Falling for the Sardinian Baron

by Rosanna Battigelli

  “Benvenuta a Villa Serena,” he said, a brief smile accompanying his welcome. He held out his hand to help her step out of the boat. “You have lovely shoes, Ella,” he said, switching back to English, “but I hope you also brought a practical pair for the beach and for the path between the guesthouse and the villa. It’s uneven in places, and I wouldn’t want you to twist your ankle.”

  Ella felt the strength of his clasp as he helped her. “Thanks,” she murmured. “And yes, I brought several pairs of shoes.” She watched as he retrieved her suitcase and carry-on. She went to grab the carry-on, but he put up his hand. “I’ll take them up. You can concentrate on walking.”

  Ella followed Massimo to the path beyond the dock, which was parallel to the beach before curving its way between rows of oleander bushes, the sweet scent of their pink blossoms mingling with the sea breeze. What a beautiful backdrop to where she would be conducting her morning interviews with Massimo. She felt a shiver of excitement run through her at the thought of the time she would have after working on her piece to walk barefoot in the sand that resembled icing sugar and then take a dip in those pristine waters.

  She stumbled suddenly on a tree root, and Massimo turned at her exclamation, dropped her luggage and leaped to her side, grasping her before she fell. Ella found herself face-planted against his chest instead of the ground, his beard brushing her forehead. Her heart was clanging...or was that his?

  She closed her eyes momentarily and breathed in his scent. And then her eyes jerked open. What was she doing? She pulled away awkwardly. “Sorry about that,” she blurted. “I should watch where I’m stepping. Especially with these shoes,” she added ruefully.

  “Tutto bene?” he said, glancing down. “No twisted ankle?”

  “All good,” she said. “Thank goodness. That would have been horrible. For me and for you.”

  “I think you’re still tired and not over your jet lag.” His brow furrowed. “The guesthouse is just ahead. I suggest you settle in and relax, have a nap if you wish, and in a few hours, I will come back and show you around. And then after dinner this evening, we can go over the interview schedule. Va bene, Ella?”

  “Va bene, barone,” she said lightly. “Grazie.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The feudal system in Sardinia ended almost two centuries ago. So it is not necessary to address me with this formal title. Besides,” he added, his lips curving into a smile, “when you call me barone it makes me feel like I’m a century old.”

  “Well, I look forward to finding out about your centuries-old heritage—and maybe some colorful DiLuca ancestors—during our interview tomorrow morning,” she said, returning his smile.

  * * *

  “Welcome to the guesthouse.” Massimo looked back and saw Ella’s eyes widening as they approached.

  “I thought this was Villa Serena,” she blurted. “I was expecting a little guesthouse.”

  He gestured toward a canopy of trees above which they could now glimpse his villa. “I—what’s the word—indulged myself. I had this guesthouse built first, so I could oversee the day-to-day progress of the villa. I preferred this to a tent.” He smiled crookedly, setting down Ella’s luggage by the entrance door. “Something that wolves and wild boars couldn’t get into.”

  “What? There are wild animals on this island?” She glanced furtively around her.

  He laughed. “I haven’t actually seen—or heard—any. My mother insists that I’m the only wild creature here, choosing to live in isolation...” He saw Ella’s lips tilt upward tentatively, and he repressed his urge to laugh.

  “I can see that you’re not sure what you have gotten yourself into,” he said wryly, opening the door for her. “But I promise you, Ella, you will be safe.” His gaze swept over her. “Especially if you change your shoes.”

  Massimo waited for her to enter, then he followed with a piece of luggage in each hand. “Where would you like these?”

  “Oh, you can leave them right there. I’ll bring them later to the bedroom.”

  “Why don’t I just take them now, so that I don’t have to worry about you falling on the spiral stairway to the loft?” Without waiting for her to answer, he strode across the foyer to the living area, and looking back over his shoulder, said, “I might as well take you on a quick tour before I disappear into my own cave.”

  “Um, okay.” She glanced around.

  “And the fridge is stocked if you would like a beverage or a snack.”

  “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

  Massimo nodded and headed up the stairway to the second level. He had designed the loft with floor-to-ceiling windows so that it had views of the sea on every side. From the king-size bed, the facade of the villa could be seen over the crowns of the trees. And patio doors on one wall opened to a roomy balcony, flanked on its side by a fig tree that his gardener had planted, along with other fruit trees and flowering bushes.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Ella said, gazing around her. “I can see why you wanted to stay here. This is about as close as heaven as I can imagine.”

  Massimo felt a tightening in his stomach at the mention of heaven. It had been more of a haven than heaven at the beginning, a place where he could lose himself in the house plans instead of feeling constantly overwhelmed by grief. But when those dark moments came, when the recurring feelings of shock and disbelief resurfaced, not only during the day but in his dreams, he would seek respite in the perennial rhythms of the island: the ebb and flow of the sea at dawn, gushing at his feet; the silky feel of the white sand as he walked the entire stretch of the beach before it butted up against a granite outcropping, and then he would turn around and do the long trek back to his guesthouse, distract himself with computer work, before embarking on the task of cooking.

