The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer

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?”

      “I suppose because he was too old to look after them properly. He was eighty-four when he died.”

      “You suppose? Were you not close to him during his lifetime?”

      “No. I didn’t even know of his existence until his lawyer contacted me regarding his estate.”

      “He had no other relatives? None better equipped than you to rescue his property from ruination?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Why not?”

      She stared at him, frustrated. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, not you! she felt like telling him. “Because he was from my father’s side of the family.”

      “You did not care for your father and his kin?”

      Kin. An old-fashioned word which, coupled with his charming accent, gave one of the few indications that English wasn’t his mother tongue. “I barely knew my father,” she said, wrenching her mind back to the matter at hand. “He died when I was seven.”

      He raised a lofty brow. “I remember many relatives and events from when I was that age.”

      “Probably because, unlike mine, your family stayed together.”

      “Your parents were divorced?”

      “Oh, yes, and the war between them never ended,” she said, remembering all too well her mother’s vitriolic outpourings to Arlene’s hesitant requests to visit her father or speak to him by phone. “I was four at the time, and my mother made sure I lived too far away from my father to see him often.”

      Domenico Silvaggio d’Avalos shook his head disapprovingly. “I cannot imagine such a thing. When a man and a woman have created a child together, his or her welfare comes before any thought of the parents’ personal happiness.”

      “A fine philosophy in theory, signor, but not so easy to live by, I suspect, if the couple in question find themselves irreconcilably opposed to one another’s wishes and needs.”

      “All the more reason to choose wisely in the first place then, wouldn’t you say?”

      She laughed. “You’re obviously not married!”

      “No,” he said, and turned that unsettling gaze on her again. “Are you?”

      “No. But I’m realistic enough to know that if ever I am, a wedding ring provides no guarantee that the marriage will last.”

      “I do not call that realistic,” he said flatly. “I call it defeatist.”

      “Then that makes you an idealist who’s more than a little out of touch with the rest of the world.”

      “Hardly,” he replied. “My parents have been happily married for thirty-nine years, as were my grandparents for almost half a century. And I have four sisters, all blissfully happy in their marriages.”

      “But you’re still single.”

      “Not because I have anything against marriage. My father’s health isn’t the best and I took over the running of this company sooner than I might otherwise have done, which has kept me fully occupied and left little time for serious romance. But I’ll know the right woman when she comes along and I will commit to her for the rest of my life, regardless of whatever difficulties we might encounter—and they will be few, I assure. I’ll make certain of that before putting a ring on her finger.”

      “You have a list of requirements she must meet, in order to qualify as your wife, do you?”

      “Of course,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Happiness, like sexual compatibility and physical attraction, will run secondary to suitability.”

      “You make it sound as if you believe in arranged marriages.”

      “I don’t disbelieve in them.”

      “Then I pity the woman who becomes your wife.”

      It was his turn to laugh. “Pity yourself, signorina,” he declared, tossing down his napkin. “You’re the one willing to sell her soul to a lost cause.”

      “On the contrary, signor. I’m doing exactly as you claim you will, when you take a wife. I’m sticking with my decision, regardless of the difficulties I’m facing. The only difference is, I’m taking on a vineyard instead of a husband.”

      He regarded her for an interminably long, silent minute. Finally he said, “Well then, since you refuse to let me deter you, I suppose I must do all I can to assist you.”

      “I think you’ve already done that.” She indicated her notebook. “You’ve given me some very valuable pointers.”

      “Theory is all very well in its place, signorina, but it in no way replaces hands-on experience. That being the case, I have a proposition which you might find interesting. One, I’d go so far as to say, you can’t afford to refuse. I’ll take you on as a short-term apprentice during your time here—say from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon. It will mean you spend a good portion of the day working instead of enjoying the usual tourist activities, but if you’re as determined as you say you are—”

      “Oh, I am!” she exclaimed, her attention split evenly between the purely practical benefits of his offer, and the thrilling prospect of spending more time with him.

      “Then here is what I suggest we do.”

      He proceeded to outline a course of instruction geared to get her started. That he was showing extraordinary generosity to a total stranger did not, of course, escape her notice, but Arlene couldn’t help noticing not just what he said, but how he said it; on his finely carved lips as they shaped his words, and his precise enunciation.

      Nor was that her only thought. He spoke with the passion of a true professional about the wine industry. Would he prove an equally passionate lover, she wondered.

      “Signora?” His voice, deep and faintly amused, snapped her attention back to where it properly belonged. “Are we done for now, or is there something else you’d like to know?”

      Nothing to do with viticulture, certainly!

      “No, thank you.” Flustered, she’d stuffed her notebook into her bag and pushed away from the table. A quick glance at her watch showed it was almost four o’clock. The two-hour lunch he’d promised her had lasted well into the afternoon. “My goodness, look at the time! I had no idea it was so late, and I do apologize. I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

      “Not at all,” he replied smoothly, rising also.

      She was tall, but he was taller. Well over six feet. Slim and toughly built, with a midriff as unyielding as a flatiron. A tailor’s dream of a body, narrow in all the right places; broad and powerful where it should be.

      Escorting her back to the Jeep, he inquired, “You have other plans for the rest of the day, do you?”

      “Nothing specific. We arrived only yesterday and are still getting our bearings, but I should head back to the hotel.”

      “You did not come to Sardinia alone?”

      “No.”

      “Then I am the one who must apologize