The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Miracle

Catherine Spencer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

DOMENICO didn’t usually involve himself with tourists. They were not, as a rule, vitally concerned with the wine industry except as it applied to their drinking habits. That morning, though, he happened to be crossing the yard to his office at the rear of the main building just as the latest batch of visitors filed from the vineyard toward the public section at the front. All but one headed straight for the tasting room. She remained outside, earnestly questioning his uncle Bruno who, at almost sixty, had forgotten more about viticulture than Domenico himself ever hoped to learn.

Although professional enough not to dismiss any question, regardless of how trivial it might be, Bruno was not one to suffer fools gladly. That he appeared as engrossed in the conversation as this visitor, was unusual enough for Domenico to stop and observe.

Tall, slender and rather plain, the woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. And, he surmised, noting the slightly pink tint to her fair skin, newly arrived in Sardinia and not yet acclimatized to the sun. Unless she wanted to spend the rest of her holiday in bed with sunstroke, she should be wearing a hat. Tying up her hair in a careless ponytail that left her nape exposed was asking for trouble.

His uncle must have thought so, too, because he guided her to a bench set in the shade of a nearby oleander. More curious by the second, Domenico lingered just within earshot.

Catching sight of him, Bruno waved him over. “This is the man you talk with,” he told the woman. “My nephew, first he speaks the good English to make better sense for you. More important, what he does not know about growing grapes and turning them into fine wine, it is not worth knowing.”

“And my uncle never exaggerates,” Domenico said, smiling at the woman. “Allow me to introduce myself, signorina.”

She looked up and, for a moment, his usual urbanity deserted him. Suddenly bereft of speech, he found himself staring like a goatherd.

She was not beautiful, no. At least, not in the conventional sense. Her clothes were modest: a denim knee-length skirt, white short-sleeved cotton blouse and flat-heeled sandals. Her hair, though shiny as glass, was a nondescript brown, her hips narrow as a boy’s, her breasts small. Nothing like the annoyingly persistent Ortensia Costanza, with her vibrantly dramatic good looks and ripe curves. If Ortensia exemplified blatant female sexuality at its most hungry, this delicate creature fell at the other end of the spectrum and almost shied away from him.

She was, he decided, the kind of woman a man could easily overlook—until he gazed into her large, lovely eyes, and found himself drowning in their luminous gray depths.

Recovering himself, he continued, “I’m Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos. How may I help you?”

She rose from the bench with lithe grace, and offered her hand. Small and fine-boned, it was almost swallowed up by his. “Arlene Russell,” she replied, her voice pleasantly modulated. “And if you can spare me half an hour, I’d love to pick your brain.”

“You’re interested in the wine industry?”

“More than interested.” She allowed herself a quick, almost rueful smile. “I recently came into possession of a vineyard, you see, but it’s in rather sad shape, and I need some advice on how to go about restoring it.”

Smiling himself, he said, “You surely don’t think that is something that can be dealt with in a few words, signorina?”

“Not in the least. But I’m committed to doing whatever I have to, to make a success of it, and since I have to start somewhere, what better place than here, where even a novice like me can recognize expertise when she sees it?”

“Spend an hour with the girl,” his uncle muttered, reverting to Sardu, the language most often spoken on the island. “She is thirsty as a sponge for information, unlike those others whose only thirst is for the wine tastings they’re now enjoying at our expense.”

“I can’t spare the time.”

“Yes, you can spare the time! Invite her to lunch.”

Her glance flitted between the two men. Although clearly not understanding their exchange, she correctly identified the irritation Domenico now showed on his face.

Her own mirroring utter disappointment, she murmured, “Please forgive me, Signor Silvaggio d’Avalos. I’m afraid I’m being very thoughtless and asking far too much of you.” Then turning to his uncle, she rallied another smile. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, signor. You’ve been very kind.”

As opposed to me, who’s behaving like a world-class boor, Domenico thought, an unwelcome shaft of sympathy at her obvious dejection piercing his annoyance. “As it happens,” he heard himself saying before he could change his mind, “I can spare you an hour or so before my afternoon appointments. I won’t promise to address all your concerns in that time, but at least I can direct you to someone who will.”

She wasn’t deceived by his belated gallantry. Picking up the camera and notebook she’d left on the bench, she replied, “That’s quite all right, signor. You’ve made it plain you have better things to do.”

“I have to eat,” he said, sizing up her too-slender length, “and from the looks of it, so do you. I suggest we make the most of the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.”

Although her pride struggled to fling his invitation back in his face, practicality overcame it. “Then I thank you again,” she said stiffly. “I’m most grateful.”

He took her elbow and turned her toward the Jeep parked next to the winery’s huge rear double doors through which, soon, the harvested grapes would be brought for crushing. If she was nervous about hopping into a vehicle with a stranger, she hid it well, asking only, “Where are we going?”

