The Bride's Awakening (2 page)

Stupid. Fanciful. Wishful thinking, even. Vittorio could have anyone he wanted. Why on earth would he bother with her for a moment?

And yet, for some reason, he
had
.

Anamaria’s cheeks burned and she took a hasty sip of wine, barely tasting the superb vintage—she was, ironically, drinking one of Cazlevara’s own. It seemed, she acknowledged bleakly, far more likely that he’d been mocking her. Amusing himself with a little easy flattery of a woman who would surely only lap it up gratefully. She knew the type. She’d dealt before with men
who treated her with condescending affection, and acted surprised when they were rebuffed. Yet Vittorio hadn’t been surprised by her rebuff—he’d been furious.

Anamaria’s lips curved into a smile.
Good.

She knew very little about Vittorio. She knew the facts, of course. He was the richest man in Veneto, as well as a Count. His winery—the region’s best—had been run by the Cazlevaras for hundreds of years. In comparison, her own family’s three hundred year heritage seemed paltry.

His father had died when he was a teenager; she, along with several thousand others, had been at the memorial service at San Marco in Venice. The funeral had been a quiet family affair at the Cazlevara estate. As soon as he reached his majority, he’d gone travelling—drumming up more business for the winery—and hardly ever came home. He’d been more or less absent—gone—for nearly fifteen years. Anamaria could only imagine that a man like Vittorio needed more entertainment than the rolling hills and ancient vineyards Veneto could provide.

She pictured him now, remembering how he’d looked at her from those gleaming onyx eyes. He was a beautiful man, but in a hard way. Those high, sharp cheekbones seemed almost cruel—at least they did when his eyes were narrowed in such an assessing manner, his mouth pursed in telling disdain before he’d offered her such a false smile.

Yet, even as she considered how she’d seen him only a few moments ago, another memory rose up and swamped her senses. The only real memory she had of Vittorio Cazlevara. The memory that had made her smile when she’d seen him again—smile with hope and even, pathetically, with joy.

It had been at her mother’s funeral. November, cold and wet. She’d been thirteen and hadn’t grown into her body yet, all awkward angles, her limbs seeming to fly out of their own accord. She’d stood by the graveside, her hand smeared with the
clump of muddy dirt she’d been asked to throw on her mother’s casket. It had landed with a horrible thunk and she’d let out an inadvertent cry, the sound of a wounded animal.

As the mourners had filed out, Vittorio—he must have been around twenty years old then—had paused near her. It was only later that she’d wondered why he’d come at all; their families were acquaintances, nothing more. She hadn’t registered the tall, dark presence for a moment; she’d been too shrouded in her own pall of grief. Then she’d looked up and those eyes—those beautiful eyes, dark with compassion—had met hers. He’d touched her cheek with his thumb, where a tear still sparkled.

‘It’s all right to be sad,
rondinella
,’—swallow—he’d said, softly enough so only she could hear. ‘It’s all right to cry.’ She’d stared at him dumbly, his thumb still warm against her chilled cheek. He smiled, so sadly. ‘But you know where your mother is now, don’t you?’ She shook her head, not wanting to hear some paltry platitude about how Emily Viale was happy now, watching her daughter from some celestial cloud. He took his thumb, damp with her tears, and touched it to his breastbone. ‘In here.
Tua cuore.
’ Your heart. And with another sad, fleeting smile, he had moved away.

She’d known then that he’d lost his father a few years before. Even so, she hadn’t realized another person could understand her so perfectly. How someone—a stranger—had been able to say exactly the right thing. How later, when she wept scalding tears into her pillow, wept until she felt she’d be sick from it and her mind and body and heart all felt wrung, wasted, she’d remember his words.

It’s all right to cry.

He’d helped her to grieve. And when the pain had, if not stopped, then at least lessened, she’d wanted to tell him that. She’d wanted to say thank you, and she supposed she’d wanted to see if he still understood her. Understood her more, even, than
before. And she’d wanted to discover if she, perhaps, understood him too. A ridiculous notion, when that passing comment was the only conversation they’d ever really shared.

