TamingTara

Chapter Six

Sasha dressed carefully for her tour of Santa Barbara Youth Action. As the newest member of the fundraising committee, she was getting a tour so she’d know what they were all about. But it was the director of the center, who’d be giving her the tour, she was really interested in.

God, Nick Findlay was hot. Like a slightly older, bigger Justin Timberlake. Short dark hair that she wanted to run her hands over. Lean, athletic body.

So she dressed in her best pink suit, silk blouse and diamond earrings. She studied her French manicure. Alita had done an impeccable job this week.

At the center, Nick greeted her with a reserved smile she found incredibly sexy and a firm handshake as she walked in. “Nice to see you again, Sasha.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest and she returned the smile. “Nice to see you too.”

“Come right this way.” He led her through a large area that looked like a big family room—couches and chairs arranged in groupings, books and magazines scattered over tables. A big pool table took up space on one side of the room and a table tennis game on the other. The noise and energy in the room bombarded her.

About fifty kids ranging in age from about seven to teens all appeared to be yelling or laughing or running around and she stopped dead, taken aback. “Whoa.”

He laughed. “Yeah, it’s crazy. When the kids are in school, it’s much quieter. This is where the kids hang out. There are lots of activities for them to do as you can see. We have more things outside—a basketball court, and a play structure for the younger kids.”

He gave her a tour of the entire building, even outside to see the playground and, lord, more kids outside played basketball on the court and climbed on the structure. There were more leaders out there too.

“This is a busy place,” Sasha commented.

“It’s summer,” Nick said easily. “Kids need somewhere to go during the day. During the school year, we’re only open from two o’clock to six o’clock. Kids just come after school.”

“Of course.”

It must take a lot of money to keep the place going. A lot of money and a lot of work. Memberships were very inexpensive and they let kids join without paying if their family couldn’t afford it. She assumed most of their money came from donations. Which was why she was there. To raise money.

The whole place was very impressive, actually.

Nick was impressive too. The last time she’d seen him at a meeting, he’d been wearing a businesslike suit and tie. Today he was dressed casually in cargo pants and T-shirt. He was relaxed around the kids, teasing and joking with them, even grabbing the basketball and joining in the game for a moment, showing off some fast, athletic moves. Wow.

“Our next meeting will be here, in the boardroom,” he told her as they finished the tour. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him. She wanted him. And what Sasha wanted, Sasha got. That was the way her world worked. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

He drew back. Not quite the reaction she was used to.

“Uh…thanks, but…I have plans.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him. “Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He took a couple of steps backward. “See you next week.” And he disappeared.

Huh. What was up with that? He couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She pouted. Weird. And disappointing.

Joe spent the entire next day with Tara as she reluctantly shared more information about the company with him.

“Pricing depends on a number of factors,” she told him. “We have to account for about thirty dollars per gallon for pressing, processing, bottling, labeling and corking the oil, and a marketing charge of about fourteen dollars per gallon. That makes about forty-four dollars per gallon for processing and marketing. Costs for the olives to produce the oil are in addition to that. At about five hundred dollars per ton, the cost of the olives will add another eight dollars per gallon, for total costs of about fifty, fifty-two dollars per gallon. Say, about fifteen dollars per liter.”

Joe lifted his brows. “So that fifty-dollar bottle I saw yesterday has a profit margin of thirty-five dollars per liter?”

“No.” She shook her head. “There are other costs too, but that oil was a premium, hand-pressed oil. I’m talking basic extra virgin olive oil. We sell that for not much more than fifteen dollars per liter.”

“Oh. Well. With costs at that level, you obviously have to charge a premium price to make a profit.”

“That’s right. A number of factors could work to reduce the high costs of processing and marketing, including economies associated with increased processing volumes and improved plant utilization, larger volume purchases of inputs, increased mechanization with larger scale operations and economies of scale in marketing operations.”

Now he was learning more about the business. This was stuff he could get into. He almost rubbed his hands together.

“In Spain,” Tara continued, “average yields per acre are less than half California’s, but Spain’s annual total olive production is more than fifty times larger than California’s.”

“Because they have more acreage.”

