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He knew. She wasn’t sure how he knew she’d changed her mind about leaving, but she was positive he did. She ate a pastry before she said, ‘Actually, I shan’t need a car today after all. I’ve told Sophia I’ll at least think about staying for a bit and talk to her later. I’ll phone and postpone delivery.’
‘Really?’ The grey eyes opened wider in simulated surprise.
Yes, really, Mr Know-All. ‘But I’ve made no promises.’
‘Of course not.’ It was soothing. And irritating.
‘And if I do stay it can only be for a short time, until Sophia is feeling more in control.’
‘Absolutely.’ He nodded thoughtfully.
‘She is very emotional at the moment.’
‘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.
