The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer

she was hard-pressed not to behave like the gauche tourist he undoubtedly took her to be, and stare open-mouthed. What he so casually referred to merely as his “house” struck her as being nothing less than palatial.

      Screened from the others in the compound by an acre or more of gardens planted with lush, flowering vegetation, it rose from the landscape in a series of elegant angles and curves designed to take full advantage of the view. To the one side lay the breathtaking Smerelda Coast; to the other, acres of vineyards climbed up the hillside.

      Escorting her through the main entrance hall to a wide covered veranda below which the sea shone green as the emerald for which it was so aptly named, he indicated a group of wicker armchairs upholstered with deep, comfortable cushions. “Have a seat and excuse me a moment while I take care of lunch.”

      “Please don’t go to a lot of trouble,” she protested, well aware that she’d already put him out enough for one day.

      He smiled and retrieved a remote phone from its cradle on a side table. “It is no trouble. I’ll order something to be brought down from the main house.”

      Well, of course he will, idiot! she reproached herself, reeling a little from the impact of that smile. Had she really imagined he’d disappear into the kitchen, don an apron and whip up something delectable with his own two hands? And did he have to be so unapologetically gorgeous that she could hardly think straight? Tall and dark, she might have expected and managed to deal with, but his startlingly blue eyes lent added allure to a face already blessed with more masculine beauty than any one man deserved.

      After a brief conversation, he replaced the phone and busied himself at a built-in bar. “There, it is done. What would you like to drink?”

      “Something long and cool, please,” she said, fanning herself against a heat which wasn’t altogether the fault of the weather.

      He dropped ice into two tall crystal goblets, half-filled them with white wine he took from the bar refrigerator, and topped them off with a squirt of soda. “Vermentino made from our own grapes,” he remarked, taking a seat beside her and clinking the rim of his glass gently against hers. “Refreshing and not too potent. So, Signorina Russell, how did you come by this vineyard you speak of?”

      “I inherited it.”

      “When?”

      “Just ten days ago.”

      “And it is here, on the island?”

      “No. It’s in Canada—I’m Canadian.”

      “I see.”

      But he obviously didn’t. He quite plainly wondered what she was doing in Sardinia when her interests lay on the other side of the world.

      “The thing is,” she hastened to explain, before he decided she was just another dilettante not worth his time, “I’d already paid for my holiday here, and because this inheritance landed in my lap so unexpectedly, I thought it best not to rush into anything until I’d talked to a few experts of which, it turns out, there are many here in Sardinia. I’ve never been the rash, impulsive type, and now didn’t seem a good time to start.”

      “You have no experience at all in viticulture, then?”

      “None. I’m a legal secretary and live in Toronto. And to tell the truth, I’m still reeling from the news that I now own a house and several acres of vineyards in British Columbia—that’s Canada’s most western province, in case you don’t know.”

      “I’m familiar with B.C.,” he informed her tersely, as if even an infant still in diapers would have a thorough geographical knowledge of the world’s second largest country. “Have you seen this place for yourself, or are you relying on secondhand information about its condition?”

      “I spent a couple of days there last week.”

      “And what else did you learn, as a result?”

      “Nothing except that it’s very run-down—oh, and that an elderly manager-cum-overseer and two rescued greyhounds are part of my legacy.”

      He rolled his altogether gorgeous eyes, as if to say, Why me, oh Lord? “May I ask what you propose to do about them?”

      “Well, I’m not about to abandon them, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

      “I’m suggesting nothing of the sort, Signorina Russell. I’m merely trying to establish the extent of, for want of a better word, your ‘undertaking.’ For example, exactly how many acres of land do you now own?”

      “Seven.”

      “And the kind of grapes grown there?”

      “I don’t know.” Then, before he could throw up his hands in disgust and tell her to go bother someone else because she’d tried his patience far enough for one day, she added, “Signor Silvaggio d’Avalos, I realize this might be difficult for you to understand, growing up as you have, so surrounded by the business of cultivating grapes and turning them into wine that you probably started assimilating knowledge from the cradle, but I am a complete novice and although I’m willing to learn, I have to start somewhere, which is why I’m here with you, now.”

      He listened, his expression impassive. “And you’re very sure you have the stamina required to fulfill your ambitions, are you?” he inquired, when at last she stopped to draw breath.

      “Very.”

      He regarded her, his gaze unnervingly intent. “Then if what you have told me is correct, I must warn you that even if you were an expert, you would be undertaking a project of massive proportion whose success is by no means guaranteed. And by your own admission, you are anything but expert.”

      “Well, I didn’t expect it would be easy,” she floundered, so mesmerized by his brilliantly blue eyes that it was all she could do to string two words together. “But I meant what I said. Succeeding in this venture is very important to me for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is that there are others whose welfare depends on it. I am determined to go through with it, regardless of the difficulties it entails.”

      “Very well.” He leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair and cradled his jaw in his hand. “In that case, take out your pen and let’s get started on what you need to know at the outset.”

      In the half hour before their lunch arrived—cold Mediterranean lobster in a creamy wine sauce, avocado and tomato slices, and bread warm from the oven, followed by a fruit and cheese platter—she wrote rapidly, stopping every now and then to ask a question and trying hard to focus on the subject at hand.

      Despite her best efforts, though, her mind wandered repeatedly. The questions he fielded from her were not those she most wished to ask. Whether or not she might have to rip out all her old vines and start over from scratch, which varietals she should plant in their place, how much it would cost and how long before she could expect to recoup her losses and make a profit, didn’t seem nearly as engrossing as how he’d come by his very remarkable eyes, where he’d learned to speak such excellent English, how old he was, or if there was a special woman in his life.

      Although she made copious notes of every critical scrap of information he tossed her way, her rebellious gaze repeatedly returned to his face. To the slight cleft in his chin, and the high slash of his cheekbones which seemed more Spanish than Italian. To the tawny sheen of his skin and his glossy black hair. To the dark sweeping elegance of his brows and the way his long, dense lashes so perfectly framed his vivid blue eyes.

      “So, I have not managed to discourage you?” he inquired, as they sat down to the meal.

      “You’ve made me aware of pitfalls I might not otherwise have recognized,” she told him, choosing her words carefully, “but no, you have not discouraged me. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to bring my vineyard back to life.”

      He considered that for a moment, then said, “Tell me more about this great-uncle of yours. Why, for example, did he allow his vines to fail so drastically?”