The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

by Spencer, Catherine

  Another of his sisters, this one well into pregnancy, happened to overhear him. “Domenico, please! Can you not see the poor woman has had enough for one day?” she chided, hurrying forward with a plate of food. “Here, signorina. I’ve brought you something to eat.”

  Arlene grimaced, by then so sick from the pounding in her head that she was afraid to open her mouth to reply, in case she threw up instead.

  With a sympathetic murmur, his sister lowered herself carefully to her knees. “You are in distress, cara. What can I do to help you?”

  She tried to shrug away the woman’s concern but, by then, even so small a movement was beyond her. “I have a bad headache here,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her temple, and hating herself for her weakness almost as much as she hated Domenico for witnessing it.

  “More than just a headache, I think,” his sister said, glancing up at him. “It is the emicrania, Domenico—the migraine. She needs to be looked after.”

  “I can see that, Renata,” he snapped.

  “Then drive her down to the house and let Momma take care of her.”

  “No!” Horrified by the idea, Arlene managed to subdue another wave of nausea long enough to articulate her objection without embarrassing herself.

  Renata took ice from a cooler and wrapped it in one of the linen cloths lining the bread baskets. “Do you have a rented car, cara?” she asked, placing it gently at the base of Arlene’s skull.

  “Yes, but not here. My friend dropped me off this morning.”

  “Just as well, because you’re in no shape to drive.” Once again, Domenico hoisted her to her feet, this time showing more care than he had before. “Avanti! Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I’m taking you back to your hotel before you pass out. I don’t imagine your friend will appreciate having you flat on your back—at least, not in your present condition.”

  If she hadn’t felt so lousy, she’d have challenged him on his last remark. Instead she submitted to being bundled into the Jeep, leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

  To his credit, he drove carefully down the rutted track from the vineyard so as not to add to her discomfort, but when they reached the paved road, he wasted no time covering the miles into town. Beyond a terse, “Which hotel?” he mercifully made no other attempt at conversation.

  Once arrived, he ignored the hotel’s No Parking sign, stopped the vehicle right at the front door, and came around to help her alight. “What’s your room number?”

  By that point almost blind with pain, she sagged against his supporting arm. “Four twenty-two.”

  “You have a key card?”

  “Yes.” She fumbled without success in her tote.

  He muttered indistinctly under his breath—something unflattering judging by his tone—found the card himself, and hoisting her off her feet, strode past the doorman and across the lobby to the elevator just as its doors swished open and Gail emerged.

  Stopping dead in her tracks, she let out a horrified gasp. “Heavens, Arlene, what happened? You look like the wrath of God!”

  “Step aside, per favore,” Domenico ordered, when she continued to block his entrance to the elevator. “I wish to take her to her room.”

  “Hold on a minute!” Gail replied, clearly not the least bit fazed by his autocratic manner. “You’re not taking her anywhere without me.”

  “Indeed? And who are you?”

  “Arlene’s roommate.”

  “You’re her friend?”

  “You’re her mentor?” she shot back, imitating his incredulous tone. “The one who’s supposed to be teaching her everything there is to know about growing grapes?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, congratulations! You’re doing a fine job, bringing her home dead drunk in the middle of the day.”

  “I’m doing nothing of the sort!” he snapped. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

  “You don’t want to know!”

  “Gail,” Arlene protested weakly, “it’s okay. I have a headache, that’s all, and just need to lie down until it passes.”

  Gail’s face swam into her line of vision. “Sweetie, what kind of headache has you practically passing out?”

  “A migraine,” Domenico interjected on an irate breath. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh.” Her tone suddenly less confrontational, Gail backed into the elevator. “I’m…um…sorry if I came on too strong. I’ll help you get her upstairs.”

  “Close the shutters,” Domenico instructed, when they reached the room. “I understand it helps to have the room darkened.”

  While Gail scurried to obey him, he lowered Arlene to the bed farthest from the window, then sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked a cool hand down her forehead. “Close your eyes, cara,” he murmured, and even in the depths of her misery, the shift in his attitude was not lost on her. Whatever had given rise to that unspoken edge of hostility between them yesterday and which had continued into this morning, melted in the deep, soothing warmth of his voice.

  “I’ve never seen her like this before,” she heard Gail whisper from the other side of the bed. “Shouldn’t we call for a doctor?”

  “She doesn’t usually suffer from migraines?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, and if anyone would know, I would. We’ve been best friends ever since college.”

  The mattress shifted slightly as he rose to his feet. “Stay with her and keep the ice pack at the back of her neck.”

  Panic lacing her voice, Gail hissed, “You’re just dropping her off, then leaving? What if—?”

  “I’ll be back,” he said, as his footsteps receded quietly over the tiled floor.

  As soon as she heard the door click shut behind him, Arlene struggled to sit up. “Gail…? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Oh, cripes!” Gail slipped an arm around her shoulders and eased her to her feet. “Okay, sweetie, come on. I’ll help you to the bathroom.”

