The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer

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      “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. СКАЧАТЬ