The Sicilian's Bride (3 page)

It was as if someone had been in a big hurry to get out of here. If Dario hadn’t been right on her heels, Isabel might have allowed herself a moment of respect for the man who’d left her this place, but with Dario around, she pretended she wasn’t affected by the depressing sight.

“Needs a little cleaning up,” she said matter-of-factly. After all, no house was exactly the way you wanted it. There were always improvements to be made.

“It needs more than that,” he said. “You haven’t got running water or electricity or heat.”

“I don’t need heat, not in this climate.”

“You will. If you stay.”

“I will stay,” she assured him.

As if he’d orchestrated it, a huge rat ran out from under the sink. She screamed, slammed the ice box door shut and jumped up onto an old wobbly wooden kitchen chair.

He shook his head, as if the skittish behavior of women was no surprise to him at all. To him she was just another woman over her head and unable to cope with hardship. Was it so strange she was frightened of rats? It didn’t mean she was a defective person.

After a pause he said, “I thought you wanted to see the cellar.” He held out a hand to help her off the chair. He might despise her and dismiss her as unfit to live here, but she had to admit he had manners.

Isabel took a deep breath. “Of course.” No rat would keep her from her goal. No single-minded Italian would either, no matter how gorgeous he was, how blue his eyes were or how irresistible his accent was. He had no idea how many people had told her she was crazy to quit her job and go to Italy. Everyone she knew advised her to sell the place sight unseen, buy a house in California with the money and keep her job.

That was the sensible thing to do, but for once in her life Isabel didn’t do the sensible thing. She needed to make a move. Get away from everyone who knew what a fool she’d been. A big move that would force her to be more self-reliant, to face new challenges with a new strength of purpose. To turn her back on her past and friends who treated her with concern and the sympathy she didn’t want. She’d come five thousand miles and nothing would keep her from doing what she’d set out to do. And finally, she’d never give her heart away again, not when it was finally healed and whole.

This man had no idea how humiliating it would be to give up, to go home and admit she’d made another mistake. If she had a home, which she didn’t. It would take more than a rat in the kitchen, more than a hole in the roof, more than a hostile neighbor. Much more.

She took his hand and gingerly got down off the chair, then walked with all the dignity she could summon down the stairs to the damp, cool basement. Again he was right behind her, his warm breath on her neck, though she would have preferred to explore alone, to find some hidden treasure like an old bottle of some fabulous vintage on her own.

The walls were lined with racks and racks of wine in dusty bottles. Some were empty, their corks lying on the floor, but others looked well-aged but possibly still good. How would she know? He pulled a bottle off the wall and held it up so she could see it from the light that filtered
through the small dusty windows. “Nineteen ninety-two,” he said. “My grandfather’s Bianco Soave. Sealed with wax. That was a good year, a gold-medal year.” He pointed to the seal affixed to the label.

“I guess some years are not so good?”

“With grapes as well as life,” he said, as a cloud passed across his handsome features. “Some years are best forgotten.” He wasn’t looking at her. For all she knew he was talking to himself. Even in the dank semi-dark cellar she could tell from his expression he wasn’t just being philosophical. He meant something had happened to him, and whatever it was, he had not forgotten it. She wanted to ask him how someone like him, surrounded by a big supportive family and acres of productive grapes would have even one bad year? How bad could it be? Bad enough to sell the place to her uncle, but it couldn’t have been as bad as last year was for her.

“Was it a drought or a fungus?” She’d read either could devastate a vineyard.

“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.

She could understand if they’d had losses due to a disaster out of his control. But maybe it was something more personal. If it was, she’d never find out any more. Not from him.

She could understand his not wanting to talk about it. Last year had been a nightmare for her, the worst of her life, and she’d done her best to hide her shame and embarrassment from the world.

Then she’d got the letter from the lawyer and her life had turned around. Coming to Sicily to claim her inheritance was the easiest decision she’d ever made. This would be her good year. She would make it happen. And one of these days she too would win a prize for her wine. Her lips curved in a half smile as she pictured the gold labels on the bottles, labels she would design herself.

She sent a sideways glance in his direction. His hand was wrapped around the wine bottle and he was watching her as if he knew she was dreaming a dream that wouldn’t come true. But it would. As if he was waiting for her to give up. Give up? On her first day? He didn’t know her.

After a long pause he broke the silence. “Not discouraged?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. The wine is yours,” she said waving her arm at the racks that lined the stone walls. “All of it. Take the bottles with you.”

“Legally it’s yours,” he said coolly. “But I’m curious to see how this one has held up.”

