Dinner lasted a full three hours, a magnificent feast of traditional Sardinian dishes. Burrida, a spicy fish soup, followed by delicately poached sea bream, both served with ice-cold Vermentino bearing the Silvaggio d’Avalos label. Next, a full-bodied red Cannonau, also from the family winery, for the main course of spit-roasted lamb, artichokes and malloreddus, small gnocchi-like pasta. For dessert, deep fried ricotta cakes drenched in honey, washed down with a sparkling Moscato from the Gallura hills. And finally, rich dark coffee and tiny, exquisite chocolates filled with minted lemon cream.
Arlene never could have consumed so huge a meal had it not been for the leisurely pace. As it was, she was able to relax between courses and enjoy her surroundings without appearing overly curious.
The dining room itself was a feast for the eyes. Large and square, with French doors opening to a terrace, it sported a table that easily could seat thirty. The musical ping of fine crystal, the discreet clink of heavy sterling on monogrammed china all added to a setting which might have been best described as majestic were it not for the infant high chairs interspersed at regular intervals among the formal furnishings.
“You have a lovely home,” Arlene confided to Domenico’s mother, during a lull in the conversation.
“Thank you, cara. It’s really much too big for just two people, but my children refuse to let me and their father move to something smaller. They claim this is the only place they can all fit around one table at the same time.” She glanced at Renata, and Gemma, Domenico’s second youngest sister who was also pregnant. “And since the babies keep coming, I suppose they have a point. Do you have brothers and sisters, Arlene?”
“No. I’m an only child.”
Only, and lonely—at least until tonight. But Domenico’s family had drawn her so seamlessly into their familial web of affection that, for once, she was not on the outside looking in. For once, she felt as if she belonged, even if it was only for a few hours. Not that they fawned over her or gave the impression that they were putting on a show for her benefit. They simply included her.
So many things touched her as the meal progressed. Insignificant things to most people, probably, but to her they spelled all that had been missing from her own upbringing. Lara’s husband Edmondo, for example, who left his own food to grow cold while he patiently coaxed his six-year-old son Sebastiano into trying the slivers of lamb he’d been served.
…I didn’t say you had to like it, Arlene. I said you had to eat it, and you’ll sit there until you do… Or Domenico’s father reaching across the table to clasp his wife’s hand, proof that marriage didn’t have to spell the end of love between a man and a woman.
And perhaps most moving of all, Domenico lifting a suddenly fractious niece from her booster seat and cradling her against his shoulder until she fell asleep with her thumb popped firmly in her sweet little rosebud mouth—a sight so unbearably beautiful, so overflowing with affection, that it brought tears to Arlene’s eyes.
It was as they all lingered over coffee that the subject arose of a viticulture convention in Paris. “This coming weekend, isn’t it?” Renata asked, of no one in particular.
Her uncle Bruno nodded. “That’s right. Three days, starting on Friday.
A lively discussion followed, covering speakers, vintners, manufacturers, suppliers and anything else remotely connected to the business of turning grapes into wine.
“You’re presenting this year, as usual, Domenico?” his brother-in-law Ignazio inquired.
He nodded, careful not to disturb his sleeping niece. “Once only, on Friday.”
Michele, the second eldest sister and the quietest, looked up from wiping honey off her seven-year-old daughter’s chin. “You should take Arlene with you. It would be an invaluable experience for her.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” Arlene said quickly, not about to wait for Domenico to shoot down the idea. If there’d been one flaw in an otherwise perfect evening, it was that he’d remained distinctly aloof from her, as if wanting to make it clear, both to her and his family, that they weren’t a couple. Not that he’d totally ignored her. It would have been better if he had. Instead he’d watched her, his blue eyes as sharp and clinical as a surgeon’s scalpel. “I’m flying home on Saturday.”
“Registration’s closed now, anyway,” he said.
