Falling for the Sardinian Baron
highlight_author
Rosanna Battigelli
highlight_reads
17,0K
highlight_chapters
22
CHAPTER ONE
DESPITE THE AIR-CONDITIONING in the baggage claim area of Cagliari Airport, Ella could feel the prickling sensation of perspiration beading along her temples. She took off her jean jacket and stuffed it into her carry-on luggage before rifling through her handbag for an elastic band to put up her hair in a ponytail.
Watching the last of the passengers retrieve their luggage from the conveyor belt and head for the exits, she wondered at the cause of her driver’s delay. Gregoriu Pinna was to have been at the airport early, waiting for her.
Flinging her handbag over one shoulder, Ella propped her small carry-on on top of her larger suitcase and turned around swiftly, her luggage ramming hard into a body.
She gasped at the same time that her victim expelled a loud grunt, the force of the impact making him lose his footing momentarily, but he managed not to fall. Ella let her hand drop from covering her mouth. “Mi scusi,” she apologized, squinting up at him as she retrieved her carry-on. “I didn’t see you...” And then she realized she had slipped into English. “Non—”
“I understand English” came the man’s clipped reply.
Ella’s mouth snapped shut, and she waited, expecting him to respond with a gracious “No worries.” But he just stood there, his sunglasses and thick beard most likely concealing an irritated expression that mirrored the edge in his voice. He wore a navy T-shirt that revealed tanned, muscled arms, and faded jeans, from what she could make out in the two-second shift of her gaze.
“You are Ella Ross.” His tone was dry, and his lips had twisted slightly.
“Um, yes,” she said, frowning. “But you’re not—”
“—Gregoriu Pinna.”
She arched an eyebrow. “So you’re taking his place? Is he okay? I was worried that he might have been in an accident...”
“He was not.”
Ella let out a sigh of relief. She waited for the man to say more. Explain what had happened to make him take Gregoriu’s place. But he just stood there, appraising her coolly. She felt her cheeks tingling with what she knew would immediately be a telltale flush.
Did she have to pull every word out of this guy’s mouth? And why was he dressed in such casual clothes? Where were his navy jacket and trousers? The gold D embroidered on the jacket’s lapel, she had been informed, would be the way to identify a DiLuca employee.
Ella’s boss at Living the Life magazine had been contacted by an agent of reclusive Sardinian billionaire Massimo DiLuca to have the DiLuca family interviewed for the lead story in August. Publisher and editor-in-chief, Paul Ramsay, had offered her the assignment.
She shifted as a wave of fatigue hit her. Was he intending to stand there indefinitely? She was starting to get a kink in her neck, looking up at this skyscraper of a man.
And then the thought occurred to her that maybe this emissary’s English was limited. She felt a twinge of remorse for being so judgmental.
“And you are...?” she said in as polite a tone as she could muster.
“Gregoriu’s replacement.” He reached for her luggage. “Follow me, please. I will take you to the hotel.” He turned and started walking toward the exit.
Ella hesitated. He had a strong Italian accent but seemed able to communicate well enough. Could this guy be an imposter? Perhaps he had done something terrible to Gregoriu after squeezing some information out of the poor guy, and now he was pretending to be someone he was not. Maybe he was looking to rob her after driving to some secluded spot. She glanced around worriedly, trying to spot a security officer.
The man swiveled around suddenly, and Ella remained where she was, blinking up at him for a few seconds before finally blurting, “Scusi, but I think you should show me your ID.”
Is that a flash of a smile? Ella wondered. Or just a shadow?
He released his hold on the luggage, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He strode over to her and flipped it open.
Ella peered at the photo. No sunglasses, no cap. Dark hair and a groomed scruff, not a thick beard. Noticeably long eyelashes that framed dark, almond-shaped eyes that looked rimmed with eyeliner. Her pulse quickened. She recognized the face on the photo. She had seen it during her research, and it had always appeared above a designer suit. She hadn’t found anything more recent than three years earlier. Ella’s gaze flew to the information identifying him, but she didn’t have to. She just needed a few moments to collect herself and try to stop the flush on her cheeks from becoming an intense flame.
