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Pick her brain he did during the drive along the windy autostrada toward Siena. Commanding the powerful car along the highway’s twists and turns with a fearless abandon that made her heart pound, he asked a series of excellent questions about Luxe’s operations and mandate while at the same time managing to act as tour guide. His multitasking, expressive hand movements and excessive speed had Quinn grabbing for the door handle more than once.
“Any chance you can slow down?” she muttered after one particularly terrifying turn. “Or is that too much to ask of your playboy persona?”
His smile flashed white against his olive skin. “Too much. Driving in Italy is a blood sport. You’d be asking me to emasculate myself.”
Not a chance, she thought grimly. It wasn’t possible. Not with those mouthwateringly muscled thighs flexing beside her, drawing her attention every time he shifted gears. Or his big, beautifully tapered hands that looked as if they’d be masterful at any activity he pursued.... He was the type of ultradangerous male you wouldn’t know you were in trouble with until you were way, way gone.
She lifted her gaze to the road, to the vibrant red poppies dotting a sea of green on its edge. That was enough of that.
Quinn focused on the information Matteo was imparting about Montalcino, the town where the castello was located. It had a bloodthirsty history, warred over for decades by its powerful foreign neighbors and even her own neighboring city-states back in the days before Italy had become a nation. The castello was actually a fortress, he relayed. It had played a strategic role in the struggles between the Sienese and the invading powers.
“The cellar is actually the old dungeon where the prisoners of war were held. It’s quite a showpiece. We think it gives it great atmosphere.”
That was one way of putting it. “They actually locked people up down there?”
“Si. Some of them died.” He laughed at her horrified expression. “When my grandfather bought the castello and we renovated, we found two old skulls we keep on display.”
She recoiled. “How very macabre.”
He shrugged. “Wars happen. Have since the beginning of time.”
They swept around a turn and a magnificent stone building came into view, perched on the top of a hillside, towering over the mountainous forests that surrounded it. Quinn gasped. “Is that it?”
He nodded. “The Castello De Campo. Dates back to the Middle Ages.”
She took in the sprawling brawn of the imposing burnt-orange structure, its square turrets and tall watchtower like something out of a movie. “It’s incredible.”
Matteo pointed toward the terraced vineyards that extended from the top of the mountain to the bottom. “The De Campo estate is actually a constellation of vineyards. The different slopes and elevations of the mountain offer each varietal the optimum growing conditions. Some of the whites such as the Chardonnay, for instance, are planted further above sea level, where the nights are cool and the ripening season long, whereas the Brunellos, the king of our reds, thrive at a lower level.”
“Margarite is obsessed with your Brunello.”
“Who?”
“My head sommelier.”
“So she should be,” he murmured cockily. “We’ll have one tonight.”
She was so exhausted she might fall flat on her face if she drank anything. But Margarite would kill her if she passed up the opportunity to try the famous, lusty De Campo red.
“The scale is breathtaking,” she said to him. “How many varietals do you produce?”
“Fifteen.” He flicked her a glance. “Do you ride? I thought we would do the tour by horseback tomorrow.”
“Not well,” she admitted. She was suspicious of horses. They were big, heavy, unpredictable animals. Kind of like men. She didn’t need either of them in her life.
It was impossible not to think how much more history De Campo had than Silver Kangaroo as Matteo parked the car in front of the magnificent castello and carried her bags inside. It was everywhere. In the century-old, mature vineyards surrounding the castle, in the family crest on the building as they came in, in the third generation of winemakers producing the glorious vintages here. Silver Kangaroo was only twenty years old. Although there was something to be said for such a young winery winning so many awards in such a short amount of time, it couldn’t compare to De Campo in lineage.
Matteo led her into the magnificent tiled hallway of the west wing which was the personal residence of the De Campo family. With its cathedral ceiling and stunning frescos it was truly amazing. Like she’d walked into the home of royalty.
Matteo introduced her to Maria, the Italian housekeeper who had run the De Campo household since he was a boy, then led her up a winding staircase to a turret bedroom that took her breath away. The exposed brick walls of the castello extended into a double-arched stone wall that separated a sitting room with a fireplace from the bedroom and its huge canopied bed. The beautiful, rich fabrics covering the room cast everything in a golden, luxurious hue that might have been a royal princess’s bedroom.
It evoked a strange feeling in Quinn. She’d spent much of her life feeling like the imposter princess. Her birth father, a factory worker in Mississippi, even now worked two jobs to make ends meet for his family. She knew because she’d hired a private detective to find them and learned the real truth about her adoption. Unlike the story she’d been fed by a well-meaning Warren and Sile, it hadn’t been as simple as her mother having an affair with a married man and giving her up because of the complications of their relationship. Her mother had gone on to marry her father and they’d had another girl. Her sister.
To replace the girl they’d given away.
“Quinn?” Matteo was looking at her with a raised brow. “Everything okay?”
She blinked. “It’s stunning, thank you. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a castle.”
“I have stories.” A wry smile tipped his mouth. “You can imagine the hiding spots three industrious boys found.”
She smiled. “Some impossible to find ones, I’ll bet. Will I get to meet your parents tonight?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Antonio serves on the boards of a couple of major corporations. He’s in London right now for meetings and my mother is in Florence where she prefers to stay.”
Interesting arrangement. While her mother was alive, Warren would fly all night to get home to her. They hadn’t spent a night apart that wasn’t business. Her stomach twisted. In many ways, Sile’s tragic death at a far-too-early age had turned her father into a different man. Taken the small amount of softness Warren possessed with her, his anger at her death so raw and all-consuming.
“Does seven suit for dinner?” Matteo asked. “If you sleep after that you should be able to get into the time.”
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
“Fino a stasera. Until tonight...”
And why did even that sound sexy? She closed the door behind him and blamed it on the accent. Accents were always sexy on a man. His, particularly so.
She looked longingly at the bed. Just a couple more hours, she told herself, intending on showering first and catching up on email. But her eyelids burned from fatigue and she felt as if her body had been pummeled in a boxing match. Maybe a few minutes with her eyes closed on the high canopy bed in the beautiful, fairy-tale-ish room would refresh her enough to make it through dinner.
Help her figure out exactly how she was going to avoid the inescapable attraction she felt toward her host. Her reaction to him, she decided, curling up on the satin comforter, was probably due to the fact she hadn’t looked at a man since Julian had left. Had buried herself in work lest the humiliation of it all become simply too much to bear. She hugged the pillow to her. Quinn never intended to feel that kind of humiliation ever again. From any man. So she was missing the gene that allowed her to be truly intimate with another person.... The way she’d survived in this world, the way she’d survived as a Davis was to shield her heart. To not let herself feel.
It was easier that way. To not need anyone. And she wasn’t changing her strategy now.
* * *
Matteo knocked on the heavy wooden door of Quinn’s suite just after seven, his game plan firmly in place. Ply her with an incomparable Brunello, impress her with the history and atmosphere of De Campo over dinner in the cellar and, most importantly, find out why she’d ranked them fourth on her list.
A piece of cake, as the Americans would say.
When there was no response to his knock, he rapped again, harder. Nothing. Strange. Quinn seemed like the overly punctual type. He was knocking on the two-inch-thick door a third time when it flew open and she stood before him, bleary-eyed, dark hair flowing over her shoulders in a jumbled mass of curls.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I fell asleep.”
He wasn’t. She had the face of an angel when she wasn’t frowning. Her big green eyes had a sleepy, muted golden edge to them, an intense vulnerability he couldn’t tear his gaze from. He had the feeling this was the real Quinn Davis. The softness behind the hard edge she liked to present to the world. Unfiltered.
