The Bride's Awakening

Chapter Two

‘SIGNORINA VIALE, YOU have a visitor.’
‘I do?’ Ana looked up from the vine she’d been inspecting. It was the beginning of the growing season and the vines were covered in tiny unripened fruit, the grapes like perfect, hard little pearls.
‘Yes.’ Edoardo, one of the office assistants, looked uncomfortable—not to mention incongruous—in his immaculate suit and leather loafers. He must have been annoyed at having to tramp out to the vineyard to find her, but Ana always seemed to forget to bring her mobile. ‘It is Signor Ralfino…I mean the Count of Cazlevara.’
‘Vittorio…?’ Ana bit her lip as she saw Edoardo’s surprised look. The name had slipped out before she could stop herself, yet she was hardly on intimate terms with the Count. Why was he here? It had been only three days since she’d last seen him at the wine-tasting event and now he’d come to Villa Rosso, to her home, to find her? She felt a strange prickling along her spine, a sense of ominous yet instinctive foreboding, the way she did before a storm. Even when the sun beat down from a cloudless sky, she could tell when rain was coming. She knew when to cover the grapes from frost. It was one of the things that made her a natural—and talented—winemaker. Yet she had no idea if her instincts were right when it came to men. She’d hardly had enough experience to find out. ‘Is he in the office?’ she asked, a bit abruptly, and Edoardo nodded.
The sun was hot on her bare head and Ana was suddenly conscious of her attire: dusty trousers and a shirt that stuck to her back. It was what she normally wore on her regular inspection of the Viale vineyards, yet she hardly expected to receive visitors in such clothing…and certainly not Vittorio.
Why was he here?
‘Thank you, Edoardo. I’ll be with him shortly.’ Disconcerted by the sudden heavy thudding of her own heart, Ana turned back to the vines, stared blindly at the clusters of tiny grapes. She waited until she heard him leave, and the rustle of vines as he passed, and then she drew in a long shuddering breath. She unstuck her shirt from her back and brushed a few sweaty strands of hair from her forehead. She was a mess. This was not how she wanted the Count of Cazlevara to see her.
Unfortunately, she had no choice. She could hardly walk the half-kilometre back to the villa to change if Vittorio was already waiting in the winery office.
She’d undoubtedly kept him waiting long enough. Vittorio Cazlevara did not, Ana acknowledged, seem like a patient man. Taking another deep breath, she tried her best to straighten her clothes—how had her shirt become so untucked and with a long streak of dirt on one sleeve?—and, throwing back her shoulders, she headed towards the office.
The long, low building with its creamy stone and terracotta tiles was as much a home to Ana as the villa was. It was a place where she felt confident and in control, queen of her domain, and that knowledge gave her strength as she entered. Here, it didn’t matter what she looked like or how she dressed. Here, she was Vittorio’s equal.
Vittorio stood by the sofa that was meant for visitors, a coffee table scattered with glossy magazines in front of it. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, he prowled the small space with a restless energy that radiated from his powerful body. He looked like a caged panther, full of contained power, dark and vaguely threatening.
Yet why should she be threatened by him? He was just a man…but what a man. He wore an exquisite suit made of Italian silk, perfectly tailored and hugging his powerful frame—his tall frame, for he had at least four inches on her own five foot eleven. His hair was inky-dark and cut close, emphasizing those hooded onyx eyes, the slashes of his severe brows. He looked up and those knowing eyes fixed on her, making Ana realize she’d been gawping like a schoolgirl. She straightened, managing a small, cool smile.
‘Count Cazlevara. An unexpected pleasure.’
‘Vittorio, please.’ His gaze swept her in an instant, his mouth tightening in what Ana recognized as that now familiar disdain. He didn’t even realize how he gave himself away, she thought with a strange little pang of sorrow. Was he going to try some more asinine flattery on her? She braced herself, knowing, no matter what, it would hurt. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted you,’ Vittorio said, and Ana gestured to her dishevelled clothes, even managing a wry smile as if her attire was not humiliating, despite him being dressed with such exquisite care.
