“I’d say you’ve inherited your share of charm.”

Would she have said that yesterday? Before he bought her lunch, before she met his family, before she heard what he had to say about his ex-fiancée?

Dario smiled. A slow smile that spread to his intense blue eyes. Isabel’s heart thudded. If he touched her, her skin would sizzle. That was how hot she was.

The sound of the Puccini aria rose and filled the air. She didn’t know what the words meant, but she understood pure passion when she heard it and when she felt it. Isabel’s heart raced. The longing in the song matched the longing in her heart. A longing to hold and be held. To kiss and be kissed. That was all.

He was going to kiss her this time. She knew it.

Dear Reader

Can you tell that I love Sicily, with its mysterious inland mountains, its trendy cities, its rumbling volcano and its wonderful beach resorts? If you have any doubt, you’ll be convinced of my love affair with this island when you read THE SICILIAN’S BRIDE. I’ve tried to capture a newcomer’s fascination with the scenery and the people by giving an American woman a Sicilian vineyard, which she inherits from an uncle she never knew. Then I’ve put an obstacle in her path to achieving her dream of finally finding a home of her own. That obstacle is a wealthy and hard-working winemaker who thinks he deserves to have her vineyard—not her.

When my family and I vacationed in Sicily a few years ago I said to myself, ‘I must set a book here.’ Thanks to Mills & Boon for giving me the chance to share my passion for the delicious and spicy pasta dishes eaten in charming coastside restaurants, for visits to cathedrals and palazzos, and best of all for the people of Sicily—warm-hearted, opinionated, and incredibly generous to foreigners like me.

Best wishes

Carol

CAROL GRACE has always been interested in travel and living abroad. She spent her junior year in college at the Sorbonne, and later toured the world on the hospital ship HOPE. She and her husband have lived and worked in Iran and Algeria. Carol says writing is another way of making her life exciting. Her office is her mountain-top home overlooking the Pacific Ocean, which she shares with her inventor husband. Her daughter is a lawyer and her son is an actor/writer. She’s written thirty books for Silhouette, and she also writes single titles. She’s thrilled to be writing for Mills & Boon® Romance. Check out her website—carolgracebooks.com—to find out more about Carol’s books. Come and blog with her fun-loving fellow authors at fogcitydivas.com

THE SICILIAN’S BRIDE
BY
CAROL GRACE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CHAPTER ONE

ISABEL MORRISON was lost. She’d been driving around on dirt roads for hours looking for the Monte Verde Vineyards. There were no signs at all out here in the country. The small rented Fiat was not equipped with GPS or air conditioning and she was sweltering in the September heat. She’d known it would be hot in Sicily, but not this hot.

No wonder there was no one around to ask directions. Only mad dogs and Englishmen were out in the noonday sun. And one American looking for her piece of the American dream, far far from home. All she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was a home of her own.

The home she was looking for, if she ever found it, would be a place to start over. A place to put down roots at last. A place where no one knew what mistakes she’d made in the past. A place to earn a living growing grapes in a vineyard she’d inherited from an uncle she’d never known.

As an orphan, she’d been left on the doorstep of the home for foundlings with nothing but a basket and a blanket and a note asking the good sisters to take care of her. Which they had done, as best they could. She’d known nothing of an uncle. Least of all what he was doing in Sicily and why he’d left her a vineyard. All that mattered was that someone cared enough to leave her an inheritance—and what an inheritance! A home of her own. Not only that, but vineyards too.

She’d done everything she could before she’d left home: read a dozen guide books, taken Italian lessons and a short course in viticulture. She believed in being prepared and self-reliant. Being naive and too trusting had gotten her heart broken. Never again.

Now if only she could find the old villa—the Azienda—and the supposedly neglected vineyards on the Monte Verde Estate, she’d be in business. The business of settling in, growing grapes and producing the great little dessert wine, Amarado, that the place had once been known for.

According to the map the solicitor, Signore Delfino, had given her it should be right…over…there.

“I can have someone take you out there next week,” he’d said.

“Thank you, but I can’t wait until next week,” she’d answered. Next week? She’d been waiting all her life for a place she could call her own and now she couldn’t wait another day. She’d wondered if he was stalling. He’d tried to talk her into selling the place before she’d even seen it.

