The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer

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      He showed up right on time, driving not the Jeep, as she’d expected, but a sleek silver roadster. He wore pale gray trousers, a blue shirt open at the neck and black leather loafers, which even to her inexperienced eye were clearly handmade.

      “You look very lovely, Arlene,” he said, stepping out of the car to afford himself a head-to-toe inspection, “but your hair…” He fingered a strand and shook his head. “This will not do.”

      She stared at him, too disappointed to be offended. “You don’t like it?”

      “It is beautiful, and I won’t be responsible for spoiling it.”

      With that, he disappeared into the hotel. Turning to watch, she saw him enter the boutique, then emerge a couple of minutes later with a long white silk scarf. “For the wind,” he explained, draping it over her head, then crossing the ends under her chin and tossing them over her shoulders. “There, now put on your sunglasses, and you’ll look exactly the part—an international celebrity, leaving her yacht for the day to travel about the island incognito, with her chauffeur at the wheel of her car.”

      He was joking, of course. No one in his right mind would ever mistake Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos for a lowly chauffeur, any more than she’d ever pass for a celebrity. Not even the chinos and boots he wore around the vineyard could disguise his aristocratic bearing, let alone the discreetly expensive clothes he had on now. His watch alone probably cost more than she earned in a month.

      He ushered her into the car, and within minutes they’d left the town behind and were headed west along the coast toward Sassari, where they made their first stop. “This vineyard also grows the Vermentino grape as we do,” he said, pulling up before a castellated building fronted by an enormous courtyard. “The owner, Santo Perrottas, and I went to school together in Rome, and have been good friends since we were boys.”

      That much was obvious from the warm welcome they received. Although not in the same class as Domenico, Santo was nonetheless a handsome, charming man. When he learned the reason for their visit, nothing would do but that Arlene sample his wine, not in the tasting room used by the public, but in a private garden screened by espaliered vines already turning color and stripped of their fruit.

      “I’ve heard of British Columbian wines,” he commented, as they sipped the straw-colored, aromatic Vermentino. “They have won gold medals in international competition, I understand.”

      “Not from grapes grown on my land, I’m afraid,” she said ruefully. “I inherited a vineyard that’s been neglected for some time.”

      “Then you’re in good hands with Domenico. He is a true expert in the art of cultivating healthy vines. And you, my friend,” he added, turning to Domenico with a wry grin, “how lucky are you, to have come across such a bellezza! Why could she not have turned up on my doorstep, instead of yours?”

      “Why do you think? Because she’s as smart as she is beautiful. And because you’re married.”

      Arlene felt a blush creeping over her face. She wasn’t used to such flattering attention. Not that they meant it, of course. They were just being polite and charming because that was expected of men who moved in the elevated stratum of society they frequented.

      From Sassari, Domenico drove south, stopping at three other vineyards on the way, where they were again warmly welcomed and pressed to stay longer—for lunch, for dinner, for the night. But he refused each invitation, and for that, Arlene was glad. Although she appreciated the hospitality, he was an excellent teacher and much of what she heard and saw, she’d already learned at Vigna Silvaggio d’Avalos. The true pleasure of the day for her was seeing his СКАЧАТЬ