“To my house, which lies a good five kilometers farther along the coast from here.”

“Well, now I really feel I’m imposing! I assumed we’d eat in the winery’s bistro.”

“That is for the tourists.”

“Which is what I am.”

He put the Jeep in gear and started off along the paved road leading to his estate. “No, signorina. Today, you are my guest.”

He was a master of understatement, Arlene decided.

She’d learned from the tourist brochures she’d collected that Vigna Silvaggio d’Avalos, a family-owned vineyard and winery going back three generations, was one of the best in Sardinia and that it boasted a prime location on the coast at the northern tip of the island, just west of Santa Teresa Gallura.

The elaborate coat of arms adorning the wrought-iron gates at the estate’s entrance hadn’t really surprised her. It, as well as the building whose handsome facade housed a state-of-the-art winery, tasting room, shop and garden bistro, were more or less what she expected of an operation touted as producing “internationally acclaimed wines of impeccable quality.”

But when he drove through a second set of wrought-iron gates, and followed a long, winding driveway past what appeared to be private residences set in spacious grounds, to a pale stucco building perched above the beach, she was hard-pressed not to behave like the gauche tourist he undoubtedly took her to be, and stare open-mouthed. What he so casually referred to merely as his “house” struck her as being nothing less than palatial.

Screened from the others in the compound by an acre or more of gardens planted with lush, flowering vegetation, it rose from the landscape in a series of elegant angles and curves designed to take full advantage of the view. To the one side lay the breathtaking Smerelda Coast; to the other, acres of vineyards climbed up the hillside.

Escorting her through the main entrance hall to a wide covered veranda below which the sea shone green as the emerald for which it was so aptly named, he indicated a group of wicker armchairs upholstered with deep, comfortable cushions. “Have a seat and excuse me a moment while I take care of lunch.”

“Please don’t go to a lot of trouble,” she protested, well aware that she’d already put him out enough for one day.

He smiled and retrieved a remote phone from its cradle on a side table. “It is no trouble. I’ll order something to be brought down from the main house.”

Well, of course he will, idiot! she reproached herself, reeling a little from the impact of that smile. Had she really imagined he’d disappear into the kitchen, don an apron and whip up something delectable with his own two hands? And did he have to be so unapologetically gorgeous that she could hardly think straight? Tall and dark, she might have expected and managed to deal with, but his startlingly blue eyes lent added allure to a face already blessed with more masculine beauty than any one man deserved.

After a brief conversation, he replaced the phone and busied himself at a built-in bar. “There, it is done. What would you like to drink?”

“Something long and cool, please,” she said, fanning herself against a heat which wasn’t altogether the fault of the weather.

He dropped ice into two tall crystal goblets, half-filled them with white wine he took from the bar refrigerator, and topped them off with a squirt of soda. “Vermentino made from our own grapes,” he remarked, taking a seat beside her and clinking the rim of his glass gently against hers. “Refreshing and not too potent. So, Signorina Russell, how did you come by this vineyard you speak of?”

“I inherited it.”

“When?”

“Just ten days ago.”

“And it is here, on the island?”

“No. It’s in Canada—I’m Canadian.”

“I see.”

But he obviously didn’t. He quite plainly wondered what she was doing in Sardinia when her interests lay on the other side of the world.

“The thing is,” she hastened to explain, before he decided she was just another dilettante not worth his time, “I’d already paid for my holiday here, and because this inheritance landed in my lap so unexpectedly, I thought it best not to rush into anything until I’d talked to a few experts of which, it turns out, there are many here in Sardinia. I’ve never been the rash, impulsive type, and now didn’t seem a good time to start.”

“You have no experience at all in viticulture, then?”

“None. I’m a legal secretary and live in Toronto. And to tell the truth, I’m still reeling from the news that I now own a house and several acres of vineyards in British Columbia—that’s Canada’s most western province, in case you don’t know.”

“I’m familiar with B.C.,” he informed her tersely, as if even an infant still in diapers would have a thorough geographical knowledge of the world’s second largest country. “Have you seen this place for yourself, or are you relying on secondhand information about its condition?”

“I spent a couple of days there last week.”

“And what else did you learn, as a result?”

“Nothing except that it’s very run-down—oh, and that an elderly manager-cum-overseer and two rescued greyhounds are part of my legacy.”

He rolled his altogether gorgeous eyes, as if to say, Why me, oh Lord? “May I ask what you propose to do about them?”

“Well, I’m not about to abandon them, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort, Signorina Russell. I’m merely trying to establish the extent of, for want of a better word, your ‘undertaking.’ For example, exactly how many acres of land do you now own?”

“Seven.”

“And the kind of grapes grown there?”

“I don’t know.” Then, before he could throw up his hands in disgust and tell her to go bother someone else because she’d tried his patience far enough for one day, she added, “Signor Silvaggio d’Avalos, I realize this might be difficult for you to understand, growing up as you have, so surrounded by the business of cultivating grapes and turning them into wine that you probably started assimilating knowledge from the cradle, but I am a complete novice and although I’m willing to learn, I have to start somewhere, which is why I’m here with you, now.”

