The Sicilian's Bride. Carol Grace

back, gleaming in the sunlight. But only as he would admire a painting by Titian, with cool detachment. His detachment was cool until his mind jumped to the thought of her as the half-clothed subject of a lush Titian painting.

      A surprising jolt of desire hit him in his chest. He’d been immune to the allure of women since his affair with Magdalena had ended so disastrously. Could his libido be alive and well again? Maybe all it took was knowing he’d finally recovered and was back in charge of his life and his vineyards. And then a glimpse of a Titian-haired heiress didn’t hurt as long as she didn’t stay too long. All he asked was for life to return to the way it was—pre-drought, pre-fungus, pre-Magdalena. He was almost there. He felt a new surge of energy, a feeling of hope close at hand, as close as the vines on either side of the path.

      Dario deliberately turned his attention to picking and tasting a grape here and there, much safer than watching the woman. Another surprise—the level of sugar in the neglected fruit. Soon they could be turned into the superb dessert wine they were famous for. If. If the woman would only be reasonable. They should win the gold this year for either a red or a white. They would be back on top, and the world would be theirs again.

      Finding that Magdalena was deceiving him was one thing, but losing his head over her so that he’d been negligent in running the vineyards was ten times worse. He blamed himself for the whole mess. He’d learned a valuable lesson. No matter how tempting, he would never fall for any woman again. His family didn’t believe that. They thought his turning into a loner this past year was only a phase. He didn’t think so.

      This year if all went well, they could be on top again with a win at the Concorso for their Ceravasuolo. Let his family call him obsessive. He didn’t care. It was better than being careless. He buried himself in his work. It was his choice and his obligation. Someone had to worry about the wine and family’s land holdings. His father was busy in Palermo, his grandfather was sick. So that person was him. Let his sisters suggest he get out and find a girlfriend. It wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.

      Isabel paused to pick some grapes and licked her lips. Even as a beginner unaccustomed to tasting wine grapes off the vine, she was struck by how sweet they were. She felt a quiver of excitement. These were special grapes. She’d read about super-sweet grapes, old grapes that had been neglected. Her grapes.

      She turned to Dario, whose blue eyes were narrowed in the bright sun. “These are delicious,” she said. “Are they the same grapes that produce the famous Amarado dessert wine?”

      He hesitated. Didn’t he know or didn’t he want to tell her? Finally he nodded.

      She realized he didn’t want her to know. He wanted her to get discouraged and leave. Sell out to him. He was sorry she’d stumbled on her own high-quality grapes. She could tell by the way his mouth was set in a straight uncompromising line, and by the creases in his forehead that this was the last thing he wanted her to know.

      “I’ve tasted that wine. It’s delicious. After I did some research on the Azienda Spendora I went out and found a few bottles of old Amarado in an upscale beverage store. It’s very expensive in the States, if you can even find it,” she said thoughtfully. “A high-end wine. It could be a huge moneymaker.”

      “I wouldn’t count on it.”

      She slanted a glance in his direction. He knew. He must know how valuable it was. “No wonder you want this vineyard so much. It’s because of the Amarado. I can’t believe it. These are all mine and I’ll make this superb dessert wine. I can make a go of it. I know I can. I can make money. Live off the land and show the naysayers.”

      She paused, struck by the look on his face. What had she said to make him glare at her like that? A muscle in his temple twitched. Was she excessively bragging? Or was he just upset because they were hers and not his grapes? “You didn’t tell me about these grapes.”

      “You didn’t ask me,” he said shortly. “Don’t get too excited,” he cautioned. “It takes more than just picking and fermenting the grapes to make a decent Amarado.”

      “You don’t think I can do it. You don’t think I have what it takes.”

      “Do you?”

      Suddenly a shaft of uncertainty hit her. What made her think she could compete in a wine market where her competitors had been doing this for decades? Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she was overconfident. He was right. It wasn’t going to be easy.

      “Yes. I’ll make it work,” she insisted. “Why shouldn’t I?” She was proud of how certain she sounded when inside a small voice asked who she thought she was. How did she think she could compete as an outsider?

      “Why? Because you can’t possibly pick your own grapes,” Dario said. “You have acres of vines. It’s backbreaking work and you have to know what you’re doing. You don’t want to do work like that. That’s not women’s work.”

      Women’s work? She frowned and bit back a retort, something like Even in Sicily, haven’t you heard of equal rights, equal pay and equal opportunities?

      It seemed as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. Hadn’t she made it clear she’d stick it out and produce the wine these grapes were famous for even if she had to pick the grapes herself?

      “You can ruin the whole crop by doing it yourself or hiring unskilled laborers. What you should do is take a vacation then go back where you belong.” He took her arm and half pulled her back to the driveway where his car was parked.

      “I am where I belong,” she said, stepping out of his grasp before she got into the car. Her face was hot. Perspiration dripped from her temples.

      Once they were in the car, he drove so fast her hair was whipped around her face in the wind. “This is my land,” she reminded him. “I don’t care how hard it is, I’m going to get those grapes picked and make my own wine from them if I have to do it myself. Which I can’t believe I will have to do. I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to dealing with or what work you expect them to do. I’m not a fragile flower who’ll sit at home knitting, waiting for some man to come along and take care of me. And I’m not a tourist. I’m here to work and I’m here to stay.”

      “Fine,” he said after taking a moment to digest this. “Stay. But stay somewhere else. I’m prepared to make you a generous offer. You can take the money and buy a house with a garden. Something you can manage on your own.”

      “I’m not interested in another house. I’m staying here on my land and in my house. My uncle wanted me to have it, not you. The Azienda Spendora is not for sale.”

      “You haven’t heard our offer.”

      “I don’t need to.”

      “Look,” he said as he stopped the car and turned his head to turn his penetrating gaze on her. “I’ll make a deal with you. Let me take you around the countryside to look at property for sale. If you don’t see anything you like, anything that compares with the Azienda, then I’ll give up. I’ll stop bothering you. Dio, I’ll even help you find the workers you need.”

      “And if I don’t agree to this fruitless trip around the countryside? Because I can tell you right now…”

      “If you don’t agree, and you don’t come with an open mind, then I promise things won’t be easy for you. You have no idea how hard it is to find workers, and you won’t find many friends either.”

      Her face paled. She tried to turn her glare at him but she couldn’t keep her lower lip from trembling. Oh, she put on a game face, but he’d finally made a dent in her self-assurance. He’d threatened her. He must be desperate for the land. But not as desperate as she was to hang on to it.

      “All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you, but I’m warning you…”

      He almost looked amused. As if she had some nerve warning him when he’d just threatened her. He held up one hand, palm forward. “No warnings, no conditions. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow