Falling for the Sardinian Baron

by Rosanna Battigelli

  And he had succumbed to more than just her physical beauty. Her intelligence, her sensitivity, and her honesty had reeled him in, as well.

  But he was delusional to think—or expect—that anything could progress. After tomorrow, she would be gone. She’d still be in Sardinia, but she’d be reestablishing a connection with her zio Domenicu and his family, which was clearly what they both wanted.

  And what do you want? an inner voice pressed.

  Massimo poured himself another espresso. There was no point going there... No point at all.

  It was probably a mistake to have offered to take Ella to Posada, but he couldn’t very well retract his proposal now. He’d have to just get through the day and his mother’s birthday tomorrow, and then they’d say their goodbyes.

  “Do you have everything you need?” he said brusquely as she finished her brioche. “Or do you have to stop at the guesthouse?”

  “I’d like to change before we head out, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded. “Non c’è problema. I’ll meet you at the dock.” He stood up. “You can just text me your uncle’s address.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ella had changed into a pair of tangerine Capri pants and a white tank top under a floral cotton shirt. She had her hat and sunglasses on, and as she approached the speedboat, Massimo felt a tightening in his chest.

  Ella held on to her sun hat as he sped away from the coast. He focused on steering, and although he sensed Ella’s gaze on him several times, he deliberately avoided looking her way.

  When they were in his Lamborghini and cruising on the freeway, Ella pulled out her recorder and notepad. “I doubt we’ll get a good sound.” She frowned. “But I’ll still record you while I take notes.”

  “Prego.” He nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “What is it like, working with the baronessa?” she said. “Tell me about your work relationship...and has your mother mentioned retirement plans at all?”

  Massimo flashed her a wry smile. “I’m a very lucky person, being able to work with her. She’s smart, creative and generous with our employees. She listens to my ideas and vice versa. Although she’s cut back on her work hours, she hasn’t brought up retirement.”

  For the next few minutes, Massimo answered questions about his mother’s birthday, after which Ella informed him she had made up a list of shots that she would like his photographer to take for the magazine. “And as you requested,” she added, “you can approve them and then have them emailed to me.”

  She then proceeded to ask about the genesis of the Cardiac Research Center that would bear the DiLuca name.

  It was a project extremely important to him and his mother, he told her. It was a long-term personal and financial commitment that would honor the memory of their loved ones, and help countless people in the future.

  When they were done, Ella put away her recorder and notepad and concentrated on enjoying the scenery. She looked intently out at the stretches of farmland, exclaiming at the sight of the Rio Posada, and near the left bank of the river, in the middle of a plain, Massimo pointed out a conical prehistoric monument built with large blocks of stone.

  “We’re in Torpè, and this is called Nuraghe San Pietro,” he said, “named after the ancient Nuraghic tribe in the region. We could stop and have a look on the way back, as I’m sure you’re anxious to get to Posada.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I had read about the Nuraghe and also Mount Tepilora and Tepilora Park. It looks absolutely stunning.”

  “Ah, yes, the home of the golden eagle and excellent hiking trails.”

  “I’d love to check out the trails, too...but not today,” she added quickly. “My priority is to reconnect with my family.”

  “Of course. And that will happen very soon.” He gestured at the sign ahead.

  A few minutes later as they approached Posada, Massimo pointed out the medieval village clinging to the side of a limestone cliff—its cluster of colorful homes cascading down the hillside toward the sea, like a flowing peasant skirt—and a thirteenth-century tower and ruins of the Castello della Fava.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Ella said wistfully. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “Which is why it has been named one of the most beautiful villages in Italy. Do you remember any of it?”

  She shook her head. “I was only four when we moved to Canada. I don’t have any specific memories, other than a blue door and—” her mouth curved into a smile briefly “—some chickens.”

  “What about people? Your relatives? Do you remember them?”

  “Vaguely. But my memories might actually be getting confused with the photos my mother—Cassandra—showed me of the four years we spent in Posada.”

  Massimo heard the tremor in her voice. His hand reached out to clasp hers, but he withdrew it when she abruptly turned her head to look out her side window.

  He felt a twist in his chest. She may not have seen his attempted gesture of empathy, but perhaps it was just as well. It was a reminder for him to stay neutral...

  He began the ascent toward Posada’s historic center, distracted by the groups of teenagers and people—both men and woman—who stopped and stared at his Huracán or whistled their approval. Having visited Posada before, Massimo knew where he could park privately, near a hidden scenic outlook on the mountain that he and Ella could walk to. It was worth stopping at, with its panoramic view of the countryside and endless Tyrrhenian Sea.

  As they made their way up steep steps and through cobbled side streets lined by homes of ancient stone and charming stucco houses painted coral, cream, yellow or white, most having arched doorways and large glazed planters overflowing with blooms or featuring a flowering tree, Massimo felt conflicting emotions.

  He was happy to be with Ella, showing her the land of her birth, but simultaneously unhappy, knowing that he had a very limited time in which to do it. There was simply too much to discover and enjoy in a day. In less than a day.