He scraped away the wax with a knife hanging on the wall and popped the cork with a rusty opener, then he tilted his head back and held the bottle to his mouth. Fascinated, she watched the muscles in his throat move while he drank it. Her mouth was dry. He handed the bottle to her. His fingers brushed her hand and goose bumps broke out on her bare arms. It was the cool damp basement that made her shiver, not this tall, dark Sicilian stranger.

“Try it,” he ordered. “Tell me what you think of it.” She knew what he thought. She could have no educated opinion. So why did he even ask?

She put her lips where his had been and tasted the wine and him at the same time. She felt a quiver of excitement. Maybe it was second-hand contact with his lips, maybe it was the old fermented wine. It wasn’t fair to put her on the spot this way, testing her to see if she knew anything about wine.

Unnerved by the way he stood there, arms crossed, way too close in that small space, his eyes glittering in the dim light and brimming over with self-confidence, she couldn’t think of a single original thing to say.

“Ciao,”
came a voice from somewhere above them.
“Chiunque nel paese?”

“My brother,” he muttered. Then he swore in Italian. At least it sounded like swearing.

So much for the bonds of Italian brotherhood, she thought as he brushed by her on his way up the stairs.

D
ARIO
took the stone steps two at a time leaving the American heiress behind. That’s all he needed—his brother interfering just when he was finally making progress. At least he thought he was. It was hard to tell when she kept insisting she wasn’t discouraged. But no woman in her right mind would take on a run-down operation like this. Most women he knew wanted a beautiful house, land, money, excitement and more.

Naturally the woman he compared all others to was his ex-fiancée, Magdalena, who’d made it clear the life he’d offered her was not enough. Surely this woman would have to agree, sooner rather than later, that this run-down dump of a place was not enough for her, no matter what the long-term possibilities were, and run back to where she came from, which was where she belonged.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Cosmo, who was standing in the stone patio, his car parked in front of the house.

“I heard from Delfino the American woman might be on the property. I wanted to say hello and welcome her on behalf of the family.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Dario demanded, struck by his younger brother’s immaturity and lack of common sense. “Welcome the woman who has already refused to sell the
property back to us? The woman who’s keeping Nonno from realizing his dream before he dies?”

“Nonno’s dream or yours?” Cosmo asked.

Dario ignored the question. He knew what his brother thought. He knew what the whole family thought of him. They thought he was obsessed with trying to recover this land they’d written off long ago. Maybe he was. But maybe he should be. Because it was his fault they’d had to sell the land, and now it was his responsibility to get it back. It was so obvious. Why couldn’t they understand that?

“What were you going to do, bring her flowers and roll out the red carpet?” Dario asked.

“Of course not, but be honest, Dario, you’re the one who cares more than anyone about getting the place back. Give it up.”

It was true. No one in his family had any idea how important it was for him. How much he blamed himself for what had happened—and would continue to blame himself until he’d got the property back and their wine won the gold medal. Then and only then could he put the past where it belonged. Until then…

“It’s gone,” Cosmo said. “Get over it. Stop blaming yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dario said. “It’s my fault we had to sell. You know it’s true.”

“Forget it,” Cosmo said. “It’s over. We have vineyards enough. Let this one go. I came by to see for myself if the new owner is as beautiful as I heard,” Cosmo said.

Dario shook his head. “You heard wrong. How do those rumors get started? She’s not beautiful at all.” It was true. Her mouth was too large, her nose too small. Her hair was the color of copper in the sunlight, but that was definitely her best feature.

“So she’s not beautiful. What is she like?”

“Just offhand, I’d say she’s stubborn, proud, determined and naive. And overconfident. No idea what it takes to make
wine. As soon as she realizes this place isn’t for her, she’ll be on her way. But right now she’s wavering.” Unfortunately that was just wishful thinking. He didn’t detect any sign of wavering in this woman. “If you don’t leave now you might say the wrong thing and she’ll be here forever. It’s not fair to her to encourage her.”

“Encourage her?” Cosmos teetered on the edge of indecision. “I just want to meet her and say hello.”

“Not today.”

His brother wasn’t happy about it, but after a few more exchanges, he finally left and Dario breathed a sigh of relief. It didn’t matter what the new owner looked like, she was new, she was a challenge, and he didn’t trust his brother to stand up to her. He’d feel sorry for her when he heard she was an orphan and forget the goal, which was to convince her to sell by pointing out the obvious: this was not a place for a novice, a woman on her own, a foreigner who knew nothing about viticulture. It was in her own interests either to find another house in Sicily or go back where she came from. He only wanted what was best for her—and for his family of course.

