The Sicilian's Bride
“That won’t be easy,” Dario commented. It was true. All the able-bodied men were at work in the vineyards. “Most people are busy with the crush.”
“Which reminds me, I want to see the vineyard.”
“Of course.” That, Dario thought, could help matters; she’d see how withered the vines were.
They went back downstairs and out into the hot sunshine where they walked up and down the path between the old vines. Dario followed behind Isabel, noticing the way her hips swayed enticingly as she walked, how the perspiration dampened the back of her neck, admiring in spite of himself her red-gold hair, which she’d tied back, gleaming in the sunlight. But only as he would admire a painting by Titian, with cool detachment. His detachment was cool until his mind jumped to the thought of her as the half-clothed subject of a lush Titian painting.
A surprising jolt of desire hit him in his chest. He’d been immune to the allure of women since his affair with Magdalena had ended so disastrously. Could his libido be alive and well again? Maybe all it took was knowing he’d finally recovered and was back in charge of his life and his vineyards. And then a glimpse of a Titian-haired heiress didn’t hurt as long as she didn’t stay too long. All he asked was for life to return to the way it was—pre-drought, pre-fungus, pre-Magdalena. He was almost there. He felt a new surge of energy, a feeling of hope close at hand, as close as the vines on either side of the path.
Dario deliberately turned his attention to picking and tasting a grape here and there, much safer than watching the woman. Another surprise—the level of sugar in the neglected fruit. Soon they could be turned into the superb dessert wine they were famous for. If. If the woman would only be reasonable. They should win the gold this year for either a red or a white. They would be back on top, and the world would be theirs again.
Finding that Magdalena was deceiving him was one thing, but losing his head over her so that he’d been negligent in running the vineyards was ten times worse. He blamed himself for the whole mess. He’d learned a valuable lesson. No matter how tempting, he would never fall for any woman again. His family didn’t believe that. They thought his turning into a loner this past year was only a phase. He didn’t think so.
This year if all went well, they could be on top again with a win at the Concorso for their Ceravasuolo. Let his family call him obsessive. He didn’t care. It was better than being careless. He buried himself in his work. It was his choice and his obligation. Someone had to worry about the wine and family’s land holdings. His father was busy in Palermo, his grandfather was sick. So that person was him. Let his sisters suggest he get out and find a girlfriend. It wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.
Isabel paused to pick some grapes and licked her lips. Even as a beginner unaccustomed to tasting wine grapes off the vine, she was struck by how sweet they were. She felt a quiver of excitement. These were special grapes. She’d read about super-sweet grapes, old grapes that had been neglected. Her grapes.
She turned to Dario, whose blue eyes were narrowed in the bright sun. “These are delicious,” she said. “Are they the same grapes that produce the famous Amarado dessert wine?”
He hesitated. Didn’t he know or didn’t he want to tell her? Finally he nodded.
She realized he didn’t want her to know. He wanted her to get discouraged and leave. Sell out to him. He was sorry she’d stumbled on her own high-quality grapes. She could tell by the way his mouth was set in a straight uncompromising line, and by the creases in his forehead that this was the last thing he wanted her to know.
“I’ve tasted that wine. It’s delicious. After I did some research on the Azienda Spendora I went out and found a few bottles of old Amarado in an upscale beverage store. It’s very expensive in the States, if you can even find it,” she said thoughtfully. “A high-end wine. It could be a huge moneymaker.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
She slanted a glance in his direction. He knew. He must know how valuable it was. “No wonder you want this vineyard so much. It’s because of the Amarado. I can’t believe it. These are all mine and I’ll make this superb dessert wine. I can make a go of it. I know I can. I can make money. Live off the land and show the naysayers.”
She paused, struck by the look on his face. What had she said to make him glare at her like that? A muscle in his temple twitched. Was she excessively bragging? Or was he just upset because they were hers and not his grapes? “You didn’t tell me about these grapes.”
“You didn’t ask me,” he said shortly. “Don’t get too excited,” he cautioned. “It takes more than just picking and fermenting the grapes to make a decent Amarado.”
“You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think I have what it takes.”
“Do you?”
Suddenly a shaft of uncertainty hit her. What made her think she could compete in a wine market where her competitors had been doing this for decades? Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she was overconfident. He was right. It wasn’t going to be easy.
“Yes. I’ll make it work,” she insisted. “Why shouldn’t I?” She was proud of how certain she sounded when inside a small voice asked who she thought she was. How did she think she could compete as an outsider?
“Why? Because you can’t possibly pick your own grapes,” Dario said. “You have acres of vines. It’s backbreaking work and you have to know what you’re doing. You don’t want to do work like that. That’s not women’s work.”
Women’s work? She frowned and bit back a retort, something like Even in Sicily, haven’t you heard of equal rights, equal pay and equal opportunities?