  Ella gasped, as he had imagined she would when they arrived at the scenic outlook. Surprisingly, they were the only ones there. Checking the time, he realized it was after noon and tourists were probably flocking to the restaurants all vying for their patronage.

  “This. Is. Magnificent.” She looked downward and Massimo heard her draw in her breath again. “Oh, look, Massimo,” she said, clasping his forearm, “the beach, with the ancient watchtower and the Church of San Giovanni. I can’t get over this view. The beach sand looks like a strip of caramel—and, oh, my gosh, that turquoise water... I wish I had brought my bathing suit.” She squeezed his arm. “Thank you for bringing me here.” And before he could respond, she impulsively gave him a hug.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ELLA REALIZED THAT Massimo wasn’t reciprocating the hug. She let her arms drop stiffly and stepped away from him, feeling as awkward as a teenager at her first dance. She didn’t intend to ask him why he had turned into one of the stone statues they had seen in a piazza on their way to the terrace lookout. It was obvious. Now that she was officially finished interviewing him and would be leaving the day after tomorrow, he was assuming his baron demeanor, just as he had when he’d been at the airport to pick her up.

  And what exactly had she expected? That he would pull her tightly to him and kiss her the way he had before?

  The altitude was to blame. She felt on top of the world standing on this terrace on Mount Tepilora, and she had been temporarily swept away with a rush of pleasure at seeing an eagle’s-eye view of her village, the surrounding countryside and the enchanting blue waters of the Tyrrhenian, catching the sun with every wave and mirroring the cerulean blue of the sky. This was as close to heaven as she could possibly be. And she had been filled with gratitude that Massimo had thought to bring her here. So she had hugged him. Without thinking.

  But Massimo’s literally cold sh
oulder had brought her back to earth. Hard. She might as well have been hugging the trunk of one of the holm oaks on the hillside. She and Massimo were realms apart. And it was obvious that he thought so, too.

  The best thing to do would be to get her business done here, and then return to his island, get a good night’s sleep and brace herself for her final days with the DiLucas.

  She suddenly felt exhausted. And hot.

  “I think we should go to my uncle’s farm now,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “and then we can head back to Villa Serena.”

  She saw his brow furrow.

  “You don’t want to stroll around the village? What about checking out your agriturismo? I thought you wanted to see where you’d be staying for a week.”

  Ella shook her head. “It’s not necessary. I’ll call to let my uncle know we’re on our way.” She tossed her hair back and started to walk away. There would be plenty of time to stroll around during her holiday.

  She couldn’t let the baron ruin her day, she told herself. She had family to visit. Family who would hopefully show her warmth. And maybe even love...

  * * *

  Massimo had programmed the address of the farmhouse on his GPS and as they descended the hillside toward the farmland on the lower slopes, he wondered at Ella’s sudden change of plans. And mood. He figured it was nerves, finally about to meet the family she was connected to by blood. He could understand wanting to make that her priority instead of sightseeing...

  Her hug had caught him off guard. Before he could reciprocate—and he had wanted to, despite his intentions to stay neutral—she had backed away. Now she was staring out the side window, and he was reluctant to make conversation. She was probably going over what she wanted to say to her zio Domenicu. It would no doubt be a very emotional reunion.

  Massimo turned into a rougher country lane and Ella suddenly swiveled around to look at the screen. “We’re almost there,” she murmured, and leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.

  He drove slowly, passing enclosed fields of pasture where a herd of sheep and goats were grazing at the wild grasses around the gnarled trunks of olive trees, their silver-green foliage rustling in the warm breeze. Farther along were fenced-in rows and rows of crops, interspersed with fruit and fig trees, and a series of separate sheds with enclosed pens. They saw rabbits, a sow with its litter, and a cow. And as Massimo rounded a curve, they came to the last shed—a henhouse with a clutch of chicks squabbling over seed—and a view of the country house beyond. With a blue door.

  A dog started barking from an enclosure, and the blue door opened. The man standing on the doorstep started waving to them, and as Massimo came to a stop, the man began striding toward the car, a welcoming smile on his weathered face. Ella glanced at Massimo for a moment, her eyes blinking as they filled with tears, and then she opened the side door and ran out to her uncle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “STAVO ASPETTANDO PER questo momento,” zio Domenicu told her, wiping his own eyes.

  “Anch’io,” she replied. She had been waiting for this moment, too.

  “Are you going to leave your friend sitting in the car?”

  “Zio! You speak English?”

  “Yes, bella. I wanted to be prepared for my little Canadian niece when she came back.” He gave her another hug. “Your family is waiting inside. But first, introduce me to your giovanotto.”

  “He’s not my young man,” she wanted to reply, but her uncle was already walking toward Massimo, who had climbed out of the Huracán and was extending his hand. “Barone DiLuca, this is my zio Domenicu,” she said.

  “Piacere.” He smiled at her uncle. “But please call me Massimo. And now that I’ve delivered your niece safely, I’ll be on my way.” He turned to Ella. “Just text me when you’re ready.”

  “No, no!” Domenicu said. “You are a friend of Marinella and very welcome in our home.” He put up his hand. “No arguments, giovanotto.”

