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By Kate Hewitt

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Someone clapped him on the back, thrusting a glass of wine into his hand. His fingers closed around the fragile stem as a matter of instinct and he inhaled the spicy, fruity scent of a bold red. ‘You must try this. It’s Busato’s new red—he’s blended his grapes, Vinifera and Molinara. ’ Vittorio took a practised sip, swilling the rich liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. ‘Good enough,’ he pronounced, not wanting to get into a detailed discussion about the merits of mixed grapes, or whether Busato, one of the region’s smaller winemakers, was going to give Castle Cazlevara, his own winery—the region’s largest and most select—any competition.

So alive. She wasn’t used to it. ‘The Counts of Cazlevara have always lived here,’ he said simply. ‘And their families. ’ There was a sharp note to his voice, a hint of something dark and even cruel, something Ana couldn’t understand. He turned, his eyes gleaming from the light of the sconces positioned intermittently along the stone walls. ’ In a flash of insight—or perhaps just imagination—Ana could see herself living there. She pictured herself in the gracious drawing rooms, presiding over a Christmas party like the one she’d gone to as a child.

She set them down, Vittorio murmured his thanks and then she left as quietly as she had come. Ana glanced down at the paper-thin slices of prosciutto and melon. ’ They ate in silence and Ana’s nerves grew more and more taut, fraying, ready to break. She wanted to demand answers of Vittorio; she wanted to know just what this business proposition was. She wasn’t good at this, had never been good at this; she couldn’t banter or flirt, and at the moment even idle chatter seemed beyond her. It was too much, she thought with a pang.

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