In the Italian's Sights (11 page)

‘As is to be expected,’ he agreed gravely.

Cherry admitted defeat and ate her breakfast, aware Vittorio was watching her with silent amusement. But it wasn’t that which was causing the flutterings in her stomach. More the fact that now she’d made up her mind to stay she knew she would have found it a huge wrench to leave this morning. Which confirmed all her fears. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She had almost finished eating when Vittorio spoke again. ‘I think Sophia will sleep for some time. She is
certainly over-tired and will wish to be composed for the meeting with Santo’s family this evening. I am visiting our factory this morning. Would you like to accompany me and see for yourself how the Carella olive oil is produced? It will while away an hour or two,’ he added offhandedly.

Cherry hesitated. She was genuinely interested in seeing first-hand the process which made Puglia the main olive oil centre in Italy, but it seemed a little too… cosy somehow. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. If she stayed on for a while she had to be able to be around Vittorio; perhaps there was no time like the present to get used to it and master her body’s response to his particular brand of vigorous masculinity? ‘Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘I’d like that.’

‘I will meet you outside in fifteen minutes.’

Vittorio was sitting in a gleaming black Range Rover when she walked down the steps of the villa, the morning sun already blazing hot in the cloudless blue sky. She was wearing a sleeveless pink cotton dress that she’d had for ages, but it was lovely and cool on a warm day, and she had pulled her hair into a high knot so the air could get to the back of her neck. Already she felt sticky. Vittorio looked cool and comfortable and much,
much
too good-looking.

He slid out of the car as she approached, opening the passenger door and helping her inside the vehicle with the natural courtesy she’d noticed before. She felt flustered and hot as she sat down, but now the heat came from within rather than without. She exhaled slowly as Vittorio walked round the large bonnet and then stared primly ahead as he joined her in the Range Rover. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, the elusive and
evocative scent which she now associated with him, and her nerves responded, tightening and vibrating.

‘So.’ He started the engine, swinging the vehicle in a semi-circle before leaving the pebbled area in front of the villa and joining the road they’d travelled on the day before, but in the opposite direction from where her little car sat marooned. ‘What do you know of the liquid gold we harvest?’

Trying to match his casualness, Cherry smiled. ‘It’s great for dressing salads and grilling meat?’

‘Si.’
He grinned, and her traitorous body responded. ‘But there is much more to the oil than that—as I am sure you have heard. It is beneficial in fighting heart disease and obesity, and this was understood even in ancient times. Roman and Greek athletes were known to smear the olive oil over their bodies to improve bloodflow and enhance muscle development, and in some parts of the world this still happens today.’

Cherry had a mental image of that magnificent body she had practically drooled over at the pool the day before gleaming and oiled and had to swallow hard.

‘And of course today the oil is used not just in cooking but in a wide range of cosmetics and soap, and for this the Puglia region is superb. All our oil is extra-virgin—the best quality,
si
? Less than one per cent of acidity per hundred grams. And a beautiful yellow. The colour of the sun.’ He grinned again. ‘But I am the bore. This cannot interest you, Cherry.’

Whatever else Vittorio was, he could never be boring. She glanced at the large strong hands on the steering wheel, the gold watch on his tanned wrist glittering in the sunshine, and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘On the contrary. I find it very interesting to think an industry
that started thousands of years ago is still going strong and is growing more successful if anything. And even I can tell Puglia’s oil is better than what I’ve been used to at home. Before I came to Italy I would never have dreamt of enjoying a basket of local bread dipped in olive oil as lunch, but it’s delicious.’

‘
Si
—and healthy. We make good
bambini
—strong sons and daughters, us Italians—and we enjoy life.’

