Page 18 of My Fake Italian Marriage

He raised an eyebrow.

“We need to hire a vintner. Preferably someone well known, with a reputation for making good quality wine. Someone your distributors will trust.”

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, and when she sent him a questioning look, he merely shook his head. “My father will never allow an outsider to make Fioravanti wine.”

“Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but your father isn’t in much of a position to make these decisions right now.” And she wasn’t merely referring to his physical incapacity.

Luca’s expression was resigned. “Someone like that isn’t going to be cheap, and we can’t afford that kind of salary right now.”

Please, please let Kevin not kill her for what she was about to do. “The bank will cover the costs for the first year. But we need to think about other ways to increase revenue, beyond selling wine.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“We should make the most of the tourism trade. Cellar tours, perhaps? Or open a restaurant at the winery?”

“Those only work if we sell bottled wine. No one is going to visit a cellar or restaurant for box wine.”

Good point. She blew out a breath. He really wasn’t going to like her next suggestion either. “The villa is huge. It’s practically hotel size—”

“Absolutely not.” Luca threw his hands up. “That is my parents’ home. There is no way they will allow strangers in their home.”

“But the house is too big for just two people.”

“You are right. It is too empty, and it shouldn’t be.” He pressed his lips together, and for a moment it was as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Then he smiled. “Do you have any other ideas?”

Nope. She was all out of bright ideas. They’d simply have to focus on selling enough half-decent wine to make the vineyard profitable again.

As they sipped the Brunello, they hashed out a rough business plan, until Cleo looked up to discover that their wine bottle was empty, and her head felt a good deal lighter on her shoulders. Luca summoned Gigi, the pretty blonde waitress, to bring them menus.

As Cleo studied the menu, Luca chatted with the waitress in fast-paced Italian, making her blush and smile. Did Luca even realise he was flirting? It came as naturally to him as breathing.

“I’ll have the bean salad.” Cleo handed the menu back to the waitress, who glanced at Luca to confirm the order. Cleo’s knuckles turned white beneath the table. What was this, the Middle Ages? She was perfectly capable of ordering food without a man’s help.

Luca shook his head, looking amused by her irritation. “Salad is not enough to accompany a Brunello, unless you want me to carry you home drunk.” He turned to the waitress, placing an order in brisk Italian while Cleo narrowed her eyes at him.

The café was buzzing by this time, a steady flow of patrons coming and going, mostly locals rather than tourists. It was a while before their meals arrived from the kitchen, and by then Cleo was no longer annoyed with Luca’s high-handed behaviour. He was right. She’d grown decidedly tipsy on the rich, red wine. Certainly tipsy enough to let him lead her into a conversation that had nothing at all to do with work, and which may have even included some flirtatious banter.

What could she say? What single woman wouldn’t want to flirt with a good-looking man over a good meal and a glass of wine, while the angling sun turned the stone walls of the buildings around them the colour of ripe apricots? She’d have to be dead not to appreciate the moment. And a little innocent flirting didn’t mean anything. This wasn’t a date, just a business meal. It didn’t mean she’d fall for any of his lines or his pretty face.

They made quick work of the antipasti platter that Bruno set between them, and Cleo’s main course, lemon-flavoured veal scallops with seasonal grilled vegetables, was so tasty that she cleared the plate.

Dusk settled about them, the tangerine-coloured sky darkening to indigo. From inside the restaurant, music played, a man’s raspy voice crooning in Italian. By the time they finally left to make their way downhill towards Luca’s car, Cleo was, thankfully, a great deal more sober.

The crowds in the piazza had swelled rather than abated as the evening air cooled and the sky grew dark, and a party vibe filled the air.

“Luca!” A male voice caught their attention, and they turned to see a young man with a flop of over-long, curly hair hurrying after them. The man paused when he spotted Cleo. “Scusi!”

“Cleo, this is Federico. He’s on my football team.” Luca turned to the young man. “And this is Cleo, who is here from the bank to oversee the vineyard until my father recovers.”

His mention of the bank was casual, and since Federico didn’t appear surprised, Cleo guessed Crown Venture’s investment in the vineyard was common knowledge in the town.

Federico cast a coy glance between them. “You have all the luck, Luca! Now I understand why you missed practice yesterday.”

Luca shook his head warningly, but the younger man continued oblivious. “I won’t disturb you on your date then. I have the train tickets. I’ll leave them at your apartment.” He left as quickly as he’d come, with a mischievous grin and a backward wave.

“You have an apartment here?” Cleo asked. “I thought you lived with your parents.”

Luca laughed, a throaty, sexy sound. “Now that would be sad—a man in his thirties still living at home with his parents.”

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