He listened, his expression impassive. “And you’re very sure you have the stamina required to fulfill your ambitions, are you?” he inquired, when at last she stopped to draw breath.

“Very.”

He regarded her, his gaze unnervingly intent. “Then if what you have told me is correct, I must warn you that even if you were an expert, you would be undertaking a project of massive proportion whose success is by no means guaranteed. And by your own admission, you are anything but expert.”

“Well, I didn’t expect it would be easy,” she floundered, so mesmerized by his brilliantly blue eyes that it was all she could do to string two words together. “But I meant what I said. Succeeding in this venture is very important to me for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is that there are others whose welfare depends on it. I am determined to go through with it, regardless of the difficulties it entails.”

“Very well.” He leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and cradled his jaw in his hand. “In that case, take out your pen and let’s get started on what you need to know at the outset.”

In the half hour before their lunch arrived—cold Mediterranean lobster in a creamy wine sauce, avocado and tomato slices, and bread warm from the oven, followed by a fruit and cheese platter—she wrote rapidly, stopping every now and then to ask a question and trying hard to focus on the subject at hand.

Despite her best efforts, though, her mind wandered repeatedly. The questions he fielded from her were not those she most wished to ask. Whether or not she might have to rip out all her old vines and start over from scratch, which varietals she should plant in their place, how much it would cost and how long before she could expect to recoup her losses and make a profit, didn’t seem nearly as engrossing as how he’d come by his very remarkable eyes, where he’d learned to speak such excellent English, how old he was, or if there was a special woman in his life.

Although she made copious notes of every critical scrap of information he tossed her way, her rebellious gaze repeatedly returned to his face. To the slight cleft in his chin, and the high slash of his cheekbones which seemed more Spanish than Italian. To the tawny sheen of his skin and his glossy black hair. To the dark sweeping elegance of his brows and the way his long, dense lashes so perfectly framed his vivid blue eyes.

“So, I have not managed to discourage you?” he inquired, as they sat down to the meal.

“You’ve made me aware of pitfalls I might not otherwise have recognized,” she told him, choosing her words carefully, “but no, you have not discouraged me. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to bring my vineyard back to life.”

He considered that for a moment, then said, “Tell me more about this great-uncle of yours. Why, for example, did he allow his vines to fail so drastically?”

“I suppose because he was too old to look after them properly. He was eighty-four when he died.”

“You suppose? Were you not close to him during his lifetime?”

“No. I didn’t even know of his existence until his lawyer contacted me regarding his estate.”

“He had no other relatives? None better equipped than you to rescue his property from ruination?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

She stared at him, frustrated. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, not you! she felt like telling him. “Because he was from my father’s side of the family.”

“You did not care for your father and his kin?”

Kin. An old-fashioned word which, coupled with his charming accent, gave one of the few indications that English wasn’t his mother tongue. “I barely knew my father,” she said, wrenching her mind back to the matter at hand. “He died when I was seven.”

He raised a lofty brow. “I remember many relatives and events from when I was that age.”

“Probably because, unlike mine, your family stayed together.”

“Your parents were divorced?”

“Oh, yes, and the war between them never ended,” she said, remembering all too well her mother’s vitriolic outpourings to Arlene’s hesitant requests to visit her father or speak to him by phone. “I was four at the time, and my mother made sure I lived too far away from my father to see him often.”

Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos shook his head disapprovingly. “I cannot imagine such a thing. When a man and a woman have created a child together, his or her welfare comes before any thought of the parents’ personal happiness.”

“A fine philosophy in theory, signor, but not so easy to live by, I suspect, if the couple in question find themselves irreconcilably opposed to one another’s wishes and needs.”

“All the more reason to choose wisely in the first place then, wouldn’t you say?”

She laughed. “You’re obviously not married!”

“No,” he said, and turned that unsettling gaze on her again. “Are you?”

“No. But I’m realistic enough to know that if ever I am, a wedding ring provides no guarantee that the marriage will last.”

“I do not call that realistic,” he said flatly. “I call it defeatist.”

“Then that makes you an idealist who’s more than a little out of touch with the rest of the world.”

“Hardly,” he replied. “My parents have been happily married for thirty-nine years, as were my grandparents for almost half a century. And I have four sisters, all blissfully happy in their marriages.”

“But you’re still single.”

“Not because I have anything against marriage. My father’s health isn’t the best and I took over the running of this company sooner than I might otherwise have done, which has kept me fully occupied and left little time for serious romance. But I’ll know the right woman when she comes along and I will commit to her for the rest of my life, regardless of whatever difficulties we might encounter—and they will be few, I assure. I’ll make certain of that before putting a ring on her finger.”

