hair, a contrast to skin browned from the sun. Sharp, sparkling topaz eyes, just like hers, regarded her from beneath thick white brows. She leaned forward.

“You don’t need to hire someone else! I can do it, Grandpa, you know I can.”

So she didn’t have a hot-shot business degree. An MBA in operations and supply-chain management. Pffft. What she did have was a love for the business in her blood and a vision not just for their company but for the entire industry.

But everything she tried to do, Grandpa disagreed with. The job she loved with all her heart had become complicated and exasperating. She’d grown tired of trying to do end runs around him, only to have him discover what she was up to and then give her hell. The constant battles and efforts to stay strong and in control were exhausting her.

She’d always known she would work for Santa Ynez Olives, but after her parents’ deaths she’d also known she would be the one to manage it. Grandpa wasn’t going to live forever. But although he’d let her work there, and although she’d pushed, shoved and elbowed her way into management, he’d never supported her taking over entirely.

“We need his business expertise,” Grandpa said.

The insult was like a slap in the face and she almost flinched. Once again, he was telling her how little he thought of her professional abilities. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked rapidly, determined not to show how hurt and afraid she was. She had to be tough and strong to show him she could do it. Any sign of feminine weakness would just prove him right, in his mind.

But she also knew there was no point in arguing. When Grandpa made up his mind about something, it was a done deal. She’d spent half her life arguing with him over everything from how she should dress and what boyfriends she should date to this important decision.

She stood and smoothed down the skirt of her suit with trembling hands. “When does he start?”

“He’s coming in this afternoon, but he’ll start officially Monday.”

She stiffened. Monday!

“I expect you to show him around, bring him up to speed on what he needs to know about the business.”

“I will not!”

“Tara.”

She fought to stop herself from yelling. “I don’t have time for that,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m busy. Busy running this company. If you want him here, you bring him up to speed.”

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her and shook his head slowly from side to side. She tightened her trembling lips, heart thudding in her chest. She always succeeded in pissing him off. Shit. She had no choice in this if she wanted to stay involved. And anyway, it was probably better if she had control over what information this guy got about Santa Ynez Olives.

“Fine,” she said through a tight jaw. “I’ll do it.”

“I expect the two of you to work together. I’ll bring him down to your office when he gets here.”

Teeth clenched, eyes burning, she nodded tightly, then turned on one sensible heel and walked out of his office, resisting the urge to slam the door behind her.

She stalked back to her own office down the hall and this time let the door fly with more force than was necessary. She sank into her leather chair behind her own desk, light maple and much more modern than her grandfather’s, her mind whirling like a dust devil.

What the hell was she going to do? She blinked at the prickle in her eyes, angry at herself for the weakness of tears.

“Smarten up,” she muttered to herself. “You need to think.”

She slumped in her chair, her head falling back, eyes closed. Her heart was still thumping crazily, her stomach tight. This was so bad. Everything she’d worked so hard for over the last seven years—longer than that, really, even before she’d come to work there full-time—was all for nothing. When her parents had died, her world had been ripped apart, the one constant Santa Ynez Olives and the knowledge that her parents were going to run the company one day. And with them gone, she had to do it.

She sat up straight, eyes flying open, and slammed her palms flat on her desk. Damn him. Damn him. Whoever this Mr. Hot Shot MBA was, he wouldn’t have a clue. Nobody—well, nobody other than Grandpa—knew this business like she did. This was more than a business. This was her life.

She stood and strode over to the credenza, poured a cup of coffee from the thermos sitting there and inhaled the scent of Karma Coffee. The steam and rich, dark aroma soothed her, although she probably didn’t need any more caffeine. Her nerves were pretty much shredded already.

The way the knock on her door jolted her was proof of that, and her mouth went dry. She set down the cup and smoothed damp palms down her skirt, looking down at the bland black suit she wore. She wasn’t a professional shopper like her sister Sasha. Santa Barbara was a casual city, and since the business was a family-run, earthy kind of business, there was no need to dress up. Grandpa, although he’d become a businessman, was an olive farmer at heart and was more likely to be wearing worn corduroy pants and a plaid shirt than a suit and tie.

She turned as her grandfather entered her office followed by another man whose commanding presence drew her eyes immediately. Grandpa had probably been over six feet tall in his youth, maybe now an inch or two less, but the man behind him was a good four inches taller than him. Maybe Grandpa’s slightly stooped shoulders and thinning white hair made the other man appear all virile, dominant male. Or maybe he just…was. An expensive-looking suit fit his wide shoulders to perfection, with a snowy white shirt and silky striped tie beneath the jacket.

