The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

by Spencer, Catherine

  “By all means.”

  Deftly, he maneuvered Arlene into the huge dining room, and with a brief word of introduction to the other seven already seated, took his place next to her. The flamboyant Ortensia noticed, and was not pleased. Taking the only remaining vacant chair, she said, “I don’t recall seeing you here before, signorina.”

  “No. I’m new to the business.”

  “Indeed.” She allowed herself a small, malicious smile. “And Domenico’s taken you under his wing, has he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And exactly what is your area of interest?”

  The same as yours, she felt like replying. The difference is, I’m the one he’s making love to every night. “I don’t have one,” she said. “I’m quite literally starting from scratch.”

  Her admission sparked a flurry of interest among the others at the table, but conversation became more general as the meal progressed.

  “You’re on this afternoon, Domenico?” one woman inquired, and when he nodded, smiled at Arlene and said kindly, “You mustn’t miss that, my dear. Domenico alone is worth the price of admission to this event. You’ll learn more in two hours with him than a whole day with anyone else.”

  “Don’t listen to Madeline,” Domenico said, with a laugh. “I pay her to say things like that. You’ll do better to stick to the original plan.”

  “Certainly,” the bosomy Ortensia chipped in. “The more basic, the better for someone like you. Domenico’s presentation will be far too advanced.”

  Quite possibly so, but Arlene had no intention of missing it. Scanning her program, she made a note of when and where he’d take the podium.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quickly and by the time she took her place in the room where he was to speak, she’d accumulated enough information on the pitfalls and rewards of getting a vineyard up and running that she could almost write a book for beginners.

  The room was packed to capacity and she, seated well to the rear, felt comfortably inconspicuous. Domenico didn’t notice her when he arrived, but she was instantly aware of him. The very second he strode through the door, a buzz of anticipation rippled over the audience. In a hall full of self-assured, successful entrepreneurs, more than half of them probably millionaires several times over, he stood just a little bit taller. Impossible to overlook, impossible to forget.

  Ortensia Costanza had been right on one count, though. Most of his dissertation was far above Arlene’s head, but she didn’t care. It was enough to watch him, to listen to the rich cadence of his voice. To dream about the night ahead, when there’d be only the two of them, and everything he said, everything he did, would resonate within her.

  But first, she discovered, there was the evening to get through.

  “We’re invited to a private dinner party,” he told her, loosening his tie and stretching out his long legs in the back of the car, during the ride back to the Ritz. “I know you’re exhausted, cara, and if you’d rather I go alone—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I want to be with you.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “And I, with you—and no one else. But there are obligations in these affairs that can’t go ignored.”

  “I understand, Domenico, really.”

  “It’s not yet six o’clock, and we don’t have to leave the suite until eight. You’ll have time to unwind and take a nap.”

  Not likely, she thought. She wasn’t about to waste precious time napping. She could catch up on her sleep all next week, if necessary. For now, a hot bath would be enough to revive her.

  But her feet were killing her, and once back in her room and she’d shucked off her shoes and stripped naked, she changed her mind. The bed looked awfully inviting, and lying down for half an hour didn’t seem like such a bad idea, after all.

  Snug though she felt beneath the comforter, she hardly expected to sleep, not with her mind in overdrive after the stimulation of the day. But she must have dropped off because the next thing she knew, Domenico was murmuring soft and low in her ear, “Wake up, my lovely.”

  Her room was dim, lit only by the lamplight spilling through the open door from the salon. “It’s time to get ready?” she mumbled, her voice rusty with sleep.

  His hand lay cool against the swell of her breast, but his mouth on hers was hot and demanding. “I didn’t say that,” he breathed, and slid into her, a lovely, slow, sensuous invasion that ran through her blood like warm honey.

  There was nothing quite like love as an aperitif, to neutralize the unpleasant effect of finding Ortensia Costanza was among the guests at the private supper club where the dinner was held. Arriving on Domenico’s arm, Arlene positively floated on a cloud of euphoria. Her black velvet dinner dress was exactly right for the occasion, a statement in sophistication that required no adornment beyond Gail’s crystal earrings.

  Naturally enough, much of the conversation revolved around business. Markets came under scrutiny; international wine awards were discussed, future trends predicted. But they were, for the most part, a cultured, mannerly group of people, and didn’t forget the newcomer in their midst.

  Encouraged by their interest, she told them how she’d come by her vineyard. Apart from Ortensia, who affected utter boredom with the subject, they peppered her with questions and advice.

  “You’ve done well by your distant relative,” one man, a fiftyish American, observed as the party was breaking up. “That area of British Columbia is garnering huge respect worldwide for the quality of grape it’s producing. We in the Napa Valley will have to look to our laurels.”

  His wife nodded agreement. “Jimmy’s right. Everyone who’s anyone in this business is buzzing about your neck of the woods. You’re a lucky woman.”

  “Lucky and charming,” her husband said. “It’s been an honor to meet you, Arlene. Where did you find this young woman, Domenico?”

  “I didn’t. She found me,” he said, bathing her in a smile that made her toes curl inside their borrowed silver evening pumps.

