The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,26

I am not saying that,’ Enrico said gently. ‘But it is a very good offer.’

Ana sipped her coffee, moodily acknowledging the truth of her father’s words. She’d only given voice to her own fears—that there would be no other offers. Would she rather live alone, childless, lonely—because, face it, she was—than attempt some kind of marriage with Vittorio? She didn’t know the answer. She could hardly believe she was actually asking herself the question.

‘Vittorio is a good man,’ Enrico said quietly.

‘How do you know?’ Ana challenged. ‘He’s been away for fifteen years.’

‘I knew his father. Vittorio was the apple of Arturo’s eye. Arturo was a good man too, but he was hard.’ Enrico frowned a little. ‘Without mercy.’

‘And what if Vittorio is the same?’ She remembered the steely glint in his eye and wondered just how well she knew him. Not well at all, was the obvious answer. Certainly not well enough to marry him.

And yet…he was a good man. She felt that in her bones, in a certain settling of her soul. She believed her father and, more importantly, she believed Vittorio.

It’s all right to be sad, rondinella.

‘Vittorio needs a wife to soften him,’ Enrico said with a smile.

‘I don’t want him to be my project,’ Ana protested. ‘Or for me to be his.’ She was so prickly, had been so ever since Vittorio had proposed—if you could call it proposing. The word conjured images of roses and diamond rings and declarations of undying love. Not a cold-blooded contract.

‘Of course not,’ Enrico agreed, ‘but you know, in marriage, you are each other’s projects. You don’t seek to change each other, but it is hoped that you will affect one another, shape and smooth each other’s rough edges.’

Ana made a face. ‘You make it sound like two rocks in a stream.’

‘But that’s exactly it,’ Enrico exclaimed. ‘Two rocks rubbing along together in the river of life.’

Ana let out a reluctant laugh. ‘Now, really, Papà, you are waxing far too philosophical for me. I must get to work.’ She rose from the table, kissing him again, and went to get her shoes and coat; a light spring drizzle was falling.

Once at the winery, she immersed herself in what she loved best. Business. Just like Vittorio, a sly little voice inside her mind whispered, but Ana pushed it away. She wasn’t going to think about Vittorio or marriage or any of it until noon, at least.

In fact, she barely lifted her head from the papers scattered over her desk until Edoardo knocked on her door in the late afternoon. ‘A package, Signorina Viale.’

‘A package?’ Ana blinked him into focus. ‘You mean a delivery?’

‘Not for the winery,’ Edoardo said. ‘It is marked personal. For you. It was dropped off—by the Count of Cazlevara.’

Ana stilled, her heart suddenly pounding far too fiercely. Vittorio had been here, had sent her something? Anticipation raced through her, made her dizzy with longing. Somehow she managed to nod stiffly, with apparent unconcern, and raised one hand to beckon him. ‘Bring it in, please.’

The box was white, long and narrow and tied with a satin ribbon in pale lavender. Roses, Ana thought. It must be. She felt mingled disappointment and anticipation; roses were beautiful, but when it came to flowers they were expected and a bit, well, ordinary. It didn’t take much thought to send a woman roses.

Still, she hadn’t received roses or any other flowers in years, so she opened the box with some excitement, only to discover he hadn’t sent roses at all.

He’d sent grapes.

She stared at the freshly cut vines with their cluster of new, perfect, pearl-like grapes and then bent her head to breathe in their wonderful earthy scent. There was a stiff little card nestled among the leaves. Ana picked it up and read:

A new hybrid of Vinifera and Rotundifolia, from the Americas, that I thought you’d be interested in.—V.

She flicked the card against her fingers and then, betrayingly, pressed it against her lips. It smelled fresh and faintly pungent, like the grapes. She closed her eyes. This, she realized, was much better than roses, and she had a feeling Vittorio knew it.

Was this his way of romancing her? Or simply convincing her? Showing her the benefits of such business?

Did it even matter? He’d done it; he’d known what she’d like, and Ana found she was pleased.

For the rest of the day Ana immersed herself in work, determined not to think of Vittorio or the spray of grapes that remained on her desk, in