“I must advise you,” he’d said, “the property is in some disrepair from neglect. If you want my advice…” He cleared his throat. “You should sell it to a local family who are prepared to make you a generous offer. I can handle the details for you.” The way he’d said it indicated she’d be crazy to turn the offer down.

“Please tell the family I appreciate their interest, but the property is not for sale.” No matter how much they offered, she wouldn’t sell, and she’d find it on her own, thank you very much.

On one side of the road was a rushing stream lined with eucalyptus trees, and on the other side, golden wheat fields lay next to vines heavy with fruit. The air was heavy with the spicy smell of the trees and the scent of wheat drying in the sun. But she couldn’t figure out how to get to where she wanted to go.

Yes, it was hot and the air was dry. Yes, she was lost. But she was also nervous and scared at the prospect of actually turning grapes into wine that was good enough to sell in the upscale market. One thing at a time, she told herself. Maybe there would be a kindly old caretaker who would take her under his wing and show her how it’s done. He’d say, Your uncle talked about leaving the place to you. How you’d carry on the family tradition…Let me help you get started.

She smiled to herself, picturing the scene. One way she’d dealt with rejection in the past was to lose herself in an imaginary world, to the dismay of her teachers and foster parents who accused her of being a dreamer. It was her way of escaping the hard edges of reality.

As a graduate of the School of Hard Knocks, she’d learned early on in life to have an escape route when life’s problems got too overwhelming. Another coping mechanism that had come in handy to was to act in a confident and self-assured manner, especially when feeling the opposite.

Just when she thought she’d have to turn around and go back to the little town of Villarmosa and get more directions, she spotted a man picking grapes. Exactly the kind of man she would need to hire to work in her fields. Even if there was a kindly mentor on the premises, she’d still need laborers. The man in sight was strong, tall and muscular and obviously used to hard work. Being a local, surely he’d know where her vineyard was.

She was so excited she slammed on the brakes, and skidded to an abrupt halt.

He looked up. She grabbed the map, got out of the car and walked toward the field where he stood staring at her as if he’d never seen a stranger here before. Which made her feel better about staring at him. She stared at his blunt nose that looked like it might have been broken a few times. She stared into his eyes, impossibly blue in a sun-tanned face.

Then her gaze moved down. He was shirtless, and his jeans rode low on his hips. Very sensible in this kind of weather. And very sexy too. She swallowed hard and tried to tear her eyes away from his broad chest covered with a light dusting of dark hair, but couldn’t. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. She couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Maybe this was her property. Maybe he worked for her already and she’d be making wine this fall with his help. No, she couldn’t get that lucky.

“Hello,” she called when she finally caught her breath. “Ciao, signore. Per favore, dove e la Villa Monte Verde.” A whole sentence. Maybe the grammar wasn’t perfect, maybe her accent shouted out that she was a tourist, but she was proud of herself for trying. When she had tried to talk to the lawyer in Italian yesterday, he’d switched to English.

Not a chance with this rugged type. She wondered if all the hired hands were this gorgeous. It didn’t matter. One reason she’d jumped at the chance to move to Sicily was for a fresh start and to avoid relationships, no matter how attractive the men were. In a new environment, with a brick wall around her heart and a system of warning bells in place, she was ready to take on a new challenge. She was willing to make mistakes along the way, just as long as they weren’t the same mistakes she’d made in the past.

The man frowned and gave her a long scrutinizing look that made her pulse quicken and her heart race. From what she’d seen in the airport, Italian women were so chic, so effortlessly stylish, she must look positively shabby to him in her wrinkled shirt and the plain wash-and-wear skirt she’d pulled out of her suitcase. If he even noticed.

His gaze moved to her rental car across the road. She was close enough, just across an old wooden fence, to see a hostile look appear in those incredible blue eyes. She’d imagined people would be friendly here. Maybe she was wrong.

He didn’t say a word. Hadn’t he understood her Italian? Or did the place go by another name? “La Azienda Agricola Spendora?” she said hopefully.

“You must be the American who arrived yesterday,” he said in almost perfect English. His deep voice with a slightly seductive accent sent shivers up her spine. A simple laborer he was not.

She let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “How did you guess?” she said lightly. “I suppose my Italian needs some more practice.”

