After giving her hair a quick towel-drying, she dressed in black jeans, a turquoise jersey and sandals.
By the time she had her morning tea and fruit, her fine hair would be dry and she could set off to the center of Montiforte. With luck she could hitch a ride with the housekeeper.
An afternoon spent in the village would be the ideal time for her to combine personal shopping with a brief investigation of what was readily available there. When she was exhausted, she could either rent an auto or hire a cab to drive her back to the villa.
The second she stepped into the kitchen, awash in sunlight, she saw the housekeeper busy dusting in the salon. A plate of flaky pastries were set out on the kitchen bar with a jar of some dark berry jam beside them.
Her mouth watered and the hollow pang in her stomach confirmed she’d gone far too long without food. But then, she’d been too upset on the flight even to think about eating.
“Good morning,” she greeted as she stepped into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
The housekeeper stopped dusting and humming and looked up with a smile. “Buongiorno, signorina! Please, enjoy the cornetto with jam,” she said, motioning to the counter.
“Thank you, I will.”
She sat at the bar and ate a pastry topped with a sweet berry jam accompanied by an invigorating cup of morning tea sweetened with honey. This was the type of casual breakfast that she’d never been allowed to enjoy in the manor she’d grown up in.
Eating with the help was unheard of by both her parents. Forbidden, a lesson she learned late.
The few times she’d been caught in the kitchen chatting with the help, they had both been punished. She shifted, frowning as she tried to remember faces of servants that suddenly no longer worked for them. And then there were the more painful remembrances of workers who ceased treating her with familiarity.
Sitting here now while a housekeeper she didn’t even know hummed and worked and chatted with her was a refreshing change. It was like living in a real home.
“These are delicious. Where did you buy them?”
The older woman laughed. “I make. It was my nonna’s recipe, handed down from her mother.” The woman waved a hand as if it progressed even further back.
“How lucky,” Delanie said and meant it, earning her another smile.
She had absolutely no talents handed down from generation to generation. Or at least none that she would carry on.
“Have you lived in Montiforte long?” she asked the housekeeper.
“All my life,” the woman said, returning to her work as if it were perfectly natural to do so among tenants. “My family has worked in the Toligara vineyards for generations.” She frowned. “Signore Vincienta’s grandfather was a good man who died too young. If he had been alive, the Toligara lands would never have been stolen. It was a bad three years in the valley working for the Englishman.”
Delanie’s face burned, not needing to know the man’s name. She knew. Just like she knew how badly things had been under her father’s care.
“It must have been a dreadful time,” she said.
The housekeeper bobbed her head. “All is good again now that Signore Vincienta is managing Toligara.”
Marco, of course. Interesting that such a stern man was so well loved by the people. That the business didn’t bear his own arrogant name. But perhaps he was a better steward of the land and his employees than lover?
She pushed that arousing thought from her mind, but not before a giddy tightening streaked inside her. “Does your husband work in the Toligara vineyards?”
“No, the olive groves,” she said. “I clean signore’s house once a week.”
“Really?”
Delanie strolled to the double doors and looked over the inviting terrace to the rolling hills beyond. Why would a billionaire only keep a weekly housekeeper when he could certainly afford fulltime staff? But then she recalled he maintained a minimal staff at Cabriotini Villa as well. Penury? Or was there another reason he shunned being waited on?
She shook her head, annoyed her thoughts were continually turned to Marco. But then it was clear he had a fan in his housekeeper, Delanie thought sourly.
“Is there a taxi service in Montiforte?” she asked.
The housekeeper laughed. “Montiforte isn’t large enough for that.”
“I had hoped to hire one to take me to the village.”
“Why?” the housekeeper asked. “It is a short walk down the hill before you are on the upper alleyway of Montiforte.”
“Oh. I hadn’t realized it was that close,” she said. The drive up had certainly seemed endless. But then time seemed to crawl when she was alone with Marco.
“I will clean your bedroom and en suite now, okay?” the housekeeper said.
“Yes, of course.” She waved the woman on. “Do you have another house to clean today?”
“Oh, no. Signore pays me enough that I can work here one day a week.”
The housekeeper disappeared into the bedroom, humming the same lilting tune she had earlier.
Delanie took three steps after the woman then stopped dead. No, she had to have misunderstood the housekeeper. This couldn’t be Marco’s house.
But as she turned in a slow circle, taking in the details she’d overlooked last night, it was clear this wasn’t a rental. This was a home, with a few framed photos on the fireplace mantel and other personal touches strewn around.
But a billionaire’s home?
No, it couldn’t be. This quaint farmhouse nestled in the hills couldn’t be where Marco lived.
Still, to be sure, she marched into the front bedroom and flung open the closet door. His spicy scent enveloped her as a dizzying surge of awareness spiraled up her limbs.
As if that weren’t proof enough, suits, trousers, shirts hung in precise order. All were clearly high-end garments. All were his size.
She spun around, face flaming as her gaze flicked over the huge bed freshly made. The dresser with a minimum of clutter atop it. The jacket he’d worn yesterday was tossed haphazardly on a chair.
