Читать книгу The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle - Catherine Spencer - Страница 6

DESPITE her objections, Arlene spent the next four days in Domenico’s office. With thick, whitewashed plaster walls, stone floor, recessed windows and heavy beamed ceiling, it served both as a business center and a boardroom. At one end of the vast space stood a large desk, filing cabinets, and high-tech computer station and communications system, but she spent most of her time at the other end, seated beside him in comfortable club chairs at a handsome conference table.

“You’re coddling me,” she accused him, when he told her she wouldn’t be helping with the harvest again. “You think I don’t have what it takes to handle the job.”

“On the contrary, I’m trying to give you as broad a base of information as possible in the short time at my disposal so that, when you take over your own property, you’ll have a better idea of what your priorities should be. I suggest you let me decide the best way to go about doing that.”

So it was that, with the door closed on the bustle of activity taking place outside, she studied slide shows illustrating various irrigation methods, ideal sun exposure, elevations, climate and soil conditions for growing grapes. She learned about different varietals and the importance of choosing those best suited to her particular location, as well as determining the trellising system to support them.

Domenico drew up spreadsheets itemizing general expenditures, and a calendar outlining a typical work year in a vineyard. He supplied her with catalogs and names of reputable companies she could call on when it came time to buy seedlings and equipment. Recommended videos she’d find helpful, online courses she could take, and offered advice on the kind of help she should hire.

Just when she thought she’d never begin to assimilate the mountain of facts he threw at her, he’d call a break and they’d help themselves from the thermos of coffee, which always waited on the serving bar separating the two halves of the room. Then it was back to work until around one o’clock, when the same van that delivered lunch to the field workers, stopped by, and the driver brought in a covered tray for the two of them. Unlike the food prepared for the pickers, though, hers and Domenico’s was more elaborate and served on colorful porcelain, with linen napkins and crested silverware.

On the fifth day, he took her back to the fields and showed her how to use a refractometer to measure the sugar content of the grapes. “One drop of juice is all you need for an immediate digital read-out,” he explained, demonstrating. “Good wine is calibrated at a sugar level of 22BRIX.”

“Bricks?”

“B-R-I-X,” he amended, spelling it out for her.

She opened her ever-handy notebook. What’s that?”

“The scale used by vintners to measure the sugar solution in the fruit.”

“And what did you say this thing is called…?”

“A refractometer.”

She examined the small, hand-held instrument more closely. “I think I might have seen one of these among the other equipment, when I went to visit my property, but it looked pretty old and beaten-up compared to this.”

“Throw it out and buy another,” he advised. “Accuracy is crucial when it comes to determining sugar content. You could lose an entire crop if you harvest too soon or leave the grapes on the vine too long. As the sugar content rises, so does the pH. Harvesting has to be timed to maximize sugar content while minimizing acidity.”

To an outsider witnessing these sessions, it would have appeared to be all business between him and her. And indeed, where viticulture was concerned, it absolutely was. But underneath, something less tangible was at work. Without a single overt word or gesture, an invisible tension grew between them that had nothing to do with grapes or wine, and everything to do with the tacit awareness of a man and a woman separated from the rest of the world by a thick wooden door that shut out all sight and sound of other human interaction.

The faint scent of his aftershave, of her shampoo, permeated the air in mingled intimacy. His voice seemed to take on a deeper timbre when he addressed her. He turned her very ordinary name into an exotic three-syllabled caress. Ar-lay-na.

Sometimes, she’d glance up from diligently filling yet another page with notes, and catch him studying her so intently that heat raced through her blood as if she had a fever. Other times, he’d touch her, not necessarily on purpose and never intimately. Yet even the most accidental brushing of his hand against hers was enough to send tiny impulses of sensual awareness shooting up her arm.

Simply put, she was enthralled by him. By the authority with which he imparted knowledge, and his patience as he explained the complicated science of viticulture. By his intelligence and integrity.

The respect he generated among his employees impressed her deeply. Nor was it limited to those working close by. She’d soon realized that his holdings extended far beyond Sardinia’s shores. He was, as his uncle once mentioned in passing, an international celebrity in his field.

Most of all, though, his evident devotion to his large family touched her where she was most vulnerable. As a lonely, unwanted child herself, she’d ached for the siblings that played so large a role in his life. Yet within that close family circle, he remained his own person. Independent, and confident in his masculinity, he exuded a charismatic charm unlike any other man she’d ever met. That he also happened to be blindingly handsome was merely the icing on a very delectable cake.

But however strong the intuition that told her he was equally attracted to her, once she was away from him, the uncertainty crept in. Possibly her imagination was leading her astray, spurred by the intimacy of just the two of them, alone for hours at a spell. What she took to be glances laden with an erotic subtext might simply be his way of giving her his undivided professional attention. For all she knew, the way he smiled at her, as if they shared something special and personal, could be the way he smiled at all women.