Though feeling sorry for an heiress didn’t make sense, his little brother was a flirt and a playboy and loved to have a good time. In other words, a typical Sicilian. He was easily swayed by a new girl in town with a fresh face as well as a few curves in the right places. He had charm and affection, yes, but those were traits not needed today.

Dario knew from painful experience what his brother ignored or wouldn’t believe. That women are masters of deceit. They were seldom what they seemed. Beautiful or not, they could look innocent and act vulnerable, but they were hard as polished marble and equally strong-willed, self-centered and capable of lies and deception.

When Isabel emerged from the kitchen, a bottle of wine
under her arm and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, Dario knew his brother would have stood there, mouth open, gaping at the American heiress, taken in by her apparent lack of pretense and that dazzling red hair and pale skin. No, she wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking in a way Dario had never seen before. She had a certain freshness and large helping of pride of ownership in her new acquisition—the Azienda.

Good thing his brother had left. He could just see Cosmo falling all over her, offering Italian lessons, sightseeing and God knew what else. Just what he himself might have done before he’d met Magdalena. And had his eyes opened and a knife stuck in his back.

The American was the new girl in town, with something undeniably seductive about her mouth and her body. Dario would have to be blind not to notice her long shapely legs. She had soft brown eyes that widened in surprise, and a rare smile that tugged at the corners of her full lips. Yes, his brother would have been smitten at first sight and would have rolled out the red carpet for the intruder.

Dario knew better than to be swayed by a pretty face framed with hair the color of autumn leaves, no matter how innocent she seemed. He’d been burned once. Never again. Even after more than a year had passed, his mistake in trusting Magdalena rankled like the sting of a wasp.

His approach, the correct one, was to keep his distance from the heiress, show her the worst of her property and then pounce with a generous offer. It would be kinder in the long run than sitting by and watching her struggle but ultimately fail.

“My brother just stopped by.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to meet him,” she said. “Why didn’t he stay?”

“Another appointment,” Dario said. “Maybe some other time.”

“I found another bottle of wine I’d like to try.” Isabel held up two glasses. “Would you like some?”

She was offering him his own wine? He clamped his jaw tight to keep from erupting in pent-up frustration. Yes, it belonged to her now, but still. He wanted to pound the wall to relieve his irritation at watching her play the hostess role. Even with the smudge on her cheek and dirt on the sleeve of her shirt, she looked like the lady of the manor. It was a heady feeling he could tell by the look on her face, and if this scenario played itself out, she’d never want to leave, however difficult the job of making the place livable. He had to put plan B into operation as soon as possible.

“I don’t know wine the way you do, but I think it’s aged well, don’t you?” she asked him after they’d both tasted it.

“Not bad,” he said and set his glass down on a ledge. “We won a bronze medal for this if I remember right.”

“You must have won many medals.”

“We have, but some contests are more important than others. The Gran Concorso Siciliano del Vini is coming up in a few weeks. We plan to take away a gold this year.”

He didn’t want to brag or look overconfident. But this was going to be their year. Winning the medal and getting the Azienda back. Two victories that would erase the losses of the past once and for all. He knew it. He felt it. If he kept a hawk eye on the land, the vines and the wine production, they’d end up with the prize and the best dessert wine Sicily could produce too.

He was proud of their wine, proud of the medals they’d won. Nothing wrong with letting her know that. He turned to Isabel. “Now that you’ve seen the place, it’s time to go.”

“I haven’t been upstairs yet.”

What could he say? You won’t like it? Knowing her, that would guarantee she’d insist she would like it. She didn’t yet
know about the bedroom off the kitchen where the servants once lived, and he sure wasn’t going to tell her. Instead he led the way up the narrow staircase, Isabel following behind him. There it was, a small room with a narrow sagging mattress on a metal frame. And better yet, a huge gaping hole in the ceiling.

“It needs major roof repair,” he said. As if she hadn’t noticed. No one in their right mind could say anything positive about a hole in the roof. But she did.

“Why?” she said. “If it doesn’t rain, it will be wonderful to look up at the stars at night.”

He groaned silently. There was no point in telling her bats would fly into the room. She’d probably welcome them. He’d never met anyone like her. There wasn’t a woman in Sicily who’d accept living under these conditions. What was it about this woman? Was she really capable or just stubborn and unrealistic?

“I know it needs work,” she said, a trace of defiance in her voice. “I know there’s no running water or electricity, but, as I said, I’m not afraid to pitch in and get things done. And I’d like to hire someone to help me.”

“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.”