Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

She blinked. Then, slowly, she dropped the keys into his outstretched hand. Nick walked to the Massif, opened the door and motioned her inside. He didn’t give a damn what they were using as long as she got the message.

He was in charge.

She gave him directions.

Take the dirt road behind the villa. Make a right at the top of the hill. A left at the crossroads. She babbled, too. Nervously, as if she sensed something was wrong, stuff about rootstock and slips and scions, about how, in ancient times, viniculturists didn’t realize that cutting back a grapevine rather than letting it grow unrestrained would produce the best, the biggest crop of grapes.

Another time, he’d have found it fascinating. The only thing he knew about wine was either red or white and he liked drinking it with dinner; all these details, even now, piqued his curiosity.

But not enough to deter him from what would happen next, he told himself coldly. No way.

Eventually, Alessia fell silent.

He glanced at her. She sat rigid in her seat, hands tightly clasped in her lap.

“What’s the matter?” he said brusquely. “Have you run out of information you think even I might be capable of understanding?”

That made her jerk toward him.

“All right,” she said, “all right, Mr. Orsini. Why not tell me the problem?”

Nick’s mouth twisted. He pulled to a stop under a tree that stood at the end of a row of grapevines and shut off the engine.

“Why would there be a problem, principessa? You’re the perfect tour guide.”

Alessia looked at the man beside her. His tone was silky, his voice soft… And she was terrified. Something about him had changed. Where was the astute businessman of this morning’s meeting? The acerbic guest who seemed no happier to be here than she was to be stuck with him?

Her throat constricted.

Where was the man who could not keep his hands off her, even though she didn’t want him to touch her, to kiss her, to make her feel things she didn’t understand?

Was this the man she had accused him of being, all along? The cold, heartless head of a crime syndicate, the kind of export her country had sent to America that made decent Italians cringe?

All at once, she didn’t want to be alone with him in this isolated place.

She reached for the door handle. His hand closed hard on hers.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside. To—to see the vines. To make sure they’ve been properly prepared to endure over the winter.”

Nick gave a harsh laugh. “Fascinating. The princess is also a farmer.”

“I grew up here,” she said stiffly. “When I was a child, I helped tend these vines. I helped pick the grapes. Besides, I thought you wanted to see things close-up. To walk among the vines and ask me about them.”

“Is that what you thought, princess? That a man like me would bring you all the way out here to talk about grapes?”

She stared at him. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

He started to tell her just how wrong she was. Then he took a long look at her. Her face was pale, her eyes deep and dark. Her lips trembled. Her hand, still locked under his on the door handle, was like ice.

Nick’s jaw tightened.

She was frightened. Hell, that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it? he thought, and then he muttered an oath, lifted his hand from hers and flung his door open.

“What are you doing?”