Kate Hewitt - The Bride's Awakening

‘Please call me Ana. And thank you. I’ve worked hard.’

‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers under his chin, surveying her with that knowing little smile that she now found irritated her. ‘And you’ve stayed at Villa Rosso all these years?’

She gave a little shrug, trying not to be defensive. ‘It is my home.’

‘You haven’t wanted to travel? Go to university? See a bit of the world?’

‘I’m happy where I am, Vittorio,’ Ana replied, her voice sharpening just a little bit. ‘And I did go to university. I took a degree in viticulture at the University of Padua.’

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I forgot.’ Ana almost asked him how he would have known such a thing in the first place, but she decided to hold her tongue. ‘Your father must be very glad of your dedication and loyalty to Viale Wines—and to him, of course. You’ve lived with him all these years?’

‘Yes.’ Ana tilted her head, wondering where these seemingly innocuous comments were coming from. Why did the Count of Cazlevara care what she had been doing these last ten or fifteen years? What interest could he possibly have in Viale Wines? ‘I cannot imagine doing anything else,’ Ana said simply, for it was the truth. Viale Wines had become her life, her blood. Besides her father and her home, she had little else. Vittorio smiled, seeming pleased by her answer, and an assistant bustled in with a pitcher of iced lemon water and two frosted glasses.

‘Thank you,’ Ana murmured and, after the assistant had left, she poured two glasses and handed one to Vittorio. ‘So,’ she said when they’d both sipped silently for a moment, ‘you’re back at last from your travels abroad. To stay this time?’

‘It would seem so. I have, I realize, been gone too long.’ His mouth tightened, his eyes looking hard, and for a moment Ana was discomfited, wondering just what had brought him back to Veneto.

‘Are you glad to be back?’ she asked and his eyes, still hard with some unnamed emotion, met hers.

‘Yes.’

Ana nodded. ‘Still, it must have been nice to see so many places.’ Could she sound more inane? She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palms on her trousers. She wanted to demand to know why he was here, what he wanted from her. This was the second time he’d sought her out, and she could not fathom why he was doing so. Why he would want to.

‘It was.’ He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet clink. ‘And it was, of course, business.’

‘Yes.’

Vittorio still gazed at her in that assessing manner, saying nothing. His silence unnerved her, made her edgy and a little desperate. She wasn’t used to feeling so at odds; she’d become accustomed to being in control of her own life, especially here at the winery, her own little kingdom.

‘Sometimes business and pleasure mix, however,’ he finally said, his words seeming heavy with meaning, and Ana gave a little nod and smile although she hardly knew what he was saying, or why.

‘Indeed.’ Her nerves now taut and starting to fray, she forced another little laugh and said, ‘I must confess, Vittorio, I don’t know why you’re here. It is good to have you back in Veneto, of course, but if I am to be frank, we’ve had very little to do with one another.’ There. It was said. If she’d been rude, Ana didn’t care; his presence, so confident—arrogant—and supremely male, unsettled her. It made her heart jump and her palms sweat and, worst of all, it made some sweet, nameless longing rise up in her like a hungry tide. She swallowed and kept her gaze firmly on him.

He leaned forward to take his glass once more, and the scent of his cologne—something faintly musky—wafted over her. Inadvertently, instinctively, she pressed back against the sofa cushions. He lifted his gaze to meet hers once more, yet she could tell nothing from those onyx eyes. They were as blank as polished marble. ‘Actually, Ana, I came to ask you to dinner.’

The words seemed to fall into the stillness of the room, and of her heart. Did he mean a date? she wondered incredulously, even as a sense of sudden fierce pleasure rushed through her. A date . When was the last time she’d been on one of those, and with a man like Vittorio Ralfino? She felt her cheeks heat—how easily she gave herself away—and to cover her confusion, she reached for her glass and took a sip.

‘I see I’ve surprised you.’

‘Yes.’ She pressed the glass against her hot cheek, lifting her gaze to smile wryly at him. ‘We have not seen each other in years and, in any case—’ She stopped, biting her lip, pulling it between her teeth and nipping it hard enough to draw a drop of blood. She tasted it on her tongue, hard and metallic. Vittorio smiled, his eyes on her mouth, and Ana knew he’d witnessed that traitorous little display of her own uncertainty.

‘In any case?’ he prompted gently.

She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of woman—’ She stopped again, wishing she had not revealed so much. She didn’t know how not to; she was terrible at lying, or even dissembling. She could only speak her heart, always had. It had never been dangerous before.

And it had been so long—forever—since a man had asked her out. Since she’d even hoped a man might ask her out.

‘The kind of woman I take out to dinner?’ Vittorio filled in. ‘But how would you know what kind of woman I take out to dinner?’

‘I don’t,’ Ana said quickly, too quickly. ‘But I know—’ She stopped again. There was no way of saving herself or her pride, it seemed. ‘I am surprised, that’s all,’ she finally said, and pressed her lips tightly together to keep from revealing anything more.

Vittorio didn’t answer, and Ana couldn’t tell a thing from his expression. Surprisingly, she found she was not blushing now; instead, she felt cold and lifeless. This—this feeling of terrible numbness—was why she’d stopped looking for a man, for love. It hurt too much.

