The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

They made it with seconds to spare. Wrenching and horrible though it was while it lasted, vomiting seemed to ease the stabbing ferocity of the pain just a little.

After rinsing out her mouth and splashing cold water on her face, Arlene lay down on the bed again and managed a feeble smile. “Don’t look so worried. I promise not to pull a repeat performance.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Gail said, crossing to peer through the peephole as a knock came at the door. “You just took ten years off my life. Now lie still and look pale and interesting. Your Sir Galahad’s back, and he’s not alone.”

“How is she?” Domenico inquired, the minute he set foot in the room.

“About the same,” Gail told him. “But she threw up while you were gone.”

Oh, please! Arlene whimpered silently. Haven’t I suffered enough indignity for one day, without your sharing that with him?

“Then it’s as well I summoned professional help. This is Dr. Zaccardo,” he added, as a middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair advanced to her bedside.

“It is as you suspected.” After a brief examination and a few pertinent questions, the doctor stepped back from the bed and nodded so energetically at the other two that Arlene shuddered inside. “I will leave this medication with you,” he continued, reaching into his medical bag for a small bottle. “See, please, that she takes two tablets immediately and, if necessary, two more at six, this evening. However, treatment now is such that a migraine is usually dispelled in a matter of hours. If she shows no improvement by nightfall, you will contact me, but I do not expect to hear from you. By tomorrow, she will be herself again. Arrivederci, signor, signorine.”

With that, he was gone as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Arlene to deal only with Domenico who didn’t seem disposed to leave with equal dispatch. Instead while Gail brought her two pills and a glass of water, he went to the desk and wrote something on the pad of paper supplied by the hotel.

“If you’re concerned at all, you can reach me at any of these numbers, and this one is Dr. Zaccardo’s,” he told Gail. “Regardless, please call me this evening and let me know how she’s doing.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“I want to hear from you anyway. You’ll be staying with her, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Until later, then.”

The next time Arlene was aware of her surroundings, the room was completely dark except for the soft glow from a lamp next to the armchair by the window, where Gail sat reading.

Cautiously Arlene blinked. Dared to turn her head on the pillow. And let out a slow breath of relief. No flashing lights before her eyes. No stabbing pain above her left temple. Nothing, in fact, but a cool, delicious lassitude—and a gorgeous bouquet of pink roses on the coffee table, some distance away.

“You’re awake!” Gail exclaimed softly, setting down her book and coming to the bed. “How’re you feeling, sweetie?”

“Better,” she said. “Much better. What time is it?”

“Just after eight. You slept for over six hours. Do you need more medication?”

She sat up carefully. “I don’t think so. But I’d love some water.”

“Sure.” Gail plumped her pillows, then filled a glass from the carafe on the desk.

Arlene sipped it slowly, letting the slivers of ice linger a moment on her tongue, then slide down her throat.

“Well?” Gail watched her anxiously.

“So far, so good.” She indicated the roses. “They’re lovely, Gail, but you should’ve saved your money. I’m not going to die, after all.”

“Oh, they’re not from me! He sent them. They arrived a couple of hours ago. Here, see for yourself.” She handed over a card, signed simply Domenico. “Not long on sentiment, is he?”

“Apparently not.” Nevertheless, a sweet, ridiculous pleasure sang through Arlene’s blood that he’d cared enough to send her flowers in the first place.

“Pretty good at dishing out orders, though. I suppose I’d better give him a call and let him know you’re feeling better.”

She retrieved the notepad from the desk, punched in one of the numbers he’d written down, and almost immediately began, “Hi, it’s Gail Weaver…. Yes, I know what time it is…. Well I did, as soon as she woke up…Just now…Well, I will, if you’ll stop interrupting and let me finish a sentence…! No, she says she doesn’t need them…. Because she’s a grown woman, Mr. Silvaggio de Whatever, which means she, and not you, gets to decide what she puts in her mouth…. I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

She held the phone at arm’s length. “Do you feel up to talking to his lordship, Arlene?” she inquired, loud enough for half the people in the hotel to hear.

Arlene nodded, unable to keep a straight face. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, she wondered.

“Hello, Domenico,” she said, picking up the handset on the bedside table.

“I hear you’re recovered.” Seductive baritone verging on bass, his voice stroked sinfully against her ear and vibrated the length of her body. “I’m greatly relieved.”

“Thank you, both for your concern and for the flowers. If a woman has to suffer a migraine, waking up to pink roses does make it a little easier to bear.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

A pause hummed along the line, which she took to mean the conversation was at an end. “Well, I’ll say good night, then—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “Arlene, I blame myself for what happened today. Expecting you to work as long as others who are used to our climate was unforgivable of me, and I apologize.”

“There’s no need. You heard my friend Gail, a moment ago. I’m a grown woman. I could, and should have spoken sooner. As it was, I put you to a great deal of trouble at a time when you’ve got your hands full with the harvest. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, and won’t be returning to the vineyard?”

“Of course not. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight—at least, I will unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a purr. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

CHAPTER THREE

DESPITE her objections, Arlene spent the next four days in Domenico’s office. With thick, whitewashed plaster walls, stone floor, recessed windows and heavy beamed ceiling, it served both as a business center and a boardroom. At one end of the vast space stood a large desk, filing cabinets, and high-tech computer station and communications system, but she spent most of her time at the other end, seated beside him in comfortable club chairs at a handsome conference table.

“You’re coddling me,” she accused him, when he told her she wouldn’t be helping with the harvest again. “You think I don’t have what it takes to handle the job.”

“On the contrary, I’m trying to give you as broad a base of information as possible in the short time at my disposal so that, when you take over your own property, you’ll have a better idea of what your priorities should be. I suggest you let me decide the best way to go about doing that.”

So it was that, with the door closed on the bustle of activity taking place outside, she studied slide shows illustrating various irrigation methods, ideal sun exposure, elevations, climate and soil conditions for growing grapes. She learned about different varietals and the importance of choosing those best suited to her particular location, as well as determining the trellising system to support them.

Domenico drew up spreadsheets itemizing general expenditures, and a calendar outlining a typical work year in a vineyard. He supplied her with catalogs and names of reputable companies she could call on when it came time to buy seedlings and equipment. Recommended videos she’d find helpful, online courses she could take, and offered advice on the kind of help she should hire.

Just when she thought she’d never begin to assimilate the mountain of facts he threw at her, he’d call a break and they’d help themselves from the thermos of coffee, which always waited on the serving bar separating the two halves of the room. Then it was back to work until around one o’clock, when the same van that delivered lunch to the field workers, stopped by, and the driver brought in a covered tray for the two of them. Unlike the food prepared for the pickers, though, hers and Domenico’s was more elaborate and served on colorful porcelain, with linen napkins and crested silverware.

On the fifth day, he took her back to the fields and showed her how to use a refractometer to measure the sugar content of the grapes. “One drop of juice is all you need for an immediate digital read-out,” he explained, demonstrating. “Good wine is calibrated at a sugar level of 22BRIX.”

“Bricks?”

“B-R-I-X,” he amended, spelling it out for her.