The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

With that, he disappeared into the hotel. Turning to watch, she saw him enter the boutique, then emerge a couple of minutes later with a long white silk scarf. “For the wind,” he explained, draping it over her head, then crossing the ends under her chin and tossing them over her shoulders. “There, now put on your sunglasses, and you’ll look exactly the part—an international celebrity, leaving her yacht for the day to travel about the island incognito, with her chauffeur at the wheel of her car.”

He was joking, of course. No one in his right mind would ever mistake Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos for a lowly chauffeur, any more than she’d ever pass for a celebrity. Not even the chinos and boots he wore around the vineyard could disguise his aristocratic bearing, let alone the discreetly expensive clothes he had on now. His watch alone probably cost more than she earned in a month.

He ushered her into the car, and within minutes they’d left the town behind and were headed west along the coast toward Sassari, where they made their first stop. “This vineyard also grows the Vermentino grape as we do,” he said, pulling up before a castellated building fronted by an enormous courtyard. “The owner, Santo Perrottas, and I went to school together in Rome, and have been good friends since we were boys.”

That much was obvious from the warm welcome they received. Although not in the same class as Domenico, Santo was nonetheless a handsome, charming man. When he learned the reason for their visit, nothing would do but that Arlene sample his wine, not in the tasting room used by the public, but in a private garden screened by espaliered vines already turning color and stripped of their fruit.

“I’ve heard of British Columbian wines,” he commented, as they sipped the straw-colored, aromatic Vermentino. “They have won gold medals in international competition, I understand.”

“Not from grapes grown on my land, I’m afraid,” she said ruefully. “I inherited a vineyard that’s been neglected for some time.”

“Then you’re in good hands with Domenico. He is a true expert in the art of cultivating healthy vines. And you, my friend,” he added, turning to Domenico with a wry grin, “how lucky are you, to have come across such a bellezza! Why could she not have turned up on my doorstep, instead of yours?”

“Why do you think? Because she’s as smart as she is beautiful. And because you’re married.”

Arlene felt a blush creeping over her face. She wasn’t used to such flattering attention. Not that they meant it, of course. They were just being polite and charming because that was expected of men who moved in the elevated stratum of society they frequented.

From Sassari, Domenico drove south, stopping at three other vineyards on the way, where they were again warmly welcomed and pressed to stay longer—for lunch, for dinner, for the night. But he refused each invitation, and for that, Arlene was glad. Although she appreciated the hospitality, he was an excellent teacher and much of what she heard and saw, she’d already learned at Vigna Silvaggio d’Avalos. The true pleasure of the day for her was seeing his island through his eyes as he pointed out ancient ruins and breathtaking scenery.

Shortly before one in the afternoon, he drove inland for several kilometers to a village perched on a wooded slope overlooking the Mediterranean. Leaving the car on the outskirts, they walked along winding streets so narrow, the sun barely penetrated between the houses, and it seemed to Arlene that people could reach out of their bedroom windows and shake hands with their neighbors across the way. In a tiny square shaded by palm trees, they ate lunch at an outdoor restaurant, and were on their way again within the hour.

They reached Oristano just after four, and after a quick tour of the town, headed north again, following seventy-five kilometers of magnificent coastline and arriving in Alghero, on the Coral Riviera, just as daylight faded. Even so, the beauty of the city was apparent.

“It is the jewel of northwest Sardinia, if not the entire island,” Domenico told her, after they’d parked the car and were strolling through the cobbled streets of the medieval citadel. At that hour, the bars and restaurants were just coming alive after the afternoon lull, with people gathering in social groups at outdoor tables, to sip wine and exchange gossip. “If you had more time here, I would bring you back to enjoy the beach and see more of what the town has to offer. As it is, we’ll have dinner here and enjoy together what’s left of today.”

If you had more time here…. It had become a frequent refrain, during the day. Rose quartz beaches, secluded coves, forested hills, silent olive groves, archaeological ruins and seldom traveled roads leading to the wild interior: they’d have been hers to discover with him, if only she had more time.