It seemed as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Hadn’t she made it clear she’d stick it out and produce the wine these grapes were famous for even if she had to pick the grapes herself?
“You can ruin the whole crop by doing it yourself or hiring unskilled laborers. What you should do is take a vacation then go back where you belong.” He took her arm and half pulled her back to the driveway where his car was parked.
“I am where I belong,” she said, stepping out of his grasp before she got into the car. Her face was hot. Perspiration dripped from her temples.
Once they were in the car, he drove so fast her hair was whipped around her face in the wind. “This is my land,” she reminded him. “I don’t care how hard it is, I’m going to get those grapes picked and make my own wine from them if I have to do it myself. Which I can’t believe I will have to do. I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to dealing with or what work you expect them to do. I’m not a fragile flower who’ll sit at home knitting, waiting for some man to come along and take care of me. And I’m not a tourist. I’m here to work and I’m here to stay.”
“Fine,” he said after taking a moment to digest this. “Stay. But stay somewhere else. I’m prepared to make you a generous offer. You can take the money and buy a house with a garden. Something you can manage on your own.”
“I’m not interested in another house. I’m staying here on my land and in my house. My uncle wanted me to have it, not you. The Azienda Spendora is not for sale.”
“You haven’t heard our offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Look,” he said as he stopped the car and turned his head to turn his penetrating gaze on her. “I’ll make a deal with you. Let me take you around the countryside to look at property for sale. If you don’t see anything you like, anything that compares with the Azienda, then I’ll give up. I’ll stop bothering you. Dio, I’ll even help you find the workers you need.”
“And if I don’t agree to this fruitless trip around the countryside? Because I can tell you right now…”
“If you don’t agree, and you don’t come with an open mind, then I promise things won’t be easy for you. You have no idea how hard it is to find workers, and you won’t find many friends either.”
Her face paled. She tried to turn her glare at him but she couldn’t keep her lower lip from trembling. Oh, she put on a game face, but he’d finally made a dent in her self-assurance. He’d threatened her. He must be desperate for the land. But not as desperate as she was to hang on to it.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you, but I’m warning you…”
He almost looked amused. As if she had some nerve warning him when he’d just threatened her. He held up one hand, palm forward. “No warnings, no conditions. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.”
“Wait,” she said. “I never met any neighbors. You said…”
“Tomorrow is another day,” he said. But he didn’t apologize or make any promises. She had a feeling he never did. Then she saw she had a flat tire.
The next morning Isabel had half a mind to cancel. If she’d known Dario’s phone number she might have. She dressed carefully in Capri pants and a tank top, then changed into a sundress, but after surveying her image in the full-length mirror in her hotel room, she changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt then back to the Capris.
As if it mattered. The man had barely glanced at her yesterday, and when he did look her way he didn’t see a living breathing person who only wanted what she deserved, or even a pesky, tired, jetlagged tourist, he saw an obstacle standing in his way.
Take yesterday, when he’d fixed her flat tire for her. At first he’d looked at her as if she’d done it on purpose to annoy him. Without a word, he took his shirt off and opened the trunk of her car to remove the spare tire and a jack. She tried not to stare at his bare chest, since the sight of those well-toned muscles made her knees weak, but she couldn’t help it. Since her auto club didn’t have service in Italy, she had no choice but to watch him repair her tire. She hoped he didn’t think she’d repay him for his work by selling him her vineyard.
She watched closely while he propped the jack into the fittings on the side of the car. Squatting next to the car, his broad shoulders were covered with a sheen of sweat as he started cranking the jack. He muttered something that she didn’t understand. Probably something like “Damned helpless American women.”
She kneeled down next to him, her skirt pulled to one side, her bare knees pressed against the hot pavement. All in the interest of learning how to change a tire by herself some day. Kneeling there, she was all too aware of the essence of earthy macho male emanating from his half-naked body. Just being that near him made her feel as if her insides were melting. Or was that just the temperature outside?
He handed her four small metal objects he’d taken off something, his rough palm brushing her fingers. He smelled like ripe grapes and the hot Italian sun. She felt faint. No wonder. It was way past lunch time and she hadn’t had anything to eat for hours, just half a glass of wine. Maybe that’s why she felt so lightheaded.
When he’d replaced the flat tire with the new one, she said “Grazie,” and gave him a grateful smile.
He didn’t smile back. Didn’t praise her attempt at speaking Italian. She didn’t expect him to. He’d used up all the good will he had for her, if any. He hadn’t introduced her to a single neighbor. Hadn’t even introduced her to his brother. But, after him changing her tire, she could hardly complain. He might be the lord of the manor and the owner of all the land around here, but he wasn’t too proud to do a menial job and she admired that about him. Another man might have called a garage and hired a mechanic. If only she’d told him then to forget about showing her other properties. It wouldn’t do any good, but he’d made up his mind. Well, so had she.
