“A million dollars.”

Nic didn’t react in any way-at least not on the outside. He didn’t blink, didn’t shift in his seat; he didn’t even smile. But on the inside, his mild amusement and intrigue turned to impressed amazement. Brenna had gone and got herself some balls.

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fingered the bills. “You want that in twenties?”

“I’m not in a position to be picky. Twenties are fine.”

“I don’t think I have that much with me today.”

“Bummer.”

She watched him, her big eyes betraying her nervousness. She was at the end of the line and they both knew it. If he turned her down, she wouldn’t get her loan. Any dreams of starting her own label would be squashed. Oh, sure, she could buy a few tons of grapes on the open market, borrow equipment, and set up a few dozen cheap barrels in a garage somewhere. She might get a loyal following, a little notice, maybe a write-up in Wine Spectator. But without an infusion of cash, she would never have the chance to make it big.

Not that he gave a damn about that. What mattered to him were his goals. How did her request fit into the big picture?

He rose and circled the desk until he stood in front of her, then he leaned against the surface, his arms folded over his chest. It was a position designed to intimidate. To challenge.

Brenna reacted by uncrossing, then recrossing her legs. In the silence of the office the sound of her silk stockings brushing and shifting grated against his ears. He found himself watching the movement, staring at the hem of her skirt, picturing her thighs underneath. And above her thighs?

Paradise. At least that’s what her body had been ten years ago. Dark, slick, secret-the road to redemption. Instead she’d steered him right to hell. Because of her, he’d been sent away from his home. He’d been exiled, abandoned, and written off for dead.