“I never have,” he agreed, his gaze still locked on hers, “done any of that.”
She leaned back. “Then what are you waiting for, James?”
“As if I’d say no after that performance.”
“No one ever does.” She slipped her hand into his and led him out the door, pumped by her first victory.
Chapter Three
A motor scooter. An undersized two-seater. With bald tires, to boot. James let go of the soft, slender hand that had guided him to the street and stared at what he feared might be his transportation up this mountain. Only his male pride and the fact that riding it meant wrapping his legs around the alluring little vixen who’d coaxed him out here kept him from protesting.
Plus, Kyra handed him a helmet and took one for herself, so surely she cared about safety, right?
“When in Positano,” she said with that irresistible smile. Only, James needed to resist, or God only knew what else she’d talk him into.
“I take it there’s no Uber.”
She just laughed and tugged a pink helmet over her blond hair. His helmet was black, fortunately. Pink might have been his line in the sand. “It’s perfectly safe if we avoid the trucks,” she promised him. “And so much faster and more beautiful. Hop on.”
She slid over the seat, tucking the loose part of her dress under her legs.
He took a deep breath of sea-infused air and got behind her, looking for…no, there was nothing to hold on to except the slender waist of the woman in front of him.
She threw a look over her shoulder. “Ready, James?”
Actually, no. He wasn’t ready for any of this. Not the air, the bike, or that precious waist on an impossibly adorable woman who should be annoying but…wasn’t. He shimmied closer, wrapped his hands around her, and gave a nod into her side-view mirror where he could see the expression of anticipation—and maybe a little glimmer of…gloating—in her eyes.
She grinned in silent reply, revved the engine, and whipped out onto the street, almost knocking him all the way to the left and into the ground.
Holy shit.
Without thinking, he tightened his grip, hands and legs, earning a soft chuckle he barely heard over the engine and the wind inside the helmet. He stared straight ahead at her shiny pink dome and the tangle of corn-silk waves that fell out of it and over bare shoulders.
What kind of girl rode around the mountains of Italy in a sundress on a scooter? Why did this winery have an American ambassador to greet him and sweep him off his feet and onto her deathtrap of a bike? Did she work for them really, or was she somehow connected to the family? Married into it?
A surprising thud of disappointment accompanied that thought. Because why the hell would he care if Kyra Summers was married? Sure, she was as cute as Christmas and just about as sparkly, but James Brannigan famously dated ice women, preferably with jet-black hair and exotic looks. At least the last three had met those requirements, and now they were…history.
“Look at the view!” she called out, zipping around the next turn and pointing left.
He automatically reached out and pressed that hand back to the handlebar where it belonged, getting a shake of her shoulders in laughter. “Look,” she ordered again.
He turned toward the sea to drink in the vista, slightly blocked by pedestrians, more cars, small trucks, and a thousand parked scooters.
“Isn’t it pretty?”
“Yes,” he agreed, as he had with the driver who’d asked him the same question. “Pretty dangerous.”
Another peal of laughter battled with the revving engine.
She veered around a turn and powered up a ribbon of road, zipping through traffic, narrowly avoiding tourists, and generally making him…hold tighter.
After a few minutes, they were out of the thick of town and making their way up a winding mountain road, higher and higher and higher. At each blind corner, he cringed, but every time, she maneuvered the bike like it was an extension of her body.
And James sort of relaxed. At least, he was able to breathe and appreciate the stunning views as they got higher.
“That water is the Bay of Salerno,” she said, loud enough for him to hear over the engine. “And look all the way out, past the tip of Sorrento. See Capri?”
He squinted into the setting sun, spotting the world-famous island. “Where the Blue Grotto is?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, that’s where the tourists go. Would you like to see it?”
“Not if it’s a tourist trap.”
“But it is the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen! I’ll take you.”
She would? Lord knew how she’d suggest they get there—by skydiving, no doubt.
She coaxed more speed out of the bike, taking them so high the umbrellas on the beach below were nothing but tiny orange dots on a sliver of white sand. He turned his attention to the smattering of houses along the street, all cut into the mountain and many made of the same limestone-looking rock.
“Not the kind of place I’d expect to find a winery,” he mused, leaning all the way into her so she could hear him. And so he could feel the tautness of her muscles and warmth of her skin.
She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. “Don’t you know about our vineyards?” she asked, a mix of accusation and disappointment in her voice.
He understood that. After all, he owned the place and had done little more than hand a file to someone he’d hired with orders to figure out how to sell it. And that order, like every other one he issued to his staff, had been followed.
This was about money; he had to remember that.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. For money. “To know about the vineyard.”
She relaxed a bit at that, dropping her shoulders so that her curves pressed against him. Instinctively, his body reacted to the feel of a soft woman against him. He tried to back away, cursing his hormones for not realizing they were in a life-threatening situation. And the last thing he wanted was for her to feel a boner in her back.
She whipped around the next corner, gunning the engine, coming face-to-face with a truck so big it had to be illegal on these roads. She swerved out of the way, brushed some bushes on the right, and yelled, “Duck!”