Her fingers tightened on the doorknob. Her blood cooled, glazed over with ice.
Damn him! He’d brought her to his home and had had the audacity to spend the night in the room next to her.
Fine! One night spent in his company didn’t qualify. But she certainly wouldn’t spend another with him in the next room, not when he’d made it clear that he desired her. Not when her body was at odds with her convictions, readily melting at his slightest provocation.
“Do you know where I might find a bed and breakfast or inn close by?” Delanie asked, standing in the bedroom she’d used last night and realizing the paintings on the wall were authentic.
Wealth. It had been all around her yet she’d failed to recognize it.
“You are leaving?” the housekeeper asked.
Delanie smiled. “It would be more practical if I stay right in town.”
The housekeeper shook her head and returned to dusting. “There are two in the village but you won’t find a room. The wine festival begins in a few days.”
Montiforte would certainly be teeming with people and would have the best of the region on display. That could make planning the wedding far easier.
But to stay in the villa with Marco? To be secluded here?
An ache streaked across her midsection again and tightened. Desire. It had been so long since she’d felt it this keenly. Ten years to be exact.
No, she couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be close to him again.
“How far away is the nearest village?” she asked the housekeeper as she burst into the sunbathed kitchen.
Silence answered her. The room was empty.
A quick check of the salon confirmed she was the only one here. Her shoulders slumped. The housekeeper had left.
The housekeeper who came weekly to Marco’s house.
She jabbed her fists at her sides. How could she have been so blind? How had she not known he was sleepi
ng in the room next to hers?
CHAPTER SIX
DELANIE grabbed her bag which held all she would need for planning and breezed out onto the terrace.
Walking was invigorating. Walking just might clear her head of those unbidden, unwanted thoughts that kept intruding about Marco.
And even if it didn’t, she needed to go to Montiforte and make sure there wasn’t a room to be had.
The heels on her sandals clicked on the terra-cotta tiles that spanned the terrace. She frowned, wishing she had a more substantial shoe for the walk but the only other footwear she had with her were black pumps.
So personal shopping was high on her agenda as well.
As she reached the edge of the patio, the grandeur of the area literally took her breath away and pushed all other worries to the back of her mind. This was heady stuff for a girl raised in the city.
She shielded her eyes and stood as close to the edge as she dared. For as far as she could see, the beauty never ended.
Autumn painted the undulating countryside in a patchwork blanket of varying greens and golds. Interspersed among the hills were villages, clusters of buildings stacked into the hillsides.
In the distance she glimpsed a river winding through the valley, its details muted by distance into a wash of greens and blues, like a Monet painting come to life. On the rolling hills stretched neat rows upon rows of vines, all laden with plump grapes so dark a blue they gleamed nearly black in the sunlight.
She breathed in the fresh air as she stood where the hill dropped off into a gentle slope, the trail leading downward to nothing more than a graveled meandering path wide enough for two. The day was beautiful and calming, the sun warm on her face and arms with the breeze just cool enough to make the exertation of a walk pleasurable.
In moments she slipped under the charming Roman arch crusted with lichen and onto a narrow path that wound down the hill. Gray stone crunched underfoot and the trill of songbirds sang to her from high in the trees. The tiered gardens built into the hillside still overflowed with small orange and yellow blossoms, their color emphasized by gold and rust leaves.
But despite the allure on the terraced hillside and the spine of mountains looming in the distance, Marco remained in her thoughts. He had always been a fever in her blood and now was no different. In fact, now might be worse.
One touch, one taste only left her wanting more. Even though she knew it was folly, knew she would be the one hurt in the end, she couldn’t banish the dreams of lying in his arms just once more.
Clearly she was mad. What else could explain why she was attracted to the man who’d hurt her?
She shook her head and moved on, focusing on the curved stone archway of a building that protruded from the hillside, its side covered in vines. A truck was parked nearby, its bed heaped with harvested grapes.
Her gaze fixed on the man striding toward her, broad shoulders squared and face drawn in a scowl that was darker than midnight. Marco, she realized, even before she got a clear look at his face.
He wore jeans so faded they were nearly white and a black sweater that molded to his muscular chest and hugged his lean hips. His attire was so casual and so worn he could have passed for the lorry driver.
Her skin pebbled as fluttery ribbons of awareness wrapped around her, holding her tight to the spot. With effort she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, determined to meet him head-on. To be practical and all business.
His hot gaze paused for a moment on the flimsy sandals dangling from one hand to her very bare feet. One brow lifted.
Her toes curled as did something low in her belly.
“Beautiful but impractical,” he said.
She wasn’t sure if he meant her in general or the straps of leather that she slipped on her tired feet. “I didn’t have anything else but heels which would have been dangerous. If you would have just let me return home to pack—”
“Why are you here?”
Well, what did she expect? Pleasantries? A warm greeting?
“I am on my way to Montiforte,” she said and managed a polite smile. “Why didn’t you tell me the villa was yours?”