“You have a list of requirements she must meet, in order to qualify as your wife, do you?”

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Happiness, like sexual compatibility and physical attraction, will run secondary to suitability.”

“You make it sound as if you believe in arranged marriages.”

“I don’t disbelieve in them.”

“Then I pity the woman who becomes your wife.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Pity yourself, signorina,” he declared, tossing down his napkin. “You’re the one willing to sell her soul to a lost cause.”

“On the contrary, signor. I’m doing exactly as you claim you will, when you take a wife. I’m sticking with my decision, regardless of the difficulties I’m facing. The only difference is, I’m taking on a vineyard instead of a husband.”

He regarded her for an interminably long, silent minute. Finally he said, “Well then, since you refuse to let me deter you, I suppose I must do all I can to assist you.”

“I think you’ve already done that.” She indicated her notebook. “You’ve given me some very valuable pointers.”

“Theory is all very well in its place, signorina, but it in no way replaces hands-on experience. That being the case, I have a proposition which you might find interesting. One, I’d go so far as to say, you can’t afford to refuse. I’ll take you on as a short-term apprentice during your time here—say from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon. It will mean you spend a good portion of the day working instead of enjoying the usual tourist activities, but if you’re as determined as you say you are—”

“Oh, I am!” she exclaimed, her attention split evenly between the purely practical benefits of his offer, and the thrilling prospect of spending more time with him.

“Then here is what I suggest we do.”

He proceeded to outline a course of instruction geared to get her started. That he was showing extraordinary generosity to a total stranger did not, of course, escape her notice, but Arlene couldn’t help noticing not just what he said, but how he said it; on his finely carved lips as they shaped his words, and his precise enunciation.

Nor was that her only thought. He spoke with the passion of a true professional about the wine industry. Would he prove an equally passionate lover, she wondered.

“Signora?” His voice, deep and faintly amused, snapped her attention back to where it properly belonged. “Are we done for now, or is there something else you’d like to know?”

Nothing to do with viticulture, certainly!

“No, thank you.” Flustered, she’d stuffed her notebook into her bag and pushed away from the table. A quick glance at her watch showed it was almost four o’clock. The two-hour lunch he’d promised her had lasted well into the afternoon. “My goodness, look at the time! I had no idea it was so late, and I do apologize. I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Not at all,” he replied smoothly, rising also.

She was tall, but he was taller. Well over six feet. Slim and toughly built, with a midriff as unyielding as a flatiron. A tailor’s dream of a body, narrow in all the right places; broad and powerful where it should be.

Escorting her back to the Jeep, he inquired, “You have other plans for the rest of the day, do you?”

“Nothing specific. We arrived only yesterday and are still getting our bearings, but I should head back to the hotel.”

“You did not come to Sardinia alone?”

“No.”

“Then I am the one who must apologize for monopolizing so much of your time.” He slammed her door shut, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Tomorrow the grape harvest begins, which means we’ll be out in the fields all day. Wear sturdier shoes than those you presently have on. Also, choose clothing that’ll give you some protection from the sun. You have very fair skin.”

Fair? Beside him, she felt colorless. Insignificant. But that he’d noticed her at all would have left her glowing had he not concluded with, “In particular, make sure you wear a hat. Neither I nor anyone else working the vines needs the distraction of your fainting from heatstroke.”

His obvious and sudden impatience to be rid of her had quashed her romantic fantasies more effectively than a bucket of cold water thrown in her face. “Understood. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“You may be sure that I will, signorina,” he replied with unflinching candor. “I shall be keeping a very close eye on you. You will learn as much as I can teach you in the short time at our disposal, but it will not be at the expense of my crop.”

CHAPTER TWO

“SO THERE you have it. What do you think?” Eyeing Gail, her best friend and travel companion, whom she’d found stretched out on a chaise by the hotel pool, Arlene tried to gauge her reaction to this abrupt change in plans.

“That he’s right.” Gail slathered on another layer of sunscreen. “It’s a heaven-sent opportunity and you can’t afford to turn it down.”

“But it does interfere with our holiday.”

“Not mine,” Gail returned cheerfully. “We came here to unwind and I’m more than happy to spend half the day lazing here or on the beach. In case you haven’t noticed, both are littered with gorgeous men, which is probably a lot more than can be said about what’s-his-name from the vineyard.”

“Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos.” Arlene let each exotic syllable roll off her tongue like cream, and thought that one glance at his aristocratic face and big, toned body would be enough to change Gail’s mind about which of them had stumbled across the better deal.

“What a mouthful! How do you wrap your tongue around it? Or are you on a first-name basis already?”

“Not at all. He’s very businesslike and quite distant, in fact.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it really matters. Just as long as you leave here knowing a heck of a lot more about running a vineyard than you did when you arrived, he doesn’t have to be witty or charismatic, does he?”

“No.”