‘I’m afraid I was not expecting visitors. I was out in the vineyard, as you can see.’
‘How are your grapes?’
‘Growing.’ She turned away from him, surreptitiously tucking in her blouse, which seemed determined on coming untucked at every opportunity. ‘The weather has been good, thank God. May I offer you refreshment?’
He paused, and she glanced back at him. His head was cocked, and he was studying her with a thoughtful thoroughness she decided she didn’t like. ‘Yes, thank you. It is a warm day.’
Did his eyes linger on her heated face, her sticky shirt? Ana willed herself not to flush even more. If even the Count of Cazlevara was going to arrive unannounced, he would have to take her as she was. ‘Indeed. Why don’t we adjourn to the tasting room? It is more comfortable in there.’ Vittorio gave a terse little jerk of his head, and Ana led the way to the room at the back of the winery that was meant for public gatherings.
The room was light and airy, with a vaulted ceiling and large windows that let in the late morning sunshine. A few tables, made from retired oak barrels, were scattered around with high stools. Ana sat down on one of the leather sofas positioned in one corner, meant for a more intimate conversation. She sat down, smoothing her dusty trousers and offering Vittorio another smile, bright and impersonal. Safe. ‘How may I help you, Vittorio?’ She stumbled only slightly over his Christian name; she wasn’t accustomed to using it, even if she had been thinking it to herself.
He didn’t reply, instead giving her an answering smile that showed the white flash of his straight, even teeth and said, ‘You’ve done well for yourself these last years, Anamaria. The Viale label has grown in stature—not to mention price.’
‘Please call me Ana. And thank you. I’ve worked hard.’
‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers under his chin, surveying her with that knowing little smile that she now found irritated her. ‘And you’ve stayed at Villa Rosso all these years?’
She gave a little shrug, trying not to be defensive. ‘It is my home.’
‘You haven’t wanted to travel? Go to university? See a bit of the world?’
‘I’m happy where I am, Vittorio,’ Ana replied, her voice sharpening just a little bit. ‘And I did go to university. I took a degree in viticulture at the University of Padua.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I forgot.’ Ana almost asked him how he would have known such a thing in the first place, but she decided to hold her tongue. ‘Your father must be very glad of your dedication and loyalty to Viale Wines—and to him, of course. You’ve lived with him all these years?’
‘Yes.’ Ana tilted her head, wondering where these seemingly innocuous comments were coming from. Why did the Count of Cazlevara care what she had been doing these last ten or fifteen years? What interest could he possibly have in Viale Wines? ‘I cannot imagine doing anything else,’ Ana said simply, for it was the truth. Viale Wines had become her life, her blood. Besides her father and her home, she had little else. Vittorio smiled, seeming pleased by her answer, and an assistant bustled in with a pitcher of iced lemon water and two frosted glasses.
‘Thank you,’ Ana murmured and, after the assistant had left, she poured two glasses and handed one to Vittorio. ‘So,’ she said when they’d both sipped silently for a moment, ‘you’re back at last from your travels abroad. To stay this time?’
‘It would seem so. I have, I realize, been gone too long.’ His mouth tightened, his eyes looking hard, and for a moment Ana was discomfited, wondering just what had brought him back to Veneto.
‘Are you glad to be back?’ she asked and his eyes, still hard with some unnamed emotion, met hers.
‘Yes.’
Ana nodded. ‘Still, it must have been nice to see so many places.’ Could she sound more inane? She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palms on her trousers. She wanted to demand to know why he was here, what he wanted from her. This was the second time he’d sought her out, and she could not fathom why he was doing so. Why he would want to.
‘It was.’ He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet clink. ‘And it was, of course, business.’
‘Yes.’
Vittorio still gazed at her in that assessing manner, saying nothing. His silence unnerved her, made her edgy and a little desperate. She wasn’t used to feeling so at odds; she’d become accustomed to being in control of her own life, especially here at the winery, her own little kingdom.