“That’s right. Plus, the European Union subsidizes olive oil production, about seventy cents a liter. If they reduce that, then we can become more competitive.”

“But you’re not waiting for that.”

“No.” Tara shook her head and he couldn’t help but notice how her silky honey hair slid over her shoulders. Today she was dressed in a white skirt and powder blue twin-set. She’d removed the cardigan, revealing nice shoulders and slim curvy arms. Diamond studs glittered in her earlobes, other than her gold watch, the only jewelry she wore.

“U.S. per capita consumption and imports of olive oil have more than doubled over the last decade, with a portion of the increase attributed to consumers’ diet and health concerns,” Tara told him. “We’ve developed a niche market for California produced, handcrafted olive oil, but the volumes are still small, and imported olive oil still accounts for over ninety-nine percent of U.S. consumption. Even with the overall growth in demand for olive oil and California’s small market share, the high costs of small-scale processing and marketing limit the amount of olive oil we can profitably process in California. If our entire olive crop were crushed for oil, it would be able to substitute for less than ten percent of recent imports.”

Christ, she was smart. That itself was a huge turn-on, never mind the sexy sparkle in her eyes. Heat curled inside him. “So which is it?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned as she looked back at him. His eyes moved over her smooth, golden skin, her cheeks lightly tinged peach, her eyes framed with thick lashes. Her full mouth gleamed, like yesterday, with a pale shiny peach gloss.

“I mean, which do you want to focus on? The niche market, producing small quantities of high-quality olive oil, or expanding your production using new planting methods like high density planting and producing larger quantities of oil.”

Her frown deepened. “I…I want to do both.”

He met her gaze. “You think you can do both? Really?”

She blinked at him. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Increasing production doesn’t necessarily mean giving up those high-quality oils, those niche markets.”

He kept looking at her.

“Does it?” Her mouth turned down and her eyes narrowed.

“Well, you just said you have high production costs here, compared to Spain and Italy. That limits how much you can produce. Why not focus on the specialty markets then? Do what you can do well.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe we have to limit ourselves to that. I think with new planting methods and mechanical harvesting, we can do both.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Show me. Show me how you can do both.”

“Well, I…I…just know it.”

He almost laughed. “Not good enough, Tara,” he said softly. “If you want me with you when you try to convince Tyrone that high density planting is worth the investment, and let’s face it, it’s going to cost up front, you’ve got to convince me first. I need facts and figures and cost-benefits analysis. You’ve got to prove to me you can do both.”

She stared at him and the hint of deference in her amber eyes and soft mouth sent lust slicing through him, making him hard. Oh man. This was bad.

Then her gaze hardened. “No.” Her brows drew together and she shook her head. “No! This is insane. I don’t have to prove anything to you. Who the hell do you think you are?”

He still just looked at her, using the power of his gaze. It always worked.

She jumped to her feet and stood there. He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head.

“I’m going to talk to Grandpa right now,” she muttered and stalked out of the office. He watched her go, her cheeks flushed a deeper hue of peach, her back stiff, long slender legs striding across the room.

Adrenaline sizzled through his veins. Holy fucking shit. She wasn’t going to give in without a major battle. He smiled. Anticipation tingled over every nerve ending. She had to be the most difficult woman to master he’d ever met. She was smart and strong and, Jesus Christ, she had him dangerously on the edge of losing control.

He could physically dominate her. He was bigger, stronger—he could restrain her and he could show her that. Too bad that wasn’t appropriate behavior for the office. No, here he had to rely on his wits—intellect, experience, instinct. He had to know her triggers…and he was definitely getting to.

But what if Tyrone didn’t back him on this? What if he’d just made a total fool of himself? Shit. If Tyrone didn’t support him on this, he was fucked. He’d have lost every inch of ground he’d gained with Tara. She’d never listen to him and he might as well just leave, because there was no way he’d have any influence on anything after this.

He waited, anxiety gnawing at his gut. He really didn’t want to lose this job so quickly. Strangely enough, the business interested him, and he was enjoying staying with Nick and getting reacquainted. He was also fascinated by Tara. He wanted to get under those businesslike exterior layers and find out how submissive she really was. He’d never been attracted to a woman like her—other than the fact she was blonde. He did like blondes, although his tastes ran to small, feminine, submissive blondes, not tall, strong, independent blondes.

