Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ its high rose window, and then we circled around to the Piazza Garibaldi, which was not much wider than a street, and nothing at all like the big piazzas of Rome I remembered from a long ago trip, back in the days when I’d still taken holidays. At one end of the piazza lay the austere, smaller church of Sant’Egidio, and on the other the tall, slender clock tower of the palazzo.

      The subtle touch of Luca’s hand on my back, neither intrusive nor casual, sent waves of warmth through me as we wandered the narrow, cobbled streets. It had been a very long time since a man had touched me like this, with such care and attention. So long, I couldn’t even remember. Kevin hadn’t been touchy-feely, and even in those rare moments when we’d been intimate, his touch had never thrilled me as Luca’s now did.

      The piazza was busy with tourists and shoppers, with laughing, talking people, and with music.

      ‘But watch,’ Luca whispered. ‘Here more than anywhere in the town you can see that there are two Montalcinos. There’s the tourist hotspot that outsiders see, and then there’s our little village, where everyone knows everyone else.’

      He was right. While the tourists and locals walked side by side in the same streets, it was as if they existed in two separate worlds, brushing against each other, but not merging. Neither local nor tourist, where did I belong?

      He led me to a restaurant on the square, where he was welcomed effusively by the staff who clearly knew him well, and we were seated at a prime table on the pavement, sheltered by a white awning and a hedge of potted shrubs. Luca ordered a bottle of local wine, the Brunello di Montalcino, for me to try, and we both ordered the house specials.

      ‘You are sure you don’t want to keep the vineyard?’ Luca asked, as the restaurant’s owner himself poured our wine. ‘Even when you go back to London you could be a partner in the winery, if you wanted.’

      I shook my head. ‘Absolutely sure. What would I do with half a vineyard?’

      ‘You do not want to be a part of your father’s vineyard?’

      There was that old pain, making me feel like a wounded child again. ‘There was a time I’d have done anything for John’s approval, but it’s too late for that now.’

      Luca’s eyes filled with sympathy, as if he understood the feeling. ‘Then as purely a business proposition? If Tommaso is right, the vineyard will be profitable soon. Half those profits could be yours.’

      I shook my head even more emphatically and reached for my wine glass. It was a deep-flavoured red, heavier and less sweet than what I usually drank.

      ‘If you are quite sure, I can arrange a real estate agent to give you a valuation on the castello,’ Luca offered. ‘I have a friend who is with one of the best agencies in the province.’

      ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’ Then, because it was too beautiful a day to waste thinking about the castello, I changed the subject. ‘Tell me about this wine.’

      Luca’s face lit up with boyish enthusiasm, as if I’d asked him to show off his favourite toy. Oh, please don’t let him be one of those bores who can’t shut up once they start talking about their favourite sport. ‘The Brunello is made from the local clone of the Sangiovese grapes, the same that grow in your own vineyard.’

      My chest did an excited flutter at the words ‘your vineyard’, and I quickly squashed it. I wanted no part of this vineyard, remember?

      ‘The Brunello grape has a higher alcohol level than the average Sangiovese, so our wines have ripe, full-bodied, concentrated flavours, and a rich lingering after-taste.’

      He swirled his glass delicately and breathed in the aroma deeply before taking a sip. ‘The Brunello di Montalcino is a mature wine, well-aged, which makes it expensive, both to make and to buy, but it is worth every cent.’

      I took another sip, more slowly this time, breathing it in as he had done, then savouring the wine on my tongue before swallowing.

      He grinned. ‘Can you taste the Montalcino air in the wine? The hazelnuts, the dried fig, the anise? Younger vintages are much fruitier, but this wine is not so bold.’

      Long ago, my father taught me to taste wine, explaining the flavours and encouraging me to name them. But those memories were as fleeting as the time we’d spent together. I took another sip, rolling the wine around on my tongue before swallowing, surprised when I identified the flavours Luca described. ‘Wow!’

      He laughed, throwing his head back, an open and infectious laugh. ‘We will send you home a wine connoisseur. Do you have a man waiting for you back in England?’

      Wow, he certainly wasn’t shy! ‘Only if you count my boss.’

      ‘And your job – what is it you do?’

      ‘I’m a financial analyst with an investment banking firm in the City of London.’

      ‘They don’t need you back?’

      I looked down at the tablecloth, tracing the silver threaded pattern in the white cloth with my finger. ‘They tell me I’ve been working so hard that I need to take a really long holiday.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Apparently I need to find a healthy work-life balance.’

      Luca took my hand in his. ‘È perfetto. Italy is the place for that. We work hard, but we also play hard.’

      His thumb stroked my palm suggestively, and I pulled my hand free, fighting a blush. Geez. I was too old for a schoolgirl crush, and too young for hot flashes, so what was going on with me? I covered my awkwardness with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’d much rather talk about you. Tell me about Luciano Fioravanti.’

      Like any man, once given the opportunity to talk about himself, he did. But I needn’t have worried he’d turn into a bore. Luca had the legendary Italian charm, and our conversation flowed almost as easily as the wine. Too easily. I felt none of the usual constraint I felt when out on a date. But this wasn’t a date. Just a lawyer taking out his client for a business lunch, right?

      We nibbled at the platter of bruschetta and fiori di zucca, fried zucchini flowers, which the owner himself brought to our table, and I soon felt lighter than I had in months. I had the undivided attention of a gorgeous man, the heady taste of a rich wine, the divine flavours of Italy, and sultry June air on my skin.

       See, I can relax. I know how to have fun.

      After the antipasti, came an asparagus risotto. I’d clearly had too much wine already, because the flavours hit my tongue like an explosion, and I closed my eyes, sighing, making Luca laugh again. I liked his laugh, so open and uninhibited.

      ‘Everything tastes better in Italy,’ he said, a teasing spark in his eyes.

      Oh no. There was that hot flash thing again. Thirty-five was too young for menopause, wasn’t it?

      I basked in the golden glow of the envious glances sent my way by the other women in the restaurant, including our Polish waitress. Or maybe it was the golden glow of the wine. I didn’t care which it was. I was more relaxed than I’d been in forever. Cleo would be so proud of me.

      After lunch, Luca walked me to the co-op and pushed my trolley as I shopped for groceries. He even waited patiently as I scoured the shelves for baking ingredients. Since I had all СКАЧАТЬ