Over the years, she’d almost—almost—forgotten about Vittorio’s words at her mother’s graveside. Yet in that second when she’d seen him again, every frail, childish hope had leapt to life within her and she’d thought—she’d actually
believed
—that he remembered. That it had meant something.

Her pathetic foolishness, even if only for a second, annoyed her. She wasn’t romantic or a dreamer; any dreams of romance—love, even—she’d once entertained as a child had died out years ago, doused by the hard reality of boarding school, when she’d been a picked-on pigeon among swans. Ana’s mouth twisted cynically. Perhaps not a pigeon, but a swallow, a plain and unprepossessing bird, after all.

They’d flickered briefly back to life in her university days, enough so that she had been willing to take a risk with Roberto.

That
had been a mistake.

And, just now, the moment Vittorio Ralfino’s mouth had tightened in disdain and then uttered words Anamaria knew to be false…the last faint, frail hope she hadn’t even known she’d still possessed had flickered out completely. Mockery or lies. She didn’t know which. It hardly mattered.

Anamaria took another sip of wine and turned to smile at another winemaker—Busato, a man in his sixties with hair like cotton wool and a smile as kind as that of
Babbo Natale
. As one of the few female winemakers in the room, she appreciated his kindness, as well as his respect. And, she told herself firmly, she would dismiss Vittorio Cazlevara completely from her mind, as he had undoubtedly dismissed her from his. A few words exchanged nearly seventeen years ago hardly mattered now. She wouldn’t be surprised if Vittorio didn’t remember them; it certainly shouldn’t
hurt
. He’d merely been offering her a few pleasantries,
scraps tossed from his opulent table, no doubt, and she vowed not to give them a second thought.

A light gleamed in one of the downstairs windows of Villa Rosso as she headed up the curving drive. Her father was waiting for her, as he always did when she went to these events; just a few years ago he would have gone with her, but now he chose to leave such things entirely to her. He claimed she needed her independence, but Anamaria suspected the socialising tired him. He was, by nature, a quiet and studious man.

‘Ana?’ His voice carried from the study as she entered the villa and slipped off her coat.

‘Yes, Papà?’

‘Tell me about the tasting. Was everyone there?’

‘Everyone important,’ she called back, entering the study with a smile, ‘except you.’

‘Bah, flattery.’ Her father sat in a deep leather armchair by the fireplace; a fire crackled in the hearth to ward off the night’s chill. A book lay forgotten in his lap and he took off his reading spectacles to look at her, his thin, lined face creasing into a smile. ‘You needn’t say such things to me.’

‘I know,’ she replied, sitting across from him and slipping off her shoes, ‘and so I should, since I was the subject of a flatterer myself tonight.’

‘Oh?’ He shut his book and laid it on the side table, next to his spectacles. ‘What do you mean?’

She hadn’t meant to mention Vittorio. She’d been trying to forget him, after all. Yet somehow he’d slipped right into their conversation before it had even started, and it couldn’t even surprise her because, really, hadn’t he been in her mind all evening?

‘The Count of Cazlevara has returned,’ she explained lightly. ‘He made an appearance tonight. Did you know he was back?’

‘Yes,’ Enrico said after a moment and, to Ana’s surprise, he sounded both thoughtful and guarded. ‘I did.’

‘Really?’ She raised her eyebrows, tucking her feet under her as she settled deeper into the armchair of worn, butter-soft leather. ‘You never told me.’ She couldn’t quite keep the faint note of reproach from her voice.

Her father hesitated and Ana had the distinct feeling he was hiding something from her. She wondered how she even knew it to be a possibility, when their relationship—especially in the years after her mother had died—had been so close, so open. It hadn’t always been that way, God knew, but she’d worked at it and so had he, and yet now…? Was he actually hiding something from her?

She gave a little laugh. ‘Well, Papà?’

He shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem important.’

Ana nodded, accepting, because of course it shouldn’t be important. She barely knew Vittorio. That one moment by her mother’s graveside shouldn’t even count. ‘Well, it’s late,’ she finally said, smiling. ‘I’m tired, so I think I shall go to bed.’