Tara cast one last glum look down at her frumpy suit and strode across the carpeted floor, hand outstretched, hoping she appeared confident and in control on the outside because inside she was shivering like a kid at the beach in December.

“Tara, this is Joe Scaletta. Joe, my granddaughter, Tara Lockhart.”

Joe Scaletta took her hand in a firm grip, a very firm grip, and shook it.

She looked up at him. She too was tall, five seven, with her heels maybe five nine, putting her on an even level with Grandpa and most other men, but Joe was taller. His almost-black hair fell over a deeply tanned forehead. Long thick lashes and nicely straight eyebrows framed coffee-dark eyes. When his full, chiseled lips smiled, two grooves appeared in each cheek. Masculine, annoyingly appealing dimples.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said in a deep, rich voice. Confidence and strength radiated off him like heat and she felt pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze, the aura of power he gave off and the hint of arrogance. She held his gaze, but then couldn’t do it, dropping her eyes to where their hands were clasped, only for the space of one, maybe two heartbeats, before looking back up at him. His eyes narrowed minutely and her insides trembled.

“Um…” Heat washed over her. Then she remembered who this guy was and she firmed her mouth. “Likewise. Come in. Please, have a seat.”

Grandpa had drilled good manners into them at an early age, with all the parties he’d hosted over the years at his home and at the country club and all the charity events and social functions they’d been forced to attend. So she could be as polite as a Santa Barbara society hostess. A chilly society hostess.

Grandpa and Joe each took a chair. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” she inquired.

“I’d love some,” Joe said. “It smells incredible.”

“It’s Guatemalan.” She moved to the credenza. God. Why had she said such an inane thing? Like he’d care. “What do you take in your coffee?”

“Just black.”

She nodded in reluctant approval.

“None for me, thanks,” her grandfather said. “That coffee you drink could strip paint.”

She smiled stiffly at Joe. “Grandpa doesn’t share my taste in coffee. I hope it’s okay for you.”

“I love good coffee,” he replied easily, flashing those dimples. He lifted his cup. “And this is really good.”

He was sucking up. Mr. Hot-shot-MBA-suck-up. Go for it, buddy. See if it helped.

“Tara will tell you a bit about the company today,” Tyrone said. “Monday she’ll show you the store and the ranch.”

“I’m too busy to go to the ranch on Monday,” Tara snapped.

Joe sat back in his chair. Her icy eyes were shooting arrows at him and her voice could have frozen the cup of coffee he held. He’d become so attuned to people’s responses, so used to looking for it, he knew what he’d seen earlier when she greeted him, but now… Interesting.

“Move things around.” Tyrone’s voice hardened. “I expect you to bring Joe up to speed with everything he needs to know.”

She snorted. “In one day?”

Tyrone sighed. “Of course not.” He shot Tara a warning glare.

She pressed her lips together, then lifted her coffee mug to her mouth.

Joe’s gaze moved back and forth between Tyrone and his granddaughter as he worked to keep his face neutral in the face of their obvious discord. A rock materialized in his gut. What had he walked into here?

He sipped his coffee and studied the granddaughter.

Thick honey-colored hair hung in shiny waves to her shoulders and long bangs skimmed eyes amazingly like Tyrone’s—amber-gold, like a cat’s, now snapping with intelligence, annoyance and defiance. Her nose was small and straight above a mouth that he could picture softening…Whoa. He mentally gave his head a shake. Don’t go there, buddy. This was business, just business, and although he’d glimpsed something in her that struck a chord, she was not even close to his type.

Jesus, get a grip, man. Since he was lucky to have this job, he’d better keep his mind firmly on business. He focused on what she was saying.

“I have three meetings Monday morning,” she said in a crisp, business-like tone. “First with the manager of our retail store, then with two web page designers, one at ten o’clock, one at eleven. I sent out an RFP for updating our website and I’ve been meeting with some of the top contenders.”

He nodded.

“I’ll see if I can move my afternoon meetings so we can drive out to the ranch.” She flashed a searing look at Tyrone.

“Sounds good.” Joe smiled at her grudging offer. She didn’t smile back. Great. Just great. The tension in the office was as thick as San Francisco fog and there was nothing good about that.

Tyrone rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you two to get on with it.” His amber eyes were sharp as they slid to look at Joe. “Come see me Monday, when you get back from the ranch.”