She dared not let her thoughts go down that route, and as the white-walled, red-roofed buildings of the Carella factory came into view, breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Vittorio’s manager met them as he brought the Range Rover to a standstill. His name was Federico and he was a cousin of Vittorio’s. It appeared all the dozen or so employees were family. While Vittorio disappeared into the office, Federico escorted her round the factory, where modern machinery had replaced the traditional presses of Vittorio’s grandfather’s day, taking Cherry through the labour-intensive and, in its early stages, back-breaking work needed to process the oil. First the trees must be harvested, he explained, and then—swiftly so that the olives didn’t bruise, oxidise or spoil in any way—the fruit must be pulped to a paste. The paste then had to be stirred vigorously before the final method of extraction was performed.

‘And all must be done with love,
si
?’ Federico said with a flash of his dark brown eyes. ‘This makes the best olive oil.’

Cherry smiled, amused by the mild flirting as she wondered if anything at all was done in Italy without the
loooove
factor! It would appear not.

Vittorio was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs which led up to the office after the tour, his hands thrust
into the pockets of his jeans and his grey eyes fastened on her face.

Federico grinned at his cousin as they reached him. ‘This woman is not merely the pretty face,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Cherry has asked the questions of intelligence,
si
?’

‘I’m glad you approve,’ Vittorio drawled drily. ‘I’ve signed those documents you left on my desk, and the papers for the next shipments are with them. There is nothing else of importance?’ And as Federico shook his head, ‘Then I will see you tomorrow.’

‘You are not taking Cherry away so soon?’ Federico protested.

‘Cherry.’ Vittorio turned to her, his eyes dancing. ‘This man has a wife and a houseful of little ones. Do not be fooled by his velvet tongue. He is the Casanova.’

They left Federico still objecting, and once in the Range Rover Vittorio slid one arm along the back of her seat as he turned to her. ‘There is no rush to get back.’ His eyes lingered on her hair and he murmured, almost to himself, ‘Such colours when the light catches it. Red, gold—like the flames of a fire. It shimmers like silk in the sun, do you know this? It is a crime to imprison such loveliness.’

She felt his fingers release the clip holding her hair, and as it fell about her shoulders Cherry jerked away. ‘Don’t,’ she said sharply, holding out her hand for the fastener. ‘It’s too hot to wear it down today.’

‘And is this the only reason you hide such beauty from me?’ he said, ignoring her outstretched fingers.

She stared at him, wondering if he was making fun of her. Her hair was ordinary.
She
was ordinary. OK, so she wouldn’t exactly shatter mirrors, and when she took
the time to dress up and do her hair and make-up with more care than usual she could pass for averagely attractive, but that was all. She had no illusions about herself, and if she had had, Angela and her mother would have set her right years ago.

‘My hair is nothing special.’ She fixed him with her most severe look. ‘And how I choose to wear it has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

He smiled faintly, which Cherry found incredibly irritating. ‘Have you always been so defensive or is it a barrier erected since the disappointment in love?’ he asked with unforgivable audacity. ‘And do not deny once again there is not a man behind your sojourn in my country. Sophia has told me otherwise.’

Whether the quick stab of hurt at Sophia’s betrayal was evident in her face Cherry didn’t know, but in the next breath Vittorio said, ‘That is all she said. No details. Not one. And she only told me that because she was anxious I did not… What is that English phrase? Ah,
si
. Put my foot in it in some way.’

She had recovered enough to glare at him. ‘Your sister clearly doesn’t know you as well as she thinks she does,’ she bit out, ‘if she imagines a little thing like knowing someone has been hurt would stop you barging in where angels fear to tread.’

‘But I am no angel,
mia piccola
.’ To add insult to injury, he tucked the hairclip away in the pocket on his side of the vehicle as he added, ‘And a man who is stupid enough to let you slip through his fingers does not deserve you anyway. Now, I am going to take you to lunch in Locorotondo, and afterwards we will visit the Baroque cathedral. Sophia will sleep for most of the day, I am sure. Now the secret she had been worrying about
for weeks is out in the open she is feeling something of a reaction, I think. But tomorrow she will have to begin to consider all the preparations for the wedding, and you will be needed.’

Fighting the urge to scream at him, Cherry drew on all her considerable will-power to stay cool and composed. ‘I have no intention of having lunch with you. I agreed to stay to help Sophia.’