Arlene did her best to sound emphatic, but something in her tone must have struck a hollow note because Gail removed her sunglasses, the better to skewer her in a mistrustful gaze. “Uh-oh! What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” she insisted, not about to confess that, in the space of three hours, she’d almost fooled herself into believing she might have met Mr. Right. Gail would have laughed herself silly at the idea, and rightly so. There was no such thing as love at first sight, and although a teenager might be forgiven for believing otherwise, a woman pushing thirty was certainly old enough to know better. “I find him a little…unsettling, that’s all.”

“Unsettling how?”

She aimed for a casual shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe ‘intimidating’ is a better word. He’s larger than life somehow, and so confidently in charge of himself and everything around him. I don’t quite know why he’s bothering with an ignoramus like me, and I guess I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him.”

“So what if you do? Why do you care what he thinks?”

Why? Because never before had she felt as alive as she did during the time she’d spent with him. “His mood changed, there at the end,” she said wistfully. “I could hear it in his voice and see it in his expression, as if he suddenly regretted his invitation. He seemed almost angry with me, although I can’t imagine why.”

Gail popped her sunglasses back in place and turned her face up to the sun. “Arlene, do yourself a favor and stop analyzing the guy. Bad-tempered and moody he might be, but as far as you’re concerned, he’s the means to an end, and that’s all that matters. Once we leave here, you’ll never have to see him again.”

She was unquestionably right, Arlene decided, and wished she could find some comfort in that thought. Instead it left her feeling oddly depressed.

That night at dinner in the main house, the reaction of his brothers-in-law to what he’d done was pretty much what he expected. Mock disgust and a host of humorous comments along the lines of, “Where do you find these lame ducks, Dom?” and, “Just what we need at the busiest time of the year—the distraction of a useless extra female body cluttering up the landscape!”

His sisters, though, twittered like drunken sparrows, clamoring for more personal information.

“What’s her name?”

“Is she pretty?”

“Is she single?”

“How old is she?”

“Don’t just sit there looking stony-faced, Domenico! Tell us what makes her so special.”

“What makes her special,” his uncle Bruno declared, stirring up another flurry of over-the-top excitement, “is that she could be The One. Trust me. I have seen her. She is lovely.”

The squeals of delight that comment elicited were enough to make him want to head for the hills. His mother and sisters’ chief mission in life was to see him married, and the last thing they needed was Bruno or anyone else encouraging them. “Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle Bruno,” he snapped. “She’s just an ordinary woman in the extraordinary position of finding herself with a vineyard she hasn’t the first idea how to manage. I’d have made the same offer if she’d been a man.”

But she wasn’t a man, and no one was more conscious of that fact than Domenico. Throughout their extended lunch, he’d been struck by the sharp intelligence in her lovely gray eyes. But it took more than brains to succeed in viticulture, and given her small, delicate bones, he wondered how she’d begin to survive the tough physical demands of working a vineyard.

Not my concern, he’d told himself, more than once. Yet he admired her determination and he’d enjoyed their spirited debate on marriage, enough that he’d been tempted to ask her out to dinner, just for the pleasure of getting to know her better. Until she let slip that she hadn’t come to the island alone, that was—and then he’d felt like a fool for not having figured it out for himself. If she was not a raving beauty, nor was she as plain as he’d first supposed. Rather, she possessed a low-key elegance of form and face that any discerning man would find attractive.

Too bad another had already staked a claim to her, he’d thought at the time, covering his irritation with a brusqueness he now regretted. She’d almost flinched at his tone, as he spelled out what he expected of her when she showed up tomorrow morning. If it weren’t that she was in such dire straits, she’d probably have flung his generous offer of help back in his face. He would have, in her place.

Aware that his family continued to stare at him expectantly, he said, “At the risk of ruining your evening and dashing all hope of marrying me off before the last grape is picked, I feel compelled to point out that this woman is already spoken for. Not only that, she’s here for only two weeks, after which our relationship, such as it is, will come to an end.”

“But a great deal can happen in two weeks,” Renata, his youngest sister, pointed out, ogling her husband. “Our honeymoon lasted only that long, but it was all the time we needed for me to become pregnant.”

“Lucky you,” Domenico replied testily, amid general laughter. “However, my ambitions with this woman run along somewhat different lines, so please don’t start knitting little things on my behalf.”

That gave rise to such hilarity that, so help him, if he’d known at which hotel Arlene Russell was staying, he’d have phoned and left a message saying something had come up and he’d had to cancel their arrangement.

Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos was already directing operations when Arlene showed up as planned at the back of the winery, the next morning. Stepping away from a crowd of about thirty men and women being loaded into the back of two trucks, he eyed her critically, then gave a brief nod of approval. “You’ll do,” he decided.

“What a relief, signor!”

Either he didn’t pick up on her lightly sugared sarcasm, or he chose to ignore it. “Since we’ll be working closely for the next several days,” he announced briskly, “we’ll dispense with the formality. My name is Domenico.”

