The Bride's Awakening (15 page)

Because she loved him, and she didn’t know if he loved her.

If she’d had any sense, she would have worn one of Feliciana’s carefully selected outfits—something sexy and slimming—and asked Vittorio to take her to Venice or Verona, even one of the sleepy little villages nestled in one of the region’s valleys, somewhere where they could laugh and chat over antipasti and a jug of wine.

She should not have taken him to his work place and donned her own well-worn work clothes to do it! What had she been thinking? Yet, even as she ranted at herself, Ana knew the answers. She loved the vineyards. She loved the grapes, the earth, the sun. The rich scent of soil and growing things, of life itself.

It was the place she loved most of all, and she’d wanted to share it with Vittorio.

Yet, as perspiration beaded on her brow and her boots became covered in a thin film of dust, she wondered if sharing a meal might have been the better choice. She stopped to touch a vine, its cluster of
Nebbiolo
grapes so perfectly proportioned. The grapes were young, firm and dusky, and this breed wouldn’t be harvested until October. She bent to inhale the grapes’ scent, closing her eyes in sensual pleasure at the beauty of the day: the wind ruffling her hair, the sun on her face, the earthy aroma all around her.

After a few seconds she opened her eyes, conscious of Vittorio’s gaze on her. His expression was inscrutable, save for the faintest flicker of a smile curling his mouth.

‘I like the smell,’ she said, a bit self-consciously. ‘I always did. When I was little, my mother found me curled under the bushes asleep.’

Vittorio had, Ana thought, a very funny look on his face now. Almost as if he were in pain. ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself very much,’ he said. His voice sounded strangely strangled.

‘It was a safe place for me,’ Ana acknowledged. ‘And, more than that—a bit of heaven.’

‘A bit of heaven,’ Vittorio repeated. He was standing surprisingly awkwardly, his hands jammed into the front pockets of his trousers, and his voice still sounded—odd.

‘Vittorio?’ Ana asked uncertainly. ‘Are you all right—?’

‘Ana.’ He cut her off, smiling now, her name coming out in what sounded like a rush of relief. ‘Come here.’

Ana didn’t know what he meant. They were standing a foot apart; where was she meant to
go
?

Then Vittorio took his hands out of his pockets and, in one effortless movement, he pulled her towards him and buried his head in her hair, breathing in deeply.

‘It’s the smell of your hair
I
love,’ he murmured. His hand had gone under the heavy mass of her hair to her neck. ‘I want you,’ Vittorio confessed raggedly, ‘so much. Come back to the castle with me. Make love to me, Ana.’

Love.
Ana couldn’t keep the smile from her voice. ‘Again?’

‘You think once—or twice—is enough?’

She could hardly believe he wanted her so much. It shook her to her very bones, the heart of herself. ‘No, definitely not,’ she murmured.

‘Come back—’

‘No.’

Vittorio’s face fell in such a comical manner that Ana would
have laughed if she wasn’t half-quivering with her own reawakened desire. ‘Not at the castle, Vittorio. Here.’

He stared down at the dusty ground. ‘Here?’ he repeated dubiously.

‘Yes,’ Ana said firmly, tugging on his hand, ‘here.’ Here, where he’d found her desirable—sexy—even in her work clothes and wind-tangled hair. Here, where she’d felt safe and heaven-bound all at once, and wanted to again, in Vittorio’s arms. Here, because among the grapes and the soil she was her real self, not the woman who wore fancy dresses and high heels and tried to seduce her husband with tricks she couldn’t begin to execute with any skill or ease.

Here
.

And Vittorio accepted that—or perhaps he couldn’t wait any longer—for he spread his blazer, an expensive silk one that was soon covered in dust—on the ground and then lay Ana on it, her hair fanning out around her in a dark silken wave.

Vittorio touched her almost reverently, a look of awe on his face Ana had never expected to see. To know. The ground was hard and bumpy; pebbles dug into her back and the dust was gritty on her skin, but Ana didn’t care. She revelled in it, in this. In him.