  They made it with seconds to spare. Wrenching and horrible though it was while it lasted, vomiting seemed to ease the stabbing ferocity of the pain just a little.

  After rinsing out her mouth and splashing cold water on her face, Arlene lay down on the bed again and managed a feeble smile. “Don’t look so worried. I promise not to pull a repeat performance.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” Gail said, crossing to peer through the peephole as a knock came at the door. “You just took ten years off my life. Now lie still and look pale and interesting. Your Sir Galahad’s back, and he’s not alone.”

  “How is she?” Domenico inquired, the minute he set foot in the room.

  “About the same,” Gail told him. “But she threw up while you were gone.”

  Oh, please! Arlene whimpered silently. Haven’t I suffered enough indignity for one day, without your sharing that with him?

  “Then it’s as well I summoned professional help. This is Dr. Zaccardo,” he added, as a middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair advanced to her bedside.

  “It is as you suspected.” After a brief examination and a few pertinent questions, the doctor stepped back from the bed and nodded so energetically at the other two that Arlene shuddered inside. “I will leave this medication with you,” he continued, reaching into his medical bag for a small bottle. “See, please, that she takes two tablets immediately and, if necessary, two more at six, this evening. However, treatment now is such that a migraine is usually dispelled in a matter of hours. If she shows no improvement by nightfall, you will contact me, but I do not expect to hear from you. By tomorrow, she will be herself again. Arrivederci, signor, signorine.”

  With that, he was gone as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Arlene to deal only with Domenico who didn’t seem disposed to leave with equal dispatch. Instead while Gail brought her two pills and a glass of water, he went to the desk and wrote something on the pad of paper supplied by the hotel.

  “If you’re conc
erned at all, you can reach me at any of these numbers, and this one is Dr. Zaccardo’s,” he told Gail. “Regardless, please call me this evening and let me know how she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “I want to hear from you anyway. You’ll be staying with her, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  “Until later, then.”

  The next time Arlene was aware of her surroundings, the room was completely dark except for the soft glow from a lamp next to the armchair by the window, where Gail sat reading.

  Cautiously Arlene blinked. Dared to turn her head on the pillow. And let out a slow breath of relief. No flashing lights before her eyes. No stabbing pain above her left temple. Nothing, in fact, but a cool, delicious lassitude—and a gorgeous bouquet of pink roses on the coffee table, some distance away.

  “You’re awake!” Gail exclaimed softly, setting down her book and coming to the bed. “How’re you feeling, sweetie?”

  “Better,” she said. “Much better. What time is it?”

  “Just after eight. You slept for over six hours. Do you need more medication?”

  She sat up carefully. “I don’t think so. But I’d love some water.”

  “Sure.” Gail plumped her pillows, then filled a glass from the carafe on the desk.

  Arlene sipped it slowly, letting the slivers of ice linger a moment on her tongue, then slide down her throat.

  “Well?” Gail watched her anxiously.

  “So far, so good.” She indicated the roses. “They’re lovely, Gail, but you should’ve saved your money. I’m not going to die, after all.”

  “Oh, they’re not from me! He sent them. They arrived a couple of hours ago. Here, see for yourself.” She handed over a card, signed simply Domenico. “Not long on sentiment, is he?”

  “Apparently not.” Nevertheless, a sweet, ridiculous pleasure sang through Arlene’s blood that he’d cared enough to send her flowers in the first place.

  “Pretty good at dishing out orders, though. I suppose I’d better give him a call and let him know you’re feeling better.”

  She retrieved the notepad from the desk, punched in one of the numbers he’d written down, and almost immediately began, “Hi, it’s Gail Weaver…. Yes, I know what time it is…. Well I did, as soon as she woke up…Just now…Well, I will, if you’ll stop interrupting and let me finish a sentence…! No, she says she doesn’t need them…. Because she’s a grown woman, Mr. Silvaggio de Whatever, which means she, and not you, gets to decide what she puts in her mouth…. I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

  She held the phone at arm’s length. “Do you feel up to talking to his lordship, Arlene?” she inquired, loud enough for half the people in the hotel to hear.

  Arlene nodded, unable to keep a straight face. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, she wondered.

  “Hello, Domenico,” she said, picking up the handset on the bedside table.

  “I hear you’re recovered.” Seductive baritone verging on bass, his voice stroked sinfully against her ear and vibrated the length of her body. “I’m greatly relieved.”

  “Thank you, both for your concern and for the flowers. If a woman has to suffer a migraine, waking up to pink roses does make it a little easier to bear.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

  A pause hummed along the line, which she took to mean the conversation was at an end. “Well, I’ll say good night, then—”

  He cut her off before she could finish. “Arlene, I blame myself for what happened today. Expecting you to work as long as others who are used to our climate was unforgivable of me, and I apologize.”

  “There’s no need. You heard my friend Gail, a moment ago. I’m a grown woman. I could, and should have spoken sooner. As it was, I put you to a great deal of trouble at a time when you’ve got your hands full with the harvest. It won’t happen again.”