Instead she had to make do with this one glorious day of fleeting impressions. Of smiling glances and shared laughter. Of his hand clasping hers to prevent her stumbling over the uneven paving stones. Of the wind whipping the ends of her scarf like the tails of a kite, as the car sped along the dusty roads. Of the sun touching the square line of his jaw and throwing deep bronze shadows under his high cheekbones. Of the scent of myrtle and sea pine capturing her senses.

These were the memories she’d take with her to her new home in British Columbia; these and the knowledge he’d shared with her. Did he know how indelible an impression he’d made, she wondered, angling a covert gaze at him as he led her purposefully past wonderful old palazzos and churches to a restaurant with tables set out under a colonnaded terrace? Or that no matter how many years passed, she’d never forget him?

Street signs, she noticed, were in Italian and what she thought might be Spanish, but which turned out more accurately to be Catalan. “You’re on the right track, though,” Domenico said, after they were shown a table set with dramatic black linens, white votive candles in crystal holders and wineglasses with stems as slender as flower stalks. “Alghero is more Spanish than any other place in Sardinia. In fact, it’s nicknamed ‘Barcelonetta,’ meaning Little Barcelona. Not so surprising, when you consider it lay under Aragonese rule for the better part of three hundred years, starting in the mid-fourteenth century.”

“The first time I saw you, I thought you looked Spanish, except for your blue eyes” she admitted.

“Many Spaniards—Italians also, for that matter—have blue eyes, so once again, your instincts were on target. My father’s family came from northern Spain in the early 1880s. I’m told I resemble my great-great-grandfather.”

“He must have been a very handsome man.”

“Grazie. And to whom do you owe your looks, my lovely Arlene?”

“Oh, you don’t have to say that,” she protested, flushing. “I know I’m not very pretty.”

He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. “Why do you do that, cara?” he asked gently. “Why do you turn away from the truth and try to hide your quiet beauty from the rest of the world? Are you ashamed of it?”

“Nothing like that,” she said, her breath catching in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. “I’m not being coy or fishing for compliments. I just know mine’s not the kind of face that would launch a thousand ships.”

“And who convinced you of that? A man? A rogue who broke your heart and left you with no confidence to believe what is so plain to the rest of the world?”

“It was my mother,” she said baldly.

He let out a soft exclamation of distress. “Why would a mother speak so to her child?”

“I think because I take after my father.”

“Then trust me when I tell you that your father also must be a most handsome man, as you surely realize.”

“Not really. I hardly knew him.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Now I remember. Your parents divorced when you were very young, and he died shortly after. But you have no photographs of him?”

Her laugh emerged shockingly harsh. “My mother would never have permitted one in the house.”

He lifted his glass and surveyed her silently a moment. “You might as well have been left an orphan,” he finally commented.

In truth, that’s how she’d often felt, but he was the first to put it in words. “I hope you know how lucky you are, to be part of such a united family.”

He started to reply, then seemed to think better of it and reverted to his role of mentor, instead. “Tell me what you think of this wine?”

“I’m enjoying it.”

“No, no, Arlene,” he chided. “I expect better of you than that. Tell me what it is that makes it so enjoyable.”

She squirmed in her seat. A connoisseur of wines she was not. She knew what she liked, but that’s about as far as it went. “It’s Vermentino.”

“Not good enough! All you had to do to reach that conclusion is read the label.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“And…? What do you notice about the finish?”

“It has nice legs?” she offered haltingly, tilting her glass.

He threw back his head and burst out laughing. “Dio, I have failed as a teacher! You’ll have to come back for a second course of instruction.”

Oh, if only! she thought, her heart seeming to swell in her breast as she feasted on the sight of him. On his flawless teeth, and the lush, downward sweep of his generous lashes. On his eyes, dark as sapphires in the candlelight. How could any woman be expected to keep her head around such a wealth of masculine beauty?