  Ortensia, who’d remained silent until that point, suddenly spoke up, her voice as sour as her expression. “You always did have a talent being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time when some poor soul needs you, Domenico.”

  At that, a brief uncomfortable silence filled the room, before he replied. “And you, my dear Ortensia,” he said, his tone of steely disfavor erasing any scrap of affection from the endearment, “never have learned when to keep your unasked-for opinions to yourself.”

  Then dismissing her, he turned to their hosts with an apologetic smile and a murmured word of thanks for the evening. Taking their cue from him, the others dispelled the lingering tension in a spate of goodbyes, and made their way to the fleet of cars waiting to take them back to their various hotels.

  “That was unpleasant, and I apologize,” Domenico said, tucking Arlene’s cape around her shoulders against the brisk October night as they walked the few yards to where his driver was parked. “Ortensia is a spoiled, self-indulgent woman who is used to being the center of attention. I’m afraid she didn’t take kindly to your upstaging her, but please don’t take it personally. She’d have been just as disagreeable had it been any other woman.”

  He was wrong, Arlene thought. Ortensia was more than spoiled, she was eaten alive with jealousy because she wanted Domenico for herself. And that, in Arlene’s opinion, made her attack very personal indeed. The clock showed it was after three in the morning. Worn out from the hectic day and long evening, Arlene lay fast asleep in his bed, but Domenico paced the salon floor, wide-awake and irritable. Most of the people who’d attended the dinner party were good friends he saw only once a year, and always before, he’d looked forward to a long, stimulating visit with them. Tonight had been different. He’d chafed at its leisurely progress, his thoughts obsessed with the fact that he was running out of time with Arlene and could ill afford to waste four precious hours.

  He’d thought he had all the answers
where she was concerned, that when their time together came to an end, he could walk away from her and not look back. She was an innocent who’d been thrown by an unknown relative into an unknown situation, and by sheer luck she’d ended up on his doorstep, seeking his help. That didn’t make her his responsibility, he told himself for what seemed like the hundredth time. He’d given her the benefit of his advice and experience. The rest was up to her. She’d either make a go of her vineyard, or she wouldn’t.

  Or was he the innocent, to have believed he could play with fire and not get burned? He’d had no thought of a permanent involvement with her when first they met. Had been certain the attraction between them was a passing thing. Pleasurable, of course, just like others before her, but never meant to last.

  He’d felt secure in knowing he was expert at ending such affairs gracefully. There’d be no emotional meltdowns when it came time to say goodbye. They’d go their separate ways with good memories and no hard feelings, no lingering regret, no deep abiding sense of loss.

  So when had it all begun to change? The first time he kissed her? When he’d almost seduced her in the front seat of his car? When he’d stopped having sex with her, and instead started making love to her? Had it begun the day they met and a worm of jealousy had poisoned him because he thought she’d come to Sardinia with another man? Or had it taken Ortensia Costanza to make him realize that, as far as Arlene was concerned, he was in so far over his head, he hadn’t a hope of extricating himself?

  He didn’t have the answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wasn’t immune, after all, to the weaknesses he’d witnessed in his friends. The confused mass of emotion she aroused in him left him as susceptible as the next man, and no more able to separate his life into neat compartments, than he could command the sun not to rise every morning.

  She preyed on his mind, night and day. He was worried about her, afraid for her. She faced at least four years of backbreaking labor before she could expect to see a return on her vineyard. With her limited knowledge, and probably limited resources, too, the pitfalls of the undertaking were huge and could ruin her both financially and mentally.

  From his perspective, she’d been rejected enough by her monster of a mother, and he was filled with a fierce, burning desire to make sure that no one ever hurt her again. He wanted to protect her. Be part of her life, a strong shoulder for her to lean on when she needed it. And in his book, all that added up to only one thing: he’d fallen in love with her. Except “added up” didn’t quite fit because, contrary to what he’d always believed, it wasn’t a mathematical equation arrived at by logic and conclusion. It was irrational, impractical and bloody inconvenient!

  Dio, where was his legendary cool detachment when he needed it most?

  “Domenico?” Her voice, soft with sleep, whispered to him across the room, and spinning on his heel, he found her standing in the bedroom doorway. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

  She’d put on the shirt he’d worn to dinner. It swamped her slender frame. The sleeves hung inches below her hands, the tail almost to her knees. Her skin was rosy, her hair a silken sun-streaked tangle, and she looked adorable.

  “Go back to bed, Arlene,” he said brusquely. He had things to work out in his head, and that wouldn’t happen with her making further inroads on his emotions.

  “Not without you,” she said, coming to him and resting her hands between the lapels of his bathrobe, quite literally putting her finger on the heart of the matter. “I miss you.”

  “Arlene…please!” In an agony of indecision, of a need that floored him, he grasped her wrists and pushed her away. “Just go!”