Ana scooped up her shoes, letting them dangle from her fingers as she walked slowly from the library through the darkened foyer and up the marble stairs that led to the second floor of the villa. She walked past darkened room after darkened room; the villa had eight bedrooms and only two were ever used. They rarely had guests.

Vittorio’s few words had unsettled her, she realized as she entered her room and began to undress for bed. They shouldn’t have—what a meaningless conversation it had been! Barely two sentences, yet they reverberated through her mind, her body, their echoes whispering provocatively to her.

She hadn’t expected to have such a reaction to the man when she’d barely spared him a thought these last years. Yet the moment he’d entered the castle, she’d been aware of him. Achingly, alarmingly,
agonizingly
aware, her body suddenly springing to life, as if it had been numb or asleep, or even dead.

She slipped on her pyjamas and let her hair out of its restraining clip.

Outside her window, the moon bathed the meadows in silver and she could just make out the shadowy silhouettes in the vineyard that gave Villa Rosso both its name and fortune—
rosso
for the colour of the wine those grapes produced, a rich velvety red that graced many a fine table in Italy and, more recently, abroad.

Ana sat in her window seat, her legs drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees. The wind from the open window stirred her hair and cooled her cheeks—she hadn’t realized they’d been heated. Had she been blushing?

And what for? If she had any sort of social life at all, that tiny exchange with Vittorio would have meant less than nothing. Yet the hard fact was that she didn’t, and it had. She was twenty-nine years old, staring at her thirtieth birthday in just a few months, without even the breath of hope of a social life beyond the winemaking events and tastings she went to, mostly populated by men twice her age. Not exactly husband material.

And was she even looking for a husband? Ana asked herself sharply. She’d given up that kind of dream years ago, when it had been pathetically, painfully obvious that men were not interested in her. She’d chosen to fill her life with business, friends and family—her father, at least—rather than pursue romance—love—that had, over the years, always seemed to pass her by. She’d
let
it go by, knowing those things were not for her. She’d accepted it…until tonight.

Still, she wished now that Vittorio hadn’t come back, wished his absurd flattery—false as it so obviously was—hadn’t stirred up her soul, reminded her of secret longings she’d forgotten or repressed. She’d been ignored so long—as a woman—that she’d become invisible, even to herself. She simply didn’t think of herself that way any more.

She leaned her head back against the cool stone, closing her eyes as the wind tangled her hair and rattled in the trees outside.

She wanted, she realized with a sharp pang, Vittorio Cazlevara to look at her not with disdain or disgust, but with desire. She wanted him to say the things he’d said to her tonight—and more—and mean them.

She wanted to feel like a woman. For once.

‘S
IGNORINA
V
IALE
, YOU have a visitor.’

‘I do?’ Ana looked up from the vine she’d been inspecting. It was the beginning of the growing season and the vines were covered in tiny unripened fruit, the grapes like perfect, hard little pearls.

‘Yes.’ Edoardo, one of the office assistants, looked uncomfortable—not to mention incongruous—in his immaculate suit and leather loafers. He must have been annoyed at having to tramp out to the vineyard to find her, but Ana always seemed to forget to bring her mobile. ‘It is Signor Ralfino…I mean the Count of Cazlevara.’

‘Vittorio…?’ Ana bit her lip as she saw Edoardo’s surprised look. The name had slipped out before she could stop herself, yet she was hardly on intimate terms with the Count. Why was he here? It had been only three days since she’d last seen him at the wine-tasting event and now he’d come to Villa Rosso, to her home, to find her? She felt a strange prickling along her spine, a sense of ominous yet instinctive foreboding, the way she did before a storm. Even when the sun beat down from a cloudless sky, she could tell when rain was coming. She knew when to cover the grapes from frost. It was one of the things that made her a natural—and talented—winemaker. Yet she had no idea if her instincts were right when it came to men. She’d hardly had
enough experience to find out. ‘Is he in the office?’ she asked, a bit abruptly, and Edoardo nodded.