“There was no reason to.” He glanced at his watch with a scowl. “I’ll drive you to Montiforte.”
“That’s not necessary. Your housekeeper told me it was an easy walk,” she said, the breathy catch in her voice mocking her stamina.
The last thing she wanted to do was be alone with him. If he hadn’t kissed her, if her body hadn’t so readily responded, she might be able to suffer through his company. But after having his hands on her, his lips devouring her own and setting her blood on fire, she couldn’t risk it. He was simply too dangerously appealing and those memories she’d never been able to purge from her thoughts were rushing forward, tempting her with wild ideas of how good it could be with him.
“I insist. Come. Let me show you the winery and then we will have lunch,” he said.
“Marco, I must get to town.” Must get away from him while she could, while she still had the will to resist him.
“You can spare a half hour,” he said. “There is a bistro in Montiforte that serves excellent fare. I insist you join me.”
Of course he would. The cosmic force that was solely Marco engulfed her, threatened to wash her out into an uncharted sea that terrified her and enticed her.
“I appreciate the offer but I have a lot to do.” Like visit the shops without Marco’s company, without sharing lunch with him which sounded far too much like a date. “Time is short to get everything in order.”
He waved her worry away. “As it is for me, overseeing the harvest as well as finalizing preparations for the festival. But we both must eat. As for wine, it goes without saying that we will serve our label at the wedding, but you should sample it so you are aware what foods would best be served.”
What to say? She had every reason to trust in their contract that precisely detailed her duties and her reward for complying, but the fact that he’d lied about owning the villa kept her suspicions alive.
Her father had excelled at rescinding offers and finding loopholes in contracts. She had no idea if Marco had become just as ruthless.
“Point taken,” she said. “The housekeeper mentioned the festival, but I hadn’t realized it coincided with harvest and the wedding.”
He threaded fingers through his thick hair. “Yes, too much happening at once. And not just here but throughout Umbria. It’s maddening.”
“And now a wedding,” she said, and wished that his smile hadn’t warmed her so. But it had and there was no denying her attraction to him.
“Si. This way.” He laid a hand at the small of her back and urged her forward.
Her skin burned beneath his palm, the heat seeping into her bones and leaving her weak-kneed. But she forced her legs to move, taking each step with care and hoping he didn’t notice how much his touch affected her.
The interior of the winery was a welcome distraction, a beautifully vaulted space with warm terra-cotta floors and ancient-looking frescoed walls that simply took her breath away. “This is absolutely gorgeous.”
“My great-great-grandfather built the winery and a local painter did the walls. Generations have added on to the structure but none have touched the fresco.”
“Nor should they ever.”
“Precisely. I made necessary repairs once I’d reclaimed it, but for the most part this building is as it had been four generations ago. Come, let me show you the rest.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and escorted her through the room, accompanied by the gawks of onlookers, as if it were the most natural thing to do, as if they hadn’t been separated for ten years.
An electric shiver eddied through her, bringing every sensation awake. Her blood hummed from the contact, from the promise in his touch and from the memory of pleasure untold.
She hated that he still had this effect on her even though she savored this connection. The contradiction in her baffled her and she hated th
at as well. Hated that he could control the situation and her, hated that a part of her would always want this closeness.
He stepped from her and she just caught herself from grabbing him and holding on to this fragile contact. Her face burned at the admission. Thankfully he was busy moving something out of the walkway so he didn’t notice her flush.
She tore her gaze from the man who commanded too much of her thoughts and gave her chilled arms a brisk rubbing. The room was stacked to the arched ceiling with oak barrels, and a pungent aroma hung in the air.
“You are cold.” He grabbed a man’s jacket off a peg and swept it around her shoulders before she could protest wearing a communal garment.
His scent drifted off the fabric and she stilled, knowing this was his. Another puzzlement that was solely Marco.
She had never thought a man in his position would hang his coat among the workers’ rough jackets. Yet common sense told her that he would need this if he spent any amount of time here and she knew he must. Knew that Marco wasn’t just a man to spout orders or supervise—that he was one who would lend his back to a task as well.
And that only served to remind her that she really had never known Marco Vincienta at all.
“Thank you,” she managed, clutching the jacket close and welcoming the warmth. “I didn’t realize the winery was so large.”
“It is deceiving from the outside. This is actually a natural cave that has been used by the Toligara family for centuries.” He motioned above them to the network of round pipes. “I’ve made substantial changes to modernize the winery. These pipes carry the new wine to the casks.”
“Why so many?”
“Each is a different type of wine, and they must not be mixed.”
“Wow,” she said, lowering her gaze to find him watching her with eyes that held an intimacy she didn’t wish to explore here with her defenses already in tatters. “How badly did my father damage it?”
“The winery and olive groves suffered minimal damage. But the vineyards …” He paused and a shadow crossed his eyes. “There were few vines left alive and those needed much nurturing. Each day that I struggled to rebuild I hated your father more, not for his stealth in acquiring my family’s business but for maliciously destroying it.”
Innocent of His Claim Page 8