They both did, and the truck’s side-view mirror whizzed right overhead.
Dear God.
She just barreled forward. “Good reflexes,” she called back.
“Good eye,” he countered, the flash of a memory toying at the recesses of his brain. He tried to grab hold of it, but the thought was elusive and gone as quickly as any moment of déjà vu. Plus, he was pretty sure he’d never been on a scooter ducking truck mirrors before.
“Not too far now,” Kyra promised as the road finally leveled off and was blessedly empty up here. There were a few homes tucked away here and there, but they’d definitely reached the outskirts of civilization near the top of the mountain. “You okay back there?”
“I’m fine.” He turned to look down the mountain and literally sucked in a breath at the view. They were at least a half mile above cobalt-blue water, with the pastels of Positano nothing but a blur against the rock and rolling hills. Powder-puff, white clouds were so close, it felt like he could touch them.
“Most beautiful place on earth, don’t you think?” she asked, following his gaze as she slowed the bike.
He couldn’t argue the possibility. “It must be one of them.”
“No, it is. I can guarantee you.” She finally stopped the bike where the road split, taking her helmet off and shaking out her hair, a few silky strands tickling his arm. “I’ve been everywhere, on every continent and in about fifty countries. This is it. The most incredible place on earth. Or, at least, the most magical.”
It was…special. Was that why his father wanted him here? The question jolted him, reminding him of why he was here. Not to ride around on motor scooters with fearless women who turned him on without even trying.
“I mean, just inhale.” She demonstrated, sucking
in a noisy breath.
“I know how to sniff.”
“Then do it.” She jabbed his arm with her fingertips and repeated her deep inhale, this time with her eyes closed. That gave him a chance to really look at her, taking in the delicate lines of her jaw and lips, the slopes of well-defined cheekbones, the feminine arch of her brows.
“Isn’t it stunning?” she asked.
She was. Surprisingly so, since he generally avoided blondes, especially bubbly, spirited, talkative, fun blondes. So not his type. But she…she intrigued him.
Intrigue. Is that what you’re calling it, James? No, it was more arousal than intrigue, if he was going to be honest. And that was not in the cards.
He climbed off the scooter and took his helmet off, wanting to drink in the view again but finding it hard to look away from her. “You’ve really been in fifty countries?” he asked. “That’s impressive.”
“Fifty at least, but some for only a few hours. Still, the Amalfi Coast is the best. It’s home for me now.” There was nothing but pride in her voice.
“Where are you from?” he asked, fully expecting the answer to be Southern California. She had Malibu Beach girl stamped all over her, the kind his surfer brother, Knox, would have hit on so hard the poor girl wouldn’t be able to stop laughing as she ripped off her clothes. Knox wasn’t stripping beach girls anymore, though. Yoga girls, and only one.
“I never know how to answer that question,” Kyra said. “I was born in Ohio, lived in five, six…maybe seven states. I lost track. I’ve been traveling since I turned eighteen, so twelve years. But I’m here now.” She waved her hand with the gesture of someone showing off her very own living room. “Home.”
She said the word with reverence, a soft whisper heavy with meaning, so much tenderness in her voice that he didn’t know how to respond.
“It’s…nice.”
She choked softly. “This is what I was most afraid of. What we all were afraid of.”
He frowned at her. “Afraid of?”
“You don’t get it.”
“How pretty it is here?” He shrugged and glanced around. “I get it.”
“No, you don’t get it. And you own it.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, guiding the bike to a wall and leaning it there, taking the keys. “Come on, James Brannigan. We have work to do.”
“Work?”
She smiled up at him. “Not you. Us. The Sebastiani family. The caretakers of your winery.”
It wouldn’t be his for long. He walked next to her, down a stone path lined with thick bushes and more of those pink and purple flowers. “These are everywhere,” he mused, touching one.
“Bougainvillea,” she said. “The official flower of Positano. Come on.” She nudged him around a corner. “We’re almost there.”
He blinked into the fading light, making out the lines of a huge gray stone structure jutting out from the mountain. It was three stories in the front, but only one in the back, with a dozen arched windows and two turrets. In front of it were massive terraces of vineyards, the grapes growing on rows of sticks that seemed to go on for an acre. Five, no, six layers down the side of the mountain like massive green stairs.
Smaller stone buildings dotted the view, similar in style and structure, all somehow both humble and impressive. The earth was a blend of green and brown, and the air was heavy with the scents of lemons and olives and herbs. All of it, perched on the edge of the world, as high as the clouds.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “It’s…pretty.”
“Pretty…overwhelming.” He spoke softly, because he suddenly felt like he’d stepped on something sacred. Which was ridiculous, but that’s how he felt.
“Now we’re getting there,” she murmured.
He didn’t know if she meant the response or the destination, but he followed as they walked a hundred yards or so to an iron gate that led to another path with a wood and gold sign that said Villa Pietro.