  During that year of construction, Massimo had turned down his mother’s offer of sending one of her chefs over to at least take cooking off his mind. He had wanted nobody around him while he tried to make sense of what had happened in his life and to figure out how he would move forward.

  Seeing that Ella had gone to survey the view from the balcony, Massimo turned to look at the bed. The new linens suited the room. He was actually glad to have had the original ones removed, washed and donated to charity. In a way, it was symbolic, starting something new and fresh.

  He had spent a long, lonely year in that bed, sometimes tossing all night. But on some nights, he’d sit out on the balcony and gaze up at the star-filled sky or the moon; he’d feel the sheer immensity and mystery of the galaxy, and somehow, it would give him a speck of hope, that Rita was where she was destined to be and so was he. And he realized more and more that the sooner he accepted reality, the sooner he would have peace...

  It hadn’t hurt, either, that he had consulted a bereavement counselor for a few months. As the head of DiLuca Luxury Resorts, he had always felt confident, in charge when it came to his business. And it wasn’t just because it made him billions. He had a genuine love of his island, and he wanted people from all over the world to experience it, to go home with the jeweled sea and enchanting Sardinian landscapes forever in their memory.

  But when he’d lost his wife, he had felt as if he had been cast out to sea in a tiny boat with no rudder. During a vicious storm...

  The counselor had helped him maneuver slowly but surely toward a sheltered cove, using his sheer will, somehow giving him the strength to battle the angry waves that threatened to crush him.

  Now, looking at his bed, the memories of that time resurfaced but without the sharp pang of grief. It was more like a moment of resigned sadness. And it felt strange to imagine someone else sleeping in his bed and sharing dinner with him later...

  Now that he was living in the villa, he had hired a personal chef—who also happened to be a close friend—to come over three times a week. His mother had insisted that Massimo dine with Ella every Sunday “to engage with hum
ankind,” and the remaining three days, Massimo cooked for himself. Today would have been Angelo’s day, but he had another commitment and would be coming the following day instead. So today, Massimo would be cooking...for two.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Ella, beaming.

  “I am very grateful for your generosity in allowing me to stay here,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

  Massimo shrugged. “To be honest, I was thinking more about myself and how to get through these interviews with the least disruption to my routine.”

  Ella’s smile diminished. “Well, I appreciate your candor, signor—I mean Massimo. I’ll make every effort not to be a fly in your ointment. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll unpack and leave you to your routine—” she glanced at her watch “—until our meeting later this evening to go over the week’s agenda.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  ELLA’S FACE HAD begun to tingle at Massimo’s surprising bluntness. And she had responded with a little bluntness of her own.

  His forehead creased, but she turned away to avoid any further conversation and walked over to where Massimo had set down her luggage.

  She heard his husky “arrivederci” and footsteps as he left, and she busied herself emptying the contents of her carry-on on top of the bed. When she glanced out the balcony doors, which she had left open, she caught a glimpse of Massimo’s back as he ambled up the incline leading to his villa.

  Yes, he had made it clear more than once that he considered the prospective interviews disruptive...

  Ultimately he had agreed to them to please or appease his mother, so like it or not, he’d have to put up with a few changes to his routine. And her. It wasn’t as if she were staying a month; the week would fly by.

  Ella transferred the clothes on the bed into the large dresser. After emptying some of the items of her big suitcase into the deep drawers and hanging others in the walk-in closet, she placed the two pieces of luggage into one corner of the closet and made her way to the en suite bathroom.

  After a refreshing shower, Ella slipped on her flip-flops and sauntered over to the walk-in closet. She rifled through the dresses she had hung up and decided on a lemon yellow sundress with decorative faux pockets, a lemon-shaped button on each flap.

  Feeling reenergized, Ella plugged in her adapter and set up her laptop on the desk in the loft. She attached her earphones and reviewed her list of questions for the next morning’s interview while listening to classical music. She tweaked a few queries and added some new ones before going over her notes for the remaining days, including those for the interview with the baronessa.

  When Ella finished reviewing and amending her comments for the last interview, she turned off the music, shut down her laptop and removed her earphones. She checked the time and gasped. She had been so absorbed with her notes that she hadn’t realized that almost three hours had gone by. She started at the sudden knocking at the front door.

  The entrance door had been left open, and Massimo’s “Buona sera” carried easily from the screen door to the loft.

  “I came by an hour ago and called out to see if you cared to join me for a tour around the villa and a bite to eat, but I guess you didn’t hear me,” he said loudly.

  “Come in. I’ll be right there.” Ella ran her fingers through her hair and quickly descended the spiral staircase.

  “Don’t rush. We’re on island time,” he said, his mouth quirking.

  Ella grabbed the railing. “Oh, my,” she said, closing her eyes. “I just felt dizzy.” She let her head lean against the post.

  She stiffened slightly at the feel of his arm around her shoulder seconds later.

  “Let me help you to the couch,” he said brusquely. “You should have some water. And something to eat.” His brow furrowing, he added, “I have a feeling you haven’t acquainted yourself yet with the refrigerator.”

