The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

by Spencer, Catherine

  Originally he’d booked through from Paris to Santiago on a commercial flight after his Sunday meetings were concluded, but the emotional turmoil of the morning left Domenico in too foul a mood to be sociable with whoever happened to be sitting next to him. His own jet would get him where he had to go, but it involved three or more refueling stops and any number of delays. He was in no mood for that, either.

  “Conspicuous consumption be damned,” he muttered, and chartered a Gulfstream 450, scheduled to leave Le Bourget at nine that night. He’d be served an excellent dinner, do a little work and sleep comfortably during the flight which, even allowing for one refueling stop, shouldn’t take more than fifteen hours. He’d be in Santiago by nine at the latest, Chile time, ready for the start of the business day. And far enough removed from anything to do with Arlene Russell that he shouldn’t have any trouble putting her out of his mind.

  All things considered, he ought to be glad she’d been so ready to move on. He’d accomplished what he set out to do, and done it well. She’d made useful contacts, impressed all the right people and he could go forward with a clear conscience.

  Yet all through the long flight to South America, she was there inside his head. Worse, inside his heart. Her intelligence, her smile, her laugh, her impudent little shrug, her long, lovely legs and warm body…

  Let me please you, she’d begged, just the other night, as if giving herself to him so sweetly, so generously, wasn’t reward enough in itself. How had it happened that she’d so thoroughly invaded that part of him no other woman had managed to touch?

  Groaning inwardly, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying to shut her out. He’d be better off with someone like Ortensia Costanza, who never in a million years could turn his life upside-down.

  Cold comfort, certainly, given his present state of mind, but he wasn’t so far gone that he was willing to delude himself. We’re from different worlds, Arlene had said—or words to that effect—and he could hardly deny the truth of that.

  Sardinia was a land steeped in ancient customs, so culturally distinct from other regions of Europe that even mainland Italians felt like foreigners when they visited. But he was Sard through and through. Its emerald seas, untamed mountains and harsh sirocco winds were in his blood.

  He might travel the world, own pieds-à-terre in Britain, France, the States and Australia. Yet only with the sandy clay and granite foundation of his island under his feet was he ever really at home, and he knew himself too well to think he could set up permanent residence anywhere else. But Arlene had made it clear her future was bound up in an inheritance that lay half a world away.

  Even with reality staring him in the face, though, she continued to linger. Nice legs, he heard her whisper, when he went to taste the glass of wine the flight steward served him, an hour out of Paris. From there, it was a quantum leap of memory to her legs, long and luscious, wrapped around his waist, and the inarticulate little whimpers she made just before she came.

  The idea of her responding to any other man like that filled him with black rage. She belonged to him.

  Except, she didn’t want him. And what kind of fool was he even to be thinking that four nights of unparalleled sex made for a sound and lasting relationship? He’d bedded enough women in his time to know better—more than one in Santiago where it was summertime and he could forget the chill, brisk winds of Paris, and Arlene Russell’s sweet face and clear gray eyes, and warm, delicious body. She spent her first night back in Canada at Gail’s apartment, just long enough to return the things she’d borrowed and catch her breath before she boarded another jet, the next day, and headed west.

  British Columbia’s interior greeted her with a blast of Arctic air and snowflakes drifting down from a leaden sky. She’d phoned ahead, to alert Cal Sweeney, the caretaker, to her arrival. But her house, the first she’d ever lived in as an adult, let alone owned, was no more inviting than the weather. Gloomy and neglected, it begged for a woman’s touch. Cal, though, whom she’d met only briefly the first time she’d visited, had little faith in women in general and her in particular, something he made abundantly clear, the minute he opened the front door to her.

  “Reckon you’ll last as long in these parts as a hothouse flower in winter,” he declared sourly, eyeing the fancy suede boots and woollen cape she’d bought in Alghero, a small lifetime ago. “Well, since you’re the boss now and you’re here anyway, I suppose I have to let you in, though I’m danged if I know what use you’ll be. Reckon old Frank lost what few marbles he had left, to be handing this place over to a city wench from down east.”