Vittorio reached for the buttons of her old shirt. ‘I never thought white cotton could be so…inflaming,’ he murmured, and bent his head to the flesh he’d exposed.

And, as Ana’s hand clutched at his hair, she realized she had no idea that she could
feel
so inflamed, as if the very fires of passion were burning her up, turning her craving to liquid heat.

‘Vittorio…’

‘We may be lying in a field like some farm hand and his dairymaid,’ Vittorio murmured against her skin—somehow, all her clothes had been removed, ‘but I’m not going to have you
like that, with your skirts rucked up around your waist, over in a few pathetic seconds.’

‘No, indeed, since I’m not wearing any clothes.’

And, as he smiled against her skin, Ana found she had no thoughts or words left at all. Later, as they lay entangled in a sleepy haze of satisfaction, she murmured, ‘We’re going to have the most interesting sunburn.’

‘Not if I can help it.’ In one fluid movement, Vittorio rose from the dusty ground, Ana in his arms. She squealed; she
never
squealed, and yet somehow that ridiculously girlish sound came out of her mouth. Vittorio grinned. ‘Put your clothes on, wife,’ he said, depositing her on the ground. ‘We have a perfectly good bed at home, and I intend to use it…all day.’

‘All day?’ Ana repeated, still squealing, and then she hurried to yank her clothes back on.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of happiness Ana had never dreamed or even hoped to feel. Although they never spoke of love, her uncertainty melted away in the light of Vittorio’s presence and affection, and she hardly thought they needed to. Why speak of love when their bodies communicated far more eloquently and pleasurably? The days were still taken up with work; Ana found herself smiling at the most ridiculous moments, while signing a form or reading a purchasing order. Sometimes, spontaneously, she even laughed aloud.

Vittorio seemed just as happy. His happiness made her happy; his countenance was light, a smile ready on his lips, those onyx eyes lightened to a pewter grey, glinting with humour and love—surely love, for Ana had little doubt that he loved her.

How could he not, when they spent night after night together, not just in passion but in quiet moments afterwards, talking and touching in a way that melted both her body and heart?

He told her bits of his childhood, the hard memories which she’d guessed at, as well as some of the good times: playing
stecca
with his father, going to Rome on a school trip when he was fifteen and getting outrageously drunk.

‘It’s fortunate I was not expelled.’

‘Why weren’t you?’

‘I told you, I played the trombone,’ he replied with a wicked little smile. ‘They needed me in the orchestra.’

And Ana told him things she’d never told anyone else, confessed the dark days after her mother’s death.

‘My father was overwhelmed with grief. He refused to see me for days—locked himself in her bedroom.’

‘It’s so hard to believe.’ Vittorio let his fingers drift through her hair, along her cheek. ‘He is so close to you now.’

‘It took work,’ Ana replied frankly. ‘In fact, a week after she died, he sent me to boarding school—he thought it would be easier. For him, I suppose.’ It was good, if still hard, to speak of it; bringing light to the dark memories. ‘Those two years were the worst of my life.’

Vittorio pressed his lips against the curve of her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’ And it didn’t, because in Vittorio’s arms she didn’t feel big and mannish and awkward; she felt beautiful and sexy and loved.

Loved.

No, she had no doubt at all that Vittorio loved her, no sense that there was anything but happiness—that bit of heaven—ahead of them, shining and pure, stretching to a limitless horizon.

S
IX
weeks after their wedding, Vittorio came to see Ana at the Viale offices. She looked up from her desk, smiling in pleased surprise as he appeared in the doorway.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said, rising to embrace him. Vittorio kissed her with a distracted air, his face troubled before relaxing into a smile that still didn’t reach his eyes.

‘I have to go to Brazil again. There has been trouble with some of the merchants there.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ Ana asked, her smile turning to a frown. Her heart had already sunk a bit at the thought:
Brazil
.

Vittorio gave a little shrug. ‘It’s not worrisome, but important enough that I should go soothe a few ruffled feathers, murmur encouragement in the right ears.’

‘You’re good at that,’ Ana teased, but Vittorio missed the joke entirely.

‘I came here because I am leaving this afternoon, before you return. If I take the private jet to Rio, I can return within a week.’