“In that case, I’m Arlene.”

“Yes, I remember,” he said, rather cryptically she thought. “And now that we’ve got that settled, let’s get moving. Those people you see in the trucks are extra pickers hired to help bring in the harvest. Stay out of their way. They have a job to do. If you have questions, ask me or my uncle.”

She’d have saluted and barked, Yes, sir! if he’d given her half a chance. But he herded her into the Jeep and followed the two trucks up the hill to the fields, talking on his cell phone the entire time. When they arrived, his uncle was already assigning the extra laborers to their designated picking areas under the leadership of one of the full-time employees, but he stopped long enough to welcome Arlene with a big smile. “Watch and learn, then you go home the expert,” he shouted cheerfully.

Hardly that, she thought. But hopefully not a complete nincompoop, either.

“Although some cultivators bring in machinery to get the job done quickly, we handpick our grapes,” Domenico began, wasting no time launching into his first lecture.

“So I see. Why is that?”

“Because mechanical harvesters shake the fruit from the vines, often damaging it. This can result in oxidization and microbial activity which, in turn, causes disease. Not only that, it’s virtually impossible to prevent other material also being collected, especially leaves.”

Oxidization? Microbial? Whatever happened to plain, uncomplicated English?

Covering her dismay at already finding herself at a loss, she said, “But isn’t handpicking labor intensive, and therefore more expensive?”

He cast her a lofty glance. “Vigna Silvaggio d’Avalos prides itself on the superiority of its wines. Cost is not a factor.”

“Oh, I see!” she replied weakly, and properly chastised, wondered how she’d ever manage to redeem herself for such an unforgivable oversight.

Unfortunately her woes increased as the morning progressed. Although recognizing that she’d had the extreme good fortune to find herself involved in a world-class operation, what struck her most forcibly as the hours dragged by was that her back ached and the sun was enough to roast a person alive.

Under Domenico’s tutelage, she picked clusters of grapes using a pair of shears shaped like pointed scissors. She learned to recognize unripe or diseased fruit, and to reject it. Because bruised grapes spoil easily, she handled the crop carefully, laying the collected clusters in one of many small buckets placed at intervals along each row.

Not that she’d have understood them anyway, but none of the migrant workers had much to say for themselves. They bent to their task with dogged persistence, seldom sparing her so much as a glance. Once assured that she wasn’t about to lay devastation to his precious crop, Domenico essentially ignored her, too, and Bruno was too far away to offer her a word of encouragement. Over the course of the morning, however, four women found occasion to stop by separately, each offering a friendly greeting and, at the same time, subjecting her to a thorough and somewhat amused inspection. Even if they hadn’t introduced themselves as his sisters, she’d have had to be blind not to see their resemblance to her mentor.

“Don’t let my brother wear you out,” Lara, the first to pay a visit, counseled, her English almost as flawless as Domenico’s. “He’s a slave driver, especially at harvest time. Tell him when you’ve had enough.”

Not a chance! Arlene knew from the way Domenico periodically came to check on her that he was just waiting for her to throw in the towel—which she would have done, if her pride had permitted it. But despite a dull, persistent ache above her left eye which grew steadily worse as the morning passed, she refused to give him the satisfaction.

The sun was high when a van rolled to a stop on a dusty patch of rocky ground some distance away from the fields. At once, the sisters converged on it and started unloading its contents onto a long table set up under a canvas awning supported by a steel frame.

As everyone else working the fields downed tools, Domenico approached Arlene. “Time for a break and something to eat,” he declared, in that lordly take-it-or-leave-it manner of his.

By then, the pain in her head was so severe, starbursts of flashing light were exploding before her eyes and she wasn’t sure she could crawl to where the women were laying out baskets of bread and platters laden with cheese, thinly sliced smoked meat and olives. But either he was blessed with second sight, or the stabbing agony showed on her face because, just when she feared she’d pass out, he grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. “Still want to run a vineyard?” he inquired smoothly.

“You bet,” she managed, and disengaging herself from his hold, managed to totter off and collapse in the shade of the awning.

Following, he eyed her critically. “How much water have you drunk since you got here?”

“Not enough, I guess.” She squinted against the painfully bright glare of the sun beyond the awning. “I did bring a bottle with me, but I finished it hours ago.”

“You didn’t notice the coolers at the end of each row of vines? You didn’t think to ask what they were for?”

“No.” She swallowed, the smell of warm yeasty bread, olives and sharp cheese suddenly causing her stomach to churn unpleasantly.

He let fly with an impatient curse and strode to the table, returning a moment later to thrust at her another bottle of water, this one well chilled. “It didn’t occur to me you’d need to be told to keep yourself properly hydrated. I assumed you had enough sense to reach that conclusion unaided.”