‘Sometimes business and pleasure mix, however,’ he finally said, his words seeming heavy with meaning, and Ana gave a little nod and smile although she hardly knew what he was saying, or why.
‘Indeed.’ Her nerves now taut and starting to fray, she forced another little laugh and said, ‘I must confess, Vittorio, I don’t know why you’re here. It is good to have you back in Veneto, of course, but if I am to be frank, we’ve had very little to do with one another.’ There. It was said. If she’d been rude, Ana didn’t care; his presence, so confident—arrogant—and supremely male, unsettled her. It made her heart jump and her palms sweat and, worst of all, it made some sweet, nameless longing rise up in her like a hungry tide. She swallowed and kept her gaze firmly on him.
He leaned forward to take his glass once more, and the scent of his cologne—something faintly musky—wafted over her. Inadvertently, instinctively, she pressed back against the sofa cushions. He lifted his gaze to meet hers once more, yet she could tell nothing from those onyx eyes. They were as blank as polished marble. ‘Actually, Ana, I came to ask you to dinner.’
The words seemed to fall into the stillness of the room, and of her heart. Did he mean a date? she wondered incredulously, even as a sense of sudden fierce pleasure rushed through her. A date. When was the last time she’d been on one of those, and with a man like Vittorio Ralfino? She felt her cheeks heat—how easily she gave herself away—and to cover her confusion, she reached for her glass and took a sip.
‘I see I’ve surprised you.’
‘Yes.’ She pressed the glass against her hot cheek, lifting her gaze to smile wryly at him. ‘We have not seen each other in years and, in any case—’ She stopped, biting her lip, pulling it between her teeth and nipping it hard enough to draw a drop of blood. She tasted it on her tongue, hard and metallic. Vittorio smiled, his eyes on her mouth, and Ana knew he’d witnessed that traitorous little display of her own uncertainty.
‘In any case?’ he prompted gently.
She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of woman—’ She stopped again, wishing she had not revealed so much. She didn’t know how not to; she was terrible at lying, or even dissembling. She could only speak her heart, always had. It had never been dangerous before.
And it had been so long—forever—since a man had asked her out. Since she’d even hoped a man might ask her out.
‘The kind of woman I take out to dinner?’ Vittorio filled in. ‘But how would you know what kind of woman I take out to dinner?’
‘I don’t,’ Ana said quickly, too quickly. ‘But I know—’ She stopped again. There was no way of saving herself or her pride, it seemed. ‘I am surprised, that’s all,’ she finally said, and pressed her lips tightly together to keep from revealing anything more.
Vittorio didn’t answer, and Ana couldn’t tell a thing from his expression. Surprisingly, she found she was not blushing now; instead, she felt cold and lifeless. This—this feeling of terrible numbness—was why she’d stopped looking for a man, for love. It hurt too much.
She put her glass back down on the table. Memories rushed in to fill the blank spaces in her mind and heart. The cruel laughter of the girls at boarding school, the interminable school dances where she’d clutched a glass of lukewarm punch and tried to make herself invisible. It hadn’t been hard to do; no one had wanted to see her anyway.
Stupid schoolgirl memories, yet how they still hurt. How another man’s attention—and his disdain—brought it all back.
‘I see,’ he said finally and, on opening her eyes, Ana felt he saw too much. The last thing she wanted was his pity. ‘Actually,’ Vittorio continued, watching her carefully, ‘I want to discuss a business proposition with you.’ He waited, still watching, and Ana’s eyes widened in horror. Now the blush came, firing her body from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She’d made such a fool of herself, assuming he was asking her out. And of course he hadn’t corrected her, she realized with a vicious little stab of fury. He’d probably enjoyed seeing her squirm, relished her awful confession. I’m not exactly the kind of woman… He knew just what she’d meant, and his expression told her he agreed with her. As many had before.
‘A business proposition,’ she finally repeated, the silence having gone on, awkwardly, for at least a minute. ‘Of course.’