‘A week!’ Disappointment swamped her. It seemed like a horribly long time.

‘Yes, this is business,’ Vittorio said a bit sharply, and his tone as well as his words were like ice water drenching her spirit. Her happiness.

Business.
Was Vittorio actually reminding her that business was what their marriage was all about?
Just
business? Ana swallowed dryly. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll ring you,’ he said, pressing a quick kiss against her cold cheek, and then he was gone.

Ana stood in the middle of the office for a few moments, listening to the sounds around her: Vittorio slamming the front door of the building, the purr of the Porsche’s engine starting up again, the murmur of voices from other offices. And, the loudest sound of all, the sick thudding of her own frightened heart.

Had she been deceiving herself these last few weeks? Lost in a haze of happiness, mistaking lust for love? Ana moved back to her desk and sat down hard in her chair, her head falling into her hands. She couldn’t believe how unsure she felt, how afraid. Her serene certainty that Vittorio loved her had been swept away by one careless remark.

Clearly she hadn’t been so certain after all.

The castle felt lonely and quiet when she returned that evening, its endless rooms lost in shadow. Ana told the cook she’d have something in her room rather than face the elegant dining room alone; Constantia had returned to Milan last week and Bernardo, as he so often was, appeared to be out. She didn’t want to see anyone.

Marco, the cook, however, looked surprised. ‘Ah, but I’ve made dinner! For two—it is all prepared.’

‘For two?’ Ana repeated, hope leaping absurdly inside her. Had Vittorio come back? But of course not; he was halfway to South America by now.

‘Yes, Signor Bernardo wishes to dine with you.’

Ana felt a finger of foreboding trail along her spine, then shrugged the shivery sensation away. Whatever had passed between Bernardo and Vittorio was long ago, and didn’t concern her. Perhaps getting to know her husband’s younger brother
would go some way in helping to heal his family’s rift. Despite the happiness of the last few weeks, Ana knew Vittorio was still snared by the dark memories of his childhood. She saw it when he didn’t think anyone was looking, a moment alone lost in sorrowful thought, the shadow of grief in his eyes.

‘All right,’ she told Marco. ‘Thank you.’

As Ana entered the dining room, the setting rays of the sun sending long golden beams of light across the elegant room, she saw the table set cosily for two at one end and Bernardo standing by the window. He started forward as soon as he saw her.

‘Ana! Thank you for joining me.’

‘Of course, Bernardo. I am happy to dine with you.’ Yet, as he took her hands and pressed his cheek against hers in a brotherly embrace, Ana couldn’t shake the feeling that Bernardo had an agenda for this meal.

She stepped back, surveying him as he moved to the table to pull out her chair. He was a slighter, paler version of Vittorio, still handsome, with the same dark hair and eyes, yet he lacked his brother’s strength and vitality. If they stood next to each other, there could be no doubt as to who was the more dynamic, charismatic and frankly attractive brother. How could Bernardo fail to be jealous?

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and sat in the chair Bernardo had drawn for her. He sat opposite and reached for the bottle of red he’d left breathing on a side table.

‘One of the vineyard’s own?’ Ana asked as she watched the rich ruby liquid being poured into her glass.

‘In a way. I’ve been experimenting a bit with mixed grapes.’ His expression turned wary, guarded. ‘Vittorio doesn’t know.’

Ana took a sip of wine. ‘But this is delicious.’ It was rich and velvety, with a hidden aroma of fruit and spice. She set the glass down and gave Bernardo a frank look. ‘Why doesn’t Vittorio know you’ve been experimenting with hybrids? Especially as the result is so pleasing.’

Bernardo gave her a faint smile and took a sip from his own glass. ‘Surely you’ve seen by now that Vittorio and I…’ He paused, cocking his head thoughtfully. ‘We are not like normal brothers.’

‘Of course I’ve noticed that,’ Ana returned. ‘In fact,’ she added, a bit sharply, ‘I even wondered if he would want us to dine like this together, alone.’

‘He wouldn’t. Not because he thinks it is inappropriate, but because he is afraid I will whisper poison in your ear.’