Another of his sisters, this one well into pregnancy, happened to overhear him. “Domenico, please! Can you not see the poor woman has had enough for one day?” she chided, hurrying forward with a plate of food. “Here, signorina. I’ve brought you something to eat.”

Arlene grimaced, by then so sick from the pounding in her head that she was afraid to open her mouth to reply, in case she threw up instead.

With a sympathetic murmur, his sister lowered herself carefully to her knees. “You are in distress, cara. What can I do to help you?”

She tried to shrug away the woman’s concern but, by then, even so small a movement was beyond her. “I have a bad headache here,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her temple, and hating herself for her weakness almost as much as she hated Domenico for witnessing it.

“More than just a headache, I think,” his sister said, glancing up at him. “It is the emicrania, Domenico—the migraine. She needs to be looked after.”

“I can see that, Renata,” he snapped.

“Then drive her down to the house and let Momma take care of her.”

“No!” Horrified by the idea, Arlene managed to subdue another wave of nausea long enough to articulate her objection without embarrassing herself.

Renata took ice from a cooler and wrapped it in one of the linen cloths lining the bread baskets. “Do you have a rented car, cara?” she asked, placing it gently at the base of Arlene’s skull.

“Yes, but not here. My friend dropped me off this morning.”

“Just as well, because you’re in no shape to drive.” Once again, Domenico hoisted her to her feet, this time showing more care than he had before. “Avanti! Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“I’m taking you back to your hotel before you pass out. I don’t imagine your friend will appreciate having you flat on your back—at least, not in your present condition.”

If she hadn’t felt so lousy, she’d have challenged him on his last remark. Instead she submitted to being bundled into the Jeep, leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

To his credit, he drove carefully down the rutted track from the vineyard so as not to add to her discomfort, but when they reached the paved road, he wasted no time covering the miles into town. Beyond a terse, “Which hotel?” he mercifully made no other attempt at conversation.

Once arrived, he ignored the hotel’s No Parking sign, stopped the vehicle right at the front door, and came around to help her alight. “What’s your room number?”

By that point almost blind with pain, she sagged against his supporting arm. “Four twenty-two.”

“You have a key card?”

“Yes.” She fumbled without success in her tote.

He muttered indistinctly under his breath—something unflattering judging by his tone—found the card himself, and hoisting her off her feet, strode past the doorman and across the lobby to the elevator just as its doors swished open and Gail emerged.

Stopping dead in her tracks, she let out a horrified gasp. “Heavens, Arlene, what happened? You look like the wrath of God!”

“Step aside, per favore,” Domenico ordered, when she continued to block his entrance to the elevator. “I wish to take her to her room.”

“Hold on a minute!” Gail replied, clearly not the least bit fazed by his autocratic manner. “You’re not taking her anywhere without me.”

“Indeed? And who are you?”

“Arlene’s roommate.”

“You’re her friend?”

“You’re her mentor?” she shot back, imitating his incredulous tone. “The one who’s supposed to be teaching her everything there is to know about growing grapes?”

“I am.”

“Well, congratulations! You’re doing a fine job, bringing her home dead drunk in the middle of the day.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort!” he snapped. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“You don’t want to know!”

“Gail,” Arlene protested weakly, “it’s okay. I have a headache, that’s all, and just need to lie down until it passes.”

Gail’s face swam into her line of vision. “Sweetie, what kind of headache has you practically passing out?”

“A migraine,” Domenico interjected on an irate breath. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“Oh.” Her tone suddenly less confrontational, Gail backed into the elevator. “I’m…um…sorry if I came on too strong. I’ll help you get her upstairs.”

“Close the shutters,” Domenico instructed, when they reached the room. “I understand it helps to have the room darkened.”

While Gail scurried to obey him, he lowered Arlene to the bed farthest from the window, then sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked a cool hand down her forehead. “Close your eyes, cara,” he murmured, and even in the depths of her misery, the shift in his attitude was not lost on her. Whatever had given rise to that unspoken edge of hostility between them yesterday and which had continued into this morning, melted in the deep, soothing warmth of his voice.

“I’ve never seen her like this before,” she heard Gail whisper from the other side of the bed. “Shouldn’t we call for a doctor?”

“She doesn’t usually suffer from migraines?”

“Not that I’m aware of, and if anyone would know, I would. We’ve been best friends ever since college.”

The mattress shifted slightly as he rose to his feet. “Stay with her and keep the ice pack at the back of her neck.”

Panic lacing her voice, Gail hissed, “You’re just dropping her off, then leaving? What if—?”

“I’ll be back,” he said, as his footsteps receded quietly over the tiled floor.

As soon as she heard the door click shut behind him, Arlene struggled to sit up. “Gail…? I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, cripes!” Gail slipped an arm around her shoulders and eased her to her feet. “Okay, sweetie, come on. I’ll help you to the bathroom.”

They made it with seconds to spare. Wrenching and horrible though it was while it lasted, vomiting seemed to ease the stabbing ferocity of the pain just a little.