He shrugged as if he really didn’t care if she was an alien from another universe or if she spoke grammatically perfect Italian. “What can I do for you, miss?” The words were polite, but his tone was cool, with a sardonic edge.

Never mind. She didn’t have to make friends with everyone she met. For all she knew he was overworked and underpaid despite his ease in speaking English, and probably tired and thirsty. It was still possible she could hire him, even if he had a chip on his shoulder. She could use someone who spoke English and was a hard worker.

“My name is Isabel Morrison and I’m looking for my vineyard, the Azienda Spendora.” She couldn’t help the note of pride that crept into her voice. The words my vineyard had such a nice ring to them.

“I’ll give you a ride. You’ll never find it on your own,” he said. He reached for a shirt hanging from the branch of a tree and put it on before she could protest. How many times had it been drummed into her not to take rides from strangers? This was the kind of stranger who set off flashing detour lights in front of her. Too well-spoken, too sure of himself, too eager to take her heaven knew where.

“Really, it’s okay, I can find it. I’ve got a map,” she said, hating the hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, looming over her with all his six-feet-something and broad shoulders, shirt half-unbuttoned, blue eyes challenging her either to admit or forget her fears.

“No,” she said a little too quickly. While a voice inside her murmured, Well, maybe just a little.

“I’m Dario Montessori and I live nearby. In fact, these are my vines.” He waved an arm in the direction of the fields behind him. “I know everyone for miles around and everyone knows me. Come along. You might meet some neighbors.”

“Now?”

“Why not? Nussun tempo gradisce il presente, as we say in Italian. Wait here. I’ll bring my car and pick you up.”

This was an order there was no resisting. Besides, she did want to meet her new neighbors. It would be silly to pass up an opportunity like this. After all, she wanted to fit into the local village life. What better way than to be taken around by a native? So she waited there until he pulled up in a red-and-black convertible with leather seats. No ordinary farmhand could touch this car with under a hundred thousand. Who was he really? Why was he going out of his way for her?

“If you’re planning to kidnap me,” she said with a touch of bravado, “Don’t bother, because I don’t have any rich relatives you could hit up for the ransom.”

He slanted a glance in her direction. The look on his face told her she’d just spouted the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t believe there’s been a kidnapping around here in one hundred years. Relax, you’re in Sicily now. As for the Azienda, I’m warning you, when you see it and the condition it’s in, I am certain you’ll be willing to sell it to me.”

“It’s funny,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re the second person I’ve heard of who wants to buy it from me. Just yesterday…”

“That was also me,” he said, turning up a bumpy, dirt road. “Your solicitor was representing my family.”

“The family that owns most of the land around here? The family that makes prize-winning Marsala and exports Cabernet all over the world?”

He nodded.

“Then you already know I’m not going to sell it.”

“You haven’t seen it,” he said flatly.

“I saw a picture of it on-line. It looks charming.”

“Hah,” he said and shook his head at her ignorance.

So he too was trying to discourage her. In the photograph the house appeared to be small, and it was located on rugged terrain at a fourteen-hundred-foot elevation. But it looked snug and was situated in a picturesque grove of olive trees and grape vines.

“That picture was taken some years ago when our family owned it. Antonio let it fall apart.”

Isabel bristled at the criticism of her uncle, although he might have deserved it. As a family member she was surely entitled to criticize him for allowing the place to disintegrate, but this man was not. At least not in front of her. “Perhaps he had reason,” she suggested.

Dario gave her a steely look that told her more than words that there was no good reason.

“Did you know him well?” she asked.

“He kept to himself. But it’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

“I see,” she said. But she didn’t see. What was her uncle doing in Italy?

“He left the place in a mess,” Dario said.

“I’ll clean it up,” she insisted. “I don’t mind hard work. I know how to paint and make repairs. I’ve done it before.” She’d even done it in her San Francisco rental unit when her landlord had refused to pitch in. Here she’d have the incentive of improving her own property.

He raised his eyebrows, probably surprised by her determination. He hadn’t seen anything yet. She’d been criticized for years for being strong-willed after she left the orphanage.

“Isabel’s a very headstrong girl,” the social-service workers had agreed. She’d been moved from house to house, from foster family to foster family. No wonder no one wanted her with her bright-red hair and her stubborn disposition. No wonder she was passed over for younger, sweeter, more obedient little children. No one wanted to adopt a child with “inflexible” or “rigid” written on her reports.