‘It might not be the kind of business proposition you’re expecting,’ Vittorio warned with a little smile and Ana tried for an answering laugh, though inwardly she was still writhing with humiliation and remembered pain.
‘Now you have me intrigued.’
‘Good. Shall we say Friday evening?’
Ana jerked her head in acceptance. ‘Very well.’ It didn’t seem important to pretend she needed to check some schedule, that she might be busy. That she might, in fact, have a date. Vittorio would see right through her. He already had.
‘I’ll pick you up at Villa Rosso.’
‘I can meet you—’
‘I am a gentleman, Ana,’ Vittorio chided her wryly. ‘I shall enjoy escorting you somewhere special.’
And where exactly was somewhere special? Ana wondered. And, more alarmingly, what should she wear? Her wardrobe of businesslike trouser suits hardly seemed appropriate for a dinner date…except it wasn’t a date, had never been meant to be a date, she reminded herself fiercely. It was simply a business proposition. A trouser suit would have to do. Still, Ana was reluctant to don one. She didn’t want to look like a man; she wanted to feel like a woman. She didn’t dare ask herself why. For over ten years—since her university days—she’d dressed and acted not purposely like a man, more like a sexless woman. A woman who wasn’t interested in fashion, or beauty, or even desire. Certainly not love. It had been safer that way; no expectations or hopes to have dashed, no one—especially herself—to disappoint. There was no earthly reason to change now. There was every reason to keep as she’d been, and stay safe.

On Friday night she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, gazing rather ruefully at her reflection. She wore a pair of fitted black trousers with a rather unfortunately boxy jacket; it had looked better on the rack. Her one concession to femininity was the cream silk beaded tank top she wore underneath, and that was completely hidden by the jacket. She piled her hair up on top of her head, wincing a little bit at the strands that insisted on escaping to frame her face and curl with surprising docility along her neck. She couldn’t decide if the loose tendrils gave her a look of elegance or dishevelment. She didn’t attempt any make-up, as she’d never mastered the art of doing her face without looking like a child who had played in her mother’s make-up box.
‘There.’ She nodded at her reflection, determined to accept what she saw. Wearing a sexy cocktail dress or elegant gown would have been ridiculous, she told herself. She never wore such things—she didn’t own such things—and, considering Vittorio’s business proposition, there was no reason to start now.
Her father was, as usual, in the study when Ana came downstairs. Most evenings he was content to hole up in the villa with a book or a game of solitaire.
Enrico looked up from his book, raising his eyebrows at her outfit. ‘Going out, my dear?’
Ana nodded, suppressing a little pang of guilt. She hadn’t told her father about this dinner with Vittorio; she told herself she’d simply forgotten, but she knew that wasn’t true. She hadn’t wanted him to know, and start reading more into this dinner than there was or ever could be.
‘Yes,’ she said now, dropping a kiss on the top of his thinning hair. ‘Dinner.’
‘A date?’ Enrico asked, sounding pleased. Ana shook her head and stepped away to look out of the window. Twilight was stealing softly upon the world, cloaking the landscaped gardens in violet.
‘No. Just business.’
‘Always business,’ her father said a bit grumpily, and Ana smiled.
‘You know I love it.’ And she did love it; the wine, the grapes were in her blood. Her father loved to tell the story about when he had taken her to the vineyards when she was only two years old. He’d hoisted her up to the vines and she’d plucked a perfectly ripe grape, deeply purple and bursting with flavour, and popped it into her mouth. Then, instead of saying how tasty it was, she’d pronounced in a quite grown-up voice, ‘Sono pronti.’ They’re ready.
‘I worry you work too much.’
Ana said nothing, for she knew she had no argument. She did work too much; she had nothing else. In the last few years her father had stepped back from the winery business, as he’d never really wanted to be more than a gentleman vintner, tending the family grapes. Ana wanted more. She dreamed of the day when Viale wines were in every fine restaurant in Europe, and even America. When they were held in reserve for special customers, the bottles dusty and precious. When they rivalled Cazlevara Wines.
