Sensing the sweep of his dark eyes over her even from a distance, Ella self-consciously crossed her arms, certain her face was lobster red if the sizzle under her skin was any indication.
Massimo had texted Ella that Angelo had left and, if her headache had subsided, she could join him for a pre-dinner drink, but she hadn’t responded. He had gone down to knock at the guesthouse door. When she hadn’t answered, he’d figured she’d gone for a walk, and a quick check of the cove had confirmed this, as he could see the direction of her footprints.
He had gone back to the villa, but when she still hadn’t returned after forty-five minutes, he had begun to worry. He had headed to the cove and caught sight of her in the sea, her arms flapping wildly. He had felt a jolt in his chest, and his adrenalin had kicked in, priming his body to leap in to save her. And then she had swiveled around and it had been clear that she was having fun. He had taken a few deep breaths to calm his pulsing heartbeat before continuing on toward her.
When Ella had emerged from the water, her tangerine one-piece swimsuit clinging to her and rivulets from her dark hair dripping over her, he had experienced another jolt.
It was just the surprise of seeing another person in the water, on his beach, nothing more.
A person by the enchanting name of Marinella.
Massimo had felt his pulse spike as the words of “Marina,” an older but popular Italian song came to him, about a man falling in love with a brunette called Marina, but she didn’t want to hear about it, and the man wondered what he should do to conquer her heart.
At that moment, Ella had caught sight of him and stopped in her tracks. Massimo could see his presence had jolted her, as well, and not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he had stayed where he was.
“Ciao, Ella.” He waved. “I texted, but there was no answer. I had come to see if you were feeling better and if you wanted to join me for a pre-dinner drink.”
“Yes, I’m feeling much better. I—I’ll just need a few minutes to change and then I’ll join you.”
Massimo turned and made his way back to the villa, unable to make the image of Ella splashing about in the sparkling waters disappear from his mind.
In the dining room, Massimo poured himself a glass of Prosecco and surveyed the table he had set for the two of them. It had been so strange, laying out a second place-setting for someone other than his mother. And he had had to think about where exactly to position Ella. He couldn’t possibly have her sitting at the opposite end of the table, which would have been ridiculously too far away. He finally decided that he would change his own place setting from the head of the table to the next seat, and Ella’s would be directly opposite him.
Massimo sauntered into the living area and set down his glass on the coffee table before sitting on one of the reclining armchairs facing the opened retractable-glass walls. He felt a slight tension in his stomach muscles and wondered if it had been caused by his concern over Ella or if it was because he was about to have dinner with a guest. A woman. And the first visitor to stay on his island.
It was purely business. And practical, since she was here for the week. They would enjoy Angelo’s four-course dinner and then she would return to the guesthouse and he would...
What would he do?
Ordinarily, he was alone in the evening, which was pretty well always unless Angelo had time to linger or stay for the meal. Which was rare, since he was running an acclaimed restaurant that his guests frequented not only for the Michelin-rated food but for Angelo’s lively presence.
And if Massimo’s mother came for a visit, it would usually be for an early-afternoon lunch. So Massimo spent evenings walking along the beach, swimming either in the sea or his pool, reading, writing down ideas and making rough sketches to enhance his resort business, watching a documentary or classic film, and occasionally trying out a new Sardinian recipe.
Tonight...he shrugged. He would see...
He reached for his glass and let a swirl of the Prosecco tingle his taste buds. Angelo had prepared a platter of salati, tasty appetizers that he would take out when Ella arrived.
After Angelo had gone, Massimo had changed into a teal shirt and light gray trousers. Belt but no tie. That would have been too formal. He had assessed his image in the full-length mirror in his dressing room and had thought still too formal. He had then folded the sleeves up to below his elbows. Satisfied, he had headed downstairs and had texted Ella, and then had made his way to the guesthouse to see if she was there.
At the sound of footsteps outside, he quickly rose and went around to the front entrance. Ella was approaching with a tentative smile on her face. Her short-sleeved turquoise peasant dress made her look so...young and carefree. She was carrying a gift bag, and when she was at the entrance, she handed it to him. “A little something from Canada,” she said, “to thank you for your generosity in allowing me to stay in your guesthouse.”
“That wasn’t necessary...but thank you.” He held the door open for her. “Prego. Come and have some Prosecco and appetizers while I open this,” he said, setting the bag on his armchair.
As she sipped her drink, he reached into the gift bag and extracted a bottle of Niagara ice wine, a maple-leaf-shaped bottle of Ontario maple syrup, and an official Toronto Maple Leafs cap. He nodded appreciatively. “Grazie, Ella. That was very kind.”
“I also wanted to apologize for making assumptions about you earlier,” she said. “That wasn’t so kind.”
His eyes narrowed. “So we’re even, then.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” she said, her brow creasing.
“I had made assumptions about you. About your age and experience...” He raised his eyebrows. “So are we good, then?” he asked with a chuckle. “No more fighting?”
