Free A Taste of Merlot by Heather Heyford

rich. But the guys who watched the Forty-niners on fall Sundays with Mark knew—and couldn’t care less. If he ever started acting like some entitled jerk around them, he’d be in for a serious ass-kicking.
    â€œThen again, maybe she has something to hide.”
    But that last comment of Rainn’s didn’t even register with Mark. He was still trying to digest the fact that his budding star in ripped jeans was a wine heiress.
    â€œEr, I can’t talk about other vendors. If you don’t have any more questions, I’ve got things to catch up on here,” he managed to get out. “I’ll be in touch.”
    â€œAwesome. I’ll look for your e-mail with the signed orders.”
    Mark sat unmoving for five seconds while his mind zoomed ahead at warp speed, before he leapt up to tear down the hall.
    â€œAunt Gloria . . .”
    Once Mark broke the news, Gloria called Dick back up from where he was waiting in the lobby to launch an emergency pow wow. The CFO leaned against a bookshelf, arms folded, while Mark paced and Gloria studied a photo of Meri that Mark had pulled up for her on his iPad.
    â€œThat is Merlot St. Pierre. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her at the co-op. Heaven knows, we’ve all seen enough pictures of the St. Pierre girls over the years.” Mark watched his aunt as she scrolled through photo after photo. “Those oval faces, those endless legs . . .” she mused, half to herself. “Their mother was Lily d’Amboise, you know.” She glanced across the room. “Remember her, Dick, from back in the day? All three of those girls have their mother’s figure, don’t they?” She tilted the tablet his way.
    Grudgingly, Dick abandoned his post against the wall to take a look.
    â€œLook at this one, taken at last month’s Challenge Gala up in Napa. They’re practically triplets, except for their hair color. Though I grant you, each has found her own unique way of dressing. Sauvignon has on Chloé in this shot—come to think of it, the three of them posing like that personify a Chloé ad—and Chardonnay’s in Chanel.” She adjusted her readers. “Who’s that Merlot’s wearing? Looks like vintage.”
    Mark didn’t read the gossip rags, but he still had a couple of bottles of a St. Pierre red left from his last visit to the wine country. And to think—that lavish estate was where Meri called home. Why hadn’t she said something when he brought it up at the diner?
    He was growing impatient with all the talk about dresses.
    â€œSo here’s what we’ll do,” he said, wearing a path in Gloria’s Aubusson. “Imagine this: a whole luxury lifestyle collection based on the pairing of wine and jewelry. We’ll start out with her existing work for spring, then launch a tabletop line in time for next Christmas—Merlot St. Pierre wineglasses, china, holloware. The following spring, I see a St. Pierre fabric collection. We’ll have the linens woven in Provence . . . cross-advertise in the big wine journals. . . . It’ll open up a whole new market.”
    â€œYes!” Gloria caught Mark’s enthusiasm faster than the Norovirus on a cruise ship. She hopped up from behind her desk like a woman much younger to join Mark in his pacing. “The whole campaign will be shot on the St. Pierre grounds, with Merlot modeling. We’ll set a picnic table right out in the vineyard, with lanterns hanging from tree limbs and massive baskets of flowers and . . .”
    Mark couldn’t keep himself from interjecting, “What about a fragrance? If we get on it now, we could have it on the shelves within twelve months.”
    She clapped her hands. “Oh, Mark, this is exactly what we’ve been looking for to recharge the business!”
    They’d struck the proverbial gold mine. The St. Pierre brand was ready-made . . . just waiting to be