Just then she saw headlights pierce the growing darkness, and a navy Porsche swept up the drive. Ana watched from the window, her heart starting to thud with hard, heavy beats as Vittorio stepped from the car. In the lengthening shadows she couldn’t see what he wore, yet she could tell he looked magnificent. She felt it in her own shivery response.
The doorbell rang.
‘Someone is coming for you?’ Enrico asked, his book forgotten in his lap.
‘Yes—’ Ana started from the study.
‘Whoever it is,’ Enrico called after her, ‘invite him in.’
By the time she reached the door she was breathless and flushed, simply from nerves. Vittorio stood there, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking as magnificent as Ana knew he would in an immaculately tailored suit of navy silk. His shirt was crisp and white and a tie of aquamarine silk was knotted at the brown column of his throat.
Ana swallowed, her mouth dry, her head empty of thoughts. She could not think of a single thing to say.
‘Hello, Ana.’ He smiled, a quick flash of white teeth. ‘Are you ready?’
Ana nodded, conscious of both how Vittorio had not complimented her—or even commented on—her appearance, and that her father was sitting in the next room, waiting for her to usher in her guest. She swallowed. ‘Yes, but would you like to come in for a moment? My father…’ She trailed off, hating how hesitant she sounded. ‘My father would like to say hello,’ she said firmly, and then turned to lead Vittorio to the study without looking back to see if he followed.
Once in the study Ana stepped aside as her father looked up and smiled. He didn’t, she realized with a jolt, look very surprised. ‘Good evening, Vittorio.’
‘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 special”?’ she asked lightly, and was rewarded with the flicker of a smile.
‘I must admit I find Castle Cazlevara rather special.’
Gazing up at the castle’s soaring walls and towers, Ana could only agree. Special, and a bit scary.
Vittorio drove across the drawbridge and parked the car in the castle’s inner courtyard, now paved over with slate, providing a perfect backdrop for the Porsche. The building had been updated from the time it had served as a fortress against barbarian invaders—and, if Ana remembered her history, the Pope’s own army—although it still retained much of its charm. Though charm was hardly the word, Ana thought as Vittorio came around to open her door before she could even touch the handle. It was darkly impressive, forbiddingly beautiful. Like its owner. Gaslit torches flickered on either side of the entrance doors as Vittorio led her up the stone stairs.
The huge entryway was filled with dancing shadows, a thick Turkish carpet laid over the ancient stones. Polished mahogany doors led to several large reception rooms, now lost in shadow, but Vittorio forewent these in favour of a small passageway in the back of the main hall. Ana followed him, conscious of the castle all around them, huge, dark and silent.
‘Have you ever wanted to build something else?’ she asked to Vittorio’s back. The narrow corridor was cold and dark. ‘A palazzo somewhere, something modern?’
Vittorio stiffened slightly, yet noticeable still to Ana. She was so aware of him: his powerful shoulders and long back, the muscles rippling under the smooth silk of his suit, even the faint musk of him. Aware of his moods, changing like quicksilver, even though he did not look at her or speak. It was strange, being so aware. So alive. She wasn’t used to it.
‘The Counts of Cazlevara have always lived here,’ he said simply. ‘And their families. Although my mother lives near Milan for much of the year, in a palazzo like you mentioned.’ There was a sharp note to his voice, a hint of something dark and even cruel, something Ana couldn’t understand. He turned, his eyes gleaming from the light of the sconces positioned intermittently along the stone walls. ‘Could you not imagine living in such a place as this?’
In a flash of insight—or perhaps just imagination—Ana could see herself living there. She pictured herself in the gracious drawing rooms, presiding over a Christmas party like the one she’d gone to as a child. Overseeing a feast in the ancient dining hall, as if she were the Contessa herself, inviting the citizens of Veneto into her gracious home. Such images caused longing to leap within her. Surprised by its intensity, she pushed the images away; they were absurd, impossible, and surely not what Vittorio meant.
‘There is certainly a great deal of history here,’ she said, once again to his back.
‘Yes. Many centuries. Yet your own family has been in Veneto a long time.’