After rinsing out her mouth and splashing cold water on her face, Arlene lay down on the bed again and managed a feeble smile. “Don’t look so worried. I promise not to pull a repeat performance.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Gail said, crossing to peer through the peephole as a knock came at the door. “You just took ten years off my life. Now lie still and look pale and interesting. Your Sir Galahad’s back, and he’s not alone.”

“How is she?” Domenico inquired, the minute he set foot in the room.

“About the same,” Gail told him. “But she threw up while you were gone.”

Oh, please! Arlene whimpered silently. Haven’t I suffered enough indignity for one day, without your sharing that with him?

“Then it’s as well I summoned professional help. This is Dr. Zaccardo,” he added, as a middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair advanced to her bedside.

“It is as you suspected.” After a brief examination and a few pertinent questions, the doctor stepped back from the bed and nodded so energetically at the other two that Arlene shuddered inside. “I will leave this medication with you,” he continued, reaching into his medical bag for a small bottle. “See, please, that she takes two tablets immediately and, if necessary, two more at six, this evening. However, treatment now is such that a migraine is usually dispelled in a matter of hours. If she shows no improvement by nightfall, you will contact me, but I do not expect to hear from you. By tomorrow, she will be herself again. Arrivederci, signor, signorine.”

With that, he was gone as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Arlene to deal only with Domenico who didn’t seem disposed to leave with equal dispatch. Instead while Gail brought her two pills and a glass of water, he went to the desk and wrote something on the pad of paper supplied by the hotel.

“If you’re concerned at all, you can reach me at any of these numbers, and this one is Dr. Zaccardo’s,” he told Gail. “Regardless, please call me this evening and let me know how she’s doing.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“I want to hear from you anyway. You’ll be staying with her, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Until later, then.”

The next time Arlene was aware of her surroundings, the room was completely dark except for the soft glow from a lamp next to the armchair by the window, where Gail sat reading.

Cautiously Arlene blinked. Dared to turn her head on the pillow. And let out a slow breath of relief. No flashing lights before her eyes. No stabbing pain above her left temple. Nothing, in fact, but a cool, delicious lassitude—and a gorgeous bouquet of pink roses on the coffee table, some distance away.

“You’re awake!” Gail exclaimed softly, setting down her book and coming to the bed. “How’re you feeling, sweetie?”

“Better,” she said. “Much better. What time is it?”

“Just after eight. You slept for over six hours. Do you need more medication?”

She sat up carefully. “I don’t think so. But I’d love some water.”

“Sure.” Gail plumped her pillows, then filled a glass from the carafe on the desk.

Arlene sipped it slowly, letting the slivers of ice linger a moment on her tongue, then slide down her throat.

“Well?” Gail watched her anxiously.

“So far, so good.” She indicated the roses. “They’re lovely, Gail, but you should’ve saved your money. I’m not going to die, after all.”

“Oh, they’re not from me! He sent them. They arrived a couple of hours ago. Here, see for yourself.” She handed over a card, signed simply Domenico. “Not long on sentiment, is he?”

“Apparently not.” Nevertheless, a sweet, ridiculous pleasure sang through Arlene’s blood that he’d cared enough to send her flowers in the first place.

“Pretty good at dishing out orders, though. I suppose I’d better give him a call and let him know you’re feeling better.”

She retrieved the notepad from the desk, punched in one of the numbers he’d written down, and almost immediately began, “Hi, it’s Gail Weaver…. Yes, I know what time it is…. Well I did, as soon as she woke up…Just now…Well, I will, if you’ll stop interrupting and let me finish a sentence…! No, she says she doesn’t need them…. Because she’s a grown woman, Mr. Silvaggio de Whatever, which means she, and not you, gets to decide what she puts in her mouth…. I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

She held the phone at arm’s length. “Do you feel up to talking to his lordship, Arlene?” she inquired, loud enough for half the people in the hotel to hear.

Arlene nodded, unable to keep a straight face. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, she wondered.

“Hello, Domenico,” she said, picking up the handset on the bedside table.

“I hear you’re recovered.” Seductive baritone verging on bass, his voice stroked sinfully against her ear and vibrated the length of her body. “I’m greatly relieved.”

“Thank you, both for your concern and for the flowers. If a woman has to suffer a migraine, waking up to pink roses does make it a little easier to bear.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

A pause hummed along the line, which she took to mean the conversation was at an end. “Well, I’ll say good night, then—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “Arlene, I blame myself for what happened today. Expecting you to work as long as others who are used to our climate was unforgivable of me, and I apologize.”

“There’s no need. You heard my friend Gail, a moment ago. I’m a grown woman. I could, and should have spoken sooner. As it was, I put you to a great deal of trouble at a time when you’ve got your hands full with the harvest. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, and won’t be returning to the vineyard?”

“Of course not. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight—at least, I will unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a purr. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

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