Page 7 of My Fake Italian Marriage

The look of horror on Silvio’s face was more than she could handle. “This vineyard has been in the Fioravanti family for hundreds of years. It cannot be sold!” he protested.

She looked at Luca, trying very hard not to let the perfection of his features distract her. When Sarah had first described Luca to her, they had jokingly called him a demi-god. Had he been carved in marble, forget the “demi” part. He would have made an intimidatingly virile Ares. “I’ll try my best not to let it get to that, but you need to be honest with me.”

Luca arched one of those thick eyebrows.

“Will your father recover?”

He pressed his lips together as he considered his answer. “The doctor’s prognosis is good. He believes my father should recover well. His mind is unimpaired by the stroke, and though he may never recover his full physical strength, with rest and no stress he should regain most of the use of his right side. A couple of months is all he needs.”

A couple of months! Kevin would need to find someone experienced to oversee the vineyard during that time. Would he agree? Or would he choose to rid the company of this rotten investment before anyone higher up the chain looked too closely at the deal?

“Your father needs to train up someone else to run the business in case this happens again. He needs to bring on additional staff and make a plan for his succession.”

Luca inclined his head.

She blew out her breath. “Okay, I’d like to look at the last three years’ financial statements, the current bank statements, and the sales projections, and then I’ll see what can be arranged.”

Both men looked relieved. She wished she shared their optimism.

Luca made a quick call to his father for his computer password, and though she didn’t understand more than a few words of the exchange, it was obvious he had to use a great deal of persuasion to get Giovanni to share even that much. Silvio took his leave, offering her another handshake and a warm smile, but Luca remained. He pulled up a straight-backed armchair beside hers, sitting far closer than was comfortable and confirming her suspicion that he was under strict orders to monitor everything she did.

God, why did the man have to smell so good? Like he’d stepped out of a men’s cologne commercial, the kind people shared on social media for the eye candy. How was she supposed to concentrate on numbers when every breath made her more aware of him?

But she did. She had work to do, and she wanted it done as quickly as possible, so she concentrated on building a picture of the estate’s business. It wasn’t a pretty picture, and it didn’t take long to realise that Giovanni ran his vineyard with more of an eye to immediate gain than long-term profit. And his record-keeping was atrocious.

Her usual buoyant optimism deflated like a leaky balloon. “Surely there must be long range forecasts?” she demanded, pushing away from the desk to look at Luca. “Cash flow projections? A business plan?”

He shrugged. “My father runs the vineyard by instinct.”

Instinct didn’t pay bills. And though the farm had increased production in recent years, and costs had been kept at a reasonable level, the sales figures had been dropping, and the economic stresses of the past few years had badly knocked the vineyard. Export sales were less than half what they’d been five years ago. The Fioravanti vineyard was on a downhill trajectory to bankruptcy.

But that wasn’t even the worst. It was one thing to be a one-man show, but there was no separation between the vineyard and the Fioravantis’ personal finances.

“Cavolo!” Luca muttered, the frustration rolling off him as he looked over her shoulder at the figures on the computer screen.

“What does that mean?”

“Cabbage.”

He laughed at her bewildered expression, lightening the tension in the room. “It’s a swear word.”

An apt swear word, since this situation smelled very much like stinky cabbage. On the plus side, she knew exactly what her report to Kevin would be: it might be too late to sell the bank’s stake in the vineyard without making a loss. The only chance for Kevin to come out of this with his reputation intact was to sell off the farm’s assets. The land had to be worth something, at the very least. That way, Giovanni Fioravanti might still be able to retain the villa and enjoy a comfortable retirement. She just needed to figure out how to break the news to the Fioravantis.

Cleo was saved from her bleak thoughts, as a reprieve arrived in the form of the housekeeper. A delicious aroma wafted in with her.

She carried in a tray bearing two still-steaming bowls, and set it on the low table between the two leather wingback chairs across the room. Cleo’s stomach rumbled as the housekeeper stepped aside to reveal pasta in a creamy sauce.

“I don’t eat carbs,” Cleo said apologetically, but both Luca and the woman ignored her.

“Grazie, Pierina.” Luca flashed his dimples at the older woman, and the look she gave him back was nothing short of adoration.

As Pierina left, Luca crossed to the table. He waved for Cleo to join him, but she shook her head. “Thanks, but I usually eat salad for lunch.”

“Salad isn’t real food.”

So said the man who was clearly blessed with good genes. If he’d ever seen Cleo’s mother and aunts, he’d know why she avoided carbs, and why she started every day with nothing less than a four-mile run, no matter the weather.

With a shrug, he opened a cupboard beneath a bookshelf packed with leather-bound books, and removed a bottle of wine and two glasses.

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