The Sicilian's Bride. Carol Grace
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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.
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