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 separated 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.
Was she the victim of her own wishful thinking? Or was there something…?
“There’s something!” Gail assured her, when she confided her doubts to her friend. “I could’ve told you that, the night he phoned to see how you were feeling after the migraine. I was listening in to the conversation between the pair of you, remember?”
Laughing, Arlene said, “I recall your panting furiously after he hung up, and gulping down ice water straight from the carafe!”
“What else did you expect? Cripes, Arlene, talk about steamy! That man was so hot for you, I thought the phone was about to explode in my ear!”
“That’s ridiculous! We’d met for the first time just the day before.”
“Which, it would appear, is all the time it took. Admit it, kiddo. Just when you were ready to give up on men, you’ve finally met one who stirs your little heart to beat a whole lot faster.”
“That doesn’t mean he feels the same way about me.”
“How do you know? Have you asked him?”
The very idea made her break out in a cold sweat. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Why not? You know he’s not married, so why not just go with the flow and see where it leads? What do you have to lose?”
“His respect, for a start. And for all I know, he could be involved with someone else.”
“Or he could be waiting for a sign of encouragement from you.”
“What’s the point of encouraging him, when we both know I’ll be leaving here in another nine days?”
“The point is that you might be shutting the door on a rather glorious thing called love