It hurt to be overlooked, standing there, tall and gawky, enduring being examined and finally rejected time after time. But she got over it. Even when she was officially declared unadoptable because of her age, it had just made her more eager to grow up and set out on her own. This was her chance. She’d show them.

“Do you know anything about growing grapes?” he asked.

“Some, but I know I need to learn more,” she admitted.

“Do you know how to prime a pump, irrigate fields, fight off frost? Do you know how hard it is to fertilize volcanic soil, are you prepared to wait for years to harvest your grapes?” he demanded. He was almost enjoying this inquisition, she realized. She could tell by the way he looked at her, the way he raised his voice to be sure she caught every word.

What really annoyed her was the way he assumed she was far over her head and had no business even trying to break into his field.

“Or are you in love with the idea of growing grapes,” he continued, “and of bottling your own wine?”

She bounced out of her seat as they hit a dip in the road. “Years?” she said. “I can’t wait years. I need to make wine and make a living from it. Surely it’s possible. I’ll hire help. If it’s so hard to produce wine on the property, why do you want to buy it?”

“It is hard, even for us. But we have experience. Historically, it’s our land. Has been for centuries. For hundreds of years most Sicilian wine was shipped off the island, to be blended into other wines. But now we’re getting the attention from the world markets we deserve. Twenty-six generations of Montessoris grew grapes there before we were forced to sell it to your uncle a few years ago.”

“Forced?”

“It’s a long story and it doesn’t concern you. We had a sales slump, followed by financial problems which induced us to give it up, but we’ve recovered and now we want the land back where it belongs. To us. What difference does it make to you? You’ve never seen it, you’ve never lived on it or farmed it. You didn’t have picnics there, eat the grapes off the vines or swim in the pond. It means nothing to you.”

A pond? She had a pond? She’d stock it with fish, swim in it and watch the birds drink from it. Now she was sure she’d never give it up. She sat up straight in the leather bucket seat. “You’re wrong. It means a lot to me. A chance for me to do something different, to earn a living from the land my uncle left me.”

“Your uncle never grew a single grape there.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t. I haven’t seen the property, but it’s mine and I plan to live there and make it my home. It’s my right to settle there, my chance to make a fresh start. Surely everyone deserves that.”

He shook his head as if she was naive and stupid. She’d been called worse. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing,” he said, “but if you want a fresh start, why don’t you buy a hotel, start a newspaper or open a café? All of those would be easier for a newcomer than making wine. Take my word for it. Viticulture takes time and patience and a feeling for the land.”

“I appreciate your advice,” she said with all the manners she could muster in the face of his blatant cynicism. “But you have to believe me when I say I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to succeed.”

He continued to steamroll over her plans for the future as if she hadn’t spoken. “Want some more advice?”

Before she could politely say no, he went on. “Get a job. It’s an easier way to make a living than making wine. Make someplace else your home. You know I could be taking you to a totally different property and you wouldn’t know the difference.”

Startled, she asked, “Are you?”

He turned to look at her as if she’d accused him of cold-blooded murder. Wordlessly he pointed to a crooked hand-carved wooden sign on the side of the road, and said “Azienda Spendora.”

She let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t kidnapping her. He wasn’t trying to fool her by taking her to another property. She was here. This was all hers. It was a dream come true. Or a nightmare. As soon as they pulled up in front of the house she saw what he meant.

There were tiles missing from the roof and cracks in the stained cement walls. She got out of the car and stifled a wave of disappointment. Whatever she felt, she couldn’t let him see her frustration at the house’s failings. He’d interpret it as a sign of weakness and just renew his futile efforts to buy it from her.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’ll just look around and catch a ride back.”

“Catch a ride?” he asked incredulously. “This is a private road. No one’s been on it for months, not since your uncle died.”

“Was there a funeral?”

“Of course. What do you take us for, savages? The whole town was there.”

The implication was that she was the only one missing. Obviously he thought she had no sense of family obligation. Maybe he thought she was a savage.

“I didn’t know he existed until I got a letter from the lawyer.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll walk back.”

