The warm morning breeze was ruffling her hair and skirt, and she turned moments before Massimo reached her table. It gave him an unexpected jolt. She looked so...refreshed, her glossy red lips parting slightly before smiling a greeting.
“Buongiorno, signorina Ross,” he said, nodding. “Prego, please.” He gestured toward her chair. She sat down and took a sip of her cappuccino, leaving a red imprint on her cup and a bit of froth on her lip. She casually licked it off, and at that moment, she looked across at him. He shifted slightly and said a few words to the passing waitress, who nodded with a smile.
He turned back to Ella. She was looking at him with raised brows.
“I was speaking to her in my Sardinian dialect,” he explained. “By the way, signorina, there is no such thing as a ‘quick cappuccino’ here. We like to take things nice and slow. I suggest you let go of your North American ways while you’re in Sardinia.”
He paused as the waitress returned, accompanied by a waiter. She set down an espresso for Massimo and another cappuccino for Ella and a dish for each of them. The waiter placed an oval platter in the middle of the table with divided sections of assorted breakfast pastries—including sebadas and amaretti—and various cheeses, cold cuts and fruit.
“Mamma mia!” Ella said. “I didn’t expect—”
“—to eat?” Massimo lifted an eyebrow. “I hope you are not on a diet. There are so many Sardinian dishes you need to try while you’re here.”
“I don’t diet,” she said. “I’m actually a very healthy eater. I wasn’t hungry a little while ago, but now, seeing this feast before my eyes—” she picked up her fork “—my mouth is watering!”
Massimo nodded curtly. “It’s unfortunate you weren’t able to enjoy your first Sardinian dinner last night. I guess you were very jet-lagged.”
Ella gave him a sheepish smile and then let out a chuckle. He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I was very jet-lagged,” she said, as she fixed her plate. “But I had a good sleep and I’ll feel even more energized after this lovely breakfast.”
He watched her cut up her cantaloupe and prosciutto and then spear it with a fork.“Buon appetito,” he nodded. “Enjoy.”
Massimo fixed himself a generous plate before asking the waiter to bring some bottled water and a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. Ella didn’t seem to be aware of his fleeting glances at her as they ate.
“I think this is a good time to be frank with you, Ella.” Now was as good a time as ever to get something off his mind.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELLA FINISHED HER cappuccino and set it down. She met his stare, her hands clasped together under her chin. Had she committed a faux pas? Breached some kind of Sardinian breakfast protocol?
Her breath caught in her throat. He was damned good-looking, with his perfect set of teeth and lips, mesmerizing eyes with their rim of thick lashes and dark hair with wavy tips that she could tell were still damp from his shower... Full stop!
Mortified where her thoughts were heading, Ella diverted her attention to the platter and chose a couple of amaretti before facing him again. What did he have to be frank with her about?
“It’s nothing personal,” he said gruffly. “But I wasn’t too happy about doing this set of interviews.”
“Um, well, my boss had mentioned you weren’t pleased about the original plans,” she said with a slight shrug.
“That would have been a circus,” he said curtly. “I didn’t want my home to be invaded by an army of reporters and photographers.”
“And it won’t be,” Ella said lightly. “The army is down to one soldier. Me.”
“Which I agreed to—” he nodded with a twist of his lips “—because I want to make my mother happy.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“It’s...complicated,” he said, his eyes piercing into her as if he were trying to decide if he should explain further.
“Look, signor DiLuca, I plan to follow the conditions you specified in the contract with my boss. I interview you in the morning, the afternoon is my own to work on the piece, and later on, I interview your mother at her villa after the renovations are done. Any photos I take will be viewed and approved by you before I send them to my boss.” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, and I stay in your guesthouse to avoid having you go back and forth from your island every day.” She held out her hands. “Did I miss anything?”
“No.” He leaned back, crossing his arms.
“So?” Ella cocked her head. “What exactly is...the problem?” She had almost said “your problem,” which would have sounded rude and inappropriate. But she was starting to feel the heat and just wanted Massimo to get to the point.
“I am aware of your achievements,” he said, “and your ability to communicate in Italian, which is what I wanted, as my mother isn’t proficient in English.” His eyes narrowed. “My mother has gone through a long period of—lutto—you know, when my father died.”
“Mourning.” Ella nodded, her voice softening. He wasn’t mentioning his own situation, but she imagined he was inferring the same.
“Yes. And just in these past few months, she has started to allow herself to enjoy living again. I just want to make sure that you understand and can be sensitive to my mother, who may have moments of sadness, even now. She needs someone who understands loss.”
Something twisted in Ella’s chest, an unexpected hurt that the man sitting across from her would assume she had limited life experience and would question her sensitivity and understanding about loss. How judgmental! She felt the hurt give way to mingled disappointment and a flash of anger. Feeling a sizzle in her chest, she leaned toward him on the table, her arms crossed in front of her.
