Falling for the Sardinian Baron

by Rosanna Battigelli

  She liked the way her name sounded pronounced the Italian way: lighter and with a slightly longer drawing out of the double l. ‘Of course,” she said. “It’s the first time I ever saw one. Maybe that’s a good sign.”

  “Well, I hope you get your wish,” he said.

  “What about you?”

  Massimo gave an enigmatic smile. “I leave the wishing to the kids...and the romantics,” he added, eyeing her meaningfully. “I like to believe I create my own destiny.”

  Ella bit into her brioche. So that’s where he was at... “Doesn’t it take some of the magic out of life?” she said wonderingly. “I mean, not expecting any surprises to suddenly come your way?”

  The crinkling around Massimo’s eyes had smoothed out, and his smile had faded. “The surprises of the universe can be quite cruel,” he said curtly.

  Ella wasn’t sure how to respond. Massimo had to be thinking about his late wife. And she wasn’t about to venture anywhere near that territory. Not that she wasn’t empathetic; she just didn’t want it to seem like she was digging for information about a subject with sad or traumatic memories.

  And she doubted that he wanted to discuss anything about his wife, if the thin line of his lips was any indication. “Well, I suppose we should get started on interview number one,” she said lightly.

  “If you’re finished with your cappuccino, I’ll take it, and then we can be on our way,” he said, and when she nodded, he leaned forward to grab the cup, but his hand stopped in midair and went instead to her cheek, where he wiped off what she figured was a dollop of custard from her brioche.

  Massimo’s face was just inches away from hers, and as their eyes locked, Ella was sure that he could hear the accelerated thumping of her heart. She wanted to glance away but somehow couldn’t, and seconds later, he was the one who backed off.

  Ella stood up, grabbed her handbag, and strode to the door. He caught up to her and held it open, and soon they were walking up a slope made of pavers in the grass that was flanked on both sides by flowering pink and white oleander trees. The scent was sweet and heady, and Ella made a mental note to herself to look for a perfume with that flower essence.

  At the ring of his cell phone, Massimo retrieved it from his back pocket and checked the message. He laughed softly. “Look at this,” he said, and held out his phone. “Gregoriu and Lia’s baby. And here’s the one he sent me yesterday.”

  “Aww, she’s so beautiful. And look at all her hair!”

  He leaned in to look again, his arm brushing against hers. “She takes after her mother in that department,” he said with a laugh, looking up.

  Ella smiled, her breath suspended for a moment with his face only inches away from hers. The crinkling at the outer corners of his eyes and his grin were so...so distractingly attractive. When he looked down to reply to the text, without moving away, Ella felt a warmth spreading through her at the proximity of his neck, and the pulse at the base of his throat.

  He put his phone away and gestured to Ella to continue walking.

  The walkway curved through the last of the oleanders and opened to a view of Villa Serena. The path now changed from intermittent paver stones to one of huge granite slabs arranged in a curving design that led right up to the villa entrance.

  The grounds were breathtaking. And huge. Ella hoped she could take a better look after the interview. She didn’t imagine Massimo was up to giving her a tour now. There were landscaped areas with crescents of yellow, red and pink begonias, a separate rose garden, and a variety of flowering bushes, including giant rosy peonies. And beyond, the Olympic-sized infinity pool that gave the illusion it flowed seamlessly into the chameleon-like sea, shifting from turquoise to midnight blue.

  It took her breath away.

  This was a wonderland, and Ella was in complete awe of the fact that the man she was walking with had had this paradise created for him. Her gaze shifted to the sprawling stucco villa with arched doorways and windows, ceramic-tiled roof, and outdoor lounge area with thick sprays of violet cascading over a whitewashed wall. It had to be wisteria. So enchanting. And romantic... At least for her. Ella felt a wave of sadness, thinking of the baron living here by himself. It was his choosing, of course, but didn’t the fact that his wife wasn’t there to share it with him emphasize his loss? His grief? He hadn’t made any mention of his personal life nor did she expect him to...

  Her boss had advised her to avoid any reference to Massimo’s wife and her passing, as per the baron’s specifications. The latter expected the interview to focus on three things and three things only: the DiLuca Luxury Resort Company, the upcoming opening of the DiLuca Cardiac Research Center and his mother’s birthday.

  Ella gazed at the man who was walking ahead of her now and felt almost guilty, liking the way he looked in those perfectly fitting white trousers.

  You’re only human, an inner voice reassured her. The fact that he’s a widower has nothing to do with his appearance. You’re allowed to find a man attractive.

  And then he suddenly turned around, causing her arms to instinctively fly up to stop herself from crashing into him. For a moment their eyes locked, and Ella realized her hands were planted flat against his chest.

  “Sorry,” they said simultaneously, and Ella took a step back, letting her arms fall to her sides.

  “You must have been going over the interview questions in your mind,” he drawled, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I was informed that you’re very skilled at your job. And—how do you say—focalizzata.”

  Yes, she had been focused all right. On his backside.

  Ella was sure her cheeks were blazing. Good God, what a way to start the first day of interviews.