He skimmed her body with a cool, disdainful assessing gaze as if wondering whether to believe she hadn’t known her uncle. He took in her short skirt, her white shirt and the strappy sandals she’d thought perfect for a hot Sicilian summer day, but which were hardly sturdy enough to walk miles down that rutted dirt road. Okay, so she was dressed all wrong. She wasn’t Italian and she was out of her element. Why couldn’t he give her a break, cut her some slack?

“I’ll stick around,” he said. “It won’t take you long to realize this is not the place for you.”

The man was maddening with his dark pessimism. She wished he’d leave. She’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than know he was waiting for her to cave in and give up her inheritance.

She turned to look at him. Puzzled, she said, “Stick around? Where did you learn English?”

“From a tutor,” he said in his incredibly sexily accented English. “Being in the wine business, my father had all six of us learn English, the universal language of trade. Bernard taught us all the slang and swear words he knew. They’ve been quite useful.”

“I can imagine,” she murmured, surprised that he’d deigned to favor her with such a long response. How long would it take her to learn Italian with all the slang and the swear words she’d need to live here? The difference between his privileged background with tutors and a large family and the way she’d been brought up was mind-boggling. She wondered if he knew how lucky he was. He probably took his family for granted. Most people did.

Instead of waiting, he followed her onto the veranda, stepping carefully over rotten boards and through the front door that swung open and creaked on rusty hinges. When a giant spiderweb brushed against her face, she stifled a scream and lurched back so fast she bumped into him. He put his large hands on her shoulders to steady her or more likely to keep her at a distance, and she fought off the temptation to let him prop her up for a moment while she caught her breath. But Isabel Morrison would never rely on anyone but herself again. Not even for a moment. Instead she straightened her shoulders and forged ahead.

“It was just a spider,” she said, more to herself than to him. If she didn’t talk to him, maybe he’d go away. Or at least wait outside and let her explore on her own. With his imposing build, the brooding expression in his blue eyes, his way of speaking English that gave a new meaning to everything he said, he was impossible to ignore. She couldn’t concentrate on the house. Not when he filled the place with his tall, masculine presence and his overwhelming confidence. All she knew was that no matter what its flaws, no matter how much he offered her for it, this house was hers and she was holding on to it.

Behind the house was the small pond dotted with water lilies. She leaned down and dangled her arm in the cool water.

“For irrigation,” he said.

“Or swimming,” she said. She pictured lawn furniture, a striped awning, and herself cooling off in the fresh water on a hot summer day in her very own pond.

He braced his arm against the stone wall and surveyed the scene. Was he resentful of her enjoying her own pond? Or was he simply remembering summer days when he had swum with his siblings here and feeling sorry that he never would again? From the look on his face she doubted he had any happy memories at all. What was his problem? Was it really only her and her ownership of this place?

His dark hair was brushed back from his face making his strong features stand out like those on a stone carving. He might have first looked like a farmhand, but now she could see him for what he was, the aristocratic lord of the manor, totally accustomed to having his way. To acquiring whatever land he wanted. And full of resentment at knowing this land was hers now.

“I’d avoid the pond,” he said curtly, “unless you’re not afraid of water snakes.”

She pulled her arm out of the water and dried her hands on her skirt. Spiders, snakes, what else?

“You can see it hasn’t been used for years,” he said. “Your uncle…”

“I know. He neglected it. I know why you sold it, but why did he buy it from you?”

“Probably thought he’d cash in and make a fortune from the grapes. A lot of people have the idea it’s easy and profitable to grow grapes and make wine.” He pointedly looked right at her, leaving no doubt about who he meant. “It’s an illusion. Outsiders often can’t tell the difference between a burgundy and our local grecanicoa, let alone how or when to harvest an Amarado grape. It’s hard work.”

“I don’t doubt it, but…”

“I know, you don’t mind hard work. Believe me, you have plenty of it ahead of you.”

She wanted to say he had no idea of how much this place meant to her no matter what condition it was in. She also wanted to ask him how and when to harvest these special dessert-wine grapes, but that would just confirm his suspicions that she was no different from her uncle, both ignorant dreamers. Maybe she was worse, since she hadn’t even paid for the place. She didn’t even know what she was getting.

“The first spring frost he let the vines freeze and came roaring down the mountain to take refuge in the valley and never went back.” He shook his head with disgust.

“He was out of his element. What did you expect?”

“I expected him to sell it back to us before he died. But he was just as stubborn as you. All I want is the land back,” he said. “Back in the hands of someone who appreciates the terroir, the soil, the land where these grapes are grown. Is that so hard to understand?”