‘Three hundred years,’ Ana conceded wryly. ‘No more than a day compared to yours.’
‘A bit more than a day,’ Vittorio said, laughter in his voice. He stopped in front of a polished wooden door which he opened so Ana could enter. ‘And now. Dinner.’
Ana took in the cosy room with a mixture of alarm and anticipation. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn at the windows, blocking out the night. A fire crackled in the hearth and sent dancing shadows around the candlelit room. A table for two had been laid in front of the fire, with a rich linen tablecloth and napkins, the finest porcelain and crystal. On a small table to the side, a bottle of red had already been opened to breathe. It was an intimate scene, a romantic scene, a room ready not for business, but seduction.
Ana swallowed. She walked to the table, one hand on the back of a chair. When had she last had a meal like this, shared a meal like this? Never. The idea of what was to come filled her with a dizzying sense of excitement that she told herself she had no right to feel. She shouldn’t even want to feel it. Yet still it came, bubbling up inside of her, treacherous and hopeful. This felt like a date. A real date. She cleared her throat. ‘This all looks lovely, Vittorio. Somewhere special indeed.’
Vittorio smiled and closed the door behind him. They were completely alone; Ana wondered whether there was anyone else in the castle at all. ‘Do you live here alone since you’ve returned?’ she asked.
Vittorio shrugged. ‘My brother Bernardo and my mother Constantia are in Milan. They come and go as they please.’
His tone was strange, cold, and yet also almost indifferent. It made Ana wonder if he considered his brother and mother—the only family he had left—as nothing more than interlopers in his own existence. Surely not. Ever since her own mother had died, she’d clung to her father, to the knowledge that he was her closest and only relative, that all they had was each other. Surely Vittorio felt the same?
He pulled back her chair and Ana sat, suppressing a shiver of awareness as he took the heavy linen napkin and spread it across her lap, his thumbs actually brushing her inner thighs. Ana jerked in response to the touch, a flush heating her cheeks, warming her insides. She had never been touched so intimately, and the thought was shaming. He’d just been putting a napkin in her lap.
She supposed it was her lack of experience with men that made her so skittish and uncertain around Vittorio, hyper-aware of everything he did, every sense stirring to life just by being near him. That had to be it; nothing else made sense. This aching awareness of him was just due to her own inexperience. She didn’t go on dates and she didn’t flirt. She did not know what it felt like to be desired.
And you’re not desired now.
This dinner—this room—with all of its seeming expectations was going to her head. It was setting her up, Ana realized, for a huge and humiliating fall. She’d fallen before, she reminded herself, her would-be boyfriend at university had had to spell out the plain truth.
I’m just not attracted to you.
Neither was Vittorio. He wasn’t even pretending otherwise. She mustn’t forget that, no matter what the trappings now, Vittorio was not interested in her as a woman. This was simply how he did business. It had to be.
And so it would be how she did business as well.
‘Wine?’ Vittorio asked and held up the bottle. With a little dart of surprised pleasure, Ana realized it was one of Viale’s labels. The best, she acknowledged as she nodded and Vittorio poured.
He sat down across from her and raised his glass. Ana raised her own in response. ‘To business propositions.’
‘Intriguing ones, even,’ Ana murmured, and they both drank.
‘Delicious,’ Vittorio pronounced, and Ana smiled.
‘It’s a new blend—’
‘Yes, I read about it.’
She nearly spluttered in surprise. ‘You did?’
‘Yes, in the in-flight magazine on my trip home.’ Vittorio placed his glass on the table. ‘There was a little article about you. Have you seen it?’ Ana nodded jerkily. The interview had been short, but she’d been glad—and proud—of the publicity. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, Ana, and for Viale Wines.’
‘Thank you.’ His words meant more to her than they ought, she knew, but she couldn’t keep the fierce pleasure at his praise from firing through her. Ana had worked long and hard to be accepted in the winemaking community, to make Viale Wines the name it was.
A few minutes later a young woman, diminutive and darkhaired, came in with two plates. She set them down, Vittorio murmured his thanks and then she left as quietly as she had come.
