The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer
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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