The Sicilian's Bride. Carol Grace

is another day,” he said. But he didn’t apologize or make any promises. She had a feeling he never did. Then she saw she had a flat tire.

      The next morning Isabel had half a mind to cancel. If she’d known Dario’s phone number she might have. She dressed carefully in Capri pants and a tank top, then changed into a sundress, but after surveying her image in the full-length mirror in her hotel room, she changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt then back to the Capris.

      As if it mattered. The man had barely glanced at her yesterday, and when he did look her way he didn’t see a living breathing person who only wanted what she deserved, or even a pesky, tired, jetlagged tourist, he saw an obstacle standing in his way.

      Take yesterday, when he’d fixed her flat tire for her. At first he’d looked at her as if she’d done it on purpose to annoy him. Without a word, he took his shirt off and opened the trunk of her car to remove the spare tire and a jack. She tried not to stare at his bare chest, since the sight of those well-toned muscles made her knees weak, but she couldn’t help it. Since her auto club didn’t have service in Italy, she had no choice but to watch him repair her tire. She hoped he didn’t think she’d repay him for his work by selling him her vineyard.

      She watched closely while he propped the jack into the fittings on the side of the car. Squatting next to the car, his broad shoulders were covered with a sheen of sweat as he started cranking the jack. He muttered something that she didn’t understand. Probably something like “Damned helpless American women.”

      She kneeled down next to him, her skirt pulled to one side, her bare knees pressed against the hot pavement. All in the interest of learning how to change a tire by herself some day. Kneeling there, she was all too aware of the essence of earthy macho male emanating from his half-naked body. Just being that near him made her feel as if her insides were melting. Or was that just the temperature outside?

      He handed her four small metal objects he’d taken off something, his rough palm brushing her fingers. He smelled like ripe grapes and the hot Italian sun. She felt faint. No wonder. It was way past lunch time and she hadn’t had anything to eat for hours, just half a glass of wine. Maybe that’s why she felt so lightheaded.

      When he’d replaced the flat tire with the new one, she said “Grazie,” and gave him a grateful smile.

      He didn’t smile back. Didn’t praise her attempt at speaking Italian. She didn’t expect him to. He’d used up all the good will he had for her, if any. He hadn’t introduced her to a single neighbor. Hadn’t even introduced her to his brother. But, after him changing her tire, she could hardly complain. He might be the lord of the manor and the owner of all the land around here, but he wasn’t too proud to do a menial job and she admired that about him. Another man might have called a garage and hired a mechanic. If only she’d told him then to forget about showing her other properties. It wouldn’t do any good, but he’d made up his mind. Well, so had she.

      CHAPTER THREE

      AFTER a cup of delicious cappuccino and some hot rolls on the sun-dappled veranda of the lovely Hotel Cairoli the next morning, Isabel told herself to relax. Let him show her around the countryside. He’d soon realize he had no chance at all of her changing her mind. She’d simply treat it as an opportunity to see something of the area in the company of an attractive Italian man who knew his way around. And maybe finally meet some locals. Never mind the gorgeous Italian found nothing remotely attractive about her, especially her personality. That was his problem, not hers.

      By the time he arrived, she’d almost convinced herself she could treat him like her driver and nothing more. But then she saw the heads turn when his impressive car pulled up and he got out wearing khaki cargo pants and an expensive polo shirt that matched his eyes and did nothing to conceal the taut muscles in his arms.

      Before she could get up and go to meet him, he’d walked through the place like he owned it and taken a seat at her table. The waitress was scurrying to bring him a cup of coffee and a plate of fresh hot rolls. She was beaming at him as if he was her long-lost brother, and it seemed everyone in the place knew who he was and lost no time in either shaking his hand or putting their arms around him as if they hadn’t seen him for years.

      It was obvious he was not only part of a big family, he was part of a community as well. She felt a pang of envy. How long would it take for her to feel this way? She couldn’t wait for twenty-six generations to pass by.

      “Are you enjoying your stay?” he asked, his blue gaze zeroing in on Isabel as if she was the only one on the veranda. His attention was flattering. Or it would be if she didn’t think he had an ulterior motive. He’d either decided to change his tactics, or he’d decided to enjoy the day and forget his only too apparent motive. Knowing him it must be the former.

      “Very much. But I’m planning to move out either today or tomorrow.”

      “Why, what’s wrong?” he asked with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.

      “Nothing, the people are nice and the beds are very comfortable. But I didn’t come here to loll about in a luxury hotel when I have a perfectly good house of my own.” She felt her cheeks redden. They both knew it wasn’t “perfectly good.” She braced herself for his retort.

      “Ah,” he said. But that was all. No mention of the lack of water, heat or electricity. Which only made her worry about these things more. It was much easier to be brave when she had to convince him at the same time. Without a rival to fight with, she felt strangely deflated.

      “As you know, it’s harvest time and I need to be picking grapes.” She waited for his predictable comment about how hard the work was and how busy all the real workers were, but it didn’t come.

      Instead he drained his cup and said, “Ready?” then stood and pulled her chair out from the table. She had the feeling the whole hotel staff was standing there watching as if he were a movie star on location as she got into his car and pulled away. She had to admit he was better-looking than any movie star she’d ever seen.

      Did his attention to her raise her status in the community she longed to be part of? Either the group on the terrace at the hotel were shaking their heads, thinking she was a fool for going off with the Sicilian playboy who might even be married or they were cheering her on, thinking she’d be a fool for not running off to spend a day with the sexiest man around these parts.

      It didn’t matter, this was not a date. He was not interested in her nor was she in him. He was showing her around only because he thought he’d achieve his own goal that way. She was spending the day with him for the same reason, to get what she wanted. But she couldn’t help being curious about him and his family.

      She leaned back against the soft leather upholstery and let the sun shine on her face. She felt no need to make conversation since he seemed to be lost in thought, maybe pretending she wasn’t there. He’d insisted on showing her property, he hadn’t said he’d enjoy it. His eyes were hidden behind his wraparound sunglasses, one suntanned arm braced on the open window. His mind was somewhere else, no doubt.

      To distract herself from looking at Dario, thinking about him and admiring his hands on the wheel, his bronzed arms and his skillful driving, she tried to identify the different kinds of trees they passed—oak, elm, ash and maybe beech. There might even be cork and maple. In the hills above them, farm animals grazed. It was a peaceful and bucolic scene, one most tourists never saw. She told herself to sit back and enjoy it while she could. Tomorrow and the next day and every day after that she’d be at work in the vineyard.

      Glancing at his profile out of the corner of her eye, she thought he was just as gorgeous from that viewpoint as he was full-on, with his broken nose, his solid jaw and high cheekbones. From a strictly impersonal viewpoint of course. If he wasn’t married, she wondered why not. Was it his surly personality, or was that side of him reserved for her benefit?

      He pointed to a village perched high on a hill. And finally he spoke. “Casale,” he said, “one of the first towns taken by the Normans from the Arabs who took it from the Saracens who took it from the