  “Lovely to see you again, too, Mr. Sweeney,” she replied sweetly, marching past him and surveying her domain.

  Like the one at Domenico’s parents’ home, the entrance hall was large and lofty, with a staircase rising at one side. It even had a rather grand old library table centered under a wrought-iron chandelier. But there the resemblance ended. This table was piled high with yellowed newspapers, and half the bulbs were burned out in the chandelier. She supposed she should be grateful. More reminders of Domenico she did not need. He already filled her every waking thought.

  Down in the cellar, a furnace clanked and groaned, blowing blasts of hot air through the heating vents and disturbing the dust balls nestled along the baseboards, which shouldn’t have come as any great surprise. The first time she’d seen the house, she’d realized it needed work. But the sun had been shining that day, and she was filled with hope and excitement. In today’s dim light, it looked infinitely worse than she remembered. Grim, depressed and totally devoid of optimism, it was, she thought, right in sync with the way she felt.

  As if sensing her sadness, the greyhounds loped over and pushed their cold, damp noses against her leg. Bending down, she stroked their silky heads. “What are the dogs’ names again? Sable—?”

  “Sam and Sadie. And I’m tellin’ you now, forget any ideas you might have about getting rid of ’em. They go, I go with ’em—and, missy, you’ll be up the creek without paddle if I’m not around to steer you in the right direction.”

  “I have no intention of getting rid of them,” she informed him. “Given your attitude, though, I might decide I can do very well without you.”

  His faded blue eyes almost disappearing in the network of weathered wrinkles that made up his face, he inspected her at further length, then crowed with sudden laughter. “Got a real mouth on you, haven’t you, missy? Maybe you’re Frank’s kin, after all.”

  A dubious and decidedly backhanded compliment at best, she thought, but sensed she’d passed some sort of test. “Thank you—I think!”

  He nodded and jerked his head to where the taxi driver had left her suitcases at the foot of the steps. “I’ll give you a hand carting in your bags. You want ’em in the big room facing the lake?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d like to take another look around first.” She glanced at the drab green paint adorning the walls. As she recalled, the same uninspired color scheme pretty much ran through the whole house, and she couldn’t see the point of moving into the master bedroom until she’d fixed it up to her liking. “For now, leave them in the room at the top of the stairs—unless that’s where you sleep.”

  He let fly with another cackle. “Not likely, missy! Me and the hounds live in the old maid’s suite, the other side of the kitchen. You’ve got this end of the house all to yourself.”

  He hauled her suitcases inside and started up the stairs, leaving her to rediscover the main floor. Both the large living room and formal dining room had fireplaces which probably hadn’t been used in years, judging by the cobwebs festooning their tarnished brass andirons. But the tiles surrounding them were hand painted and quite lovely, as she saw when she rubbed at the dust dulling their surface. And the fir floors, though in similarly sad shape, would be gorgeous when they were cleaned up, as would the tall windows.

  It had been a beautiful house once, and it could be again, given a
little elbow grease and a fresh coat of paint. “Just what I need to take my mind off him,” she murmured to the dogs, who’d followed her on her tour. If she worked outside when the weather permitted, and tackled the interior of the house when it didn’t, perhaps she’d end up exhausted enough to fall into bed at night and sleep, instead of lying awake pining for a man who, despite his apparent reluctance to let her go, had done so anyway.

  A big country kitchen, a small room that might serve as an office, and a powder room completed the downstairs, except for Cal Sweeney’s quarters, which were quite separate, situated as they were in their own wing. Upstairs were four bedrooms and two baths. An awful lot of house for one lovesick woman, two dogs and an ill-tempered old man, but even today, the view from the windows was stunning.

  The bare branches of the gnarled old fruit trees in the garden rose black against the sky. If the cold weather continued overnight, by morning the tangle of unpruned shrubs and overgrown flower beds would be hidden under a blanket of snow. A thin skin of ice covered the surface of the lake and to the west, on the far shore, a ridge of hills cast dark shadows over the landscape. On a clear day, it would look like a Christmas card. Perhaps in this quiet place, which held no memories of Domenico, she would one day find peace again, and hope, and happiness.

  “I made stew,” Cal announced, coming upon her toward evening, as she inspected the contents of the refrigerator. “It’s not fancy, but there’s enough for you, if you don’t mind eating in the kitchen.”

  Recognizing the invitation as an overture of sorts, she accepted and sat at the table, watching as he ladled chunks of meat and vegetables onto plates, filled two bowls for the dogs, and cut thick slices of bread.

  “Got this at the bakery in town,” he said, rapping the loaf with the knife. “There’s a decent market there, as well. You don’t need to drive thirty miles to the next stop down the highway, unless you’re too posh to buy from the locals.”

  “I’m not too posh, Cal,” she told him quietly. “I’m an ordinary working individual, just like you.”

  “Well, you’ve taken on a hell of a job by coming here, missy. This property’s been dying on its feet for years. I can’t remember the last time we brought in a decent harvest.”

  “I know. And I’m counting on you to help me bring it back to life.”

  “Got pots of money stashed in them suitcases, have you?”

  “No. But I have an apartment I’m selling, and savings bonds I can use in the meantime—even a pension fund I can access, at a pinch.”

  He waved his fork at her. “And what do you know about growing grapes?”

  “Next to nothing,” she admitted, and winced inwardly at the poignant stab of memories suddenly crowding her mind. If only there was a way to retain everything she’d learned, but erase all thought of the man who’d taught her. “How much do you know?”

  “Enough.”

  “Then I’ll learn from you.”

  “Reckon you don’t have much choice,” he grumbled, but she heard the note of respect in his voice.

  “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Not much you can do in this weather.”

  “Unless we wake up to a foot of snow, we can take a look at the fields and talk about what has to be done when spring comes.”

  “Not if you plan to wear them silly boots,” he said. “They’ll be next to useless.”

  “Okay, we’ll begin with a trip to town. You be my guide and show me where to shop and what to buy.”

  He dropped his fork with a clatter and stared at her, bug-eyed. “You kidding me, missy? I don’t shop for women’s things.”

  “How about a car, then? I didn’t bother with one in Toronto, but I can see I’ll need one here.”

  “That I can do,” he said, and actually smiled at her. “Maybe you’ll do, too, missy, with me around to keep you in line.”

  And so began their unlikely friendship. Cal Sweeney was no elegant, mannerly, silver-haired Emile. He was cantankerous, rough around the edges and unabashedly outspoken. But he was on her side, and he had a soft spot for the dogs.

  Would it be enough, she wondered.

  At first, it seemed it would, because she refused to leave herself enough time to look at the alternatives. She outfitted herself for winter in the country, and decided buying a truck made more sense than a car.

  The furniture and other belongings she’d had shipped out from Toronto finally arrived. She stowed everything in the garage until she’d cleaned up the house. For the present, she was using only one bedroom, one bathroom and the kitchen. The other rooms she put on hold.

  She walked over every inch of her land, taking comfort in the knowledge that it was her land, despite the ragged disrepair of its trellises, its outdated irrigation system and general air of desolate abandonment. She began the backbreaking task of clearing the near acre, hoping that, when spring came, at least some of it would be ready for planting.

  After observing from a distance for several days, Cal eventually joined her. “Didn’t reckon you’d stick with it,” he declared, at the end of the second week, when she was so stiff and sore from the arduous pace she’d set herself, she could barely walk.

  “I’m not giving up,” she told him, massaging her aching back. “I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’m going to make a success of this vineyard or die trying,”

  “And I ain’t givin’ up on you, missy,” he said gruffly. “We’re in this together.”