Ana glanced down at the paper-thin slices of prosciutto and melon. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
They ate in silence and Ana’s nerves grew more and more taut, fraying, ready to break. She wanted to demand answers of Vittorio; she wanted to know just what this business proposition was. She wasn’t good at this, had never been good at this; she couldn’t banter or flirt, and at the moment even idle chatter seemed beyond her.
It was too much, she thought with a pang. Being here with a devastatingly handsome man—with Vittorio—eating delicious food, drinking wonderful wine, watching the firelight play with shadows on his face—all of it was too much. It made her remember all the things she’d once wanted that she’d long ago accepted she’d never have. A husband. Children. A home of her own. She’d made peace with that, with the lack in her life, because there was so much she had, so much she loved and enjoyed. She’d thought she’d made peace with it, but now she felt restless and uncertain and a little bit afraid. She wanted again.
She had no idea why Vittorio—Vittorio, of all people, who was so unbearably out of her league—made her feel this way. Made her remember and long for those things. Made her, even now, wonder if his hair felt as crisp as it looked, or if it would be soft in her hands. If she touched his cheek would she feel the flick of stubble against her fingers? Would his lips be soft? Would he taste like her own wine?
Ana nearly choked on a piece of melon, and Vittorio looked up enquiringly. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, all solicitude, and she nodded almost frantically.
‘Yes—yes, fine.’ She could hardly believe the direction her thoughts had taken, or the effect they were having on her body. Her limbs felt heavy and warm, a deep, pleasurable tingling starting low in her belly and then suddenly, mischievously flaring upwards, making her whole being clench with sudden, unexpected spasms of desire.
She’d never thought to feel this way, had thought—hoped, even—she’d buried such desperate longings. For surely they were desperate. This was Vittorio. Vittorio Ralfino, the Count of Cazlevara, and he’d never once looked at her as a woman. He never would.
They ate in near silence, and when they were finished the woman came back to clear the plates and replace them with dishes of homemade ravioli filled with fresh, succulent lobster.
‘Have you missed home?’ Ana asked in an effort to break the strained silence. Or perhaps it wasn’t strained and she only felt it was because her nerves were so fraught, her body still weak with this new desire, desperate for more. Or less. She was torn between the safety of its receding and the need for it to increase. To actually touch. Feel. Know.
Vittorio seemed utterly unaware of her dilemma; he sat sprawled in his chair, cradling his glass of wine between his palms.
‘Yes,’ he replied, taking a sip. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.’
Ana was surprised by the regret in his voice. ‘Why did you?’
He shrugged. ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Or, at least, the easy thing to do.’ Vittorio took a bite of ravioli. ‘Eat up. These ravioli are made right here at the castle, and the lobster were caught fresh only this morning.’
‘Impressive,’ Ana murmured, and indeed it was delicious, although she barely enjoyed a mouthful for she felt the tension and the need building inside her, tightening her chest and making it hard even to breathe. She wanted to ask him what she was doing here; she wanted to reach across the table and touch him. The need to touch was fast overriding the need to know. Action would replace words and if she had just one more glass of wine she was afraid she would do just what she was thinking—fantasising—about and actually touch him.
She wondered how Vittorio would react. Would he be stunned? Flattered? Repulsed? It was too dangerous to even imagine a scenario, much less to want it—crave it…
She could stand it no more. She set down her fork and gave Vittorio as direct a look as she could. ‘As lovely as this meal is, Vittorio, I feel I have to ask. I must know.’ She took a breath and let it out slowly, laying her hand flat on the table so she didn’t betray herself and reach out to touch him. ‘Just what is this business proposition you are thinking of?’
Vittorio didn’t answer for a long moment. He glanced at the wine in his glass, ruby-red, glinting in the candlelight. He smiled almost lazily—making her insides flare with need once more—and then set his glass down on the table.
‘Well,’ he said with a wry little smile, ‘if you must know, it is simply this. I want you to marry me.’