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Except she hadn’t wanted to let those negative thoughts into her mind tonight. She hadn’t wanted to think about the loneliness she might feel, or how strange it would be to have to see Marco through work and no longer think of him as someone she had every right to reach out and touch, every expectation of being touched by.
In any event, her suitcase reflected the fact she’d thrown things together in a haphazard fashion—another first for Portia, who usually made list after list after list for even the shortest trips, ensuring she didn’t forget anything important like a phone charger or toothbrush. But somehow, she’d miraculously managed to pack one of her favourite dresses. It was a navy-blue halter neck that fell to her ankles, beautiful and floaty, and when teamed with her favourite gold ballet flats and a denim jacket, she was happy enough with how she looked. She scraped her hair into a messy bun and replenished her lipgloss and mascara, trying not to focus on the beauty and luxury of Marco’s bedroom, nor the fact they would be sharing it for two whole nights, and days.
Just the thought made her tummy fizz and pop with pleasurable anticipation.
She moved to the large, floor to ceiling windows with their sheer blinds and opened the latter, so she could see the moonlight bouncing off the ocean, and sighed. It was just so lovely.
The house was old and rustic yet it had obviously been renovated at some point, with no expense spared on bringing it into the twenty first century. It had every mod con, and the walls were freshly painted, covered in more of Marco’s stunning art, the ceilings were high, the powerpoints and light switches obviously reflecting a re-wiring, and the kitchen was both comfortable and state of the art, with an assortment of appliances Portia recognized as being expensive and top-notch.
But it was Marco who had her attention and took her breath away, standing as he was in the kitchen looking so damned handsome in a button up shirt and jeans. “Wow.” She whispered, smiling. “You actually own one of these.” As she got close enough, she pulled at the fabric of his shirt.
“Five, I think.”
“And you’re wearing one for me? I’m honoured.”
“It’s a date,” he said with a shrug, and the sweetness of the moment slipped. Once again, she felt as though she was on a conveyor belt, his moves practiced rather than genuinely motivated by a desire for her.
She kept the smile on her face with effort, stepping back towards the counter where he’d poured two champagne glasses.
“This is a special vintage,” he murmured. “Made from grapes grown just out there.”
She reached for the glass, her fingers brushing the stem then lifting it to her lips. She was conscious of the way he watched her as she sipped it, tasting it, as if waiting for her approval. As if she could withhold it. It was delicious.
“It’s good,” she murmured, smiling tightly, but the prosecco fizzed and popped and pleasure soothed her frazzled nerves. “Really good.”
His eyes flecked with warmth as he had a sip of his own drink then replaced it.
“You make wine?” She tasted some more. Definitely excellent.
“It’s a hobby.”
“One way to flex your genius muscles?” She teased, but with genuine interest. She supposed it made sense—he had a brain that was firing constantly on a million cylinders.
“I was always interested in it,” he said. “It’s an industry that marries so many things. History, tradition, cultural significance. But modern technologies are now a vital part of it too. And then, there’s sheer dumb luck,” he said with a grin. “The weather. The grapes. The staff you hire. Every vintage is a gamble.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d like that,” she said, considering.
“I don’t. I like to triumph over it. I like to use skill and technology to stem as much of the luck element as possible. The weather I have very little control over, though over the years I’ve diversified to grow grapes that are more durable, that prosper in this climate.”
His passion was captivating. “Where do you make the wine?”
“Here.” He drew her to his chest, turned her towards the window. It was dark, but the moon was bright. “Do you see that barn?”
She followed his gaze. Silhouetted against the inky sky was a large, boxy shape. She nodded.
“That’s where we make the wine and store it. It’s transported off-site to be bottled, once it’s ready.”
“Wow.” She spun in his arms, blinking up at him. “You’re really into this.”
He let out a soft laugh.“Si, cara. È vero.”
A shiver ran down her spine. She knew he was Italian. In London, she’d known too. But here, he was so elementally Italian. Every facet of him was reflected in this place, and the way he spoke of it.
“I have always loved the romance of wine making, the history. It fascinates me.”
“And this is your home,” she said, looking around, realization dawning.
“I have many homes.”