Was she the victim of her own wishful thinking? Or was there something…?

“There’s something!” Gail assured her, when she confided her doubts to her friend. “I could’ve told you that, the night he phoned to see how you were feeling after the migraine. I was listening in to the conversation between the pair of you, remember?”

Laughing, Arlene said, “I recall your panting furiously after he hung up, and gulping down ice water straight from the carafe!”

“What else did you expect? Cripes, Arlene, talk about steamy! That man was so hot for you, I thought the phone was about to explode in my ear!”

“That’s ridiculous! We’d met for the first time just the day before.”

“Which, it would appear, is all the time it took. Admit it, kiddo. Just when you were ready to give up on men, you’ve finally met one who stirs your little heart to beat a whole lot faster.”

“That doesn’t mean he feels the same way about me.”

“How do you know? Have you asked him?”

The very idea made her break out in a cold sweat. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Why not? You know he’s not married, so why not just go with the flow and see where it leads? What do you have to lose?”

“His respect, for a start. And for all I know, he could be involved with someone else.”

“Or he could be waiting for a sign of encouragement from you.”

“What’s the point of encouraging him, when we both know I’ll be leaving here in another nine days?”

“The point is that you might be shutting the door on a rather glorious thing called love at first sight.”

“I don’t believe in that,” she said stubbornly, all the while knowing she was deluding no one but herself.

Gail sighed, obviously exasperated. “There are hundreds of people in the world who do, and who prove it by living together happily ever after.”

But there were couples who mistook sexual attraction and infatuation for the real thing, and lived to regret it, and she ought to know. She’d been the product of such a mistake—the only child of parents who hated each other by the time she was born.

I sacrificed myself and stayed with him because of you, her mother had reminded her often enough. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant, I’d have left him within six months of marrying him and saved myself five years of misery.

“But if you’re convinced it’s not possible in your case,” Gail continued, “then leave love out of the equation, and just live for the moment. As long as you’re careful, holiday romance, with a little lust thrown in for good measure, never hurt anyone.”

But Arlene had never been susceptible to lust, mostly because, until Domenico, she hadn’t met a man who inspired it. “I don’t believe in that, either,” she said. “It’s too risky.”

Gail rolled her eyes. “This, from the woman who threw everything away to take on a broken-down vineyard, a couple of greyhounds and a crabby old man? Give me strength!”

Just as she was ready to leave on the Friday, Domenico asked her what plans she’d made for the weekend. “Because,” he said, “if you’re interested, I’ll take you to visit some of the other vineyards on the island. It never hurts to get someone else’s viewpoint. The more you see and the more people you talk to, the better off you’ll be when you start working your own fields.”

Knowing Gail had hooked up with a local tour guide who’d promised to take her scuba diving, Arlene accepted the invitation, and did her best to subdue the flush of pleasure riding up her neck. “Thank you! I’d like that very much.”

“Then I’ll pick you up around ten and we’ll make a day of it.”

Once back at the hotel, she agonized over what to wear. The sensible blouse and baggy pants that had been her standard uniform for most of the past week? The unflattering cotton sun hat that made her look like a wilted weed?

“Definitely not,” Gail decided, when asked her opinion. “You’re used to the sun now, and you’ve picked up a nice tan from lazing on the beach every afternoon. Book yourself into the hotel spa this afternoon and splurge—nails, facial, hair, the works. Heaven knows, you’ve earned it. Go glam, and let him see what he’s been missing.”

“Glam” had never been Arlene’s forte, but the mirror told her Gail had a point. Not only had the sun given her skin a honey glow, it had painted pale blond streaks in her light brown hair.

Four hours later, she emerged from the spa, so buffed and polished her own mother wouldn’t have known her.

Such a pity you’re so plain, Arlene, she used to say, but considering what you have to work with, there isn’t much you can do about it.

Until today, she’d have agreed. But not anymore. Nails painted a soft coral, skin shimmering like amber silk and hair expertly trimmed and enhanced by golden highlights, made a world of difference to the girl her mother had once dubbed “painfully drab.”

Giddy over her transformation, she stopped by the boutique in the hotel lobby and found the perfect dress to go with her new look. Full skirted, with a fitted bodice held up by spaghetti straps, it was made of soft polished cotton the same deep turquoise as the sea.

“Perfect!” Gail agreed, inspecting the finished results. “You’ll knock his socks off.”

The thing was, Arlene wondered nervously, would she know what to do about it, if she succeeded?

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 island through his eyes as he pointed out ancient ruins and breathtaking scenery.

Shortly before one in the afternoon, he drove inland for several kilometers to a village perched on a wooded slope overlooking the Mediterranean. Leaving the car on the outskirts, they walked along winding streets so narrow, the sun barely penetrated between the houses, and it seemed to Arlene that people could reach out of their bedroom windows and shake hands with their neighbors across the way. In a tiny square shaded by palm trees, they ate lunch at an outdoor restaurant, and were on their way again within the hour.