“Please allow me to clarify something, signor DiLuca,” she said succinctly. “I understand loss and grief quite well.” She paused, struck by a wave of emotion but determined to maintain her composure. “But in any case, I haven’t gotten to where I am today without being professional above all else. And that includes being sensitive.”
* * *
What a colossal fool he was. He had seen her eyelids shuttering as if she had been suddenly struck with temple pain, flutter briefly, then open, the vulnerability replaced by an assertive steeliness. He had touched a nerve, but there was no way she was going to display her emotions. His gut feeling told him that he needed to do some damage control.
“I’m sorry if I have offended you, Ella. I was wrong to have judged you because of your age.” He cleared his throat. “And I’m sorry for...for the loss you have experienced. It seems I dislike it when others presume to know me and my life without having the full facts, yet I have just done the same to you.”
He inhaled deeply. Losing Rita had aged him, aged his heart. And although Ella hadn’t shared any details about her loss, he should have known better than to make assumptions about her past experience.
“I hope you can forgive me for my insensitivity,” he said. His gaze locked with hers, and he hoped she could see the sincerity in his eyes.
Ella drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose I can try to do that,” she murmured.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, I can do that,” she said more decisively with a toss of her head.
“Thank you,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting. He glanced at his watch. “I’m ready to leave anytime you are.”
* * *
Massimo felt some of the tension in his shoulders dissipating as his speedboat glided away from the dock, and when the way was clear, he cruised toward one of the distant small islands scattered like a rosary chain in the sea. He couldn’t wait to get there and relax with a long, cool drink. The morning had been somewhat intense. And maybe he’d go for an afternoon swim. But first, he’d show Ella to his guesthouse. He imagined she would probably like to settle in and maybe organize her work area. T
he guesthouse was on a lower slope and situated a hundred and fifty feet from the villa. It overlooked a cove with a small beach of its own.
Since his stay in the guesthouse while the villa was being constructed, no one else had occupied it, not even his mother when she visited. She found the trek to the villa difficult with her arthritic knees and chose to stay in one of the villa’s spare rooms.
Massimo had been reluctant to go along with his mother’s original plans for the series of interviews, cringing at the thought of being at her place with a team of photographers and reporters from Living the Life magazine, not to mention the many friends she wanted to invite along with their eligible daughters. She hadn’t been that subtle about getting him out in public again, and he had adamantly refused, only leading her to assume a hurt demeanor.
It was enough, he had told her, that he would be present at the official opening of the DiLuca Cardiac Research Center the day after her birthday and would not be leaving it to her alone.
Much as Massimo was tempted to stay out of the media spotlight, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to shirk his responsibility as a baron. His family had engaged in philanthropic projects contributing to the public good for as long as he could remember, and it would not be right for him, as the current baron and one of the Cardiac Center’s benefactors, to be absent at the official opening. He had been the one to conceive of the endeavor and to put together an international team to see to every aspect of its development.
His mother had been on board from the start, and she had been touched by the fact that through Massimo’s initiative, and the DiLucas’ massive financial commitment to the project, the Center would be a world leader in cardiac research, benefitting millions of people. A charitable venture to honor her husband and Massimo’s father, and Massimo’s wife.
It would be the first public appearance Massimo would be making since Rita’s passing. And the Center would be one of the main interview topics Living the Life magazine wanted to highlight in their August issue.
Finally, Massimo and his mother had reached a compromise: he would consent to participating in an interview with only one journalist, who would spend the week in his guesthouse, and his mother’s birthday event would be at her villa with her close friends minus their eligible daughters.
So, to prepare for Ella’s visit, Massimo had the place professionally cleaned, the spacious pantry and restaurant-sized refrigerator fully stocked, and the bedroom and washroom refreshed with new linens and towels. Along with a few scented soaps and bath items, made with local products like juniper, saffron and olive oil.
The house was a two-story structure with a bedroom loft and en suite bathroom and a separate office. The main floor consisted of an open-concept kitchen, dining and living area, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the cove and endless stretch of turquoise sea. Massimo had wanted to distract himself from his constant grief during the year that he’d be in the guesthouse, and he had spared no expense in indulging himself. The floors were of Orosei marble from Sardinia’s east coast, and the modern furnishings were also locally made from the most sought-after craftsmen.
Massimo had also enjoyed perusing a number of antiquarian shops, their owners often showing him unique pieces in private rooms. One item was a decorative sword said to have belonged to a Moorish prince, and a pair of ornate wine goblets had been identified as originating from somewhere in fifteenth-century Iberia, most likely Spain. Sardinia had been part of the Kingdom of Aragon, which was modern-day Spain.
The walls of the kitchen were painted the lightest shade of lemon. The high-end appliances gleamed against a backsplash of hand-painted tiles, which Massimo had commissioned based on those he had seen in paintings of his ancestors. And the curved peninsula, topped by a nine-foot slab of pink granite from the Gallura countryside, was a chef’s dream. And it included a chef—if Ella wanted—or she could cook up something herself. The kitchen had double doors that led out to a courtyard with huge terra-cotta planters overflowing with herbs, tomatoes and other vegetables. One section had a decorative pergola with clusters of grapes growing all around it.