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER a cup of delicious cappuccino and some hot rolls on the sun-dappled veranda of the lovely Hotel Cairoli the next morning, Isabel told herself to relax. Let him show her around the countryside. He’d soon realize he had no chance at all of her changing her mind. She’d simply treat it as an opportunity to see something of the area in the company of an attractive Italian man who knew his way around. And maybe finally meet some locals. Never mind the gorgeous Italian found nothing remotely attractive about her, especially her personality. That was his problem, not hers.
By the time he arrived, she’d almost convinced herself she could treat him like her driver and nothing more. But then she saw the heads turn when his impressive car pulled up and he got out wearing khaki cargo pants and an expensive polo shirt that matched his eyes and did nothing to conceal the taut muscles in his arms.
Before she could get up and go to meet him, he’d walked through the place like he owned it and taken a seat at her table. The waitress was scurrying to bring him a cup of coffee and a plate of fresh hot rolls. She was beaming at him as if he was her long-lost brother, and it seemed everyone in the place knew who he was and lost no time in either shaking his hand or putting their arms around him as if they hadn’t seen him for years.
It was obvious he was not only part of a big family, he was part of a community as well. She felt a pang of envy. How long would it take for her to feel this way? She couldn’t wait for twenty-six generations to pass by.
“Are you enjoying your stay?” he asked, his blue gaze zeroing in on Isabel as if she was the only one on the veranda. His attention was flattering. Or it would be if she didn’t think he had an ulterior motive. He’d either decided to change his tactics, or he’d decided to enjoy the day and forget his only too apparent motive. Knowing him it must be the former.
“Very much. But I’m planning to move out either today or tomorrow.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” he asked with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.
“Nothing, the people are nice and the beds are very comfortable. But I didn’t come here to loll about in a luxury hotel when I have a perfectly good house of my own.” She felt her cheeks redden. They both knew it wasn’t “perfectly good.” She braced herself for his retort.
“Ah,” he said. But that was all. No mention of the lack of water, heat or electricity. Which only made her worry about these things more. It was much easier to be brave when she had to convince him at the same time. Without a rival to fight with, she felt strangely deflated.
“As you know, it’s harvest time and I need to be picking grapes.” She waited for his predictable comment about how hard the work was and how busy all the real workers were, but it didn’t come.
Instead he drained his cup and said, “Ready?” then stood and pulled her chair out from the table. She had the feeling the whole hotel staff was standing there watching as if he were a movie star on location as she got into his car and pulled away. She had to admit he was better-looking than any movie star she’d ever seen.
Did his attention to her raise her status in the community she longed to be part of? Either the group on the terrace at the hotel were shaking their heads, thinking she was a fool for going off with the Sicilian playboy who might even be married or they were cheering her on, thinking she’d be a fool for not running off to spend a day with the sexiest man around these parts.
It didn’t matter, this was not a date. He was not interested in her nor was she in him. He was showing her around only because he thought he’d achieve his own goal that way. She was spending the day with him for the same reason, to get what she wanted. But she couldn’t help being curious about him and his family.
She leaned back against the soft leather upholstery and let the sun shine on her face. She felt no need to make conversation since he seemed to be lost in thought, maybe pretending she wasn’t there. He’d insisted on showing her property, he hadn’t said he’d enjoy it. His eyes were hidden behind his wraparound sunglasses, one suntanned arm braced on the open window. His mind was somewhere else, no doubt.
To distract herself from looking at Dario, thinking about him and admiring his hands on the wheel, his bronzed arms and his skillful driving, she tried to identify the different kinds of trees they passed—oak, elm, ash and maybe beech. There might even be cork and maple. In the hills above them, farm animals grazed. It was a peaceful and bucolic scene, one most tourists never saw. She told herself to sit back and enjoy it while she could. Tomorrow and the next day and every day after that she’d be at work in the vineyard.
Glancing at his profile out of the corner of her eye, she thought he was just as gorgeous from that viewpoint as he was full-on, with his broken nose, his solid jaw and high cheekbones. From a strictly impersonal viewpoint of course. If he wasn’t married, she wondered why not. Was it his surly personality, or was that side of him reserved for her benefit?
He pointed to a village perched high on a hill. And finally he spoke. “Casale,” he said, “one of the first towns taken by the Normans from the Arabs who took it from the Saracens who took it from the Byzantines.”
“So I’m not the first foreigner to claim land here.”
“Not at all. But you should know Sicilians are tough people. We may seem to give in at first, but we’re just rolling with the punches. We may occasionally be defeated, but it’s just temporary. We’ve been around for centuries through good times and bad. Everyone wants something we’ve got—our land, our crops and our climate. For six thousand years the Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs, the French and the Spanish, they’ve all come and seen and conquered. They’ve all left their marks. But eventually they moved on. And we stayed on. We’re here for good.”
