The Italian's Unexpected Heir

Sylvie hoped so.

But how had Enzo figured out what she was up to? Sylvie thought she was being so stealthy, and all along he knew she was trying to sway his decision about selling the estate. So much for her secretiveness.

But maybe this was better. He knew where she stood on the sale. Why keep it a secret? If someone vocalized their opposition to the sale, perhaps he’d rethink his decision. Not that her opinion was that important to him or anything. Still, he might listen to her, if she could do it the right way.

It wasn’t until he mentioned he had been packing things that she realized there were photos and mementos missing from the main house. Now she knew where they’d gone. Enzo was slowly and steadily removing signs of the Bartolini family from the estate—like some sort of human eraser. She had to wonder if by removing the physical things if it would remove whatever memories were attached to them. Was it really that easy to turn your back on the past?

It was midmorning by the time Sylvie made it to the winery. She’d intended to be there much earlier, but she’d gotten caught up finding a new venue for an upcoming wedding. It broke her heart to turn away business, but Enzo wasn’t giving her much option.

When she stepped into the winery, she found Enzo making notes on his digital tablet. “Sorry I’m late. I had some work that needed doing.”

“If you don’t have time for this we could cancel—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I can manage everything.” She glanced around at the bare walls. They were like canvases just waiting to be adorned with color. “I like it here.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so different from the main house. Whereas the house is cozy and warm, this room is huge—” she gazed up at the two-story ceilings “—and it has an industrial feel with the metallic tanks. I don’t know. I just like it.”

Enzo glanced around as if trying to see it the way she did. “I spent a lot of time down here as a kid. This was the best room to hide in when playing hide-and-seek with my sisters. They were afraid of the big tanks so they didn’t venture in here much.”

She smiled as she imagined Enzo as a small child. “So what you’re saying is that you cheated.”

“I did not. I won fair and square. They could have come in here, if they’d wanted.”

“Uh-huh.” She continued to smile as she shook her head. “And your father didn’t mind you playing in here.”

“He minded. But he didn’t know everything that went on.”

“So you were sneaky, too?”

His dark brows drew together. “Hey. I don’t think I like the picture you’re painting of me as a child.”

“Just calling it like I see it.” She laughed at his look of outrage.

“I definitely don’t want you talking to the reporter.” He turned, setting the tablet on the worktable. He retrieved a utility knife and moved off to the side of the table where there was a stack of cardboard boxes. He sliced open the tape on the top of one.

“I could give them a more balanced story,” she said, enjoying this bit of banter. It’d been far too long since they’d had this much fun together. This day was definitely looking up. “With what I’m learning about you, they could do an exposé about the real man behind the image.”

His brows drew together. “What image?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The handsome winemaker with an award-winning touch.”

His frown lines smoothed as a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t give up your wedding work. Journalism definitely isn’t your calling.”

“What? I liked that tag line. Maybe this is better—Sexy Winemaker Wins Big.”

“First, who is this sexy person? And second, it wasn’t that big.”

“And who’s being modest now?”

He didn’t answer her as he lined up the framed prints on the table. “These are the photos we had hung in here for the tours that give a brief tutorial of the winemaking process.”

She moved next to him. She gazed down at the photos that she’d seen numerous times in the past, but this time she saw them differently. Instead of telling the story of how grapes were turned into wine, she saw the story of Enzo’s past.

In the first photo was a picture of a woman picking grapes. She was smiling brightly while holding a cluster of grapes. Sylvie didn’t need to be told; it was clear it was his mother. Carla Bartolini had been a beautiful woman, just like her daughters.

Sylvie made her way down the table, looking at each photo. Enzo quietly followed her. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking but she didn’t want to disturb the moment.