Massimo stole a glance at his guest. She was sitting forward in her seat, totally absorbed in the views around her. The breeze made her hair flick around her face and her dress flare up around her legs. With those sunglasses she was wearing, coral-red lipstick, and long skirt with a red belt and headband, she looked like a classic film star. Innocent and hot at the same time.
He groaned. Why were his thoughts veering in that direction?
Because you’re normal? his inner voice said mockingly.
“Really?” he said aloud.
“I didn’t say anything,” Ella replied. “It must have been a mermaid whispering in your ear.” And then she giggled.
Massimo flashed her a look of concern. Where had that comment come from? She wasn’t wearing a hat. Could the midday sun have given her sunstroke?
“Have some bottled water, signorina. It’s in the cooler bag behind my seat.”
“I thought I mentioned you can call me Ella.”
“Like Cinderella?” he said with a chuckle.
“No, actually, it’s, um, it’s just Ella.” She glanced away. “Oh, look at the beach! Is that pink sand?!”
“It is. It’s produced by coral when it’s broken down, and the currents nudge the grains onto the shore instead of pushing them out to sea.”
“Wow. This is such an enchanting place. There’s so much I’d like to explore once I’ve done the interview”
“Oh?” Massimo glanced quickly at her. “You’re not going back home right away?”
Ella smiled enigmatically. “I have my holidays after the interview, so I decided to extend my stay for a week.”
“I see.” For a few moments Massimo concentrated on navigating through the deep blue waters around a series of tiny uninhabited islands and limestone crags. “So where are you staying?”
Ella shrugged and almost looked uncomfortable at his question. “I haven’t booked a spot yet. I didn’t have time to do a lot of research before I arrived, so I figured I’d decide while I was here. I might stay in the Cagliari area or head north to the Maddalena Islands.” She gazed wistfully into the distance. “And then there’s the Emerald Coast. It sounds so enchanting when you say it in Italian... La Costa Smeralda. And I’ll probably visit the island of Caprera...”
“Ah, the island of Garibaldi, the much loved—or resented—icon of Italy’s 1861 unification.”
“I’m fascinated by Italy. I lucked out getting this assignment.”
“From what I understand, it wasn’t luck at all,” he said. “It was your talent. And your ability to speak Italian.” His mouth twitched. “Allora, parliamo italiano? As they say, ‘When in Sardinia...’”
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLA NODDED AT Massimo’s request for them to speak in Italian. His accented English was rather pleasant, but when he spoke in his native Italian or regional Sardinian dialect, it seemed to ignite some kind of visceral reaction in her. Like now.
His voice was deep, sonorous, and evoked his island heritage. A heritage they shared...
So why hadn’t she revealed that to him when he had asked her about her name? Told him her full name was actually Marinella Rossi? And she had changed it to Ella Ross during a period of angst and rebellion in her late teens, conflicted as to why her birth mother had given her up for adoption and wanting to reject anything that had originated from her Sardinian past, even though it was her adoptive parents who had named her.
Reflecting on it as an adult, Ella had realized she had been struggling with her identity at that time and had attempted to create a new one, starting with a name change. And then one day, finding some old photographs taken when Ella was a child, which her mother had put away in a drawer, Ella’s curiosity about her heritage had been aroused. She had started to ask questions, and she knew her mother was
pleased, finally able to share details that Ella had previously shown no interest in.
Ella had been devastated when her adoptive mother passed away suddenly from a heart attack a year ago. There were so many things she would have liked to ask, so much she had wanted to say to the woman who had been a loving mother from the start, even during Ella’s challenging years. As she mourned her loss, Ella vowed that one day she would return to Sardinia, the place where her parents had met, fallen in love, married and adopted her. And maybe even find her birth mother...
“Ecco! Stiamo arrivando!”
Massimo’s words shook her out of her reverie. She had been gazing at the passing scenery for a while without really seeing it. And now they were approaching his island, a sphere of lush green, ringed with white. Ella couldn’t make out the actual villa, but a couple of minutes later, she caught glimpses of its light apricot exterior between the feathery boughs of mixed pines and cypresses. The beach, which had seemed like a thin strip as they approached, was in fact a wide band of the whitest sand Ella had ever seen, and the water lapping up against it was a heady mix of turquoise and sea green, sparkling under the rays of the midafternoon sun.
She glanced at Massimo as he idled the boat up to the dock. She hadn’t been unaware of the way he looked—and fit—in those white pants and salmon-colored shirt; her pulse had leaped as soon as she had seen him approach her table on the terrace. She had immediately downplayed her involuntary reaction in her mind, telling herself that when she had turned around from gazing at the stunning view, she hadn’t expected to see him right there, only a few feet away.
Ella suddenly realized that the speedboat’s rumble had subsided. And that Massimo had turned and caught her staring at him. She was relieved she had her sunglasses on...
Falling for the Sardinian Baron Page 4