Ana gestured to her glass. ‘Is this poison?’ She asked the question lightly, yet Benardo regarded her with grave eyes.

‘It is, as far as Vittorio is concerned. He is not interested in anything I have to do with Cazlevara Wines.’

Ana felt a stab of pity. ‘Why? Is it simply because of what happened so long ago, when your father died?’ Bernardo looked surprised and Ana said quickly, ‘I know Constantia tried to take his inheritance, and make you Count. Vittorio told me. Yet that happened so long ago, and you were only a boy—’

‘That was merely the beginning,’ Bernardo replied. ‘I suppose he told you what our childhood was like? We were forced to take sides, Vittorio and I. At first we resisted it. We resented our parents drawing us into their battles. But after time…’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I admit, I was not a sensible boy. My mother’s attention went to my head. When she so clearly preferred me to Vittorio—and my own father did not have so much as a glance for me—well, I flaunted it. I rubbed Vittorio’s nose in it. Special presents, trips…these things turn a boy’s head. They turned mine.’ His mouth twisted in a bitter smile of regret. ‘Vittorio saw it all, and said nothing. That only made me angrier. He had my papà’s attention and praise, all of it, and I wanted to make him jealous.’

‘And of course he was,’ Ana cut in. ‘Nothing can take the place of a mother’s love.’

‘Or a father’s. I don’t know which of us got the better bargain. Vittorio was my father’s favourite, but he didn’t get spoiled and
cosseted like I did. He was whipped into shape.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not literally. But my father was a hard taskmaster. I remember one time he called Vittorio out of bed—he must have been ten or so, home from boarding school. I was but six at the time. It wasn’t even dawn, but my father saw that Vittorio had done poorly on a maths exam. He sat him down at the dining room table and made him write the exam all over again. He didn’t stop until every problem was correct. Vittorio worked for hours. He didn’t even have breakfast.’ Bernardo made a face. ‘I remember because I smacked my lips and slurped my juice and he didn’t even look up, though he must have been hungry.’ Bernardo shook his head, his mouth twisting in a grimace. ‘I am not proud of how I behaved over the years, Ana. I freely admit that.’

Ana let out a sorrowful little sigh. It was such a sad, pointless story. Why had Constantia rejected Vittorio so utterly? Couldn’t she see how her behaviour had affected him, how her love could have softened her husband’s harsh treatment? She’d been so blinded by her own misery, Ana supposed. Arturo’s lack of love for his wife had been the rotten seed of it all.

The food had been served, but she found she had no appetite. ‘And when your father died? What happened then?’

Bernardo steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘By that time the lines were well and truly drawn. Vittorio hated both my mother and me, or at least acted as if he did. He was only fourteen, and he had not one word of kindness for either of us. Oh, he was polite enough, icily respectful, and it drove my mother mad. I suppose Vittorio was so like our father—and my father had never had a true moment of empathy or love for my mother. He was polite, courteous, solicitous even, but there was no love behind it. He was a cold man.’

‘Even so, why did your mother try to have the will overturned and disinherit Vittorio? Simply because you were her favourite?’ Ana heard the accusation in her own voice. What could justify such cruel, callous behaviour?

Bernardo shrugged. ‘Who knows? She has told me she did it because she thought if Vittorio became Count, he would be too hard a man, like my father was. She said she could not bear to see Vittorio become like Arturo.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I rather thought she believed she was saving him—from himself.’

Ana raised her eyebrows. ‘He certainly didn’t view it that way.’

‘It made things worse, of course,’ Bernardo agreed. ‘The plan failed, and Vittorio’s enmity was cemented. Over the years we have had nothing to say to one another and—’ he paused, his gaze sliding from hers ‘—I have not always acted in a way I could be proud of.’ He turned back to face her resolutely. ‘And so it continues even now, as you’ve undoubtedly seen. Which is why I am here.’

Ana met his gaze levelly. ‘You have something to ask me.’