  Massimo laughed. “Grazie, signor Domenicu, but I think Marinella might want some time alone with you and your family.”

  Her uncle looked pointedly at her. It was obvious that he expected her to invite Massimo in. “You’re welcome to stay,” she said, her cheeks flushed as she met Massimo’s gaze, unwilling to breach what she knew was typical Sardinian courtesy.

  “Brava,” her uncle said, and he put one arm over Ella’s shoulder and the other over Massimo’s. “Let’s go inside.”

  As they began walking toward the entrance, the blue door burst open again and a group ran out to meet them.

  “Meet your famiglia,” Domenicu laughed, squeezing Ella’s shoulder.

  In the next few minutes Ella met zio Domenicu’s wife, Lina, their daughter Maria and son-in-law, Tomasso, and Maria and Tomasso’s four-year-old little girl, Angelica. They greeted Massimo with the same enthusiasm, and Ella wondered if they, too, thought that she and Massimo were a couple...

  They were ushered inside where zia Lina and cousin Maria had prepared a feast. They sat at the long harvest table that Ella’s father had made, zio Domenicu told her, his eyes misting.

  “He is with us in spirit today, along with your mother.”

  Ella’s eyes misted, too, and when she dabbed at them, Angelica, who was seated beside her, gave her a hug. Ella returned Angelica’s embrace, and when Ella straightened in her seat, she saw Massimo out of the corner of her eye reaching out to place his hand over hers. Confused by his caring gesture, after he had displayed indifference to her hug on Mount Tepilora, Ella slid her hand out from under his and avoided meeting Massimo’s gaze, focusing instead on what her uncle was saying.

  She bit her lip. There were so many emotions bouncing around in her chest right now, and she would need time to process them.

  Zia Lina began passing around the serving dishes, joking in Italian she would start crying if they didn’t eat before the food got cold. That lightened the atmosphere, and Ella laughed along with everyone. She praised her aunt and cousin for the amazing spread, starting with the platter of fried calamari, followed by baked eggplants and a tomato ragù of pork sausages served with culurgiones. For dessert, Maria brought out pardulas, small pies she had made filled with ricotta, saffron and lemon.

  As Ella sipped her espresso, gazing at her relatives around the table, she felt that her heart was ready to burst with happiness. It was as if she had never left Sardinia, as if she’d had weekly dinners with her uncle, aunt and family, and this was one of those dinners.

  It hadn’t been awkward with Massimo, either, as she had initially feared. He had chatted easily with everyone in Italian and English and had even slipped into a lively Sardinian exchange with her uncle at one point. She had never seen Massimo smile or laugh so much, and every time her gaze returned to him, she had felt her pulse quickening.

  Now zio Domenicu was saying that he was looking forward to getting to know Ella, and invited her again to stay at the farmhouse. “We have Maria’s room empty,” he said, before asking Ella where she had booked her accommodations.

  She told them about the agriturismo and how she could visit often, once she rented a vehicle. As Ella described some of the features that had attracted her, she saw Maria and Tomasso exchange a surprised glance. And then they burst out laughing, joined in by her zio and zia. She cocked her head at them, puzzled by their reaction.

  Her cousin gave her a beaming smile. “The agriturismo belongs to me and Tomasso,” she said. “So now we know that the ‘Ella Ross’ who booked it is in fact our Marinella Rossi!”

  * * *

  By the time they arrived at Villa Serena, Massimo knew Ella was ready to call it a night. The meal and congenial conversation with her family had extended into late afternoon. Ella had been quiet during the car ride back and in the boat. He could see by her dreamy expression she was processing everything that had happened.

  He was happy for her. Her relatives
were good, hard-working people, and it had been obvious they were thrilled not only with Ella’s return to Sardinia but with her intentions to spend time with them for a week. They had made it clear that she was welcome to visit whenever she could travel to Italy.

  They had all been delighted to hear Ella had unknowingly booked the family agriturismo. And he had noted Ella and Maria, who he’d learned was six years younger than Ella, had really clicked. What a relief it must be for Ella to reconnect with her zio after all these years and know that he’d married and now had a family.

  Along with the happiness he had felt for Ella during the visit, Massimo had also been aware of something stronger tugging at his chest. It had felt so right to be at Ella’s side, not only witnessing but understanding her feelings. He had felt a powerful emotional connection that he had doubted he’d ever feel again with a woman. And he realized it was a connection that had begun the moment she had rammed into him at the airport and had grown steadily with each moment they had spent together.

  When they came to the villa entrance, Massimo offered to walk her to the guesthouse.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, putting up a hand. “Thank you for driving me to Posada today. I hope you didn’t mind the extended visit.”

  “Not at all. I enjoyed it.” His eyes locked with Ella’s. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed, the same color as the peonies in his gardens. Her lips, slightly open and free of lipstick, sparked a sizzle along his veins. Was he the only one feeling the magnetic pull, the aching desire to close the distance between them and...?

  Massimo forced himself to look away. “I hope the good weather holds out for my mother’s birthday tomorrow,” he said, scanning the sky. “She deserves sunshine and blue skies...just like you,” he added huskily.