As calmly as she could, Ella gazed up at Baron Massimo DiLuca.
“Grazie, signor barone DiLuca,” she said, nodding, her voice as clipped as the stiletto heels walking past them. Massimo almost chuckled at the formality of her tone. He might be a baron and one of the richest men in Sardinia, if not Italy, but he certainly did not need to be addressed in such a stiff and formal manner.
“My title is not necessary, signorina Ross,” he told her drily. “I’m fine with just signor. Actually, given the fact that we’re about to spend a week under the same roof, Massimo is even better.”
Her brows arched but she didn’t reply.
“And I suppose I should apologize, not introducing myself right away.” He looked around. “I just didn’t want anyone to hear me... People make a big fuss when they find out I’m around. And then the cell phones come out to snap a thousand pictures, and the inevitable reporter appears and starts hounding me.” He gestured toward the exit. “Andiamo. Let’s go.” He shoved his leather wallet back into his jeans pocket and wheeled Ella’s luggage ahead of him. When he came to the revolving doors, he stopped and gestured for her to precede him.
Moments later, Massimo had placed her suitcase and carry-on in the trunk of his silver-gray SUV and Ella was sitting in the passenger seat next to him, her handbag in her lap. While she was absorbed in putting on her seat belt, his gaze took in her travel-tousled hair in its ponytail—light brown with what looked like natural gold highlights—her slender neck and arms, and a loose-fitting coral cotton dress that had bunched up when she sat down, revealing smooth, shapely legs. She had applied coral nail polish on her fingernails and the same to her toenails, which peeked out of low-heeled wedge sandals.
Massimo looked away before she could catch him staring. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable and to give her the wrong impression of him.
It was just that this Ella Ross was younger than he’d expected. In his early communication with her boss, Massimo had requested someone who was proficient in Italian and good—no, excellent—at his or her job. That was one of his expected criteria of anyone in his employ. If they valued their job, they would strive for and achieve excellence, he reasoned. This belief extended from those who worked at his luxury resorts to his housekeepers and personal chef.
Massimo had conveyed to him that he wanted an experienced journalist who would demonstrate cultural sensitivity toward his family, especially since his mother’s English was limited.
The woman now sitting next to Massimo was the right person for the assignment, her boss had claimed, and had proceeded to sing her praises. Massimo had followed up with his own online search. The first article he found was from the New York Times and included a photo of Ella Ross accepting an award. It was a side shot, so he had been able to see only her profile, partially obscured by her shoulder-length brown hair and dark-framed glasses. She was wearing a navy business suit and low-heeled shoes. The article had mentioned that Ella Ross had won some prestigious newspaper-and-magazine award for excellence in journalism.
That had satisfied him that her boss had made the right choice. And it had pleased his mother when he had told her.
But seeing her up close at the airport, in a ponytail and casual cotton dress, Ella had looked barely older than twenty-one, if that. And it had taken him aback, although he had no intention of showing it.
Massimo realized he was tapping the side of the steering wheel. He glanced back at Ella, nodded and started the ignition. Once he had left the airport parking lot and had merged into the Cagliari traffic, he said, “I suppose you are hungry, no? Before we head to the hotel, I will stop at a pasticceria. You can have a snack...perhaps a brioche or one of our traditional Sardinian pastries. I could use an espresso, too...”
“It’s not necessary, but if you need to stop for a caffeine fix—” she gave a soft laugh “—I’m game.” And then, as if embarrassed by the familiarity of her tone, her smile dissipated and she shifted her gaze to the rows of pastel-colored buildings and clusters of tourists and locals ready for post-siesta shopping.
He frowned. His English was quite good, but there were phrases now and then that were baffling. What game was she wanting or expecting to play? He pursed his lips. Perhaps he should test her proficiency of Italian. He certainly didn’t expect her to know or understand any of the Sardinian dialect, which was very different from the official Italian language.
“Che tipo di caffè prende? O preferisce una bevanda fresca?”
She turned to him with raised brows. “Un espresso va benissimo. Oppure una limonata.” She shrugged and gave a small laugh, a sound that reminded Massimo of one of the delicate chimes in his island garden. “I suppose it all depends on how hot I am when we enter the pastry shop.”