“Not to you,” Lara argued. “Never that. You could show up with twenty extra attendees at the last minute, and they’d be accommodated.” She turned to Arlene. “That’s the kind of clout our brother wields in vintner circles. They practically kiss his feet when he shows up, he brings such cachet to the occasion.”
Fortunately the conversation swung to the pleasures of Paris in October, and soon after, the party came to an end. First the grandchildren were rounded up and bundled into cars by their parents for the short ride home, then it was Arlene’s turn to take her leave.
“Come and see us again before you go home,” Domenico’s mother said kindly, again kissing her on both cheeks.
“Most certainly,” his father added. “Don’t wait for an invitation. Our door is always open.”
“Thank you,” she managed, swallowing another sudden clutch of tears, because she knew she wouldn’t be coming back. As he had so often throughout the evening, Domenico was again watching her, as if waiting for her to put a foot wrong when she said her goodbyes.
Why? Had she shamed him, in her black skirt and white blouse, with not a single jewel but her pearl earrings to redeem their plainness? Had he decided she wasn’t quite good enough to associate with his family? Not sophisticated enough? Or had his aim always been to show her that she didn’t fit into his life, and never would?
There was only one way to find out. “Okay, Domenico,” she said, the moment they were on the road. “You don’t have to pretend any longer. It’s nobody but just the two of us now, so ’fess up. What’s the real reason you took me to meet your family tonight?”
Chapter 5
Covering up his jolt of surprise at the question, Domenico said, “Have you forgotten we already dealt with that subject, Arlene?”
“Remind me again. I’m not sure I remember it accurately.”
“I thought it would be an enjoyable experience for everyone involved.”
“Including you?”
“Of course including me.”
“Then please explain why you spent the entire evening staying as far away from me as possible. Did you have a change of heart once we arrived, and decide you’d made a mistake in inviting me, after all?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you were afraid I’d embarrass you—or worse yet, you hoped I’d embarrass myself.”
Inhaling sharply, he slammed on the brakes, brought the car to a skidding stop on the gravel shoulder at the side of the road and turned to face her. Expert though he was at keeping a poker face, even he couldn’t hide his shock. “How the devil could you have done that?”
She shifted in her seat, a slight movement only, but enough for the rustle of silky underthings to whisper alluringly over her skin. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, giving another of her elegant little shrugs. “Tucked my napkin in the top of my blouse, and not known which fork to use, perhaps. Or knocked back too much wine and slid under the table in a drunken stupor before the main course was served.”
Her reply shook him to the core. Never in his life had he lifted his hand to a woman, but assaulted by so many conflicting emotions he couldn’t begin to sort, let alone control, he actually grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Not hard, to be sure, and in frustration rather than anger. Nevertheless, her lovely gray eyes turned glassy with unshed tears, and her sweet, vulnerable mouth dropped open in shock.
His mind grew dark. Black and empty as a cave buried deep below the earth’s surface. Search though he might, he could find no words to justify his behavior, no lodestar to restore him to himself. Never more at a loss than he was at that moment, he gave up trying to excuse the inexcusable, a
nd once again submitted to the instinct which had driven him for days. He hauled her into his arms and crushed her mouth beneath his.
At first, she resisted, holding herself stiff as a board. Desperate to soften the blow he’d dealt her, he cajoled her by cupping the back of her head in one hand and stroking the other up her throat to caress her jaw.
A tear slipped free. Slid pearl-like down the heated curve of her cheek. He trapped it with his tongue and, finally, the right words, the only words that mattered, spilled from him. “I could never be ashamed of you,” he whispered into her mouth. “You are the finest thing that ever happened to me. If I stayed away from you, it was because I was afraid to stand too close.”
“Why?” Once again, her favorite question emerged, this time uttered on a sigh.
He answered by deepening the kiss, with no thought of pulling away, or of letting matters end there. The hunger he’d tried so hard to contain rampaged through his blood, sending coherent thought tumbling into obscurity. At that moment, he was a man driven beyond reason.