The sun was hot on her bare head and Ana was suddenly conscious of her attire: dusty trousers and a shirt that stuck to her back. It was what she normally wore on her regular inspection of the Viale vineyards, yet she hardly expected to receive visitors in such clothing…and certainly not Vittorio.

Why was he here?

‘Thank you, Edoardo. I’ll be with him shortly.’ Disconcerted by the sudden heavy thudding of her own heart, Ana turned back to the vines, stared blindly at the clusters of tiny grapes. She waited until she heard him leave, and the rustle of vines as he passed, and then she drew in a long shuddering breath. She unstuck her shirt from her back and brushed a few sweaty strands of hair from her forehead. She was a mess. This was not how she wanted the Count of Cazlevara to see her.

Unfortunately, she had no choice. She could hardly walk the half-kilometre back to the villa to change if Vittorio was already waiting in the winery office.

She’d undoubtedly kept him waiting long enough. Vittorio Cazlevara did not, Ana acknowledged, seem like a patient man. Taking another deep breath, she tried her best to straighten her clothes—how had her shirt become so untucked and with a long streak of dirt on one sleeve?—and, throwing back her shoulders, she headed towards the office.

The long, low building with its creamy stone and terracotta tiles was as much a home to Ana as the villa was. It was a place where she felt confident and in control, queen of her domain, and that knowledge gave her strength as she entered. Here, it didn’t matter what she looked like or how she dressed. Here, she was Vittorio’s equal.

Vittorio stood by the sofa that was meant for visitors, a coffee table scattered with glossy magazines in front of it. His hands
shoved deep in his pockets, he prowled the small space with a restless energy that radiated from his powerful body. He looked like a caged panther, full of contained power, dark and vaguely threatening.

Yet why should she be threatened by him? He was just a man…but what a man. He wore an exquisite suit made of Italian silk, perfectly tailored and hugging his powerful frame—his tall frame, for he had at least four inches on her own five foot eleven. His hair was inky-dark and cut close, emphasizing those hooded onyx eyes, the slashes of his severe brows. He looked up and those knowing eyes fixed on her, making Ana realize she’d been gawping like a schoolgirl. She straightened, managing a small, cool smile.

‘Count Cazlevara. An unexpected pleasure.’

‘Vittorio, please.’ His gaze swept her in an instant, his mouth tightening in what Ana recognized as that now familiar disdain. He didn’t even realize how he gave himself away, she thought with a strange little pang of sorrow. Was he going to try some more asinine flattery on her? She braced herself, knowing, no matter what, it would hurt. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted you,’ Vittorio said, and Ana gestured to her dishevelled clothes, even managing a wry smile as if her attire was not humiliating, despite him being dressed with such exquisite care.

‘I’m afraid I was not expecting visitors. I was out in the vineyard, as you can see.’

‘How are your grapes?’

‘Growing.’ She turned away from him, surreptitiously tucking in her blouse, which seemed determined on coming untucked at every opportunity. ‘The weather has been good, thank God. May I offer you refreshment?’

He paused, and she glanced back at him. His head was cocked, and he was studying her with a thoughtful thoroughness she decided she didn’t like. ‘Yes, thank you. It is a warm day.’

Did his eyes linger on her heated face, her sticky shirt? Ana willed herself not to flush even more. If even the Count of Cazlevara was going to arrive unannounced, he would have to take her as she was. ‘Indeed. Why don’t we adjourn to the tasting room? It is more comfortable in there.’ Vittorio gave a terse little jerk of his head, and Ana led the way to the room at the back of the winery that was meant for public gatherings.

The room was light and airy, with a vaulted ceiling and large windows that let in the late morning sunshine. A few tables, made from retired oak barrels, were scattered around with high stools. Ana sat down on one of the leather sofas positioned in one corner, meant for a more intimate conversation. She sat down, smoothing her dusty trousers and offering Vittorio another smile, bright and impersonal. Safe. ‘How may I help you, Vittorio?’ She stumbled only slightly over his Christian name; she wasn’t accustomed to using it, even if she had been thinking it to herself.