  * * *

  Massimo led Ella through the marble foyer and then an arched doorway to his study. He gestured for her to sit in one of the armchairs and he sat opposite her. The arched windows looked out to a clear view of the sea, and he enjoyed spending his work hours here, with the salty breeze wafting in and nothing but blue sea and sky in his line of vision.

  She was taking in the view now, and as he observed her profile, he realized with a jolt that she was the first woman, other than his mother, to have set foot on his island and in Villa Serena. When they had entered minutes ago, he had suggested to Ella that they get started with business, and then he would take her for a tour—if she liked—later.

  Massimo knew quite well there were a few unattached socialites—mostly daughters of his mother’s friends—who would like nothing better than for him to show an interest and invite them over. He couldn’t help being a little cynical, wondering if it was their anticipation of winning his favor and ending up enjoying a lifestyle even more opulent than the one they already had or if they actually cared about knowing him as someone other than the billionaire resort magnate.

  He wasn’t in a hurry to get involved. In the three years since his wife passed, he had gone through all the heart-and mind-wrenching stages of grief, and this past year, could say to himself that he had accepted the reality of his loss and was ready to move forward. Even if it was at the pace of a snail...

  He saw Ella turning away from the view. She pulled her recording device out of her handbag and set it on the accent table between them.

  “Why don’t we go over the schedule for the week before we begin?” he said, reaching for the papers on his desk nearby.

  “Of course, since we didn’t get that done yesterday,” she said ruefully. “I have it on my laptop.”

  “Non c’è problema,” he said. “It won’t take long. And no need to open up your laptop. I printed off copies of the file.”

  Massimo handed her a page with the schedule. He hadn’t been thrilled about doing the interviews, but now that Ella had arrived, he was anxious to get started. He went over the timetable for their morning sessions and the times for the ones she would be doing with his mother. When the
y were done, he placed the file on his desk and sat back in his office chair.

  “Allora, cominciamo?” This morning’s session would be about the DiLuca family history and how his late father had started the resort business.

  “Yes, let’s begin,” Ella said, nodding, and turned on the device. “First of all, thank you for allowing me to record these interviews.” She smiled. “Tell me about your ancestors, signor DiLuca. How far back can you trace your lineage?”

  He leaned back in his armchair. He explained that his earliest known ancestor had been an enterprising merchant who had amassed a fortune in two areas: silk and spices. It was passed on from generation to generation that this Federico DiLuca had begun with raising his own small collection of silkworms, keeping them munching happily on mulberry leaves. He had boldly traveled to China and had reputedly brought his fine silks to the court of Genghis Khan, who commissioned him to be a regular provider. Before too long, Federico was doing a brisk trade on the Silk Road.

  “That’s very intriguing,” Ella said, jotting notes down on a pad, despite the fact she was recording. “Was Federico married?”

  “Yes, he was. And a father of nine children.”

  Ella’s brows arched. “Wow. And you mentioned spices?”

  Massimo nodded and explained that Federico had brought many new spices from India and China to Italy and to his own region of Sardinia, along with other treasures, like the zizibus tree with its olive-sized brown berries. The Roman emperor had rewarded Federico for his trade initiatives by granting him the title of Baron.

  Massimo could see Ella was genuinely interested, her eyes lighting up as he went through the most notable descendants of Federico in the subsequent centuries, including some Robin Hood–like brigands in the 1860s, who ended up becoming folk heroes. When he got to his great-grandfather Alberto, Massimo explained that Alberto’s older brother Leonardo—just before the Allied invasion in 1943—had tricked him out of his rightful inheritance and destroyed his reputation, and Alberto ended up dying penniless, his family on the brink of starvation.

  “And my grandfather Teodoro, who was twelve when World War II ended, swore he’d find a way to restore the family’s good name and fortune.’”

  “How did he do that?” Ella leaned forward. “He was just a kid.”

  “In his day, you were pretty much a young adult at that age. He worked eighteen hours a day for a wealthy landowner, who unlike others who exploited their laborers, rewarded Nonno Teodoro after a few years with a plot of land, some farm animals and a bonus. Teodoro became respected for his honesty and work ethic, and later on, actually became mayor of the village. He eventually discovered documents that revealed Leonardo’s dishonesty and corruption, and the law officials restored his title and transferred most of Leonardo’s land and holdings to Teodoro.

  “My father was Nonno Teodoro’s only child and heir. Like our ancestor Federico, he possessed a sharp business sense that eventually led to investments in the resort business. And he taught me everything I know...” He felt his voice unexpectedly cracking with emotion.

  “That’s really fascinating,” Ella said. “You are fortunate to know so much about your family history.” She clicked off the recorder and placed it back in her bag along with her notepad. “I wish—” She stopped short. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” she said, averting her gaze.

  “Please, finish what you were about to say, Ella. I’m curious about your family history.”

  Was she actually squirming in her chair? Her cheeks were becoming almost as flushed as ripe persimmons, and she was biting her lower lip. Something was on her mind, something personal...

  She eyed him hesitantly, almost as if she were wondering why he would be interested in anything about her. The vulnerability in the depths of her eyes caused his heart muscle to constrict involuntarily, and he realized what he was seeing was evidence of an emotion that he was all too familiar with...loss.

