The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,17

a little smile before he nodded and went to push a button hidden discreetly by the door. Within minutes another servant—this time a man, some kind of butler—appeared at the doorway, silent and waiting.

‘Mario, two whiskies please.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Ana selected her cue and carefully chalked the end. She studied the table with its three balls: two cue balls, one white, one yellow and a red object ball. Vittorio was setting up the castle in the middle of the table: five skittles, four white, one red, made into a cross. The object of the game was simple: you wanted to knock your opponent’s ball into the skittles for points, or have it hit the red object ball. Her father liked to say it was a grown-up game of marbles.

‘So where did you learn to play stecca?’ Vittorio asked as he stepped back from the table.

‘My father. After my mother died, it was a way for us to spend time together.’

‘How touching,’ he murmured, and Ana knew he meant it. He sounded almost sad.

‘And I suppose your father taught you?’ she asked. ‘Or did you play with your brother?’ She leaned over the table and practised a shot, the cue stick smooth and supple under her hands.

‘Just my father.’

Ana stepped back, letting the cue stick rest on the floor. ‘Would you like to go first?’

Vittorio widened his eyes in mock horror. ‘Would a gentleman ever go first? I think not!’

Ana gave a little laugh and shrugged. ‘I just wanted to give you the advantage. I warned you I was good.’

Vittorio threw his head back and let out a loud laugh; the sight of the long brown column of his throat, the muscles working, made something plunge deep inside Ana and then flare up again in need. Suddenly her hands were slippery on the cue stick and her mouth was dry. She was conscious of the way her heart had started beating with slow, deliberate thuds that seemed to rock her whole body. ‘And I told you I was good too, as I remember.’

‘Then we’ll just have to see who is better,’ Ana returned pertly, smiling a little bit as if she was relaxed, as if her body wasn’t thrumming like a violin Vittorio had just played with a few words and a laugh.

The servant entered quietly with a tray carrying two tumblers, a bottle of Pellegrino and another bottle of very good, very old single malt whisky. Ana swallowed dryly. She’d only said she wanted whisky because she’d known what Vittorio was up to; she’d felt reckless and defiant and whisky seemed like the kind of drink men drank when they were playing a business games of billiards.

She, however, didn’t drink it. She had a few sips with her father every now and then, but the thought of taking a whole tumbler with Vittorio made her nervous. She was a notorious lightweight—especially for a winemaker—and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of him. Especially not with this desire—so treacherous, so overwhelming, so new—still warring within her, making her feel languorous and anxious at varying turns.

‘So,’ Vittorio said as he reached for the whisky, ‘do you take yours neat or with a little water?’

Water sounded like a good idea, a way to weaken the alcohol. ‘Pellegrino, please.’

‘As you wish.’ He took his neat, Ana saw, accepting her tumbler with numb fingers. Vittorio smiled and raised his glass and she did likewise. They both sipped, and Ana managed not to choke as the whisky—barely diluted by water—burned down her throat.

‘Now, please,’ Vittorio said, sweeping his arm in an elegant arc. ‘Ladies first.’

Ana nodded and set her glass aside. She lined up her first shot, leaning over the table, nervous and shy as Vittorio watched blandly. Focus, she told herself. Focus on the game, focus on the business. Yet that thought—and its following one, marriage—made her hands turn shaky and the shot went wide.

Vittorio clicked his tongue. ‘Pity.’

He was teasing her, Ana knew, but she ground her teeth anyway. She hated to lose. It was one of the reasons she was so good at stecca; she’d spent hours practising so she could best her father at the game, which she hadn’t done until she was fifteen. It had been five years of practice and waiting.

She stepped back from the table and took another sip of whisky as Vittorio lined up his shot. ‘So why do you want to marry me?’ she asked, her tone one of casual interest, just as