Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

Nick lay holding her, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The sun was sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows over the room. The day was ending and, damn, he hated to see it happen. Soon, it would be time to leave here and return to the Antoninni villa. To reality.

Alessia stirred, sighed in her sleep and cuddled closer. His arms tightened around her. When she awoke, he’d tell her he’d made some decisions.

He would lend her father the money to restore the winery and the vineyard to their glory days, free of restrictions. He would not demand control of it. He’d said that in anger that was long gone.

And he wouldn’t remain here for two weeks. It was an impossibility. He’d really known it when he’d said it but, again, anger had overrun common sense. He had commitments in New York. Meetings. Clients. There was no way to ignore any of it.

So, no, he wouldn’t stay….

But he’d come back.

He’d make that very clear to her. Not next weekend—now that he thought about it, he had a trip to Chicago scheduled. And not the weekend after. There was something in his calendar about an appointment in Beijing. But he’d come back….

The muscle in his jaw knotted.

Planning ahead put a different spin on things. It made things complicated. Made them more serious.

And as much as he—as he liked Alessia, this wasn’t serious. Intense, sure. But serious…?

Nick frowned. Why think about that now? He was here and so was she, lying warm and soft against him. Her hair smelled of sunshine, her skin of a perfume all her own.

His body hardened.

He wanted her again.

He drew her nearer, brushed his mouth lightly over hers, and she stirred.

“Mmm,” she sighed.

“Mmm, indeed,” he whispered and when she opened her eyes and smiled, he gave up thinking altogether and lost himself in her arms again.

Hours went by.

They slept. Showered. Had espresso on a broad terrace overlooking the olive groves and by then, it was too late to go back to the Antoninni winery.

And, really, what was the rush?

Nick had figured on flying back to New York tomorrow morning, but he could just as easily leave in the afternoon. No way was he going to risk spending hours stuck at an airport this time and since the Orsini plane was in use by one of his brothers—he’d phoned and checked—he’d be using a chartered flight. One of the advantages of renting a private plane was that it flew at your convenience, not that of others.

He made a quick call to the Realtor and arranged to keep the villa for another night.

The cook produced a meal as good as any in a five-star restaurant. Soup. Salad. Pasta. Fish. A chocolate gelato that made Alessia lick her lips in a way that meant Nick just had to taste the rich ice cream, but on her tongue, not his. The butler produced a bottle of red wine; apparently, the guy recognized la principessa as a representative of the famous Antoninni Vineyards and solemnly handed her the cork. Equally solemnly, she sniffed it, then sniffed the scant inch of wine he poured, tasted it, savored it, thought about it…

And burst out laughing at the look on Nick’s face, which changed her from wine snob into gorgeous woman in a heartbeat, and made him lean across the candlelit table to steal a wine-flavored kiss and to hell with the butler watching.

“Tell me about New York,” she said, over espresso.

“Haven’t you ever been there?”

“Oh, yes. Many times.” She looked at him and smiled. “I want you to tell me about your New York. The places that are special to you.”

Nick obliged.

He told her about a museum called the Cloisters, in upper Manhattan. The narrow streets of Soho, at the other end of the island. The saloon he and his brothers had bought there, years back, to keep it from being turned into a cocktail lounge.

That had made her laugh. “You said ‘cocktail lounge’ as if it were a curse.”

“Turning an honest-to-God bar into a place where people order drinks you have to make with a blender is a curse,” he said, and this time it was Alessia who leaned across the table and stole a kiss.