  When the snow returned at the beginning of December and put an end to working outside, she turned her attention to fixing up the house. She shoveled out years of rubbish, and scrubbed everything down until her hands were raw.

  She found an old sewing machine in the attic, bought a bolt of heavy burgundy brocade at a fire sale and made drapes for all the windows. Some of the old furniture she’d inherited was good for nothing but firewood, but other pieces she brought back to life, removing years of grime with solvent, then rubbing them to a satin finish with lavender scented beeswax.

  All this cost money, far more than she’d anticipated. She was depleting her savings at an alarming rate, in a driven attempt to turn her lurking, ever-present misery into joy. Sorting through the debris and neglect to find contentment, and struggling to make ends meet until her apartment sold.

  The withered vines, the house, the dogs and Cal—these were what her life was all about now. She had to make a success of it.

  She prayed to forget Domenico, but her prayers went unanswered. In response to her letter of thanks to his parents, she’d received warm replies, not just from them but from his sisters, too.

  “We hoped we’d see you again before you returned home,” Renata had written. “Come back again and stay longer, the next time.”

  But there hadn’t been a word from him. No doubt he’d moved on to another needy case. Yet he was everywhere that Arlene turned: in the gravelly soil when she climbed the slope of the land; in the bare rows of the vines, and the still moonlit night. She heard his voice as she painted the old house, buffed its floors and polished its windows. She saw his face in the frozen surface of the lake, in the wind-driven clouds racing across the sky.

  The worst by far, though, was when she sat in bed at night, supposedly trying to formulate a plan of action that wouldn’t strip away the last of her dwindling resources, but instead recalling in vivid, tactile detail the times she’d been in bed with him. How she’d cried out his name when he brought her to orgasm. How she’d bitten her knuckles to stifle the words she’d longed to utter: I love you!

  Long distance relationships have never appealed to me, he’d said, that last day in Paris. Better to make a clean break now. Neither of us would be happy with an occasional weekend….

  At the time, she’d convinced herself he was right, but knew now that he’d been wrong. Anything was better than nothing—a weekend, a day, an hour. If he was to phone her…

  Sam and Sadie watched her mournfully when she cried, and butted her anxiously with the
ir soft muzzles. Cal scolded her for wearing herself to a shadow trying to restore the house.

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day, missy. This place’s been falling apart for years, and you ain’t gonna bring it back to glory overnight, no more than them withered old vines out there is gonna bear fruit next summer.”

  She’d given Domenico everything she was, everything she had: her body, her heart, her soul. But when their time together ended, she’d walked away and he’d let her go. Now, the only ones on earth who cared whether she lived or died were Cal and the greyhounds.

  They had to be enough. They had to be!

  But money was tight. The only offer she’d received on her apartment had fallen through when the prospective buyer had failed to qualify for a mortgage, and as the second week of December dragged to a close, she knew that her only hope of keeping her little family together left her with only one option.

  Chapter 10

  “To secure our future,” she’d told Cal the next day, when he’d asked where she was going, all dressed up to the nines like some city wench. “Break out the homemade wine. Tonight, we celebrate.”

  Two hours later, she drove out of town to a stretch of road that saw very little traffic. There she pulled over, switched off the engine and putting her head down on the steering wheel, she burst into tears.

  Ralph McKinley, the bank manager, had refused her application for a loan. She had not, as she’d assumed, inherited her seven acres of vineyards outright. She had inherited the remaining ninety years of a ninety-nine-year lease on aboriginal land owned by the local First Nations Band. And what that meant, in terms of cold, hard cash, was that she had only her house and outbuildings to put up as collateral, which, according to McKinley, wasn’t nearly enough.

  According to him, the best she could hope was that a private investor would step forward and provide the financial resources she needed. “A slim chance, at best,” he’d told her frankly, “and usually one that comes with a very high rate of interest, but such offers do happen occasionally if a company is looking for a tax shelter.”