‘Good evening, sir.’
Enrico smiled, pleased by the sign of respect. ‘You are going out for dinner?’
‘In a manner of speaking. I thought we could eat at Castle Cazlevara.’
Ana looked at him in surprise. Dinner in his own castle? She’d been to the castle once, for a Christmas party when she was a child. She remembered a huge Christmas tree, twenty feet high, in the castle’s soaring entrance hall, and eating too many sweets.
Uneasily, Ana realized Vittorio and her father had been talking, and she hadn’t heard a word. Now Vittorio turned to her, smiling solicitously. ‘We should go.’
‘Yes, all right.’
One hand rested lightly on the small of her back—the simple touch seemed to burn—as Vittorio said goodbye to Enrico and then led her out to the softly falling darkness and his waiting car.
Vittorio opened the passenger door for Ana before sliding in the driver’s side. She was nervous, he saw, and her clothes were utterly atrocious. He’d been about to compliment her when she’d first opened the door and had just stopped himself from uttering what they both knew would be more unwanted false flattery.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as Ana fastened her seat belt. He felt impatient, as he so often did, and also, strangely, a little uncertain. He didn’t like either feeling. He didn’t know how best to approach Ana, how to court her, if such a thing could even be done. He doubted he could act convincingly enough. As intelligent and decent a human being as she obviously was, she was not a woman to take to bed. Yet if this marriage was to work—if he were to have an heir—then he would be taking her to bed, and more than once.
Vittorio dwelt rather moodily on that scenario before pushing it aside. He could have chosen another woman, of course; there were plenty of pretty—gorgeous, even—socialites in Italy who would relish becoming the Contessa of Cazlevara. Women he would gladly take to bed but, ironically perhaps, he did not wish to marry them.
Their vineyards did not border his own; they were not dedicated to winemaking, to the region. They were not particularly loyal. They were not, any of them, wife material.
Ana was. When he’d contemplated taking a wife, Ana Viale had ticked every box quite neatly. Experienced in winemaking, running her own vineyard, a dutiful daughter, healthy and relatively young.
And, of course, loyalty. He’d read of her loyalty to her family, and her family’s vineyard, in that magazine article. Loyalty was a necessity, an absolute; he would not be betrayed again, not by those closest to him.
No, Anamaria Viale was the wife he wanted. The only wife he wanted.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought of the other reason—really, the main reason—he wished to marry at all. He needed an heir. God willing, Ana would provide him with one, and would keep his brother—treacherous Bernardo—from ever becoming Count, as his mother had so recently told him she wanted.
The conversation, as it always was with Constantia, the current Countess, had been laced with bitterness on both sides. She’d rung asking for money; had there ever been anything else she wanted from him?
‘I don’t know why you hoard all your money, Vittorio,’ she’d said a bit sulkily. ‘Who are you keeping it for?’
He’d been distracted by the business emails on his computer screen, her words penetrating only after a moment. ‘What do you mean?’
She’d sighed, the sound impatient and a bit contemptuous; it was a sound he remembered well from childhood, for it had punctuated nearly every conversation he’d had with his mother. ‘Only that you are getting on in years, my son,’ she had said, and he had heard the mocking note in her voice. ‘You’re thirty-seven. You are not likely to marry, are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he’d replied, and she’d laughed softly, the sound making the hair on the nape of his neck prickle.
‘But if you don’t marry, Vittorio, you can’t produce an heir. And then you know what happens, don’t you?’ She sighed again, the sound different this time, almost sad. ‘Bernardo becomes Count.’
He’d frozen then, his hand curled around the receiver, his eyes dark with memory and pain. That was what his mother had always wanted, what his brother had wanted. He’d known it for years, ever since they’d first tried to steal his inheritance from him, his father barely in the grave.
He didn’t forget.
And how could he have forgotten the importance of marriage, of children? He’d been so intent on improving Cazlevara Wines, of forgetting the unhappiness he knew waited for him back home. He’d never considered the future, his future. His heirs.
Now he did. He’d considered carefully, chosen his bride as he would a fine wine. Now he just needed to decide when to decant it.
Vittorio drummed his fingers against the steering wheel again and saw Ana slide him a wary glance. How to approach his chosen bride? She sat tensely, one hand clenched around the door handle as if she would escape the speeding car. The suit she wore looked like something pulled out of a convent’s charity box and it did nothing for her tall, generous figure. Not that there was something to be done for her figure, but Vittorio imagined that some decent clothes and make-up could go some way to improving his intended bride’s appearance.
His mouth twisted. What would Ana think if she knew he planned to marry her—and as soon as possible? Of course, any woman should be thrilled to become part of the Cazlevara dynasty, yet he felt instinctively that Ana Viale might balk. He knew from the other night at San Stefano Castle that she would not be fooled by his attempts to flatter or romance her, and why should she? God knew, the women he usually had on his arm or in his bed did not look or dress or even talk like Ana Viale. Yet he didn’t want to marry them. He wanted to marry Ana. It was a matter of expediency, of business.
And that, Vittorio decided, was how he would present the marriage to her. She appreciated plain speaking, and so he would speak as plainly as possible. The thought appealed to him. He wouldn’t have to waste time pretending to be attracted to her. Most women would enjoy a little flattery, but he knew now that it would only annoy Ana, perhaps even hurt her.
A tiny twinge of something close to guilt pierced his conscience. Would Ana want some kind of real marriage? Was she waiting for love?
With him it was impossible, and she needed to know that from the start. Surely a woman like her was not still holding out for love? She seemed too practical for that, not to mention too plain. Besides, she could always say no.
Except Vittorio would make sure she didn’t.
Ana pressed back against the leather seat as the darkened countryside, rolling hills and clusters of oak trees, sped by. She sneaked another glance at Vittorio’s rather forbidding profile. He hadn’t spoken since they’d got in the car, and he didn’t look as if he was up for a chat. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed, his hands clenched around the steering wheel. What was he thinking? Ana didn’t want to ask. She turned towards the window, tried to still the nerves writhing in her middle. They drove for at least twenty minutes without speaking, and then Ana saw the lights of Castle Cazlevara on a hill in the distance, mere pinpricks in the unrelenting darkness. Vittorio turned into the mile-long private drive that wound its way up the hill to his home.
Ana had seen photos of the castle on postcards, and of course she’d been there the one time. Yet, even so, the sight of the huge medieval castle perched on jutting stone awed and even intimidated her. Its craggy turrets rose towards the darkened sky and an ancient-looking drawbridge was now lowered over the drained moat. At one point the castle had been an imposing fortress, perched high on its hill, surrounded by a deep moat. Now it was simply Vittorio’s home.
‘So your own home is the “somewhere