Ella’s eyes widened. “You haven’t seen fighting, signor DiLuca.” She had another drink of her aperitivo. “And remember, I hold the coveted Moorish sword in my castle. Woe to the foolish one who tests my patience.”
Massimo laughed. “I’m making a new assumption...that I now hold the title of Foolish One and not Baron.”
She tilted her chin up then nodded solemnly. “Correct.”
He smiled, and picked up their empty Prosecco glasses. “I think we’d better get started with dinner.”
“May I help?” she said, following him into the dining room.
“Yes,” he said, “you can help by starting with some appetizers.” He set the platter on the table and pulled her chair out. She sat down and he pointed to the selection that Ella was eyeing with interest. Chickpeas with fennel, olive-oil-and-lemon-drizzled octopus salad, spiced olives, and a variety of cheeses and crostini. She helped herself to a small portion of each.
“I want to find a good Sardinian cookbook while I’m here,” Ella said, in between bites.
“Your mother—?”
“Was Canadian, as I had mentioned,” Ella said. “She learned a few recipes from my father’s mother—like sebadas—and once we moved back to Canada, she made them once in a while, knowing how much I loved them.”
They ate the first course, an artichoke-heart soup, in companionable silence for a few minutes. Massimo hadn’t been sure how he would feel, sharing a meal with a woman after the past few years... He stole several glances at Ella, pleased that she was enjoying it.
Angelo had timed things perfectly, Massimo thought, leaving to get the pork stew with fava beans that had been simmering for a couple of hours in the oven.
“So you want to reacquaint yourself with your Sardinian heritage?” he said, pouring a ladleful of the stew onto each of their plates. He passed her a bowl filled with thick slices of civraxiu, a hearty dipping bread.
“Yes, which is why I’m staying for a week after our interviews.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my gosh. I was supposed to look into booking a place.” She set down her fork. “I must do that right after dinner.”
>
“I can help you,” he said. “I have contacts all over. But first, let’s enjoy this and Angelo’s homemade cookies with an espresso, and then we can find you a place.”
He poured them each a glass of strong red wine, a Cannonau di Sardegna from one of his own vineyards. “Salute,” he said, raising his glass toward her in a toast.
“Salute,” she replied. She inhaled the bouquet and swirled it around before tasting it. “Very nice.” She smiled. “It tastes like... Sardinia.”
He laughed and gestured at her stew. “Enjoy this other taste of Sardinia.”
He watched as she took her first bite.
“It’s delicious. Please thank Angelo for me.”
He took out his cell phone and sent Angelo a quick text.
Done!
At the end of the course, Ella sat back with a sigh. “Everything has been delicious. Grazie, Massimo.” She gave him a warm smile, and the genuine appreciation in her eyes caused a quickening in his chest.
He had craved solitude after his wife passed, and except for the times when Angelo or his mother came by, he had spent the bulk of the last three years in solitude on his island. Now, having shared a pleasant hour dining with Ella, an inner voice suggested that perhaps he was ready to start making some changes in his life...and entertain the thought of letting more people...or maybe another woman...in his world.
Their gazes connected several times over the fruit course and later as they were drinking their espressos, and Massimo didn’t know whether he should be happy about the effect she was having on him physically or if he should be heeding the alarm signal in his head.
Massimo swallowed his espresso and set down his cup.
“Scusami,” he said. He reached over to open the drawer of the sideboard and withdrew her passport. “I’m sure you don’t want to lose it. You had dropped it on the floor of my study, and it ended up under my desk.”
Ella raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t want to lose that.” She leaned across the table to take it from him. “Although I wouldn’t mind losing the photo,” she said with a chuckle, opening up the booklet. “I look pretty grim, since they want you to refrain from smiling.”
“I can’t imagine you looking grim,” he said, his mouth quirking.
She smirked and held up the photo for him to see.
He smiled at her almost stern expression and then his gaze shifted to the information on the right-hand side of the photo.
Something clanged against his ribs when he read the name.
Not Ella Ross or Ella Rossi, but Marinella Rossi.
“Marinella,” he murmured, and gazed at her in wonder.
She started, and setting the passport down on the table, she gazed at Massimo wordlessly for a moment.
“Would you like me to continue to call you Ella or should I address you as Marinella?”
“Um, well, I...either one works, although my mother and father’s family were the only ones who called me Marinella. The other people who have called me that—like at the airport back home—always pronounced it like the first part of marinate. I do prefer Marinella pronounced the Italian way.”
“I wouldn’t be pronouncing it any other way,” he said with a soft laugh. “Just as I like the fact that you pronounce my name the Italian way, and not ‘Mass-im-o.’”
Her cheeks had blushed to a deep pink, and averting her gaze to check the time, she said, “How about I help you with these dishes, and then I can look for a place to stay...?”
“How about you don’t and we head directly to my office computer? I’m sure you’re anxious to find a place before they all get booked up, which is not unusual at this time of year.”
“Va bene.” She nodded. “If you’re sure.”