She melted in his embrace. Leaned into him and let her head fall back in utter surrender. The scent of her skin filled him. Drove him beyond the bounds of sophisticated seduction that had always been his trademark.
He knew that stretch of the coast like the back of his hand. Knew that, a few meters ahead, a rough track led into the shelter of the pine trees lining the side of the road. With one arm looped around her shoulder, he left-handedly shifted the roadster into gear, steered it under the dark canopy of branches and killed both engine and headlights.
Stripped of moon and stars by the foliage, night closed around the vehicle, veiling it in cool secrecy. Inside, though, a fire raged, fusing desire into a mass of molten passion as primitive and unplanned as it was unstoppable.
He put his hands on her. Shaped her through the fine lace of her blouse. He found the buttons. Undid them. Pushed aside the silky camisole she wore underneath, to discover the silkier perfection of her breasts.
Her flesh surged against his palm and she let out a tiny gasp of pleasure. It drove him to further madness. Lowering his head, he captured her nipple in his mouth and ran his hand the length of her slender body to her ankles.
Her narrow skirt resisted his intrusion but he, consumed by raging desire, would not be stopped. The sound of a seam splitting made little impression compared to the thundering of his heart.
Her legs were bare and smooth as cream. Freed from the demure confinement imposed by her skirt, they fell slackly apart and turned his invasion into an invitation. The breath seized in his throat at her damp softness; at the warm, sleek privacy to which she gave him access. Already hard, he felt himself pulsing against the fabric of his trousers. Teetering so close to the brink of destruction that he gave no thought to dignity or decency.
An owl swooping suddenly out of the night to brush the tip of one pale wing close to the windshield, saved him from himself. Restored to belated sanity, and appalled at his lack of control, Domenico smoothed her clothing into place and, awash in self-disgust, flung himself away, his chest heaving.
In all the years since he’d lost his virginity at fourteen to a woman twice his age, he’d never once sunk to the level of a backseat Casanova. That in this case there was no backseat and he’d had to make do with two front seats separated by the gearshift console, was a moot point. The fact was, Arlene deserved better than to be subjected to the kind of impatient fumbling that had left her with a torn skirt and a level of sexual frustration that probably matched his own. She deserved a little respect—and a very large apology.
“I am sorry,” he said. Then, knowing he owed her more than that, added, “Not for finding you irresistible, but for showing it so clumsily, and for every other mistake I’ve made where you’re concerned.”
“What kind of mistakes?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Letting my pride dictate my actions. That first day, when you mentioned having to meet up with a friend, I jumped to the assumption that you were here with a man.” He laughed grimly. “I was eaten up with jealousy.”
“I’d never have guessed.”
“No,” he said. “I’m good at hiding my thoughts and feelings. But the truth is, I wanted to punish you, and I did. The next day, I endangered your health by allowing you to work yourself into a state of complete exhaustion. Your migraine attack was my fault.”
She found his face in the darkness and touched his cheek tenderly. “Even you can’t take credit for that, Domenico. I should have had enough sense to quit before things came to such a pass. I chose not to, and suffered the consequences.”
“I knew better, and should have been more vigilant.”
“You’ve been nothing but helpful and kind and wonderful to me.”
He caught her fingers and kissed them. “I’m a proud, stubborn man, Arlene. I go after what I want with single-minded determination. Don’t fool yourself into believing otherwise.”
She let her hand trail lightly down his chest. “Do you want me?”
“Yes, I want you,” he said, halfway between a laugh and a groan.
“Then take me.”
Sorely tempted, he let a beat of silence pass before answering. “Not here. Not now.”
“Then when?”
He paused again, weighing the options. He could take her back to his place. They’d be completely alone. It was an unwritten rule among his family that each respected the other’s privacy and never showed up on the doorstep without invitation. But there was always the risk of her being seen in the car, and he wasn’t ready for the speculation that would arouse.