  When Massimo started to guide Ella into the living area, she was overcome by another wave of dizziness. She felt herself starting to swirl and slide as if in slow motion, and ended up in a swing of some sort. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the swing was actually Massimo’s arms carrying her to the couch.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, setting her down gently. He watched her for a few moments, his eyes pinned on her. Then he nodded. “I’ll be back with some water.”

  Ella had no intention of moving. She would see how she felt once she had a drink. So much for their meeting in his office to discuss the interview schedule, which he had drawn up and emailed to her a few days before her flight. Well, she couldn’t see that happening tonight. It would soon be dusk, and lovely though the island might be, Ella wasn’t thrilled with the idea of walking back to the guesthouse alone after the interview. She hadn’t been able to tell if he was actually joking about the wild boars and the wolves...

  Ella sat up slowly as Massimo came back holding a tray with a tall glass of water and a platter of cold meats, cheeses and fruit. She couldn’t help looking at the muscled arms that had swept her up and carried her across the room moments ago. Imagining herself flopped against his chest ignited a thrumming in her own chest.

  “Ecco l’acqua,” he said as he set down the tray on the circular coffee table. “Have a drink. It will help clear your head.”

  Ella nodded and took the glass. She had a few sips and was about to put it down, when Massimo urged her to keep drinking. “You could be dehydrated,” he said. “It was hot and you didn’t have a hat on the way here. And if it’s not that, it could be that you’ve gone hours without eating. No wonder you’re dizzy.”

  He gestured toward the platter as he sat in the accent chair opposite her. “Prego.”

  “Oh, my goodness, this can’t be all for me.”

  “It could be, but if you’d rather share...”

  “Of course.” She looked at the selection of cheeses and slices of salami and prosciutto. “Are these home—?”

  “Made by my mother,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Your mother?” Ella had to stop her jaw from dropping. His mother was co-owner of a billion-dollar resort business. Why would she be doing this kind of work?

  “It is hard to believe, I know. Prego,” he said, indicating for her to help herself, and then he prepared his own panino. “Mamma loves to cook. She does have a personal chef or two, but she likes to prepare a lot of food that her parents and grandparents made themselves. ‘Someone has to keep our family traditions going’ she tells me all the time.” He gave a deep laugh. “So she will return home from a long board meeting, and a little while later, she will be in the kitchen, preparing sebadas, or spinaci al pecorino, or purpugia—”

  “What is it? The last thing you said.”

  Massimo’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s a pork dish that’s marinated and—how do you say—saltata in padella?”

  “Sautéed. What kind of marinade?”

  “Is this part of an interview, or are you actually interested?” he said, leaning forward.

  Ella bit her lip. Noticing the slight rolling of his eyes, she suspected that he didn’t want to waste his time with someone who was faking an interest in what he was saying.

  “I’m very interested,” she said quickly. “I would like to know more about Sardinian cooking. My father—” She froze and stared back at Massimo, her mind scrambling to think of a way to answer. Another near slip.

  “Your father...?”

  “Um, yes, my late father...liked to cook. And I...like to cook, too,” she finished weakly.

  His jaw relaxed and she caught a flash of empathy in his eyes. “Va bene, I’ll tell you. You chop some herbs and crush some spices into a bowl with garlic, white wine and vinegar. We use sage, rosemary, mint, bay leaves, fennel seeds and black peppercorns. You put the sliced meat in the marinade for one or two days, turning the meat over. And then you remove the slices, pat them
dry and cook the meat in a skillet with olive oil.”

  He looked directly at Ella as he kissed the fingers of his right hand in the way that Italians expressed their pleasure at food or anything else. The gesture made her nerve endings tingle. For a couple of seconds, she allowed herself to be stuck in his gaze, realizing how sensual his eyes really were, with that dark rim around them. She wondered if the trait came from the Spanish or Moorish influence in the island’s history.

  Ella forced herself to break away from her trance-like state. “That sounds so aromatic, with all those herbs,” she said, reaching for her glass. She drank the rest of her water and checked the time on her watch. “Thank you for the food,” she said. “Everything was so good. I will thank your mother personally when I meet her.”

  “Which will be on Sunday,” he drawled, before popping a piece of fontina cheese in his mouth.

  Ella frowned. “But I thought I read in the email that Sunday was your day off?”

  “It is. And it’s tradition for me to go over to my mother’s villa for dinner.”

  “Well... I don’t want to intrude on your family traditions.”

  Massimo’s lips curved slightly. “You are the guest of the DiLucas for one week, and so for one week you will join us in our traditions, big and small. And knowing my mother, she will be sure to—” he stroked his beard “—how do you say it? Oh yes, cook up a...a storm.”

  Ella flashed him a smile. Her face had a flush to it now, unlike earlier, when she had felt dizzy. Her pallor had been noticeable when she had first come down the stairs, but when she had slumped against the post, his adrenalin had jackknifed and he had leaped to her side, his heart clanging against his ribs. And when she had another spell moments later, he had scooped her up immediately to prevent her from falling.

  In the kitchen, he had grabbed a pitcher of water from the refrigerator and poured some into two glasses. He drank his first, trying to steady his heart from the shock of seeing a replay of his wife passing out. And then he had wasted no time in getting the tray that he had had prepared for Ella. She needed water and nourishment. Immediately.