Saved by the CEO(5)

"How are you getting back? Do you want me to come back for you?"

"No need. I'll hop the wall. There's a low spot," he added when the  student frowned. "The Amatuccis and the Bertonellis have been cutting  back and forth through these properties for years." At least this  Amatucci had. His brother and sister had found other ways to escape.

Once Mario's taillights disappeared in the dust, Nico shouldered his bag  and headed south. Above him, the sun lit a cloudless blue sky. The air  was ripe with fruit and olives, and if the breeze hit just right, you  could catch the faint undertone of lavender. Another perfect day, he  thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He was by himself, walking the terraced hill. Back when he was a little  boy, these fields had been filled with workers. He remembered the first  time he ventured through the archway that divided the properties, a  stressed-out, scared boy looking for a place where doors didn't slam and  voices were calm. Stepping into the fields of Comparino had been like  finding paradise. There was a tranquility in the steady tick-tick-tick  of the sprinkler, the low hum of the insects. And it never changed. Oh,  there were storms and blights. Natural disasters that caused temporary  disruption, but no matter what, Nico knew that come summer, the sounds  would be there. Grapes would grow and wine would get made the same as it  had for hundreds of years. How he loved the predictability; so unlike  the world on his side of the arch, where he never knew from one day to  the next whether his parents were together or apart.

Such is the price of grand passion, Carlos said once, after one of his  parents' explosive breakups. It's either sun or storm. No in between.

Nico wouldn't know. His passion didn't run that deep.

The vines in the south garden had grown thick and tangled with neglect.  Left unmolested, insects had nibbled holes in the leaves. Ignoring the  bee buzzing near his ear, Nico knelt in the shade. Using his utility  knife, he churned the hardened topcoat, unearthing the moist soil  beneath. Then he carefully shoveled several inches of the rich black  dirt into collection jars. He was wiping the residue on his jeans when a  flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He smiled. Part of the  reason he'd picked this morning to test the soil was because the  southern fields abutted the verandah. This time of morning, Louisa would  be having breakfast outside, the way she always did, and while she  might be avoiding him, she wouldn't be able to resist spying on what he  was doing. Pretending to study the overgrown rose bush marking the end  of the row, he kept his back to her. "Careful, bella mia," he said,  breaking into English, "people might think you are interested in what I  am doing."                       
       
           



       

"I'm always interested in what people do on my property," came the deliciously haughty reply.

Slowly, he turned around. Louisa stood at the railing, a mug cradled  between her palms. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed in  jeans and a soft flowing shirt. She hadn't done her hair yet, though.  Instead of being pulled tight in her signature severe hairstyle, the  strands hung long and loose around her shoulders. If she knew that was  how Nico preferred she wear it, she'd no doubt tie it back tighter than  ever.

"Do you plan to scrutinize your hotel guests with the same intensity?"

The mention of the hotel was ignored. "I was out here having breakfast. You're the one who crossed into my field of vision."

Apparently they were also going to ignore the fact she'd been watching  him earlier. At least she'd answered him. Did that mean they were back  on speaking terms?

Only one way to find out. "Breakfast, you say. I don't suppose there is  enough coffee for two?" When she didn't immediately answer, he grabbed  the terrace balustrades to haul himself up and over the wall.

"I thought you despised American coffee."

"It's growing on me. Like a lot of American things," he added with a smile.

He nodded his head toward the bistro table that held the rest of her  meal, including a tall thermal carafe. "Should I drink from the  container?"

"Please don't. I'll get you a cup."

She didn't ask him to leave. Did that mean she was thawing again?

"You know that you are going to have to learn how to make a proper  espresso if you plan to open a hotel," he said, following her inside.

"I didn't realize you were also an expert on hotel management."

"No, just an expert on being Italian."

As they passed through the glass doors into the room that had been the  piano nobile, he instinctively paused. "I'll wait here." When Louisa  frowned over her shoulder, he lifted his dusty work boot. If Carlos had  been alive, he would have walked across the floor without a second  thought, but Louisa seemed more the clean and orderly type. The last  thing he wanted was to ruin their fragile accord by tracking dirt across  the clean terracotta tiles. The gesture must have been appreciated  because she nodded rather than arguing the point. "I'll be right back."

The palazzo looked good. Louisa had accomplished a lot over the past few  months. The dated furniture had been replaced by comfortable modern  pieces but the Old World elegance remained. The intricate coffered  ceiling and carved archways gleamed they were so clean. Hard to believe  it was the same property. Carlos had never seemed to care about his  living conditions, especially after his wife died. And then, of course,  there were the years it had sat unclaimed. If Nico hadn't kept an eye on  the property, Carlos's legacy would have fallen into even greater  shambles.

Louisa never did say why she'd ignored the property for so long. He  asked her once, but she told him it was none of his business. And now,  after years of neglecting her inheritance, she was breaking her back  attempting to return the palazzo to its former glory.

His American was definitely a confusing and complicated woman.

"If you want pastry, you'll have to go home," Louisa said when she returned. "Today is market day."

"Coffee is fine. Thank you." It didn't escape him that she held the cup  at arm's length, keeping a healthy distance. Things might be warmer  between them, but not completely thawed.

"I'd offer milk, but I know you prefer it black."

"I'm flattered you remember."

"Hard to forget black coffee." She brushed past him, leaving behind a soft memory of Chanel.

"May I ask what you were doing digging in the dirt?"

"Taking soil samples."

"Why?"

For a chance to talk with you. "To determine what needs to be done to  make the dirt suitable for new vines." Depending upon the soil levels,  he planned to recultivate the field, with canaiolo or cabernet  sauvignon, if he was feeling untraditional. "Since it will take a few  years before the plants yield a usable harvest, I want to replant sooner  rather than later."

"Is that so?" She tossed him a cryptic look before turning to the hills. "Funny. I don't remember selling you the property."

She had to be joking. She was going to claim sovereignty now? "That's  funny, because I don't remember you complaining about my maintaining it  on your behalf."

"On my behalf and to your benefit. Or are you going to tell me you didn't double your vineyard without paying a penny?"                       
       
           



       

"No," he replied with a shrug. "Why deny the truth?" He had benefited  from using Carlos's land. Carlos would have wanted as much. "You chose  to stay away, and I saw no sense in letting good land go to waste."

"I didn't choose, I..." Whatever she was going to say was swept aside by  a deep breath. "Regardless, that doesn't give you the right to do what  you want. No matter how good you are at it," she muttered into her cup.

"Good at vineyard management or doing what I want?" Her side eye gave  him his answer. "Fine. You're the owner. If you don't want to  recultivate, what would you like to do with your neglected vineyards?"

"I'll let you know," she said, jutting her chin for maximum haughtiness.

They both knew he would replant; she was being stubborn for  stubbornness' sake. He wondered if she knew how attractive she looked  when she was being argumentative. Maybe that was why he enjoyed pushing  her buttons. Like a person with a stick poking at a hornet's nest and  getting off on the risk, provoking her to annoyance had excitement  curling low in his stomach. And damn if it wasn't easy to push her  buttons. Seemed as though all he had to do was breathe and her eyes were  flashing.

Those eyes were flashing brightly at the moment. Reminding him of how she'd looked right after they kissed.