“I’ll take the risk,” he said as he pulled her close. Louisa’s eyes locked with his as they moved across the floor. They were darker than she’d ever seen them, the pupils giant pools of black. While Steven always expected her to look beautiful, he never looked at her with such blatant appreciation. The glint in Nico’s eyes made her feel like a bite of wedding cake, waiting to be sampled. The thought should have frightened her. Instead, hot shivers danced along her spine.
God, but it’d been a long time since she’d felt like a woman instead of a possession.
The orchestra faded away, drowned out by the sound of their breathing and the rasp of his jacket as it brushed her sequined bodice with every rise and fall of his chest.
She wasn’t sure who leaned in first. Once his mouth closed over hers, who had made the first move didn’t matter, not when his lips were moving against hers as if he were trying to kiss his way inside. She kissed him back just as hungrily, too many passionless years making her desperate. They kissed hard and deep, only stopping when the need to breathe became too much.
Blinking, Louisa slowly remembered where they were. “I—”
“Shh...” He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “It’s okay, bella mia.”
Bella mia. My lovely. Mine. Louisa stiffened.
“Don’t worry,” he said, misreading the reaction for embarrassment. “No one can see us.”
Turning, she saw that they were in a secluded corner, just outside the ballroom door. While she’d been lost in his spell, Nico had steered them safely away from prying eyes.
How thoughtful and practiced of him. But then, men like Nico didn’t do anything spontaneously, did they? They were always in control. Like hunters stalking prey, only instead of bullets they used smiles and seduction. Their victims were trapped in their gilded cages before they ever knew what was happening.
Except Louisa did know. And she was never ever going to be trapped again.
Pushing just enough so as to not make a scene, she stepped out of his embrace. “The bride and groom will be leaving shortly. I better make sure everything is set for their departure.” She left him standing in the corner without turning back...
* * *
“Louisa?”
Yanked from the memory by the sound of Dani’s voice, she saw the three of them staring at her. “You okay?” her friend asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. Part of her was still back on the dance floor, lost in a pair of dark eyes. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that as far as financing your hotel is concerned, I would consider investing...”
“No.” She didn’t mean for the word to come out so strongly, but Nico was looking straight at her while he spoke and the memory of how those eyes distracted her was so fresh...
Just as well, though. Better to be blunt than let him think he had a chance. As an investor or anything else.
Monte Calanetti was her chance at a new life. No way was she going to let someone sweep in and mess things up.
Not this time.
NICO SQUINTED AND double-checked the line on the refractometer. “Twenty-two point four.”
“Is that on schedule?”
“Close.” Pulling the battered leather journal from his back pocket, he flipped through the pages until he found last year’s data. “One hundredth of a point off,” he reported before turning the page and making note of today’s measurement. Even better than he expected. He’d been afraid the easy summer had accelerated the ripening process. So far, however, the sugar levels were holding close to previous years, which boded well for this year’s vintage.
“When will you harvest?”
He turned to the young man at his elbow. Mario, a viticulture student from the university was hanging on his every word. “Depends upon the weather and the variety, but for Amatucci Red, I like the Brix level to be between twenty-five and twenty-six. A hair shy of precocious, as it were,” he added with a chuckle.
Mario nodded as he took notes. Nico would never admit it out loud but he enjoyed being seen as a master. It made him feel as though he’d achieved what Carlos had hoped for him. “Precocious?” he asked. “I’ve never heard that winemaking term before.”
“That’s because it’s not really a winemaking term, just something Carlos Bertonelli used to say. ‘Grapes are like children. You want to raise them to be sweet, but not so sweet they overwhelm you.’ In other words...”
“A hair shy of precocious.”
“Exactly.” Tossing a grape into the air, he caught the plump berry in his mouth. “Carlos was full of sayings like that,” he said crushing the skin between his teeth. The juice was tart on his tongue; a ways to go before precociousness. “His version of Old World wisdom.”
“Signor Bertonelli is the man who used to own these vineyards, right? The ones surrounding the palazzo?”
“Si. He was my mentor. Taught me everything I know about winemaking.” Nico’s heart ached a little every time he thought of the old man, which was often.
“Is that why you’re still maintaining the vineyards? Out of respect for him?”
“Out of respect, and partly because Monte Calanetti wouldn’t exist without these vineyards. I don’t want to see part of our tradition disappear.”
There was more to the story, naturally—the truth was always complicated—but Mario didn’t need to know how Carlos had kept him grounded when life got crazy. With his even, unflappable demeanor and vat full of wisdom, the old man had been mentor, grandfather and safety net all rolled into one.
When he was a little boy, Nico wondered if the stork hadn’t delivered him to the wrong house. That he should have been dropped in the Bertonelli fields instead of his own family’s. Truth was, Carlos had been so much more than a mere mentor. Not a day went by that Nico didn’t miss the man.
If he were alive, perhaps he could help Nico understand his grandniece better. Looking over the vines to the palazzo, he spied Louisa’s platinum-blond hair reflecting the sun as she watched them from the terrace. He nodded hello only to have her move out of view. Still avoiding him. She’d been doing so since the wedding.
Never had he met a woman who was so difficult to read. Cold one moment, warm and tender the next. He’d thought they’d turned a corner at the wedding. A very satisfying corner at that. He smiled, remembering the press of her mouth against his. So soft, so receptive. Then suddenly—poof!—everything changed, and they were back to those frigid early days when she barely gave him the time of day.
“Signor Amatucci?”
Mario was staring at him, obviously waiting for a response of some kind. “Nico,” he corrected. “Not Signor.”
“Sorry. Nico. I was wondering what you wanted to do next.”
Figure out what’s going on in my blonde American’s head. He doubted that’s what Mario meant, though. “I want to gather a few soil samples from the southern fields,” he said. “Why don’t you head back to the winery and begin testing the grapes we’ve collected?” It was standard practice to double-check the field readings using the equipment at the lab. Unlike his mentor, Nico liked to have solid data to corroborate his taste buds.
“Are