She put her glass back down on the table. Memories rushed in to fill the blank spaces in her mind and heart. The cruel laughter of the girls at boarding school, the interminable school dances where she’d clutched a glass of lukewarm punch and tried to make herself invisible. It hadn’t been hard to do; no one had wanted to see her anyway.

Stupid schoolgirl memories, yet how they still hurt. How another man’s attention—and his disdain—brought it all back.

‘I see,’ he said finally and, on opening her eyes, Ana felt he saw too much. The last thing she wanted was his pity. ‘Actually,’ Vittorio continued, watching her carefully, ‘I want to discuss a business proposition with you.’ He waited, still watching, and Ana’s eyes widened in horror. Now the blush came, firing her body from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She’d made such a fool of herself, assuming he was asking her out. And of course he hadn’t corrected her, she realized with a vicious little stab of fury. He’d probably enjoyed seeing her squirm, relished her awful confession. I’m not exactly the kind of woman… He knew just what she’d meant, and his expression told her he agreed with her. As many had before.

‘A business proposition,’ she finally repeated, the silence having gone on, awkwardly, for at least a minute. ‘Of course.’

‘It might not be the kind of business proposition you’re expecting,’ Vittorio warned with a little smile and Ana tried for an answering laugh, though inwardly she was still writhing with humiliation and remembered pain.

‘Now you have me intrigued.’

‘Good. Shall we say Friday evening?’

Ana jerked her head in acceptance. ‘Very well.’ It didn’t seem important to pretend she needed to check some schedule, that she might be busy. That she might, in fact, have a date . Vittorio would see right through her. He already had.

‘I’ll pick you up at Villa Rosso.’

‘I can meet you—’

‘I am a gentleman, Ana,’ Vittorio chided her wryly. ‘I shall enjoy escorting you somewhere special.’

And where exactly was somewhere special? Ana wondered. And, more alarmingly, what should she wear? Her wardrobe of businesslike trouser suits hardly seemed appropriate for a dinner date…except it wasn’t a date, had never been meant to be a date, she reminded herself fiercely. It was simply a business proposition. A trouser suit would have to do. Still, Ana was reluctant to don one. She didn’t want to look like a man; she wanted to feel like a woman. She didn’t dare ask herself why. For over ten years—since her university days—she’d dressed and acted not purposely like a man, more like a sexless woman. A woman who wasn’t interested in fashion, or beauty, or even desire. Certainly not love. It had been safer that way; no expectations or hopes to have dashed, no one—especially herself—to disappoint. There was no earthly reason to change now. There was every reason to keep as she’d been, and stay safe.

On Friday night she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, gazing rather ruefully at her reflection. She wore a pair of fitted black trousers with a rather unfortunately boxy jacket; it had looked better on the rack. Her one concession to femininity was the cream silk beaded tank top she wore underneath, and that was completely hidden by the jacket. She piled her hair up on top of her head, wincing a little bit at the strands that insisted on escaping to frame her face and curl with surprising docility along her neck. She couldn’t decide if the loose tendrils gave her a look of elegance or dishevelment. She didn’t attempt any make-up, as she’d never mastered the art of doing her face without looking like a child who had played in her mother’s make-up box.

‘There.’ She nodded at her reflection, determined to accept what she saw. Wearing a sexy cocktail dress or elegant gown would have been ridiculous, she told herself. She never wore such things—she didn’t own such things—and, considering Vittorio’s business proposition, there was no reason to start now.

Her father was, as usual, in the study when Ana came downstairs. Most evenings he was content to hole up in the villa with a book or a game of solitaire.

Enrico looked up from his book, raising his eyebrows at her outfit. ‘Going out, my dear?’

Ana nodded, suppressing a little pang of guilt. She hadn’t told her father about this dinner with Vittorio; she told herself she’d simply forgotten, but she knew that wasn’t true. She hadn’t wanted him to know, and start reading more into this dinner than there was or ever could be.

‘Yes,’ she said now, dropping a kiss on the top of his thinning hair. ‘Dinner.’

‘A date?’ Enrico asked, sounding pleased. Ana shook her head and stepped away to look out of the window. Twilight was stealing softly upon the world, cloaking the landscaped gardens in violet.

‘No. Just business.’

‘Always business,’ her father said a bit grumpily, and Ana smiled.

‘You know I love it.’ And she did love it; the wine, the grapes were in her blood. Her father loved to tell the story about when he had taken her to the vineyards when she was only two years old. He’d hoisted her up to the vines and she’d plucked a perfectly ripe grape, deeply purple and bursting with flavour, and popped it into her mouth. Then, instead of saying how tasty it was, she’d pronounced in a quite grown-up voice, ‘Sono pronti .’ They’re ready.

‘I worry you work too much.’

Ana said nothing, for she knew she had no argument. She did work too much; she had nothing else. In the last few years her father had stepped back from the winery business, as he’d never really wanted to be more than a gentleman vintner, tending the family grapes. Ana wanted more. She dreamed of the day when Viale wines were in every fine restaurant in Europe, and even America. When they were held in reserve for special customers, the bottles dusty and precious. When they rivalled Cazlevara Wines.