The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer

stop interrupting and let me finish a sentence…! No, she says she doesn’t need them…. Because she’s a grown woman, Mr. Silvaggio de Whatever, which means she, and not you, gets to decide what she puts in her mouth…. I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

      She held the phone at arm’s length. “Do you feel up to talking to his lordship, Arlene?” she inquired, loud enough for half the people in the hotel to hear.

      Arlene nodded, unable to keep a straight face. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, she wondered.

      “Hello, Domenico,” she said, picking up the handset on the bedside table.

      “I hear you’re recovered.” Seductive baritone verging on bass, his voice stroked sinfully against her ear and vibrated the length of her body. “I’m greatly relieved.”

      “Thank you, both for your concern and for the flowers. If a woman has to suffer a migraine, waking up to pink roses does make it a little easier to bear.”

      “I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

      A pause hummed along the line, which she took to mean the conversation was at an end. “Well, I’ll say good night, then—”

      He cut her off before she could finish. “Arlene, I blame myself for what happened today. Expecting you to work as long as others who are used to our climate was unforgivable of me, and I apologize.”

      “There’s no need. You heard my friend Gail, a moment ago. I’m a grown woman. I could, and should have spoken sooner. As it was, I put you to a great deal of trouble at a time when you’ve got your hands full with the harvest. It won’t happen again.”

      “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, and won’t be returning to the vineyard?”

      “Of course not. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight—at least, I will unless you’ve changed your mind.”

      “Not at all,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a purr. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      DESPITE her objections, Arlene spent the next four days in Domenico’s office. With thick, whitewashed plaster walls, stone floor, recessed windows and heavy beamed ceiling, it served both as a business center and a boardroom. At one end of the vast space stood a large desk, filing cabinets, and high-tech computer station and communications system, but she spent most of her time at the other end, seated beside him in comfortable club chairs at a handsome conference table.

      “You’re coddling me,” she accused him, when he told her she wouldn’t be helping with the harvest again. “You think I don’t have what it takes to handle the job.”

      “On the contrary, I’m trying to give you as broad a base of information as possible in the short time at my disposal so that, when you take over your own property, you’ll have a better idea of what your priorities should be. I suggest you let me decide the best way to go about doing that.”

      So it was that, with the door closed on the bustle of activity taking place outside, she studied slide shows illustrating various irrigation methods, ideal sun exposure, elevations, climate and soil conditions for growing grapes. She learned about different varietals and the importance of choosing those best suited to her particular location, as well as determining the trellising system to support them.

      Domenico drew up spreadsheets itemizing general expenditures, and a calendar outlining a typical work year in a vineyard. He supplied her with catalogs and names of reputable companies she could call on when it came time to buy seedlings and equipment. Recommended videos she’d find helpful, online courses she could take, and offered advice on the kind of help she should hire.

      Just when she thought she’d never begin to assimilate the mountain of facts he threw at her, he’d call a break and they’d help themselves from the thermos of coffee, which always waited on the serving bar separating the two halves of the room. Then it was back to work until around one o’clock, when the same van that delivered lunch to the field workers, stopped by, and the driver brought in a covered tray for the two of them. Unlike the food prepared for the pickers, though, hers and Domenico’s was more elaborate and served on colorful porcelain, with linen napkins and crested silverware.

      On the fifth day, he took her back to the fields and showed her how to use a refractometer to measure the sugar content of the grapes. “One drop of juice is all you need for an immediate digital read-out,” he explained, demonstrating. “Good wine is calibrated at a sugar level of 22BRIX.”

      “Bricks?”

      “B-R-I-X,” he amended, spelling it out for her.

      She opened her ever-handy notebook. What’s that?”

      “The scale used by vintners to measure the sugar solution in the fruit.”

      “And what did you say this thing is called…?”

      “A refractometer.”

      She examined the small, hand-held instrument more closely. “I think I might have seen one of these among the other equipment, when I went to visit my property, but it looked pretty old and beaten-up compared to this.”

      “Throw it out and buy another,” he advised. “Accuracy is crucial when it comes to determining sugar content. You could lose an entire crop if you harvest too soon or leave the grapes on the vine too long. As the sugar content rises, so does the pH. Harvesting has to be timed to maximize sugar content while minimizing acidity.”

      To an outsider witnessing these sessions, it would have appeared to be all business between him and her. And indeed, where viticulture was concerned, it absolutely was. But underneath, something less tangible was at work. Without a single overt word or gesture, an invisible tension grew between them that had nothing to do with grapes or wine, and everything to do with the tacit awareness of a man and a woman separated from the rest of the world by a thick wooden door that shut out all sight and sound of other human interaction.

      The faint scent of his aftershave, of her shampoo, permeated the air in mingled intimacy. His voice seemed to take on a deeper timbre when he addressed her. He turned her very ordinary name into an exotic three-syllabled caress. Ar-lay-na.

      Sometimes, she’d glance up from diligently filling yet another page with notes, and catch him studying her so intently that heat raced through her blood as if she had a fever. Other times, he’d touch her, not necessarily on purpose and never intimately. Yet even the most accidental brushing of his hand against hers was enough to send tiny impulses of sensual awareness shooting up her arm.

      Simply put, she was enthralled by him. By the authority with which he imparted knowledge, and his patience as he explained the complicated science of viticulture. By his intelligence and integrity.

      The respect he generated among his employees impressed her deeply. Nor was it limited to those working close by. She’d soon realized that his holdings extended far beyond Sardinia’s shores. He was, as his uncle once mentioned in passing, an international celebrity in his field.

      Most of all, though, his evident devotion to his large family touched her where she was most vulnerable. As a lonely, unwanted child herself, she’d ached for the siblings that played so large a role in his life. Yet within that close family circle, he remained his own person. Independent, and confident in his masculinity, he exuded a charismatic charm unlike any other man she’d ever met. That he also happened to be blindingly handsome was merely the icing on a very delectable cake.

      But however strong the intuition that told her he was equally attracted to her, once she was away from him, the uncertainty crept in. Possibly her imagination was leading her astray, spurred by the intimacy of just the two of them, alone for hours at a spell. What she took to be glances laden with an erotic subtext might simply be his way of giving her his undivided professional attention. For all she knew, the way he smiled at her, as if they shared something special and personal, could be the way he smiled at all women.

      Was