  She shook her head. “Not until you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

  “Ortensia,” he said, latching on to the first thought that sprang to mind. “I’m furious with her. She was an embarrassment tonight—a disgrace to Sardinia with her churlish behavior toward you. There’s no telling what next might have come out of her mouth, if the party hadn’t ended when it did.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. He’d wanted to throttle the woman for making Arlene the target of her frustrated resentment. He knew she’d set her sights on him, and he’d tried to let her know as diplomatically as possible that she was never going to succeed. His mistake! He should have spoken bluntly, a long time ago. Perhaps then, tonight’s unfortunate scene could have been avoided.

  “I don’t care about Ortensia,” Arlene said softly, untying the belt at his waist and pressing a damp kiss to his chest. “I care about you. Come back to bed, Domenico, and let me show you how much.”

  She mesmerized him with her artless seduction. Against his better judgment, he let her lead him back to the bedroom. She stripped off his bathrobe and as he stood there, naked and painfully aroused, she sank to her knees and took him in her mouth.

  He almost came. So nearly lost control that he yanked her to her feet with an abrupt curse.

  “Oh!” she breathed, collapsing against him on a forlorn sigh. “I want to please you, but I’ve never done that before, and—”

  If she had, he’d have killed the man! “Stop it!” he said harshly. “For the love of God, Arlene, stop apologizing for not being perfect!”

  And driven beyond reason by the desire running rampant through him, he ripped his shirt off her body, pushed her down on the bed and drove into her. Furiously. Once, twice, three times. The fourth time, she peaked, gloving him so tightly and sweetly that he could hold back no longer. Without thought of contraception or the possible consequences of such an oversight, he gave in to the forces tearing him apart, and spilled free inside her in a powerful rush.

  He was lost, and he knew it.

  They didn’t make it to the Saturday program. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they slept late, stirring only when the sun was high. They ordered breakfast in bed, vowing to catch the afternoon sessions, but raspberry-stuffed crepes and mimosas weren’t enough to satisfy their appetite, and somehow the morning wasted away in slow explorations more delicious than anything the hotel chef could hope to produce. Still insatiable for each other, they made love again in the deep marble bathtub, their bodies slick and eager, awash in sensation and soap.

  Eventually they dressed and made it out to the street for a final tour of Paris. There’d be no time tomorrow; she was meeting Gail early in the morning for their eleven-thirty flight to Toronto. Domenico took her to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and showed her the elegant shops favored by the glitterati along the Rue du Fauborg Saint-Honoré and Avenue Montaigne. Over her objections, he bought her a cashmere shawl and bottle of perfume at Hermès.

  Then, as the shadows lengthened, they climbed the hill to Sacré Coeur, and sat on the cathedral steps, eating ham sandwiches he’d picked up at one of the many cafés in the area. The air was brisk, with a hint of frost, but she didn’t need her cape, tailored wool slacks and suede boots to be comfortable. Domenico’s smile, his touch, his voice warmed her from the inside out.

  Strolling back through the Latin Quarter, they browsed the many artworks displayed in the streets of Montmartre. When she stopped to admire an oil painting, a tiny unframed canvas no more than six inches square, showing the city at sunset, again nothing would do but that Domenico negotiate a price with the artist. A short while later, he spotted a handsomely bound book on the history of Paris, filled with photographs of the places they’d visited together, and presented her with that, too.

  “You’ve already done so much for me,” she protested. “Please don’t feel you have to buy me gifts, as well.”

  But, “No one should leave Paris without at least a couple of souvenirs,” he said.

  Because he was to receive an award, they had to attend that night’s banquet, to be held at the Hotel George V, and in a way, she was glad they wouldn’t be alone. It would be too easy for misery to creep in and spoil their last night together. Better to be among a crowd; to dance with him and weave a few more
golden strands into the magic they’d spun together.

  She was glad she’d succumbed to the temptation of the beaded celadon evening gown, even if she never had occasion to wear it again. It was worth every euro she’d spent on it, just to see Domenico’s face when she joined him in the salon, and hear him exclaim softly, “You are beautiful!”

  “And so are you,” she said, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his black dinner jacket. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world to be spending this night with you.”

  For a few hours, she continued to bask in his attention. He was the perfect escort, the sexiest, most handsome man in the world, and he was all hers—until she happened to go to the ladies’ room and disturb a conversation taking place among half a dozen women from last night’s dinner party, among them Ortensia Costanza.

  “…broke and besotted,” she heard Ortensia sneer.

  “She’s ripe for the plucking, certainly,” someone else agreed.

  Then six pairs of eyes turned startled gazes Arlene’s way as the door swung closed behind her. “Am I interrupting?” she asked hesitantly. A foolish question, since she obviously was. But five of them fell over themselves to deny it as they pretended to fix their already immaculate hairdos and touch up their already perfect lipstick.

  “No, no, of course not! We were just talking about…”

  “The grape harvest this year.”

  But they weren’t. She’s ripe for the picking is what Arlene had heard, and given their agitation at discovering her suddenly in their midst, who else could they have been referring to but her? Except what did she have that anyone would want?

  “Really,” she said steadily.

  “Yes! But it’s so nice to see you again, Arlene.”

  “Indeed yes. What a lovely gown!”