“Sure.”

Tyrone walked out, leaving them alone in the office. Joe shifted his gaze back to the woman across the desk from him.

God. That mouth. It conjured up images of—Jesus, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from thinking about her in ways that were completely inappropriate, like her on her knees, his cock sliding between those lush lips. Right now, though, her arms were folded across her buttoned-up chest and her glossy, full lips were pressed together in a way that suggested a hot temper. A temper that belied the intriguing flicker he’d seen in her eyes when they’d shaken hands.

“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.”

“You’ve already won awards for your oil.”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled. “Last year at the Los Angeles County Fair Olive Oils of the World Competition we won a gold medal with our Santa Ynez Estate oil and a silver for our Mission Lemon oil. After a lot of work on my part. Grandpa thought I was crazy, trying new varietals, new ways of pressing the oil. But it paid off.”

“I understand that’s a pretty prestigious competition.”

She nodded. “And our sights are set higher this year.” Pride heated her voice, and damn it if it didn’t turn him on. They were talking about olives, for chrissake, and he was getting a freakin’ hard-on here. Jesus.

Her cheeks flushed and she leaned forward. “I want to do more. I want to produce olives for eating that are more than just tasteless canned black olives. In Europe, they match olives with herbs like rosemary and thyme, and lemons. We’ve started doing that too, and some of our things are selling fantastically. We’ve partnered with a family down south who produces lemons to make our lemon olive oil.

“Twenty, thirty years ago, around the time I was born, my parents both worked here,” she continued, her voice steady. “My grandfather, as you probably know, is my dad’s dad. My father was supposed to take over the business.”

He knew her parents were both dead. Thought about making some kind of sympathetic remark. But Tara kept going.

“He had a vision too, but back then nobody was interested in olive oil. A few Italian restaurants, sure, but that was about it. Now it’s taken off so much. But it’s a tough business.” She grimaced. “A bad year can ruin a whole crop and sink you. Also the food service industry is tough. Supermarket distribution is brutal. Price matters more than taste. On the other hand, we supply to some really good quality restaurants. People come to our retail store—foodies who love good food—but we need to expand our sales. And our products. The world has changed.”

Talking about her work transformed her. The icy witch with sparks of temper in her eyes metamorphosed into a glowing, passionate woman. Her fire and zest were contagious. He felt it and, Christ, it felt good.

He’d come there for one reason only—he needed a job. He didn’t care what it was, as long as they paid him. Olive manufacturing had sounded lame to him, so he had no intention of getting all invested in the business. This was just a short-term strategy for him.

But for a guy whose emotions had been kicked around and stomped on for the last year, it actually felt great to be excited about something.

“Only a few producers bottle the olive oil they grow themselves,” she told him. “We’re one of them. We mill and bottle only our own olives.”

“How do you plan to expand?” His interest sparked higher. “Just through the internet?” That didn’t seem likely to give the kind of growth she wanted.

She shook her head vigorously. “No. I want to expand production. We have ten thousand olive trees right now, but I think we can increase production using some new methods. High density planting and mechanical harvesting. I think that’s going to be the key to our expansion. And if we can sell on the internet and do some work with the supermarket distributors…God! We can do incredible things.”

Her love for the business was obvious. Her knowledge impressed him, not just of her own company but of the entire industry. But a little voice of caution in the back of his head raised all kinds of questions.

This wasn’t the time. Later he’d get answers to his questions. Right now, everything she was telling him fascinated him, and the potential for the business seemed huge. What little he knew about the olive and food business was enough to tell him her instincts were good, her vision inspiring.

She looked at her watch. “Well. You probably want to get going. Grandpa said you’re from San Francisco. Do you have a place to stay here?”

“Yeah, with an old college buddy.”

“That’s good.”

Joe nodded. “It’s been great catching up with him. He’s letting me stay with him until I find a place of my own.”

“You’ll want to wait until you decide if you’re going to stay here in Santa Barbara before you find a place of your own.”

He met her gaze steadily. “Why wouldn’t I want to stay here?”

She held his gaze equally resolutely—for about two seconds. And then her eyes dropped. A rush of pleasure heated his blood. “This is a new business for you. You may decide you don’t like it. You may find it’s not a good fit.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She lifted a brow.

Her challenge hit him like a punch to his gut. He liked a challenge. Business challenges. Strength challenges. Domination and submission challenges.

“Let’s just put our cards on the table,” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t want me here, do you?”

Their eyes met levelly, head on.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”