He stood stone-still, and so did Kyra, possibly for the first time since he met her. He felt her gaze on him as intently as his was on the remarkable view in front of him.
“What do you think?” she asked on a whisper.
“I think—”
“Brannigan!” The word echoed like a bullet shot over the mountain, followed by a loud scream from one, no, two, tiny boys who quite literally dropped out of a tree and started running toward him. “Braaaannnnnigan!” they repeated.
What the—
They were on him in a second, one leaping into his arms and the taller one wrapping himself around James’s legs and hanging on for dear life.
“Nico! Gianni! Smettetela! Stop!” Kyra’s command was lost in the screaming and hugging and full-body assault that almost knocked him on his ass. She rattled off more Italian, taking the arm of the taller boy and helping to free James. “He is not a new playmate,” she said, trying to sound stern but laughing.
James chuckled, too, surprising himself with the sudden burst of familiarity that came with the loud onslaught of little boys.
Finally, the one in James’s arms scrambled down, his little face looking up with a smile of pure expectation. “Signor Brannigan,” he said, barely able to catch his breath. “Benvenuto a Villa Pietro!”
The little one let go, arching back to peer up at James with the biggest, darkest, most soulful eyes he’d ever seen. “Welcome,” he said in tentative, practiced English. “We have waited for you.”
They had? He tore his gaze from the precious little face to meet Kyra’s smile, her own enthusiastic greeting of how long they’d waited coming back to him. He’d thought she meant the hotel, but she meant…this. Them. The winery. The family.
They’d been waiting for the owner to show, and suddenly, deep in his gut, he knew that the last thing they would want to hear was that he was selling the place out from under them.
Chapter Four
Kyra peeled the boys off their victim, laughing and chastising them in a mix of Italian and the English they seemed to pick up so easily since she’d moved here.
“Nico! Let him breathe.”
The child squirmed away, still holding James’s hand. “Vieni, vieni Signor Brannigan! Vieni!”
“He wants you to come with him.” She took Gianni’s hand as he pulled her forward.
“La famiglia sta aspettando!” Gianni exclaimed.
“He says his family is waiting. This is Gianni Sebastiani.” She held up his hand. “And you have Nico Sebastiani. They are the sons of Enzo and Filippa, and the official welcoming committee to Villa Pietro.”
A slow smile lifted James’s lips, surprising her. “Let me guess. You’re…seven?” He pointed to Gianni.
“Sette,” she translated. “Seven years old, sì?”
“Sì. I be seven,” he said slowly, beaming with pride over his English.
“And.” James took a good long look at Nico. “Five?” he guessed.
Nico’s eyes widened, and he slowly shook his head.
“Tell him your age,” Kyra said. “Quanti anni hai.”
“Quattro,” he whispered, his shyness kicking in now that he had to speak on his own.
“Ahh. Four.” James nodded—and still held Nico’s hand, Kyra noticed. “You look a little older.”
She eyed him, curious, and suddenly, something dawned on her. “You have children, James?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “But I have a small battalion of younger brothers, six of them, to be exact. So I’m not a novice with little boys.”
For some reason, that made her heart lighter. Seven boys? Surely he understood the power of family, and if he got that, then maybe he wouldn’t do anything to hurt or change this one.
Gianni pulled on Kyra’s hand, tugging her closer to whisper in her ear. “Is he nice?” he asked in Italian.
Remains to be seen, she thought. But she didn’t answer, instead leaning over to speak to both of them. “Boys, you remember your promise.”
They
nodded. “English only for Signor Brannigan,” they replied in unison.
“Impressive,” James said. “How did you learn English so young?”
They didn’t answer right away, their little faces registering the attempt to translate every word.
“I taught them,” Kyra told him. “And they’re excellent students. Come now.” She urged them toward the path that led to the house. “The entire Sebastiani family is waiting. Lead the way, boys!”
Gianni and Nico broke away, running ahead.
“Cute kids,” James said. “Are there more?”
“No more little ones, but plenty of Sebastianis. But don’t worry, I’ve taught them all quite a bit of English, and they all want to impress you. A lot. Maybe too much. You might want to brace yourself,” she added.
He slowed his step, his attention on her more than the winery, a look of interest and maybe a little admiration in his eyes. “You’ve taught them all English?”
“I’ve been trying since I got here. They want so much to learn.”
“How long have you been with the winery?” he asked.
“I came for a tour eighteen months ago,” she said, smiling at the memory. “And I never left.”
He lifted both brows. “Must have been some tour.”
“It was love at first sight.”
“Then it must have been some tour guide.”
That made her laugh. “No, it was love with the vineyard and winery, not anyone in particular. And, to be honest, the tour was terrible. The Sebastiani family are master vintners, with two renowned enologists in the family, but they didn’t know squat about dealing with visitors. As a professional tourist, I made some suggestions that Elena and Lorenzo really liked.”
“Elena and Lorenzo?” he asked.
She stifled a sigh of frustration. “You really didn’t do your homework, did you?”