They reached Oristano just after four, and after a quick tour of the town, headed north again, following seventy-five kilometers of magnificent coastline and arriving in Alghero, on the Coral Riviera, just as daylight faded. Even so, the beauty of the city was apparent.

“It is the jewel of northwest Sardinia, if not the entire island,” Domenico told her, after they’d parked the car and were strolling through the cobbled streets of the medieval citadel. At that hour, the bars and restaurants were just coming alive after the afternoon lull, with people gathering in social groups at outdoor tables, to sip wine and exchange gossip. “If you had more time here, I would bring you back to enjoy the beach and see more of what the town has to offer. As it is, we’ll have dinner here and enjoy together what’s left of today.”

If you had more time here…. It had become a frequent refrain, during the day. Rose quartz beaches, secluded coves, forested hills, silent olive groves, archaeological ruins and seldom traveled roads leading to the wild interior: they’d have been hers to discover with him, if only she had more time.

Instead she had to make do with this one glorious day of fleeting impressions. Of smiling glances and shared laughter. Of his hand clasping hers to prevent her stumbling over the uneven paving stones. Of the wind whipping the ends of her scarf like the tails of a kite, as the car sped along the dusty roads. Of the sun touching the square line of his jaw and throwing deep bronze shadows under his high cheekbones. Of the scent of myrtle and sea pine capturing her senses.

These were the memories she’d take with her to her new home in British Columbia; these and the knowledge he’d shared with her. Did he know how indelible an impression he’d made, she wondered, angling a covert gaze at him as he led her purposefully past wonderful old palazzos and churches to a restaurant with tables set out under a colonnaded terrace? Or that no matter how many years passed, she’d never forget him?

Street signs, she noticed, were in Italian and what she thought might be Spanish, but which turned out more accurately to be Catalan. “You’re on the right track, though,” Domenico said, after they were shown a table set with dramatic black linens, white votive candles in crystal holders and wineglasses with stems as slender as flower stalks. “Alghero is more Spanish than any other place in Sardinia. In fact, it’s nicknamed ‘Barcelonetta,’ meaning Little Barcelona. Not so surprising, when you consider it lay under Aragonese rule for the better part of three hundred years, starting in the mid-fourteenth century.”

“The first time I saw you, I thought you looked Spanish, except for your blue eyes” she admitted.

“Many Spaniards—Italians also, for that matter—have blue eyes, so once again, your instincts were on target. My father’s family came from northern Spain in the early 1880s. I’m told I resemble my great-great-grandfather.”

“He must have been a very handsome man.”

“Grazie. And to whom do you owe your looks, my lovely Arlene?”

“Oh, you don’t have to say that,” she protested, flushing. “I know I’m not very pretty.”

He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. “Why do you do that, cara?” he asked gently. “Why do you turn away from the truth and try to hide your quiet beauty from the rest of the world? Are you ashamed of it?”

“Nothing like that,” she said, her breath catching in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. “I’m not being coy or fishing for compliments. I just know mine’s not the kind of face that would launch a thousand ships.”

“And who convinced you of that? A man? A rogue who broke your heart and left you with no confidence to believe what is so plain to the rest of the world?”

“It was my mother,” she said baldly.

He let out a soft exclamation of distress. “Why would a mother speak so to her child?”

“I think because I take after my father.”

“Then trust me when I tell you that your father also must be a most handsome man, as you surely realize.”

“Not really. I hardly knew him.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Now I remember. Your parents divorced when you were very young, and he died shortly after. But you have no photographs of him?”

Her laugh emerged shockingly harsh. “My mother would never have permitted one in the house.”

He lifted his glass and surveyed her silently a moment. “You might as well have been left an orphan,” he finally commented.

In truth, that’s how she’d often felt, but he was the first to put it in words. “I hope you know how lucky you are, to be part of such a united family.”

He started to reply, then seemed to think better of it and reverted to his role of mentor, instead. “Tell me what you think of this wine?”

“I’m enjoying it.”

“No, no, Arlene,” he chided. “I expect better of you than that. Tell me what it is that makes it so enjoyable.”

She squirmed in her seat. A connoisseur of wines she was not. She knew what she liked, but that’s about as far as it went. “It’s Vermentino.”

“Not good enough! All you had to do to reach that conclusion is read the label.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“And…? What do you notice about the finish?”

“It has nice legs?” she offered haltingly, tilting her glass.

He threw back his head and burst out laughing. “Dio, I have failed as a teacher! You’ll have to come back for a second course of instruction.”

Oh, if only! she thought, her heart seeming to swell in her breast as she feasted on the sight of him. On his flawless teeth, and the lush, downward sweep of his generous lashes. On his eyes, dark as sapphires in the candlelight. How could any woman be expected to keep her head around such a wealth of masculine beauty?