a cup of delicious cappuccino and some hot rolls on the sun-dappled veranda of the lovely Hotel Cairoli the next morning, Isabel told herself to relax. Let him show her around the countryside. He’d soon realize he had no chance at all of her changing her mind. She’d simply treat it as an opportunity to see something of the area in the company of an attractive Italian man who knew his way around. And maybe finally meet some locals. Never mind the gorgeous Italian found nothing remotely attractive about her, especially her personality. That was his problem, not hers.
By the time he arrived, she’d almost convinced herself she could treat him like her driver and nothing more. But then she saw the heads turn when his impressive car pulled up and he got out wearing khaki cargo pants and an expensive polo shirt that matched his eyes and did nothing to conceal the taut muscles in his arms.
Before she could get up and go to meet him, he’d walked through the place like he owned it and taken a seat at her table. The waitress was scurrying to bring him a cup of coffee and a plate of fresh hot rolls. She was beaming at him as if he was her long-lost brother, and it seemed everyone in the place knew who he was and lost no time in either shaking his hand or putting their arms around him as if they hadn’t seen him for years.
It was obvious he was not only part of a big family, he was part of a community as well. She felt a pang of envy. How long would it take for her to feel this way? She couldn’t wait for twenty-six generations to pass by.
“Are you enjoying your stay?” he asked, his blue gaze zeroing in on Isabel as if she was the only one on the veranda. His attention was flattering. Or it would be if she didn’t think he had an ulterior motive. He’d either decided to change his tactics, or he’d decided to enjoy the day and forget his only too apparent motive. Knowing him it must be the former.
“Very much. But I’m planning to move out either today or tomorrow.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” he asked with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.
“Nothing, the people are nice and the beds are very comfortable. But I didn’t come here to loll about in a luxury hotel when I have a perfectly good house of my own.” She felt her cheeks redden. They both knew it wasn’t “perfectly good.” She braced herself for his retort.
“Ah,” he said. But that was all. No mention of the lack of water, heat or electricity. Which only made her worry about these things more. It was much easier to be brave when she had to convince him at the same time. Without a rival to fight with, she felt strangely deflated.
“As you know, it’s harvest time and I need to be picking grapes.” She waited for his predictable comment about how hard the work was and how busy all the real workers were, but it didn’t come.
Instead he drained his cup and said, “Ready?” then stood and pulled her chair out from the table. She had the feeling the whole hotel staff was standing there watching as if he were a movie star on location as she got into his car and pulled away. She had to admit he was better-looking than any movie star she’d ever seen.
Did his attention to her raise her status in the community she longed to be part of? Either the group on the terrace at the hotel were shaking their heads, thinking she was a fool for going off with the Sicilian playboy who might even be married or they were cheering her on, thinking she’d be a fool for not running off to spend a day with the sexiest man around these parts.
It didn’t matter, this was not a date. He was not interested in her nor was she in him. He was showing her around only because he thought he’d achieve his own goal that way. She was spending the day with him for the same reason, to get what she wanted. But she couldn’t help being curious about him and his family.
She leaned back against the soft leather upholstery and let the sun shine on her face. She felt no need to make conversation since he seemed to be lost in thought, maybe pretending she wasn’t there. He’d insisted on showing her property, he hadn’t said he’d enjoy it. His eyes were hidden behind his wraparound sunglasses, one suntanned arm braced on the open window. His mind was somewhere else, no doubt.
To distract herself from looking at Dario, thinking about him and admiring his hands on the wheel, his bronzed arms and his skillful driving, she tried to identify the different kinds of trees they passed—oak, elm, ash and maybe beech. There might even be cork and maple. In the hills above them, farm animals grazed. It was a peaceful and bucolic scene, one most tourists never saw. She told herself to sit back and enjoy it while she could. Tomorrow and the next day and every day after that she’d be at work in the vineyard.
Glancing at his profile out of the corner of her eye, she thought he was just as gorgeous from that viewpoint as he was full-on, with his broken nose, his solid jaw and high cheekbones. From a strictly impersonal viewpoint of course. If he wasn’t married, she wondered why not. Was it his surly personality, or was that side of him reserved for her benefit?
He pointed to a village perched high on a hill. And finally he spoke. “Casale,” he said, “one of the first towns taken by the Normans from the Arabs who took it from the Saracens who took it from the Byzantines.”
“So I’m not the first foreigner to claim land here.”
“Not at all. But you should know Sicilians are tough people. We may seem to give in at first, but we’re just rolling with the punches. We may occasionally be defeated, but it’s just temporary. We’ve been around for centuries through good times and bad. Everyone wants something we’ve got—our land, our crops and our climate. For six thousand years the Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs, the French and the Spanish, they’ve all come and seen and conquered. They’ve all left their marks. But eventually they moved on. And we stayed on. We’re here for good.”
Isabel took her time taking this all in. Not just the history lesson, but his taking the trouble to instruct her. “Of course you are,” she said at last. “You’re Italian and you belong here.”
“I’m Sicilian,” he said firmly. “The Italians are just the latest colonizers who’ve come to strip away our wealth.” She knew what he thought. Whether Italian or American, she was in the same category as the other intruders. Was that the real reason he was taking her on this tour? To make her aware of her place in history? Where were the villas he wanted her to see? The land for sale?
“There’s a rather nice Roman villa over there that was buried in the mud for seven hundred years until it was discovered in 1950. You should see it.”
“Why?” she said. “Is it for sale?”
One corner of his mouth twitched as if he might possibly smile. That would be a first. He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten why we’re here. I’m glad you haven’t either.” He turned down a side road. The villa was open to tourists, but today there were only a few.
“Villas were more than simply vacation homes for the wealthy Romans,” Dario explained, “there are outbuildings which could house more family and servants and workshops as well. The owner and his family lived in this section with fifteen rooms, an underground central heating system and mosaic flooring.”
“Like your house?” she asked. How rich was he? How big was his house?
“Mine? I live by myself in the gatekeeper’s cottage on the family property. It’s pretty simple. No mosaics, no grand facade like you see here, where even the stables and servants’ quarters are faced with some kind of beautiful stone frontage. The Romans wanted to make a statement, let the world know they were rich and powerful. Our family…” He paused as if he might be about to divulge a family secret. “Our
