The Sicilian's Bride (6 page)

O
N THE WAY BACK
to the town of Villarmosa, Dario showed Isabel several other villas, all attractive, all with intact roofs, some with gardens and others with patios. Isabel very politely but firmly told her guide she wasn’t interested in any of them.

“Not interested?” he asked, sounding incredulous. She had the feeling he thought she was deliberately trying to thwart him, as if she was a bourgeois crass American who had no respect for fine living and no appreciation of his culture. He tilted his head to observe the frescoes on the ceiling of the next house he took her to. “The art work here alone is worth the price of the place.”

She took a deep breath and tried once again to explain. “I’m sure it is. But it’s not my art work. It didn’t belong to my uncle. The house has no vines, no grapes, no challenging new career for me to undertake.”

“But there is a pond and this one comes with swans instead of water snakes.”

She sighed and glanced out the window. It was a lovely picturesque pond with graceful white-plumaged birds paddling by.

“Swans mate for life, you know,” he said.

“Even in Italy?”

“Especially in Italy. Divorce is legal here, but not as common
as other European countries. For one thing we marry late or not at all and most young people live close to their parents.”

She nodded. How cozy it all sounded. How different from the families she’d lived with—single mothers, absentee dads and too many children on welfare. He was watching her to gauge her reaction to the house.

“This house just doesn’t speak to me,” she said at last. It was true. It was a nice house, the frescoes were beautiful, the swans a definite plus, but she couldn’t see herself living there.

He might have rolled his eyes. Whatever he did, he effectively conveyed his dismay at her lack of good sense.

“What did you expect the house to say to you?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “
Benvenuto?
Welcome? Make yourself at home? Glad you could make it?”

“I don’t think you’ll understand, but I need to feel something, a family connection, a feeling that I could live here, that I could belong here.”

“Which is what you feel at the Azienda?” he asked. There was no mistaking the disbelief in his voice.

She nodded, but she knew that to him the Azienda was a terrible mess. It really didn’t matter what he thought. She’d allowed him to show her around and now he had to do what he’d said he’d do for her.

To her great relief, after three more villas, each one desirable with assets like a deep well and a sturdy roof and even some furniture, he gave up when he saw her negative reaction. She kept her remarks to a minimum and her tone firm, and he finally drove her back to the hotel. She couldn’t help feeling victorious. She’d successfully resisted his best efforts and now he owed her.

He walked her up to the door of the hotel and thanked her politely for accompanying him. He was probably furious with her for not caving in, if the frown lines between his eyebrows were any indication, but he said nothing.

Surely even he, incredibly rich, well-connected and sinfully handsome, didn’t always get his way? She thanked him for lunch and the sightseeing, then she waited but he said nothing else. He just turned and headed for his car.

“I believe we had a deal,” she said, raising her voice.

He looked back at her, seeming surprised. Could he really have forgotten? Not a shrewd businessman like him. He was hoping
she’d
forgotten.

“You said if I didn’t see anything I liked, you’d help me find the workers I need.”

“And I will. Of course. It may take a little time.”

“I don’t have time. My grapes are ripe. They need to be picked.” She was only guessing. What did she know about grapes really? When he didn’t contradict her, she had a feeling she was right. Those grapes were ready and so was she. She couldn’t miss this harvest or she’d be behind a year in her quest for a new career.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. Then he got into his car and drove away without a backward glance. She stood there wondering if she’d ever see him again. He was disappointed that his plan hadn’t worked. No, he was more than disappointed. He was angry. He couldn’t believe she was still holding out on him. She wondered if he’d really keep his promise.

If he never came back, she’d have to scour the town, begging for workers in her broken Italian with the possibility she’d hired a crew of thieves and jailbirds. She needed his help. Badly.

She hated that feeling of being needy. Of depending on someone. It brought back the familiar empty feeling in the pit of her stomach she’d had when she moved from one house to another. From one family to another. No place to call home. No one to turn to. No one who cared about her.

She’d thought things would be different here. Her own
house, her own business. She’d be in charge. No landlord, no boss. Instead, she was more vulnerable than she’d ever been.

She was too restless to hang around her hotel room studying her Italian audio tapes or reading how-to books about winemaking. All those chapters about yeast cells and tank-fermentation only made her feel more insecure and nervous about the future.

She took a shower to cool off, changed clothes and headed for the village to look around. For all she knew there might be a group of day laborers standing on the corner looking for work the way they did back in California. She put her Italian phrase book in her pocket, grabbed her camera case and walked the half mile to town down a road lined with lemon trees and almond groves. With the sun low in the sky, the air was deliciously cool.

Villarmosa wasn’t a big town. Centered around the town square was everything one needed for the simple life. She took a few photos of the small, leafy park in the center of town and the cluster of old houses around it. Then she walked over to look at an ancient stone church, passed a post office, a garage and a handful of shops, one of which was a greengrocer’s where the bins outside were filled with colorful cherries, ripe peaches and juicy melons.

The lawyer’s office was located above a small café. She glanced up at the windows where she’d gotten the news about her inheritance, but the shades were drawn and it looked deserted. Maybe her uncle had been Signore Delfino’s only client. She didn’t see a single worker on any corner asking for jobs.

Her first stop was at a brightly lighted food shop with a mouthwatering display in the window. Small jars of anchovies and sun-dried tomatoes were flanked by tall, hand-blown bell-shaped glass jars filled with colorful marinated veg
etables. Figs, dried apricots and dates were strung like necklaces and hung from the ceiling. Isabel snapped some more pictures, then hung the camera around her neck.

There was no way she could walk by and not go in for a closer look and maybe even a small purchase. Even though she’d had a large and delicious lunch, her mouth was watering and she couldn’t resist. Immediately behind the window was the counter where a portly man in a beard and a white apron was slicing prosciutto in paper-thin slices, carefully laying a piece of wax paper between each slice.

