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“Your life can be anything,bella. You can do anything. Go anywhere,” he’d said.
“You make it sound exciting,” I’d replied. “I feel unmoored and directionless.”
“Such feelings are to be expected. Your spineless turd, as you call him, cut the lines and set you adrift. Get your bearings. Set a new course. Begin a new journey.” Thumbing a dab of whipped cream from the corner of my mouth and licking it off his finger, he stared into my eyes. “For now, enjoy the wind and sun and, how do American say it, the motion of the ocean.”
He’d flirted shamelessly, eyes and attention on me every second. I’d never felt so desired…and it terrified me.
I placed the hairbrush on the vanity and inspected my reflection one more time. My skin glowed golden, thanks to our day outdoors, the sunflower-yellow of my simple wrap dress complimenting the rosy color. My hair was tied back so the hammered gold hoops I’d purchased for myself caught the light. It was a casual summer look, not particularly sexy, but underneath the dress I wore a white lace thong and matching balconette bra.
Just in case.
A knock at the door curtailed further in—tro—spection.
The fluttering in my belly could have been nerves or hunger. It was almost nine. I wasn’t accustomed to eating this late, but Alessio said it was customary. He’d promised to show me how to makescarpaccia, a traditional flatbread prepared with zucchini. Our haul from the market also included heirloom tomatoes, cherries, peaches, plums, and burrata to assemble into a salad. When Alessio discovered I’d never tasted buratta, he stared in amazement.
“Macché! How can this be so? Buratta is the food of gods, and you are a goddess, no?”
A phone call with Talley would have been helpful in calming my nerves and processing the jumble in my head, but my call had gone unanswered. I was on my own.
“Buona sera, amore mio.” Alessio bent to press a kiss to my cheek, waiting at the threshold to be invited in.
That he respected boundaries, my boundaries, was reassuring. His masculine sexuality could have been overwhelming, intimidating, but I never once felt pressured, no matter how hot his gaze or how teasing his touch.
“You look nice.” What an understatement. He’d showered and changed into dark, fitted trousers, loafers without socks, and a patterned shirt with the top three buttons undone. The bare flesh at his neck and ankles was somehow sexier than had he showed up in a Speedo. His hair fell over his forehead, and a faint scruff shadowed his jaw. How did Italians achievestyleso effortlessly?
“Are you hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, he took control of the kitchenette. “I am hungry. So very hungry.”
He leered at me over one shoulder and winked.
“How can I help?” I hovered at his elbow, realizing a second too late how provocative my simple question sounded.
He turned slightly, hip resting against the counter, eyes hooded. “I am a man of many appetites,mia dea. We start with food. You decide what other hungers will be satisfied.Dopo. Later.”
While Alessio sliced zucchini into thin slices, I poured two glasses of wine from the bottle he’d brought with him.
“That is a special vintage.” His attention remained centered on the cutting board, but his voice roughened. “Mamma prepared a batch of her special recipe for family once a year. That’s a bottle from the final…the last she prepared before…”
“You must miss her.” I examined the claret-red liquid, touched that Alessio had shared something so intimate with me. “It’s clear how much you and your father adored her.”
“I’m the only son. The only child. My parents and I were very close. It is the same for you?”
I pictured my parents—Dad with his bad comb-over and penchant for loud golf pants, Mom with her Lucille Ball-red hair and librarian glasses—and smiled. It was the same for us.
“It has been hard since Mamma’s death. Papà lives all the time in the past. He holds fast to what was. He is an old man, but he refuses to step down so that I can lead Venturi Wines. There is so much potential, but he says no to changes that must be made.”
“Must?” I could see Alessio was conflicted. His shoulders were hunched over, and a strident note underscored his words. Not anger. More like betrayal. “The changes you want to make, are they vital to the well-being of your company? Will you lose the business if you don’t make these modifications?”
“No. Venturi Wines is profitable, but there has been no growth, no innovation in decades. Papà wants everything to remain the same, but the wine industry is evolving. If we joined an export co-op, we could distribute our product around the world.”
“Listen to what you’re saying, Alessio.” I touched his shoulder lightly. “You speak of global product distribution. From what you’ve told me about your father, he doesn’t think of the business in those terms. The vineyards, the wine, this estate—this is your father’s life. Is it really so surprising that after he lost his wife, he is clinging to the old ways? He’s afraid to lose any more. It’s probably very difficult for him to have you living so far away. Change is never easy, but when it’s forced upon us, when we don’t have any say in the matter, it’s ever harder.”
He stilled, the knife poised over a rough-chopped pile of herbs. The room was silent except for the chirp of insects and Alessio’s ragged breathing.
“I am a bad son.” The admission practically strangled him. “I have been selfish and ungrateful. Worst of all, I have neglected my father.”
Oh no! My intent had not been to guilt-trip Alessio but offer a different perspective.
“Perhaps dinner together is not wise.” He laid the knife on the wooden slab, the tendons in his neck and forearms rigid with tension. “I’m ashamed to have revealed such poor character to a woman I wish only to impress.”