Hearing her speak Italian perfectly sent an unexpected tingle through Massimo’s veins. There was no awkward pausing or butchering of the pronunciation. Her words had flowed out quickly and smoothly, without hesitation. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Ella Ross was Italian.
Massimo nodded, and concentrating on the winding road ahead, he thought about the word hot. She had used it innocently, of course, but he couldn’t help thinking about its other meaning, a meaning that he was perfectly aware of...and how it applied to his guest.
He shook his head. He shouldn’t even be having such thoughts. It didn’t matter to him whether Ella Ross was hot or not. She wasn’t here to bewitch him with her fawn-like eyes, perfect coral lips and curvy body. She was here to do one thing and one thing only: interview him and his mother for next month’s lead story in Living the Life.
“Oh, look, a wedding!”
His passenger’s enthused tone jolted him out of his thoughts. Massimo slowed down to a stop behind a line of cars that had done the same to catch a glimpse of the activity in front of the medieval high-domed Cathedral of Santa Maria. The bride and groom were holding hands and posing for the photographer while the group around them watched. Elaborate flower arrangements in huge ceramic planters were positioned on either side of the massive, engraved double wooden doors and down the stairs to the road, their fuchsia blooms matching the gowns of the bridesmaids’ dresses and the bride’s bouquet.
“Aw...” Ella said as the groom kissed his bride and suddenly swept her off her feet to twirl her around. The crowd erupted in cheers, and moments later, the photographer gave the signal for the tossing of the confetti.
Massimo felt a tightening in his chest. The scene had ignited memories that still felt like arrows piercing his heart. He and his wife had gotten married at this cathedral, and watching the young couple in front of the ornate facade now was like having his past flash in front of him.
He felt another jolt at the applause and cries of “Bravo, bravo” as the groom gave his bride a second and more thorough kiss.
Ella turned to him sheepishly, her cheeks flushed. “I’m a sucker for rom—um—I mean happy events...” Her words trailed off, and her smile disappeared as she met his gaze.
He caught his own expression in the rearview mirror. His brows were furrowed, his lips compressed in a hard line. No wonder she was looking at him strangely.
The car in front of him started moving and Massimo focused his attention on driving, aware of the Vespa riders that were zooming in and out of traffic, taking every opportunity to get ahead.
He turned into a side road, and a couple of minutes later, pulled into a parking lot that was almost full. “Ecco. Siamo arrivati!” He leaped out of the SUV and opened the door for his guest. “Prego.” He nodded, gesturing for her to step out. “We are here at the Pasticceria della Mamma. Now you can get your espresso or lemonade.”
He couldn’t help glimpsing the length of her legs as she swung around and got out. A sudden seaside breeze made her dress billow up, and a couple of young men across the street gave a low whistle. He scowled at them, and they laughed and walked away.
“Not all tourists show good manners,” he said curtly as they entered the pastry shop. “Or control.” He led her to an empty table in the back corner of the room, one of a dozen that were painted the same colors as the macarons in the glass display that ran the length of the counter.
He removed his sunglasses and smiled at the approaching waitress before looking expectantly at Ella.
“Un espresso, grazie.” She smiled at the waitress and glanced at the display of pastries. “Oh, my goodness, I can’t resist,” she said with a laugh. “Una sebada, per favore.”
Massimo’s brows arched. She had obviously done some research, requesting a traditional Sardinian dessert—a sweet pastry that was fried and filled with lemon-scented pecorino and topped with warm honey.
“Lo stesso per me, Maria,” he said, flashing a smile at the waitress.
“You didn’t have to tell me, signor DiLuca,” she replied cheerfully with a heavy Italian accent. “You order that nine times out of ten!”
He laughed and caught Ella’s gaze on him. She really did have fawn eyes, dark and wide—like the expanse of sea he’d often look out at from his bedroom balcony at midnight—
Whoa! Why was his mind even formulating such thoughts? She was here on business, and he had no business conjuring up thoughts like that about her. Thoughts that sounded like they were part of a romantic sonnet...
He was not interested in romance.
Been there, done that.
And it had left him with a broken heart.