‘Which I have no doubt you will do admirably.’ He started the engine. ‘But today I show you the
città del vino bianco
, Locorotondo—the city of white wine—while you are still the tourist sightseeing rather than Sophia’s aide. This will be a pleasant and relaxing interlude before your hard word,
si
?’

No. Definitely not relaxing, and with her jangled nerves, probably not pleasant either. She would far rather go back to the house and spend the time by the pool with just a book for company. She opened her mouth to argue further, glanced at Vittorio’s imperturbable profile, and shut it again. He’d made up his mind, and although she might not have known him very long she knew once made up it wouldn’t change. Short of throwing herself out of the Range Rover she had no choice but to accompany him.

That wouldn’t be so bad if a secret part of her didn’t want it so badly. Which was dangerous. Very dangerous. And foolish. Vittorio must have had lots of women, and would continue to have them; he was experienced, worldly-wise and devastatingly charismatic—and if love ever featured in his life in the future the woman concerned would have to be super-special, like him, for it to work.

And then she caught her thoughts in alarm. What
on earth was she thinking about love for? Her cheeks burned. Thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind. She had to pull herself together. The sexual attraction she felt for this man was controllable, it had to be, and that was all it was. Once the next few weeks were over and Sophia was settled, life would go on for Vittorio and his sister and they probably wouldn’t think of her when she was out of their lives. Vittorio was a man. He could sleep with a woman and move on without emotional difficulty. That was just the way it was. She had to remember that.
She had to remember that
.

CHAPTER SEVEN

C
HERRY
found one of the charms of Locorotondo was the approach to the town as they drove through the Valle d’Itria, a striking Italian landscape of luxuriant vineyards sleeping in the hot sun and traditional
trulli
houses, where the sweet aroma of the mint growing by the roadside filled the car with its perfume.

Vittorio told her that the dry white
spumante
wine which was a speciality of the area had given the town its nickname and was of the highest quality, but as they got nearer, and she could see the domes of the cathedral, she realised it was an outstandingly beautiful town too. Blindingly white limestone houses and narrow alleyways bedecked with geraniums and citrus plants wound in true Italian style around squares and tiny palm-sheltered courtyards, and by the time Vittorio had parked the Range Rover and they’d wandered on foot deeper into the town and made their way to the cathedral Cherry was smitten.

The cathedral was as magnificent as she had expected, but when they left its confines and Vittorio casually took her hand as she stumbled over some ancient cobbles all she could think about was his fingers holding hers. And he didn’t seem inclined to let go. She felt dwarfed by his
solid maleness as they walked, but it was an intoxicating feeling, and just for a while—she told herself—she’d enjoy the sensation. It didn’t mean anything, she was fully aware of that, so no harm done.

They found a small
trattoria
—an informal restaurant serving simple meat and pasta dishes—and ate sitting outside under a large umbrella, sipping glasses of
spumante
wine. Cherry kept darting quick glances at Vittorio from under her eyelashes, unable to believe she was sitting in the sunshine enjoying a meal with one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen in her life when just a couple of days before she had been very much on her own. This was the sort of thing that happened to other people, not to her. And it wasn’t as if Puglia was a beach resort type of place, where romances were more likely to occur.

Not that this
was
a romance, she reminded herself firmly. Not remotely. She’d made up her mind before leaving England that it would be a very long time before she made the mistake of trusting a man again. It had been one of the reasons she’d decided to spend some months exploring archaeological sites and museums on the continent—places that recalled days of Greek and Roman inhabitants, medieval castles and fortresses, the breathtaking artistry of eighteenth-century Baroque architecture and the rest of the wealth of history countries like Italy, Greece and Turkey contained. She’d wanted to immerse herself in the past and forget the disappointments of the present and the uncertainty of the future, and definitely—
definitely
—steer clear of the male of the species.

She suddenly became aware that Vittorio was sitting gazing at her, having finished his meal, his grey eyes
thoughtful. ‘You are thinking of this man again.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘There is sadness in your face.’