The air was redolent with the mingled scents—cured meats and flavorful cheeses. The whole place was like a shrine to the god Epicurus and she’d never seen anything like it. A bell rang when she opened the door and every customer turned to look at her, the new girl in town. Of course, her camera marked her as a tourist, but who was she going to fool anyway? She smiled tentatively.

While she waited in line she studied her phrase book to see how to ask for a small amount of what she wanted. When it was her turn she pointed to the prosciutto and the salami and two kinds of cheese as well as a carton of tiny black olives, and she even spoke a few well-chosen words of Italian.

Feeling proud and pleased with herself for her first foray into town, she followed one of the small old ladies dressed in black out to the street. The woman was bent over with a string bag in hand. Suddenly the bag broke and a half dozen peaches and a jar of honey went rolling down the brick sidewalk.

The woman let loose with a shriek, followed by
“L’oh il mio dio! Che cosa sono io che vado ora fare?”

Isabel scooped up the slightly bruised peaches and the honey, which was still intact, from the smooth stone walkway, put them in her own camera bag and handed it to the woman, who beamed at her and said,
“Grazie cosi tanto. Siete molto gentili.”

“Prego,”
Isabel said.

Before Isabel could come up with another appropriate phrase in Italian, the woman waved frantically to someone in a large black car who pulled up and helped her into the back seat. Isabel stood watching as the car, the woman and her camera bag all drove away. Maybe she’d see her again some day or maybe not. Anyway, it was just a case she’d lost. Her camera was hanging around her neck.

Then she proceeded to the greengrocer where the woman must have bought her fruit. The produce was all beautifully arranged, piled high in a cornucopia of spiky artichokes and tomatoes, shiny purple eggplant and pencil-thin asparagus. She took more pictures.

She wanted to buy everything in the colorful display, but she had no way to carry anything else since the old lady had taken her bag. Never mind. She could always come back tomorrow and do some more shopping.

Back at the hotel she decided not to eat dinner in the dining room. Her room came with breakfast and dinner included so she looked at the menu and ordered that night’s special dinner. She asked to have it sent up so she could eat in her room and not feel self-conscious about sitting alone while all around her were couples or families.

Just the idea of saying “Table for one” or “I’m alone,” sent a lonely chill through her body. Why subject herself to pitying glances from other happy diners? She just couldn’t face it, not after the day she’d had. Even though she’d had a good time seeing the sights and eating the food, she’d been afraid to let down her defenses for so much as a minute. She was afraid Dario would pounce on her and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Though everyone she’d met here had been nice—except for Dario Montessori and the lawyer—she didn’t have the
energy to sit down in a room full of strangers and try to make conversation in Italian with the friendly waiters. Here in her room she could relax and get back to studying viticulture and irregular Italian verbs.

First she had a long soak in the claw-foot tub, scrubbing with a sponge and some lemon-infused soap, letting the tension that came from verbal battles with her tour guide melt away. She took her
Guide to Sicily
with her into the tub and read a chapter about “Flora and Fauna.” What she read there surprised and annoyed her so much she almost dropped her book in the hot water.

There was a knock on her door. Dinner already? She’d relaxed so much she’d lost track of time. She might have even dozed off, since she was still on California time and suffering from delayed jetlag. She slipped into the plush terry-cloth robe the hotel provided, wrapped a large towel around her wet hair and went to receive the tray from the maid.

Instead of the maid, it was Dario Montessori standing there, this time wearing a leather jacket, straight-leg denim jeans and brown leather loafers without socks. All of which she managed to take in despite the shock of seeing him there outside her door. It was easier and safer to focus on his expensive Italian clothes and shoes than on his craggy face half in shadow, half lit by the overhead fixture in the hall.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, tugging on the lapels of her robe. Why had she opened the door without asking who was there? She could only blame it on her sense of security here in this small hotel in this small town. Now that she realized it could have been a serial killer outside her door, she felt her face turn red with embarrassment. What must this man think of her? Not only did she appear to be a clueless heiress, but she was so naive and trusting she’d opened her hotel door without question to a stranger.

“I came to bring back your bag,” he said while his gaze took in the wide-open lapels of her robe. “My grandmother told me how you saved her peaches and her honey. She said to thank you very much.”

“Your grandmother? I had no idea. How did she know…?”

“That it was you? She didn’t. But your name is inside the case.”

“Oh,” she said weakly trying to take it all in while she clutched at the front of her robe with one hand and tightened the towel around her head with the other. His grandmother was obviously the tiny little woman in the store.

She didn’t invite him in, but Dario stepped inside the room anyway. “I have some news for you about your workers,” he said, taking a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. He must have noticed she wasn’t dressed for company, but he didn’t care. How typical of him to pursue his own ends and ignore whatever got in his way.

Purposefully he strode past the queen-size bed covered with a pale-green duvet and the antique writing desk, stopped at the round table at the window, took a seat and spread out some papers.

The only thing Isabel could do was sit down across from him as if they were having a business meeting, which they were, except she was hardly dressed or mentally prepared for one. If he’d planned to catch her unawares, and spring some new scheme on her, he’d picked the right time. Her brain was muddled and confused. But her resolve was as firm as ever.

She sat up ramrod-straight in the padded chair and tried to pay attention to what Dario said when all she could think about was how her skin tingled from the bath and how little distance was between the two of them. She felt trapped in the masculine aura that seemed to surround him. There was no way for her to escape or to try to change clothes without
looking like a complete idiot. If it didn’t bother him that she was wearing a robe and nothing else, why should it bother her? He surely wouldn’t stay long.

“I found you a crew of workers.” He pushed a list of names across the table in her direction.