The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

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 at first sight.”

“I don’t believe in that,” she said stubbornly, all the while knowing she was deluding no one but herself.

Gail sighed, obviously exasperated. “There are hundreds of people in the world who do, and who prove it by living together happily ever after.”

But there were couples who mistook sexual attraction and infatuation for the real thing, and lived to regret it, and she ought to know. She’d been the product of such a mistake—the only child of parents who hated each other by the time she was born.

I sacrificed myself and stayed with him because of you, her mother had reminded her often enough. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant, I’d have left him within six months of marrying him and saved myself five years of misery.

“But if you’re convinced it’s not possible in your case,” Gail continued, “then leave love out of the equation, and just live for the moment. As long as you’re careful, holiday romance, with a little lust thrown in for good measure, never hurt anyone.”

But Arlene had never been susceptible to lust, mostly because, until Domenico, she hadn’t met a man who inspired it. “I don’t believe in that, either,” she said. “It’s too risky.”

Gail rolled her eyes. “This, from the woman who threw everything away to take on a broken-down vineyard, a couple of greyhounds and a crabby old man? Give me strength!”

Just as she was ready to leave on the Friday, Domenico asked her what plans she’d made for the weekend. “Because,” he said, “if you’re interested, I’ll take you to visit some of the other vineyards on the island. It never hurts to get someone else’s viewpoint. The more you see and the more people you talk to, the better off you’ll be when you start working your own fields.”

Knowing Gail had hooked up with a local tour guide who’d promised to take her scuba diving, Arlene accepted the invitation, and did her best to subdue the flush of pleasure riding up her neck. “Thank you! I’d like that very much.”

“Then I’ll pick you up around ten and we’ll make a day of it.”

Once back at the hotel, she agonized over what to wear. The sensible blouse and baggy pants that had been her standard uniform for most of the past week? The unflattering cotton sun hat that made her look like a wilted weed?

“Definitely not,” Gail decided, when asked her opinion. “You’re used to the sun now, and you’ve picked up a nice tan from lazing on the beach every afternoon. Book yourself into the hotel spa this afternoon and splurge—nails, facial, hair, the works. Heaven knows, you’ve earned it. Go glam, and let him see what he’s been missing.”

“Glam” had never been Arlene’s forte, but the mirror told her Gail had a point. Not only had the sun given her skin a honey glow, it had painted pale blond streaks in her light brown hair.

Four hours later, she emerged from the spa, so buffed and polished her own mother wouldn’t have known her.

Such a pity you’re so plain, Arlene, she used to say, but considering what you have to work with, there isn’t much you can do about it.

Until today, she’d have agreed. But not anymore. Nails painted a soft coral, skin shimmering like amber silk and hair expertly trimmed and enhanced by golden highlights, made a world of difference to the girl her mother had once dubbed “painfully drab.”

Giddy over her transformation, she stopped by the boutique in the hotel lobby and found the perfect dress to go with her new look. Full skirted, with a fitted bodice held up by spaghetti straps, it was made of soft polished cotton the same deep turquoise as the sea.

“Perfect!” Gail agreed, inspecting the finished results. “You’ll knock his socks off.”

The thing was, Arlene wondered nervously, would she know what to do about it, if she succeeded?

He showed up right on time, driving not the Jeep, as she’d expected, but a sleek silver roadster. He wore pale gray trousers, a blue shirt open at the neck and black leather loafers, which even to her inexperienced eye were clearly handmade.

“You look very lovely, Arlene,” he said, stepping out of the car to afford himself a head-to-toe inspection, “but your hair…” He fingered a strand and shook his head. “This will not do.”

She stared at him, too disappointed to be offended. “You don’t like it?”

“It is beautiful, and I won’t be responsible for spoiling it.”