“I’m fine,” she lied. Part of her was still back on the dance floor, lost in a pair of dark eyes. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that as far as financing your hotel is concerned, I would consider investing...”
“No.” She didn’t mean for the word to come out so strongly, but Nico was looking straight at her while he spoke and the memory of how those eyes distracted her was so fresh...
Just as well, though. Better to be blunt than let him think he had a chance. As an investor or anything else.
Monte Calanetti was her chance at a new life. No way was she going to let someone sweep in and mess things up.
Not this time.
CHAPTER TWO
NICO SQUINTED AND double-checked the line on the refractometer. “Twenty-two point four.”
“Is that on schedule?”
“Close.” Pulling the battered leather journal from his back pocket, he flipped through the pages until he found last year’s data. “One hundredth of a point off,” he reported before turning the page and making note of today’s measurement. Even better than he expected. He’d been afraid the easy summer had accelerated the ripening process. So far, however, the sugar levels were holding close to previous years, which boded well for this year’s vintage.
“When will you harvest?”
He turned to the young man at his elbow. Mario, a viticulture student from the university was hanging on his every word. “Depends upon the weather and the variety, but for Amatucci Red, I like the Brix level to be between twenty-five and twenty-six. A hair shy of precocious, as it were,” he added with a chuckle.
Mario nodded as he took notes. Nico would never admit it out loud but he enjoyed being seen as a master. It made him feel as though he’d achieved what Carlos had hoped for him. “Precocious?” he asked. “I’ve never heard that winemaking term before.”
“That’s because it’s not really a winemaking term, just something Carlos Bertonelli used to say. ‘Grapes are like children. You want to raise them to be sweet, but not so sweet they overwhelm you.’ In other words...”
“A hair shy of precocious.”
“Exactly.” Tossing a grape into the air, he caught the plump berry in his mouth. “Carlos was full of sayings like that,” he said crushing the skin between his teeth. The juice was tart on his tongue; a ways to go before precociousness. “His version of Old World wisdom.”
“Signor Bertonelli is the man who used to own these vineyards, right? The ones surrounding the palazzo?”
“Si. He was my mentor. Taught me everything I know about winemaking.” Nico’s heart ached a little every time he thought of the old man, which was often.
“Is that why you’re still maintaining the vineyards? Out of respect for him?”
“Out of respect, and partly because Monte Calanetti wouldn’t exist without these vineyards. I don’t want to see part of our tradition disappear.”
There was more to the story, naturally—the truth was always complicated—but Mario didn’t need to know how Carlos had kept him grounded when life got crazy. With his even, unflappable demeanor and vat full of wisdom, the old man had been mentor, grandfather and safety net all rolled into one.
When he was a little boy, Nico wondered if the stork hadn’t delivered him to the wrong house. That he should have been dropped in the Bertonelli fields instead of his own family’s. Truth was, Carlos had been so much more than a mere mentor. Not a day went by that Nico didn’t miss the man.
If he were alive, perhaps he could help Nico understand his grandniece better. Looking over the vines to the palazzo, he spied Louisa’s platinum-blond hair reflecting the sun as she watched them from the terrace. He nodded hello only to have her move out of view. Still avoiding him. She’d been doing so since the wedding.
Never had he met a woman who was so difficult to read. Cold one moment, warm and tender the next. He’d thought they’d turned a corner at the wedding. A very satisfying corner at that. He smiled, remembering the press of her mouth against his. So soft, so receptive. Then suddenly—poof!—everything changed, and they were back to those frigid early days when she barely gave him the time of day.
“Signor Amatucci?”
Mario was staring at him, obviously waiting for a response of some kind. “Nico,” he corrected. “Not Signor.”
“Sorry. Nico. I was wondering what you wanted to do next.”
Figure out what’s going on in my blonde American’s head. He doubted that’s what Mario meant, though. “I want to gather a few soil samples from the southern fields,” he said. “Why don’t you head back to the winery and begin testing the grapes we’ve collected?” It was standard practice to double-check the field readings using the equipment at the lab. Unlike his mentor, Nico liked to have solid data to corroborate his taste buds.
“Are you sure?” Being on the field must truly be making him nostalgic, because the way the kid straightened with the prospect of responsibility brought back memories of the first time Carlos had given him a task to complete on his own. Had he looked that earnest? “I suggested it, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll leave the results on your desk.”
“Along with your recommendations. I’m eager to hear your suggestions.”
The kid nodded again, wide-eyed and serious. “Absolutely.”
Of course, Nico would repeat the tests himself later on—the crops were far too valuable to trust to a university student—but there was no need to say anything. Better for Mario’s confidence if he believed he was operating without a safety net.
He started packing his test gear back in his canvas satchel. The faded bag had been with him since his days with Carlos, and looked older than that. “If you have any problems, talk to Vitale. I’ll be back later this morning.”
“How are you getting back? Do you want me to come back for you?”
“No need. I’ll hop the wall. There’s a low spot,” he added when the student frowned. “The Amatuccis and the Bertonellis have been cutting back and forth through these properties for years.” At least this Amatucci had. His brother and sister had found other ways to escape.