Isabel took her time taking this all in. Not just the history lesson, but his taking the trouble to instruct her. “Of course you are,” she said at last. “You’re Italian and you belong here.”
“I’m Sicilian,” he said firmly. “The Italians are just the latest colonizers who’ve come to strip away our wealth.” She knew what he thought. Whether Italian or American, she was in the same category as the other intruders. Was that the real reason he was taking her on this tour? To make her aware of her place in history? Where were the villas he wanted her to see? The land for sale?
“There’s a rather nice Roman villa over there that was buried in the mud for seven hundred years until it was discovered in 1950. You should see it.”
“Why?” she said. “Is it for sale?”
One corner of his mouth twitched as if he might possibly smile. That would be a first. He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten why we’re here. I’m glad you haven’t either.” He turned down a side road. The villa was open to tourists, but today there were only a few.
“Villas were more than simply vacation homes for the wealthy Romans,” Dario explained, “there are outbuildings which could house more family and servants and workshops as well. The owner and his family lived in this section with fifteen rooms, an underground central heating system and mosaic flooring.”
“Like your house?” she asked. How rich was he? How big was his house?
“Mine? I live by myself in the gatekeeper’s cottage on the family property. It’s pretty simple. No mosaics, no grand facade like you see here, where even the stables and servants’ quarters are faced with some kind of beautiful stone frontage. The Romans wanted to make a statement, let the world know they were rich and powerful. Our family…” He paused as if he might be about to divulge a family secret. “Our family isn’t like that.”
Oh, no? she wanted to ask. Then why did they need her property? Why couldn’t they be happy being the biggest landowners for miles around? Why did they have to have her tiny little vineyard?
Lived by himself, he said. She wanted to ask what he’d told his family about her. Maybe nothing. Why had his brother taken off yesterday before she could meet him? Was Dario protecting her or his brother? Maybe she was so insignificant she didn’t even warrant an introduction. Just buy her off, she thought they’d say. We don’t want to see her. Let us know when the sale is done and we can celebrate.
She paused to admire a well-preserved wall mosaic that pictured dolphins flanking a vase and a central rosette with a knot motif.
“Even the Romans loved dolphins,” she murmured.
“Why not? They’re intelligent, acrobatic, and they seem to like us humans. If you leave by ferry, you’ll see them in the waters off Messina.”
She stiffened. “Why do you assume I’m going to leave? I’m not. I’m staying.” What did she have to do to prove to him how determined she was to stay? And why?
“Shall we go?” he asked without answering her question. Maybe he sensed her frustration. Maybe he even enjoyed pushing her, watching her respond, hoping she’d tire of fighting back. But she wouldn’t. Her heart was hardened and her will power intact. She’d had years of practice.
She didn’t even waver when he drove to the coast where white sandy beaches contrasted with the clear blue sea. There above the beach was a small cottage for sale with a balcony overlooking a garden. Standing on the stone terrace she caught her breath at the stunning beauty of the view.
The scent of lilies and wild herbs filled the air. The contrast to her own run-down house was striking and he knew it. This was the kind of place you could move into and never have to worry about a hole in the roof. She imagined a garden full of tiny tomatoes bursting with flavor, a kitchen with sauce simmering on the stove. For a moment she felt her heart longing to have all that and more.
Once she had wanted love too, but no longer. It was folly to think of having a family and sharing her life with them. She’d tried that and it hadn’t worked. In the past, every time she thought she’d found a family, they’d sent her on her way. When she grew up and finally fell in love, she’d thought her life had turned around. Her mistake. One she would never make again. She was on her own again and always would be. Now more than ever.
“The best part is that it’s only a few kilometers from our largest archeological site. It was built by the Greeks and has the best example of Doric columns you’ll see anywhere. If you’re interested in that kind of thing.”
What could she say? She didn’t care about history? She was indifferent to archeology? On the contrary. She’d love to visit the site and study the relics of the past, but she had to make a living. No, it was better to say nothing negative, just tell him she’d think about it.
“How much is it?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Let’s just say it would be an even trade.”
“But how would I earn a living?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. She knew what he was thinking, that she wasn’t likely to make a living from her grapes either. But she’d show him. She’d make wine and she’d sell it if it was the last thing she did.
Instead he looked at his watch, which appeared to be a Swiss collector’s timepiece with multiple dials and a view of the precision movements through the face. How like him to have a watch that matched his car—expensive, luxurious and well-appointed. He obviously had never known what it was like to need money the way she did. Except for that glitch when they had to sell her uncle their vineyard. She still didn’t understand how that had come about. When she’d asked if it was a drought or fungus he’d said yes. But what had actually happened?
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Вы ознакомились с фрагментом книги.
Для бесплатного чтения открыта только часть текста.
Приобретайте полный текст книги у нашего партнера:
Полная версия книги