“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.