  Ella set down her notepad and pursed her lips. She inched forward in her armchair, her hands on the armrests, and looked like she wanted more than anything to take flight.

  “Ella, cosa c’è?” he prompted. “What is bothering you?” He leaned forward and hoped she could see the sincerity in his eyes.

  She inhaled deeply and shook her head. “I don’t want to bother you with my...personal issues. I’m not here to waste your time.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s not a waste of time,” he said. “Or a bother. Prego.”

  “I had told you I was adopted,” she finally blurted. “But what I didn’t tell you was that I was adopted. Here. In Sardinia.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THERE! SHE HAD done it, revealed something about her private life that she hadn’t intended to share, least of all with Massimo DiLuca. But something in his eyes had unlocked her trust, and she heard the words spilling out of her mouth before her critical mind could stop her.

  “You are... Sardinian?” he said huskily.

  “Yes. My mother was Canadian, my father Sardinian. My adoptive parents, that is. My birth mother—and presumably my biological father—were Sardinian.”

  “Were?” His eyes narrowed, like an eagle zooming in on a movement in a field.

  “I know nothing about them,” she admitted slowly. “My adoptive mother went on a trip to Italy, met my dad in Sardinia. They married, and when she found out she couldn’t have children, they decided to adopt. Me.”

  His brow furrowed. “But they didn’t stay here? How did you end up in Canada?”

  “My father died in a car accident when I was four,” she said, swallowing. “My mother returned with me to Canada a few months later.” She looked down, staring at her clasped hands. “She passed last year.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ella,” he said softly. “What were your parents’ names?”

  “Cassandra and Micheli,” she murmured. “Rossi.”

  “You anglicized your last name to Ross.” His eyes bored into her.

  His tone was not judgmental, but Ella sensed that he was curious as to why she had changed it.

  “It’s a long story,” she said dismissively. “In a nutshell, I went through a troubled time, struggling with my identity. Struggling with the fact that my biological father took off, refusing to acknowledge his responsibilities, and my birth mother gave me up. I wanted to detach from everything Sardinian, everything Italian. Yes,” she answered his unspoken question, “even though my Sardinian father had adopted me. I was so confused...”

  He stared at her, his mouth pursed, his hand stroking his beard. “I don’t blame you,” he said quietly.

  The empathy in his voice made her eyes begin to mist up. She squeezed them shut for a moment, determined to stem the tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in my drama.” She straightened in her chair, and her handbag, which she had placed over the back of the chair, tipped over, spilling some of the contents.

  With a groan of frustration, Ella bent to pick them up off the floor and shoved them back into her handbag. She stood up. The first interview was done, and she was anxious to get back to the guesthouse to review her notes and listen to the recording again.

  Massimo stood up and glanced at his watch. “I think this would be a good time for a snack, yes? And something to drink.” He frowned. “You look a little pale.”

  Ella blinked. “Um, sure.” She would get to her work after that.

  “Andiamo in cucina,” he said. “Cappuccino o bevanda fresca? Aranciata, limonata?”

  “Orange juice is fine,” she said, and followed him as he strode through the arched doorway. She could use something cool and fresh. Something that would revitalize her after the emotionally draining episode that had just occurred.

  All she wanted to do was forget it. File it away in her mind until the week’s interviews were done. Then she could focus on her personal life. Po
ssibly reaching out to her uncle, to start.

  As they walked to the kitchen, Ella couldn’t help being distracted by the spaciousness and elegance of rooms that flowed into and around each other, connected by a series of incredibly high-arched doorways under vaulted ceilings enhanced by polished wood beams.

  Massimo looked back at her as they were walking through the living area and said, “All the larger wood pieces are genuine chestnut and walnut, created by a master carver.” Ella nodded, liking the look of the modern furniture: an extra long leather sectional and accent chairs with sleek, carved-wood embellishments, and the intricate, inlaid decorative pieces, like the chessboard on one side table and the main coffee table, which was, Massimo explained, constructed with the technique of geometric marquetry and featured a variety of woods, including cherry and maple.

  The furniture’s wood finishes contrasted well with the cool white palette of the walls. The main wall featured huge sliding doors leading to an outdoor living space that looked out onto the pool and the sea beyond. Another wall had two alcoves, one with several shelves filled with books, another with decanters and glasses and a concealed wine cooler below. Massimo pointed out the main wine cellar was in an underground room accessible from the butler’s pantry.

  Ella was glad that the conversation had shifted from her family history to Massimo’s home. She wanted to focus on the reason she was here this week, not the missing pieces of her life... That had to wait until she was finished with the DiLuca family.

  She had done interviews in some pretty impressive homes in places like Vancouver and California, but Ella had never seen anything like this villa. If the living room was over the top, the kitchen was even more impressive. The long island, with its gleaming Sardinian stone, spanned the length of the cabinetry.

  At Massimo’s invitation, she sat on one of the high swivel chairs. She felt as if she were in a soda shop, watching as he took out a juicer and oranges and proceeded to make freshly squeezed juice. He handed her a tall glass and made one for himself, as well.