Once Mario’s taillights disappeared in the dust, Nico shouldered his bag and headed south. Above him, the sun lit a cloudless blue sky. The air was ripe with fruit and olives, and if the breeze hit just right, you could catch the faint undertone of lavender. Another perfect day, he thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
He was by himself, walking the terraced hill. Back when he was a little boy, these fields had been filled with workers. He remembered the first time he ventured through the archway that divided the properties, a stressed-out, scared boy looking for a place where doors didn’t slam and voices were calm. Stepping into the fields of Comparino had been like finding paradise. There was a tranquility in the steady tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler, the low hum of the insects. And it never changed. Oh, there were storms and blights. Natural disasters that caused temporary disruption, but no matter what, Nico knew that come summer, the sounds would be there. Grapes would grow and wine would get made the same as it had for hundreds of years. How he loved the predictability; so unlike the world on his side of the arch, where he never knew from one day to the next whether his parents were together or apart.
Such is the price of grand passion, Carlos said once, after one of his parents’ explosive breakups. It’s either sun or storm. No in between.
Nico wouldn’t know. His passion didn’t run that deep.
The vines in the south garden had grown thick and tangled with neglect. Left unmolested, insects had nibbled holes in the leaves. Ignoring the bee buzzing near his ear, Nico knelt in the shade. Using his utility knife, he churned the hardened topcoat, unearthing the moist soil beneath. Then he carefully shoveled several inches of the rich black dirt into collection jars. He was wiping the residue on his jeans when a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He smiled. Part of the reason he’d picked this morning to test the soil was because the sout
hern fields abutted the verandah. This time of morning, Louisa would be having breakfast outside, the way she always did, and while she might be avoiding him, she wouldn’t be able to resist spying on what he was doing. Pretending to study the overgrown rose bush marking the end of the row, he kept his back to her. “Careful, bella mia,” he said, breaking into English, “people might think you are interested in what I am doing.”
“I’m always interested in what people do on my property,” came the deliciously haughty reply.
Slowly, he turned around. Louisa stood at the railing, a mug cradled between her palms. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed in jeans and a soft flowing shirt. She hadn’t done her hair yet, though. Instead of being pulled tight in her signature severe hairstyle, the strands hung long and loose around her shoulders. If she knew that was how Nico preferred she wear it, she’d no doubt tie it back tighter than ever.
“Do you plan to scrutinize your hotel guests with the same intensity?”
The mention of the hotel was ignored. “I was out here having breakfast. You’re the one who crossed into my field of vision.”
Apparently they were also going to ignore the fact she’d been watching him earlier. At least she’d answered him. Did that mean they were back on speaking terms?
Only one way to find out. “Breakfast, you say. I don’t suppose there is enough coffee for two?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he grabbed the terrace balustrades to haul himself up and over the wall.
“I thought you despised American coffee.”
“It’s growing on me. Like a lot of American things,” he added with a smile.
He nodded his head toward the bistro table that held the rest of her meal, including a tall thermal carafe. “Should I drink from the container?”
“Please don’t. I’ll get you a cup.”
She didn’t ask him to leave. Did that mean she was thawing again?
“You know that you are going to have to learn how to make a proper espresso if you plan to open a hotel,” he said, following her inside.
“I didn’t realize you were also an expert on hotel management.”
“No, just an expert on being Italian.”
As they passed through the glass doors into the room that had been the piano nobile, he instinctively paused. “I’ll wait here.” When Louisa frowned over her shoulder, he lifted his dusty work boot. If Carlos had been alive, he would have walked across the floor without a second thought, but Louisa seemed more the clean and orderly type. The last thing he wanted was to ruin their fragile accord by tracking dirt across the clean terracotta tiles. The gesture must have been appreciated because she nodded rather than arguing the point. “I’ll be right back.”
The palazzo looked good. Louisa had accomplished a lot over the past few months. The dated furniture had been replaced by comfortable modern pieces but the Old World elegance remained. The intricate coffered ceiling and carved archways gleamed they were so clean. Hard to believe it was the same property. Carlos had never seemed to care about his living conditions, especially after his wife died. And then, of course, there were the years it had sat unclaimed. If Nico hadn’t kept an eye on the property, Carlos’s legacy would have fallen into even greater shambles.
Louisa never did say why she’d ignored the property for so long. He asked her once, but she told him it was none of his business. And now, after years of neglecting her inheritance, she was breaking her back attempting to return the palazzo to its former glory.
His American was definitely a confusing and complicated woman.
“If you want pastry, you’ll have to go home,” Louisa said when she returned. “Today is market day.”
“Coffee is fine. Thank you.” It didn’t escape him that she held the cup at arm’s length, keeping a healthy distance. Things might be warmer between them, but not completely thawed.
“I’d offer milk, but I know you prefer it black.”
“I’m flattered you remember.”
“Hard to forget black coffee.” She brushed past him, leaving behind a soft memory of Chanel.
“May I ask what you were doing digging in the dirt?”
“Taking soil samples.”
“Why?”
