The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,61

one of the sleepy little villages nestled in one of the region’s valleys, somewhere where they could laugh and chat over antipasti and a jug of wine.

She should not have taken him to his work place and donned her own well-worn work clothes to do it! What had she been thinking? Yet, even as she ranted at herself, Ana knew the answers. She loved the vineyards. She loved the grapes, the earth, the sun. The rich scent of soil and growing things, of life itself.

It was the place she loved most of all, and she’d wanted to share it with Vittorio.

Yet, as perspiration beaded on her brow and her boots became covered in a thin film of dust, she wondered if sharing a meal might have been the better choice. She stopped to touch a vine, its cluster of Nebbiolo grapes so perfectly proportioned. The grapes were young, firm and dusky, and this breed wouldn’t be harvested until October. She bent to inhale the grapes’ scent, closing her eyes in sensual pleasure at the beauty of the day: the wind ruffling her hair, the sun on her face, the earthy aroma all around her.

After a few seconds she opened her eyes, conscious of Vittorio’s gaze on her. His expression was inscrutable, save for the faintest flicker of a smile curling his mouth.

‘I like the smell,’ she said, a bit self-consciously. ‘I always did. When I was little, my mother found me curled under the bushes asleep.’

Vittorio had, Ana thought, a very funny look on his face now. Almost as if he were in pain. ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself very much,’ he said. His voice sounded strangely strangled.

‘It was a safe place for me,’ Ana acknowledged. ‘And, more than that—a bit of heaven.’

‘A bit of heaven,’ Vittorio repeated. He was standing surprisingly awkwardly, his hands jammed into the front pockets of his trousers, and his voice still sounded—odd.

‘Vittorio?’ Ana asked uncertainly. ‘Are you all right—?’

‘Ana.’ He cut her off, smiling now, her name coming out in what sounded like a rush of relief. ‘Come here.’

Ana didn’t know what he meant. They were standing a foot apart; where was she meant to go?

Then Vittorio took his hands out of his pockets and, in one effortless movement, he pulled her towards him and buried his head in her hair, breathing in deeply.

‘It’s the smell of your hair I love,’ he murmured. His hand had gone under the heavy mass of her hair to her neck. ‘I want you,’ Vittorio confessed raggedly, ‘so much. Come back to the castle with me. Make love to me, Ana.’

Love. Ana couldn’t keep the smile from her voice. ‘Again?’

‘You think once—or twice—is enough?’

She could hardly believe he wanted her so much. It shook her to her very bones, the heart of herself. ‘No, definitely not,’ she murmured.

‘Come back—’

‘No.’

Vittorio’s face fell in such a comical manner that Ana would have laughed if she wasn’t half-quivering with her own reawakened desire. ‘Not at the castle, Vittorio. Here.’

He stared down at the dusty ground. ‘Here?’ he repeated dubiously.

‘Yes,’ Ana said firmly, tugging on his hand, ‘here.’ Here, where he’d found her desirable—sexy—even in her work clothes and wind-tangled hair. Here, where she’d felt safe and heaven-bound all at once, and wanted to again, in Vittorio’s arms. Here, because among the grapes and the soil she was her real self, not the woman who wore fancy dresses and high heels and tried to seduce her husband with tricks she couldn’t begin to execute with any skill or ease.

Here.

And Vittorio accepted that—or perhaps he couldn’t wait any longer—for he spread his blazer, an expensive silk one that was soon covered in dust—on the ground and then lay Ana on it, her hair fanning out around her in a dark silken wave.

Vittorio touched her almost reverently, a look of awe on his face Ana had never expected to see. To know. The ground was hard and bumpy; pebbles dug into her back and the dust was gritty on her skin, but Ana didn’t care. She revelled in it, in this. In him.

Vittorio reached for the buttons of her old shirt. ‘I never thought white cotton could be so…inflaming,’ he murmured, and bent his head to the flesh he’d exposed.

And, as Ana’s hand clutched at his hair, she realized she had no idea that she could feel so inflamed, as if the very fires of passion were burning her up, turning her craving to liquid heat.

‘Vittorio…’

‘We may be lying in a field