‘Yes.’ Bernardo took a breath and gestured to the wine he’d poured, glinting in their crystal goblets. ‘You have tasted my own vintage, Ana, and as an experienced vintner you know it is good. Vittorio is determined never to let me have any control or authority in Cazlevara Wines. God knows, I can understand it. I have not proven myself worthy. I have done things I regret, even as a grown man. But I cannot live like this, under my brother’s thumb. Everything is a grudging favour from him. It wears me down to nothing. And to know he would never market this vintage simply because it is mine—’

‘Surely Vittorio wouldn’t be so unreasonable,’ Ana interjected. ‘He is a man of business, after all.’ How well she knew it.

‘When it comes to me and my mother, he is blind,’ Bernardo stated flatly. ‘Blind and bitter, and I can hardly blame him.’

‘So what are you asking of me?’

‘You’ve done some experimenting with hybrids, yes?’

‘A little—’

‘If you passed this wine off as your own creation, he would accept it.’

‘And I would take the credit?’

Bernardo lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. ‘That does not matter so much to me. It cannot.’

Ana stared at Vittorio’s brother, saw the weary resignation on his pale face. She had no doubt that he’d been petted and spoiled as a child, and he’d made his brother’s life miserable—more miserable than it already was—well into young adulthood. Yet now she saw a man who was over thirty and resigned never to prove himself, never to have the satisfaction of excelling in a job he was created to do. The injustice and sorrow of it twisted her heart.

‘I will not take credit for your own hard work, Bernardo.’ He nodded slowly, accepting, his mouth pulled downwards. ‘This wine is excellent, and you deserve to be known as its creator.’ Ana took a breath. ‘So you can either market it under the Viale label or, as I’m sure would be much more satisfying, under the Cazlevara one. This bitter feud between you and Vittorio must end. Perhaps, if he sees how well you have done, he will be convinced.’

Bernardo leaned forward. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Why don’t you prepare to market the vintage? Vittorio has given me authority over the vineyards while he is gone.’ Ana knew her authority was more perfunctory than anything else; he hardly expected her to change things, or implement strategies such as the one she was suggesting. ‘I can arrange a meeting with some merchants in Milan. Start there, and see what happens. By the time Vittorio comes home, God willing, you will have something to show him.’ And, Ana added silently, God willing, Vittorio wouldn’t be too angry with her. God willing, this feud would finally end and their marriage could continue, grow, work. If he loved her—and she was desperate now to believe he did—his anger would not rule the day.

His love would.

Hope had lit Bernardo’s eyes, erasing the resigned lines from his face. He looked younger, happier already. ‘What you are doing is dangerous, Ana. Vittorio might be furious. In fact, I know he will be.’

‘This feud must end,’ Ana said firmly. ‘It is the only way forward for any of us. I am not biased by childhood slights the way he is. And I’m sure,’ she added with more confidence than she felt, ‘my husband will see reason once I have spoken to him.’

It had been a long, hard week, courting the South American merchants. They wanted to rely on their own wines; they were dubious of a European import. Yet, finally, with honeyed words and persuasive arguments, meetings and dinners and tastings, Vittorio had convinced them.

Now he was home and eager—desperate—to see Ana. As his limo pulled up to the castle, Vittorio nearly laughed at himself. He was acting like a besotted boy. He
was
besotted, utterly in love with his wife, and it had taken a week apart to realize just what he was feeling.

Love.

He loved Ana, and he’d felt it in every agonising second he’d spent apart from her, when he’d kept looking for her, even though he knew she was thousands of miles away. He’d felt it when he’d reached for her at night, and both his body and heart had ached when his arms remained empty. It didn’t even surprise him, this new-found love; it simply felt too right. He felt completed, whole, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d been missing—in and of himself—until he knew that sense of fulfilment, of rightness, caused by loving Ana.

He knew she loved him. He knew it, he’d seen it in her eyes and felt it in her body, yet it still filled him with wonder and incredulous joy. How could he have been so blind to think he didn’t want this, didn’t need it? Now he could not imagine life without it, without Ana. The very thought left him cold and despairing. But now he didn’t despair; now he felt hope. Wonderful, miraculous hope. And he couldn’t wait to tell Ana.