For a chance to talk with you. “To determine what needs to be done to make the dirt suitable for new vines.” Depending upon the soil levels, he planned to recultivate the field, with canaiolo or cabernet sauvignon, if he was feeling untraditional. “Since it will take a few years before the plants yield a usable harvest, I want to replant sooner rather than later.”
“Is that so?” She tossed him a cryptic look before turning to the hills. “Funny. I don’t remember selling you the property.”
She had to be joking. She was going to claim sovereignty now? “That’s funny, because I don’t remember you complaining about my maintaining it on your behalf.”
“On my behalf and to your benefit. Or are you going to tell me you didn’t double your vineyard without paying a penny?”
“No,” he replied with a shrug. “Why deny the truth?” He had benefited from using Carlos’s land. Carlos would have wanted as much. “You chose to stay away, and I saw no sense in letting good land go to waste.”
“I didn’t choose, I...” Whatever she was going to say was swept aside by a deep breath. “Regardless, that doesn’t give you the right to do what you want. No matter how good you are at it,” she muttered into her cup.
“Good at vineyard management or doing what I want?” Her side eye gave him his answer. “Fine. You’re the owner. If you don’t want to recultivate, what would you like to do with your neglected vineyards?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said, jutting her chin for maximum haughtiness.
They both knew he would replant; she was being stubborn for stubbornness’ sake. He wondered if she knew how attractive she looked when she was being argumentative. Maybe that was why he enjoyed pushing her buttons. Like a person with a stick poking at a hornet’s nest and getting off on the risk, provoking her to annoyance had excitement curling low in his stomach. And damn if it wasn’t easy to push her buttons. Seemed as though all he had to do was breathe and her eyes were flashing.
Those eyes were flashing brightly at the moment. Reminding him of how she’d looked right after they kissed.
Ah. Clarity dawned.
“This isn’t really about recultivating, is it?” he asked, stepping closer. “This is about what happened at the wedding.”
She whipped around to face him. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about that.”
And yet the moment hung over them begging to be mentioned. “Come now, bella mia, don’t tell me you expect us to pretend it never happened?”
How could they possibly ignore such an amazing kiss? Surely he wasn’t the only one who lay awake at night remembering how perfectly their bodies fit together. The way her breath quickened when he’d stepped closer, told him he wasn’t.
“Don’t call me bella mia, and I’m not asking you to pretend about anything. It’s simply not worth talking about. We drank a little too much wine and let the romantic atmosphere get to us, that’s all.”
“Really?” He leaned in, angling his head near the curve of her neck. “That’s all it was? A drunken mistake? I’m not sure I believe you.” Especially when her skin flushed from his proximity.
“Why not?”
“Because...” Nico let his gaze take the path his fingers wanted to take. “For one thing, I wasn’t drunk.”
This time it was Louisa who closed the distance between them, her eyes ablaze from the confrontation. “Maybe you weren’t, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t. Much as your ego would like to think otherwise.”
Oh, how his little hornet’s nest enjoyed poking him as much as he enjoyed poking her. “Trust me, bella mia,” he said, “my ego doesn’t need stroking. Go ahead and call it a drunken mistake if you have to. Same way you can tell yourself that you wouldn’t enjoy a repeat performance.”
Louisa�
��s lips parted with a gasp, like he knew they would. With a smile curling his own, Nico dipped his head to claim them.
Just as their mouths were about to touch, she turned her face. “Okay, fine, I admit it was a great kiss, but it can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” Again, he didn’t understand. Two people obviously attracted to one another; why shouldn’t they explore the possibilities?
“For a lot of reasons. To start with, I’m not looking to get involved in a serious relationship.”
All the better. “Neither am I.” Serious came with certain expectations, and as history had proven, he lacked the depth to meet them.
“And—” she dodged his outstretched hand “—we’re neighbors, plus we’ll be working on that committee Rafe is creating. We’ll be around each other all the time.”
“Perhaps I’m misunderstanding, but doesn’t that make things easier?”
“It will make things awkward.”
“Only as awkward as we let it be,” he replied.
Her sandals slapped softly against the floor as she returned to her breakfast table, a position, Nico noted, that put a barrier of glass and wrought iron between them.
Of course, she already knew that, or else her hands wouldn’t be gripping the chair back so tightly. Nico knew the cues; she was working up to another reason. “Look, right now I can’t be involved with anyone seriously or casually. I need to concentrate on taking care of myself. Do you understand?”
“Si.” Better than she realized. The last woman who’d said those words to him had been suffering from a broken heart. Was that Louisa’s secret? Had she come to Monte Calanetti because some bastard had let her down?
If that was the case, then far be it for him to add to her injury. One woman was enough to have hurt in a lifetime. There were other women in Monte Calanetti whose company he could keep, even if they weren’t as enigmatically fascinating. “Consider the kiss forgotten,” he told her.
* * *
Louisa’s back relaxed as she exhaled. “Thank you,” she replied. It felt good to clear the air between them. She’d been acting like a complete brat the past couple of days, stuck between wanting to stand up for herself and being afraid of succumbing to the attraction. She’d treated Nico like the enemy rather than the neighbor she’d come to know and respect. But now that they were on the same page...
Harlequin Romance February 2016 Box Set Page 3