He could take her to a hotel. But that smacked too much of a cheap one-night stand, and he’d decided years ago he’d never stoop to such lowlife measures. Which left him with what was probably the best and wisest course, and that was to do nothing at all, and so spare them both the pain of having to sever the strands of involvement when it came time for her to leave the island.
Do it, his conscience prompted. Let her down gently, and walk away before you break her heart. “You could come with me to Paris,” he heard himself suggest.
“I can’t afford it,” she said.
“I can.”
He felt her withdrawal as acutely as if a cold wind had infiltrated the car. “I won’t take your money.”
“You won’t have to. I’ll be traveling by private jet. It will cost me no more to add an extra passenger than it will to include an extra guest in my hotel suite.”
“Even so, what about Gail? I can’t just abandon her.”
He heard the longing in her voice. Seduced by it, he said, “She’ll meet you in Paris on Sunday morning and you’ll fly home together from there.”
“Our tickets are for Saturday and don’t include a stopover in Paris. We came here via Rome.”
“Tickets can be changed, cara,” he said, firing up the car and backing it onto the road. “In fact, you can achieve just about anything, if you want it badly enough.”
The glow from the illuminated dials on the dash showed her lips pressed together in a way he’d come to recognize meant she was giving serious thought to the idea. “I don’t know about that,” she finally said. “But I do know I want you.”
At the time, Arlene had been very certain that she knew exactly what she wanted, and also what she’d be getting: one glorious weekend with Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos, the most exciting man she’d ever known. Not that he’d said it in so many words, but even she wasn’t naive enough to think he was promising anything beyond that.
But when he learned she’d never been to Paris, he changed their plans and suggested they leave Sardinia on the Wednesday so that he’d have time to show her something of the city before the convention began. The prospect of four whole days and nights with him left her giddy with anticipation, and if the sensible voice of caution warned her she was getting in over her head, she hushed it. She’d broken the cautious, sensible mold, the day she’d decided to accept her inheritance.
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She didn’t see him again until the morning of their departure. “After Paris, I’m heading to Chile for a couple of weeks, which means I’ll be tied up for the next few days, making sure everything’s running smoothly on the homefront before I leave,” he told her, when he returned her to her hotel on the Saturday night.
“I understand,” she said, steadfastly ignoring his not-too-subtle reminder that, after the coming weekend, they’d be going their separate ways. “As it happens, I’ve got a few things to take care of, myself.”
Placing his hand in the small of her back, he walked her through the hotel lobby in such a way as to shield her torn skirt from the night clerk’s inquisitive stare. “Then it’s arranged. I’ll have your friend’s new flight information delivered tomorrow, and pick you up here at eight on Wednesday morning. We’ll be in Paris in time for lunch.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
As the elevator door whispered open, he dropped a swift, hard kiss on her mouth. “Until Wednesday, then.”
Euphoria carried her through the next three days. By Tuesday, she’d refurbished her wardrobe with clothes more suited to private jets and October in Paris, than the beaches of Sardinia. Returning to the millionaire’s playground of Alghero, she and Gail scoured the town and found a couple of consignment boutiques stocked with designer fashions in her size. But that they cost her only a fraction of their true value didn’t change the fact that she spent more on clothing in two days than she had in the previous two years.
“Think of it as an investment in your future,” Gail counseled, when she fretted about the balance owing on her credit card. “This is, after all, as much a business trip as a naughty weekend. You could make some very valuable contacts at the convention, and it’s important you project a suitably professional image.”
“To the tune of hundreds of dollars?”
“Well, you know what they say. If you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.”
The trouble was, enough clothes to make a four-day, four-night splash in Paris added up to a lot more than just a few eggs. One smart cranberry-red suit, two silk blouses, a pair of tailored slacks, a cashmere sweater, reversible wool cape and basic black velvet dinner dress, plus the two pairs of shoes and ankle-high black suede boots she toted back to the hotel, called for an entire poultry farm!
The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle Page 6