  “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, and won’t be returning to the vineyard?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight—at least, I will unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Not at all,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a purr. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

  Chapter 3

  Despite her objections, Arlene spent the next four days in Domenico’s office. With thick, whitewashed plaster walls, stone floor, recessed windows and heavy beamed ceiling, it served both as a business center and a boardroom. At one end of the vast space stood a large desk, filing cabinets, and high-tech computer station and communications system, but she spent most of her time at the other end, seated beside him in comfortable club chairs at a handsome conference table.

  “You’re coddling me,” she accused him, when he told her she wouldn’t be helping with the harvest again. “You think I don’t have what it takes to handle the job.”

  “On the contrary, I’m trying to give you as broad a base of information as possible in the short time at my disposal so that, when you take over your own property, you’ll have a better idea of what your priorities should be. I suggest you let me decide the best way to go about doing that.”

  So it was that, with the door closed on the bustle of activity taking place outside, she studied slide shows illustrating various irrigation methods, ideal sun exposure, elevations, climate and soil conditions for growing grapes. She learned about different varietals and the importance of choosing those best suited to her particular location, as well as determining the trellising system to support them.

  Domenico drew up spreadsheets itemizing general expenditures, and a calendar outlining a typical work year in a vineyard. He supplied her with catalogs and names of reputable companies she could call on when it came time to buy seedlings and equipment. Recommended videos she’d find helpful, online courses she could take, and offered advice on the kind of help she should hire.

  Just when she thought she’d never begin to assimilate the mountain of facts he threw at her, he’d call a break and they’d help themselves from the thermos of coffee, which always waited on the serving bar separating the two halves of the room. Then it was back to work until around one o’clock, when the same van that delivered lunch to the field workers, stopped by, and the driver brought in a covered tray for the two of them. Unlike the food prepared for the pickers, though, hers and Domenico’s was more elaborate and served on colorful porcelain, with linen napkins and crested silverware.

  On the fifth day, he took her back to the fields and showed her how to use a refractometer to measure the sugar content of the grapes. “One drop of juice is all you need for an immediate digital read-out,” he explained, demonstrating. “Good wine is calibrated at a sugar level of 22BRIX.”

  “Bricks?”

  “B-R-I-X,” he amended, spelling it out for her.

  She opened her ever-handy notebook. What’s that?”

  “The scale used by vintners to measure the sugar solution in the fruit.”

  “And what did you say this thing is called…?”

  “A refractometer.”

  She examined the small, hand-held instrument more closely. “I think I might have seen one of these among the other equipment, when I went to visit my property, but it looked pretty old and beaten-up compared to this.”

  “Throw it out and buy another,” he advised. “Accuracy is crucial when it comes to determining sugar content. You could lose an entire crop if you harvest too soon or leave the grapes on the vine too long. As the sugar content rises, so does the pH. Harvesting has to be timed to maximize sugar content while minimizing acidity.”

  To an outsider witnessing these sessions, it would have appeared to be all business between him and her. And indeed, where viticulture was concerned, it absolutely was. But underneath, something less tangible was at work. Without a single overt word or gesture, an invisible tension grew between them that had nothing to do with grapes or wine, and everything to do with the tacit awareness of a man and a woman separ
ated from the rest of the world by a thick wooden door that shut out all sight and sound of other human interaction.

  The faint scent of his aftershave, of her shampoo, permeated the air in mingled intimacy. His voice seemed to take on a deeper timbre when he addressed her. He turned her very ordinary name into an exotic three-syllabled caress. Ar-lay-na.

  Sometimes, she’d glance up from diligently filling yet another page with notes, and catch him studying her so intently that heat raced through her blood as if she had a fever. Other times, he’d touch her, not necessarily on purpose and never intimately. Yet even the most accidental brushing of his hand against hers was enough to send tiny impulses of sensual awareness shooting up her arm.

  Simply put, she was enthralled by him. By the authority with which he imparted knowledge, and his patience as he explained the complicated science of viticulture. By his intelligence and integrity.

  The respect he generated among his employees impressed her deeply. Nor was it limited to those working close by. She’d soon realized that his holdings extended far beyond Sardinia’s shores. He was, as his uncle once mentioned in passing, an international celebrity in his field.

  Most of all, though, his evident devotion to his large family touched her where she was most vulnerable. As a lonely, unwanted child herself, she’d ached for the siblings that played so large a role in his life. Yet within that close family circle, he remained his own person. Independent, and confident in his masculinity, he exuded a charismatic charm unlike any other man she’d ever met. That he also happened to be blindingly handsome was merely the icing on a very delectable cake.

  But however strong the intuition that told her he was equally attracted to her, once she was away from him, the uncertainty crept in. Possibly her imagination was leading her astray, spurred by the intimacy of just the two of them, alone for hours at a spell. What she took to be glances laden with an erotic subtext might simply be his way of giving her his undivided professional attention. For all she knew, the way he smiled at her, as if they shared something special and personal, could be the way he smiled at all women.