She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Give me a little credit. I didn’t just take the next plane over here. I did my homework. I am prepared to appreciate the terroir as much as anyone. Even you. And I haven’t insulted your relatives, you know, as you have my uncle.”

“Go ahead. If you met them, you’d see my younger brother is immature. My mother is domineering. My grandmother hopelessly old-fashioned. My grandfather is stubborn and opinionated but hard-working. Years ago he planted some of these vines, nurtured them, picked the grapes and bottled them. I take responsibility for their loss. Now I owe him and the whole family to get them back.”

She didn’t understand why he took responsibility or why he owed them when it was a family operation, but she couldn’t mistake the hard edge to his voice. He was not only determined, but he had his whole family to back him up. She was outnumbered. It didn’t matter. She had the deed to the land. They didn’t. Sure she felt bad for his grandfather, but for once she was going to put herself first.

They couldn’t force her to sell—unless she couldn’t sell her wine because it wasn’t good enough or because what he said about waiting years to see any profit was true. Or unless something else unexpected happened. Even in the heat of the midday sun, a cold chill ran up and down her arms. Had she made a huge mistake by coming here? Thinking back, all the surprises in her life had been unhappy ones except for this inheritance, which she took as a sign her luck had finally changed.

She noticed Dario hadn’t mentioned a wife in his list of relatives. Which didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Anyone who looked like him was bound to have a woman in his life. But who would put up with that bitterness she heard in his voice or that single-purpose determination that left no room for anything else? Were those the same traits he saw in her? Surely she wasn’t bitter, although she was certainly determined. He shouldn’t begrudge her a small piece of land if he owned half the valley.

She’d like to meet his family, just because they were her neighbors and she wanted to fit into the local society, but they probably already hated her as he did for refusing to sell her land to them. Nonetheless, she envied him. What wouldn’t she give for a big family she could tease and criticize and love despite their failings?

“What does your family think of you?” she asked. Maybe she was the only one who saw him as a difficult person to deal with. She doubted it. Not with that iron jaw, ice-cold blue eyes and stubborn chin. Or did he suddenly turn into a devoted grandson and lovable sibling when he was home? That was hard to imagine.

“Cold, ruthless and heartless. They say I’m different because I’m not relaxed and easygoing like a true Sicilian. I’m too determined, too driven, even obsessed. When things go wrong I don’t shrug and say tomorrow will be better. I make it better. That’s why…” He stopped in mid sentence, with his gaze fixed on her, as if he could make her see she had no chance against a formidable foe like him. She could imagine what he was going to say…that’s why I will take possession of this land and you won’t.

“But they love you anyway,” she suggested. She hoped she didn’t sound as skeptical as she felt.

He didn’t answer. After a moment she filled in the silence. “You’re very lucky. I never knew my parents. I never knew any family at all. No grandparents, no home, no family. I was an orphan.” She kept her voice light, as if being an orphan was no more important than being brown-eyed or left-handed. She hated being on the receiving end of pity. But how she’d envied the kids with a home and a family, especially those with grandmothers. The kind who baked in kitchens that smelled like fresh bread, wore aprons and had laps to curl up in. How did she even know they existed? From picture books and from other kids. Certainly not from experience.

“I grew up in foster care,” she explained.

He looked puzzled but he didn’t say anything. She began to feel foolish for going on about her background when who cared, really? Maybe it was that he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Never mind, it’s not important. You say my uncle never made any wine while he was here?”

“He wasn’t here that long. Breezed into town from America or God knows where, bought the vineyard, walked away from the vineyard and soon afterward he died. No one knew much about him. Where he really came from, why he was here at all. Some people said he was on the run from the law in California. Who knows? It was clear he had no idea what it took to run a demanding operation like this. All those wasted grapes. Whatever wine there is was made by my family and it would be in the cellar.”

Dario led the way to the kitchen where stone steps led to the wine cellar. In the kitchen they passed an ancient cooktop tilted to one side. The place reeked of cold and loneliness. It would be a job making it livable, but she could do it. There was an old wooden icebox and an oven with its door hanging open. It wasn’t quite her dream kitchen, but it could be.

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.

CHAPTER TWO

DARIO 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.”

“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.

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