He didn’t reply, instead giving her an answering smile that showed the white flash of his straight, even teeth and said, ‘You’ve done well for yourself these last years, Anamaria. The Viale label has grown in stature—not to mention price.’

‘Please call me Ana. And thank you. I’ve worked hard.’

‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers under his chin, surveying her with that knowing little smile that she now found irritated her. ‘And you’ve stayed at Villa Rosso all these years?’

She gave a little shrug, trying not to be defensive. ‘It is my home.’

‘You haven’t wanted to travel? Go to university? See a bit of the world?’

‘I’m happy where I am, Vittorio,’ Ana replied, her voice sharpening just a little bit. ‘And I did go to university. I took a degree in viticulture at the University of Padua.’

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I forgot.’ Ana almost asked him how he would have known such a thing in the first place, but she
decided to hold her tongue. ‘Your father must be very glad of your dedication and loyalty to Viale Wines—and to him, of course. You’ve lived with him all these years?’

‘Yes.’ Ana tilted her head, wondering where these seemingly innocuous comments were coming from. Why did the Count of Cazlevara care what she had been doing these last ten or fifteen years? What interest could he possibly have in Viale Wines? ‘I cannot imagine doing anything else,’ Ana said simply, for it was the truth. Viale Wines had become her life, her blood. Besides her father and her home, she had little else. Vittorio smiled, seeming pleased by her answer, and an assistant bustled in with a pitcher of iced lemon water and two frosted glasses.

‘Thank you,’ Ana murmured and, after the assistant had left, she poured two glasses and handed one to Vittorio. ‘So,’ she said when they’d both sipped silently for a moment, ‘you’re back at last from your travels abroad. To stay this time?’

‘It would seem so. I have, I realize, been gone too long.’ His mouth tightened, his eyes looking hard, and for a moment Ana was discomfited, wondering just what had brought him back to Veneto.

‘Are you glad to be back?’ she asked and his eyes, still hard with some unnamed emotion, met hers.

‘Yes.’

Ana nodded. ‘Still, it must have been nice to see so many places.’ Could she sound more inane? She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palms on her trousers. She wanted to demand to know why he was here, what he wanted from her. This was the second time he’d sought her out, and she could not fathom why he was doing so. Why he would
want
to.

‘It was.’ He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet clink. ‘And it was, of course, business.’

‘Yes.’

Vittorio still gazed at her in that assessing manner, saying nothing. His silence unnerved her, made her edgy and a little desperate.
She wasn’t used to feeling so at odds; she’d become accustomed to being in control of her own life, especially here at the winery, her own little kingdom.

‘Sometimes business and pleasure mix, however,’ he finally said, his words seeming heavy with meaning, and Ana gave a little nod and smile although she hardly knew what he was saying, or why.

‘Indeed.’ Her nerves now taut and starting to fray, she forced another little laugh and said, ‘I must confess, Vittorio, I don’t know why you’re here. It is good to have you back in Veneto, of course, but if I am to be frank, we’ve had very little to do with one another.’ There. It was said. If she’d been rude, Ana didn’t care; his presence, so confident—arrogant—and supremely male, unsettled her. It made her heart jump and her palms sweat and, worst of all, it made some sweet, nameless longing rise up in her like a hungry tide. She swallowed and kept her gaze firmly on him.

He leaned forward to take his glass once more, and the scent of his cologne—something faintly musky—wafted over her. Inadvertently, instinctively, she pressed back against the sofa cushions. He lifted his gaze to meet hers once more, yet she could tell nothing from those onyx eyes. They were as blank as polished marble. ‘Actually, Ana, I came to ask you to dinner.’

The words seemed to fall into the stillness of the room, and of her heart. Did he mean a date? she wondered incredulously, even as a sense of sudden fierce pleasure rushed through her. A
date
. When was the last time she’d been on one of those, and with a man like Vittorio Ralfino? She felt her cheeks heat—how easily she gave herself away—and to cover her confusion, she reached for her glass and took a sip.