He lowered his hands to the arms of the chair, tapping one foot while he looked around her office and waited. And waited.

God, she was gorgeous when she was furious.

Her face even more flushed, her eyes sparkled with fury and she slammed the door behind her as she stalked back into her office and stood there, chest heaving. And what a nice chest it was. Another layer he wouldn’t mind peeling away. Her breasts were high and round and full and quivered beneath the thin blue knit sweater as she took deep breaths in and out. Her fists clenched at her sides, her arms stiff.

He waited.

He could see she was ready to practically stomp her feet in frustration and he tried not to smile.

“Shut up,” she hissed. “Just. Shut. Up.”

“I didn’t say a word.” His lips quivered.

She almost growled as she strode over to the buttery-soft leather chair behind her desk and threw herself down into it. She met his eyes and he lifted a brow.

“Fine,” she snarled. “I’ll prove it to you. Give me a week.”

He lifted one shoulder. “It’s a big project. Take two or three weeks. Don’t rush through it. I know how busy you are.”

Her lips tightened. “Two weeks. I was going to start looking into soap producers to partner with, but that can wait.”

“Soap producers?” Jesus, now what?

“Yes. Never mind that.”

“No, no, tell me. What else do you have up your sleeve?” She was a crazy woman. What the hell else was she planning? She was spreading herself way too thin.

“The pomace we throw away. Well, actually it goes to compost. I want to find a soap producer who would use it to make olive oil soap. It would be very moisturizing.”

“You’re shitting me.”

She gave him a look, chin down, brows lifted.

“Please,” he said. “I’ve heard you use worse language.”

She tossed her hair back, looking a bit abashed. “Fine. No, I’m not shitting you. It’s being done elsewhere. I didn’t just make it up. I think it’s another avenue we should explore.”

“I’ll explore it,” he offered. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

She stared at him, chewing on her bottom lip. “No.”

He inhaled slowly through his nose, digging deep for patience.

“Fine. Do it all yourself. But just remember—you need to show me a business case for anything you want to do.”

She scowled at him, folding her arms across her chest.

They stared at each other for a long wordless minute and the room grew warm as heat built between them. Her lips parted and then, once again, her lashes lowered. Adrenaline sizzled through his veins and he shifted in his chair. Christ.

A knock at the door had them both blinking, licking dry lips.

“Come in,” Tara croaked.

Her grandfather poked his head around the door.

“Hello,” he said. He looked back and forth between them. “Sorry to interrupt. I forgot to mention to you earlier, Tara, that we have some visitors coming from Italy in three weeks. They’ll be traveling down from San Francisco with Bob Moir and Ben Kibsey.”

Joe had no idea who they were and his expression must have communicated that. “They are two olive growers from the Napa Valley,” Tyrone added. “Tara, could you arrange a dinner party for that Friday night? I’ve offered to take them out for dinner.”

“Why don’t you get Sasha to do it?”

“She’s busy with her charity work.” He smiled fondly and Joe noted how the corners of Tara’s mouth turned down at that. Huh. Little sibling jealousy there? “Besides, this is something you should do. I’ll expect you to act as hostess for the dinner party.”

“Fine,” Tara snapped, rolling her eyes.

“And while we’re talking about dinner,” Tyrone continued, “Joe, why don’t you join us for dinner at home tonight? I should have offered earlier, but it slipped my mind.”

“Thanks.” Joe glanced at Tara and saw her mouth compress. “That’s very nice of you. I’d be happy to join you.”

“Good. We’ll see you at seven. It’s just casual, Tara and her sister and I.”

Joe nodded. So he’d get to meet the sister who apparently was everything Tyrone wanted Tara to be. A spoiled princess, according to Nick. Interest sparked in him as he left her office.

“Lots of door slamming going on lately,” Paige commented to him as he emerged from Tara’s office. He paused, then grinned and held up both hands in innocence.

“Wasn’t me.”

She smiled back.

He walked back to his own office, shaking his head over the idea of manufacturing soap from olive oil.