He stared at her wordlessly for a moment, distracted by the way her dark eyes looked like glistening chestnuts after a downpour. “Sì, Marinella,” he said finally. “I’m sure.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“YOU NEVER TOLD me where your father was from,” Massimo said as he sat down at his desk. He had pulled up a chair for Ella right next to him. “And if there are any relatives still there.”
“He was from the medieval village of Posada. My nonna and nonno had only two sons, my father and his brother, Domenicu. They had a farm on the outskirts, not on the hillside itself, and they lived off the land. Zio Domenicu would be the sole living relative left, unless he married and had children.” She inhaled and exhaled deeply. “And I know nothing about my birth parents, except that my mother was young when she had me, and my biological father apparently denied any responsibility. He took off, moving to the mainland, and my mother never revealed his identity.” Ella fell silent as old emotions churned inside her.
As a child, she had created so many possible scenarios: her mother really wanted to keep her, but her parents forced her to give her up because they couldn’t afford to feed one more person; her mother’s rich parents had sent her away for nine months to keep it a secret from their rich friends and would have nothing to do with a child whose father’s identity was unknown. And on and on.
Ella wanted to believe that her mother had wanted her, but being under age, she had no choice but to consent to the will of her parents. Her biological grandparents had become the villains in Ella’s eyes when her adoptive mother had revealed to her about her birth mother being so young.
Massimo let out a heavy sigh. “I can’t even imagine how difficult all this must have been for you. Wondering why your biological parents...”
Ella felt the back of her eyes start to prickle at his words. “It does something to you, you know, makes you question your identity, your worth, even.” Her eyes blurred and she shut them tight, pressing against them with the heels of her hands. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin the evening.”
Ella felt Massimo’s hands over hers. She felt her body tense up. He brought her hands down and reached into his pocket. “New handkerchief,” he said huskily. “Never used...and no, you’re not ruining the evening.” He dabbed gently at her eyes and when he was done, she opened them, and for a long moment, their gazes locked.
He moved back. Rubbing his temple, he said, “You’re not used to the Sardinian sun, Ella, and you were out for quite a while today. You’re probably more tired than you think...so why don’t we look at this tomorrow morning? Don’t worry, we’ll find you a place.”
Ella nodded. Yes, she was tired. Physically and emotionally. She did not decline his offer to walk her down to the guesthouse. It was dark with few stars tonight, and she didn’t want to meet any night creatures, winged or otherwise.
When they got to the main doors, she thanked Massimo for the exceptional dinner and for accompanying her.
“Prego.” He nodded, a corner of his mouth tilting upward. “Buona notte, Marinella.” He opened the door for her. “Sogni d’oro.”
* * *
Massimo sprinted back up to his villa, sure that the drumming he was hearing was originating in his chest and not the forested part of the island.
He’d wanted to kiss her.
Thank God he hadn’t.
She would be here for four more days, and the last thing he desired was to complicate things.
Before that moment occurred, he had just wanted to hold Ella’s hands, wipe her tears. But when she had opened her eyes, he had caught a glimpse of her Sardinian sensitivity and strength...and he had been overcome with a desire to immerse himself in those depths. The first time he had felt any such desire for so long...
Massimo tossed his shirt on a chair and strode to his balcony. Looking up through his telescope at the stars or moon always relaxed him. Tonight the moon was especially luminous, and he watched it for several minutes. The night breeze was cool, but he welcomed its feathery strokes over his heated body. Looking over the moonlit crowns of the oleander trees in the distance to the only room of the gue
sthouse that was lit, and where Ella would be getting ready for bed, Massimo’s heart clanged with a sudden realization.
He was alive.
* * *
Massimo woke up during the night, and as he stared at the open doors of his balcony, the details of the previous evening came flooding back.
How Ella had enjoyed the Sardinian feast Angelo had prepared. The brief teasing exchange between them. And how Ella had shared more of her personal feelings about being adopted... It had bothered him earlier to hear kids had been mean to her, and he thought now how sad he’d be if he knew that his adopted child was being teased or bullied.
He fell back into a troubled sleep, and when he woke up again, the east window revealed a sky streaked with bands of orange and gold as the sun emerged from the horizon. It was earlier than usual for his morning jog, but his brain was too busy for him to stay in bed.
In minutes he was dressed in his jogging clothes and was out the door and on the beach. One of the reasons he had fallen in love with this island, other than for the solitude, was because of its impossibly long beach and enchanting cove. His real estate agent had arranged for a few flights around Sardinia, and Massimo had spotted the diamond-shaped island with the pretty white rim that turned out to be a sparkling strip of pristine shore.
He never regretted the decision to build Villa Serena on this idyllic island. While he lived in the guesthouse, and even after he moved into the villa, he spent as much time outdoors as inside. He enjoyed his early morning jog, and he often ended the day with an evening stroll.
Massimo checked the time on his watch before starting his job. By the time he was done, he’d still have plenty of time for a shower and an espresso before Ella arrived. In fact, he’d have time to call his mother, also, and confirm the details for dinner at her villa.
Falling for the Sardinian Baron Page 9