‘I see I’ve surprised you.’

‘Yes.’ She pressed the glass against her hot cheek, lifting her gaze to smile wryly at him. ‘We have not seen each other in years and, in any case—’ She stopped, biting her lip, pulling it between
her teeth and nipping it hard enough to draw a drop of blood. She tasted it on her tongue, hard and metallic. Vittorio smiled, his eyes on her mouth, and Ana knew he’d witnessed that traitorous little display of her own uncertainty.

‘In any case?’ he prompted gently.

She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of woman—’ She stopped again, wishing she had not revealed so much. She didn’t know how
not
to; she was terrible at lying, or even dissembling. She could only speak her heart, always had. It had never been dangerous before.

And it had been so long—forever—since a man had asked her out. Since she’d even
hoped
a man might ask her out.

‘The kind of woman I take out to dinner?’ Vittorio filled in. ‘But how would you know what kind of woman I take out to dinner?’

‘I don’t,’ Ana said quickly, too quickly. ‘But I know—’ She stopped again. There was no way of saving herself or her pride, it seemed. ‘I am surprised, that’s all,’ she finally said, and pressed her lips tightly together to keep from revealing anything more.

Vittorio didn’t answer, and Ana couldn’t tell a thing from his expression. Surprisingly, she found she was not blushing now; instead, she felt cold and lifeless. This—this feeling of terrible numbness—was why she’d stopped looking for a man, for love. It hurt too much.

She put her glass back down on the table. Memories rushed in to fill the blank spaces in her mind and heart. The cruel laughter of the girls at boarding school, the interminable school dances where she’d clutched a glass of lukewarm punch and tried to make herself invisible. It hadn’t been hard to do; no one had wanted to see her anyway.

Stupid schoolgirl memories, yet how they still hurt. How another man’s attention—and his disdain—brought it all back.

‘I see,’ he said finally and, on opening her eyes, Ana felt he saw too much. The last thing she wanted was his pity. ‘Actually,’
Vittorio continued, watching her carefully, ‘I want to discuss a business proposition with you.’ He waited, still watching, and Ana’s eyes widened in horror. Now the blush came, firing her body from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She’d made
such
a fool of herself, assuming he was asking her out. And of course he hadn’t corrected her, she realized with a vicious little stab of fury. He’d probably enjoyed seeing her squirm, relished her awful confession.
I’m not exactly the kind of woman…
He knew just what she’d meant, and his expression told her he agreed with her. As many had before.

‘A business proposition,’ she finally repeated, the silence having gone on, awkwardly, for at least a minute. ‘Of course.’

‘It might not be the kind of business proposition you’re expecting,’ Vittorio warned with a little smile and Ana tried for an answering laugh, though inwardly she was still writhing with humiliation and remembered pain.

‘Now you have me intrigued.’

‘Good. Shall we say Friday evening?’

Ana jerked her head in acceptance. ‘Very well.’ It didn’t seem important to pretend she needed to check some schedule, that she might be busy. That she might, in fact, have a
date
. Vittorio would see right through her. He already had.

‘I’ll pick you up at Villa Rosso.’

‘I can meet you—’

‘I am a gentleman, Ana,’ Vittorio chided her wryly. ‘I shall enjoy escorting you somewhere special.’

And where exactly was somewhere special? Ana wondered. And, more alarmingly, what should she wear? Her wardrobe of businesslike trouser suits hardly seemed appropriate for a dinner date…except it wasn’t a date, had never been meant to be a date, she reminded herself fiercely. It was simply a business proposition. A trouser suit would have to do. Still, Ana was reluctant to don one. She didn’t want to look like a man; she wanted to feel
like a woman. She didn’t dare ask herself why. For over ten years—since her university days—she’d dressed and acted not purposely like a man, more like a sexless woman. A woman who wasn’t interested in fashion, or beauty, or even desire. Certainly not love. It had been safer that way; no expectations or hopes to have dashed, no one—especially herself—to disappoint. There was no earthly reason to change now. There was every reason to keep as she’d been, and stay safe.