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Ana had seen photos of the castle on postcards, and of course she’d been there the one time. Yet, even so, the sight of the huge medieval castle perched on jutting stone awed and even intimidated her. Its craggy turrets rose towards the darkened sky and an ancient-looking drawbridge was now lowered over the drained moat. At one point the castle had been an imposing fortress, perched high on its hill, surrounded by a deep moat. Now it was simply Vittorio’s home.
‘So your own home is the “somewhere special”?’ she asked lightly, and was rewarded with the flicker of a smile.
‘I must admit I find Castle Cazlevara rather special.’
Gazing up at the castle’s soaring walls and towers, Ana could only agree. Special, and a bit scary.
Vittorio drove across the drawbridge and parked the car in the castle’s i
The huge entryway was filled with dancing shadows, a thick Turkish carpet laid over the ancient stones. Polished mahogany doors led to several large reception rooms, now lost in shadow, but Vittorio forewent these in favour of a small passageway in the back of the main hall. Ana followed him, conscious of the castle all around them, huge, dark and silent.
‘Have you ever wanted to build something else?’ she asked to Vittorio’s back. The narrow corridor was cold and dark. ‘A palazzo somewhere, something modern?’
Vittorio stiffened slightly, yet noticeable still to Ana. She was so aware of him: his powerful shoulders and long back, the muscles rippling under the smooth silk of his suit, even the faint musk of him. Aware of his moods, changing like quicksilver, even though he did not look at her or speak. It was strange, being so aware. So alive. She wasn’t used to it.
‘The Counts of Cazlevara have always lived here,’ he said simply. ‘And their families. Although my mother lives near Milan for much of the year, in a palazzo like you mentioned.’ 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. ‘Could you not imagine living in such a place as this?’
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. Overseeing a feast in the ancient dining hall, as if she were the Contessa herself, inviting the citizens of Veneto into her gracious home. Such images caused longing to leap within her. Surprised by its intensity, she pushed the images away; they were absurd, impossible, and surely not what Vittorio meant.
‘There is certainly a great deal of history here,’ she said, once again to his back.
‘Yes. Many centuries. Yet your own family has been in Veneto a long time.’
‘Three hundred years,’ Ana conceded wryly. ‘No more than a day compared to yours.’
‘A bit more than a day,’ Vittorio said, laughter in his voice. He stopped in front of a polished wooden door which he opened so Ana could enter. ‘And now. Di
Ana took in the cosy room with a mixture of alarm and anticipation. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn at the windows, blocking out the night. A fire crackled in the hearth and sent dancing shadows around the candlelit room. A table for two had been laid in front of the fire, with a rich linen tablecloth and napkins, the finest porcelain and crystal. On a small table to the side, a bottle of red had already been opened to breathe. It was an intimate scene, a romantic scene, a room ready not for business, but seduction.
Ana swallowed. She walked to the table, one hand on the back of a chair. When had she last had a meal like this, shared a meal like this? Never. The idea of what was to come filled her with a dizzying sense of excitement that she told herself she had no right to feel. She shouldn’t even want to feel it. Yet still it came, bubbling up inside of her, treacherous and hopeful. This felt like a date. A real date. She cleared her throat. ‘This all looks lovely, Vittorio. Somewhere special indeed.’
Vittorio smiled and closed the door behind him. They were completely alone; Ana wondered whether there was anyone else in the castle at all. ‘Do you live here alone since you’ve returned?’ she asked.
Vittorio shrugged. ‘My brother Bernardo and my mother Constantia are in Milan. They come and go as they please.’
His tone was strange, cold, and yet also almost indifferent. It made Ana wonder if he considered his brother and mother—the only family he had left—as nothing more than interlopers in his own existence. Surely not. Ever since her own mother had died, she’d clung to her father, to the knowledge that he was her closest and only relative, that all they had was each other. Surely Vittorio felt the same?
He pulled back her chair and Ana sat, suppressing a shiver of awareness as he took the heavy linen napkin and spread it across her lap, his thumbs actually brushing her i
She supposed it was her lack of experience with men that made her so skittish and uncertain around Vittorio, hyper-aware of everything he did, every sense stirring to life just by being near him. That had to be it; nothing else made sense. This aching awareness of him was just due to her own inexperience. She didn’t go on dates and she didn’t flirt. She did not know what it felt like to be desired.
And you’re not desired now.
This di
I’m just not attracted to you.
Neither was Vittorio. He wasn’t even pretending otherwise. She mustn’t forget that, no matter what the trappings now, Vittorio was not interested in her as a woman. This was simply how he did business. It had to be.
And so it would be how she did business as well.
‘Wine?’ Vittorio asked and held up the bottle. With a little dart of surprised pleasure, Ana realized it was one of Viale’s labels. The best, she acknowledged as she nodded and Vittorio poured.
He sat down across from her and raised his glass. Ana raised her own in response. ‘To business propositions.’
‘Intriguing ones, even,’ Ana murmured, and they both drank.
‘Delicious,’ Vittorio pronounced, and Ana smiled.
‘It’s a new blend—’
‘Yes, I read about it.’
She nearly spluttered in surprise. ‘You did?’
‘Yes, in the in-flight magazine on my trip home.’ Vittorio placed his glass on the table. ‘There was a little article about you. Have you seen it?’ Ana nodded jerkily. The interview had been short, but she’d been glad—and proud—of the publicity. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, Ana, and for Viale Wines.’
‘Thank you.’ His words meant more to her than they ought, she knew, but she couldn’t keep the fierce pleasure at his praise from firing through her. Ana had worked long and hard to be accepted in the winemaking community, to make Viale Wines the name it was.