Read Online The Sicilian's Bride by Carol Grace - Free Book Online Page B

turn she pointed to the prosciutto and the salami and two kinds of cheese as well as a carton of tiny black olives, and she even spoke a few well-chosen words of Italian.
    Feeling proud and pleased with herself for her first foray into town, she followed one of the small old ladies dressed in black out to the street. The woman was bent over with a string bag in hand. Suddenly the bag broke and a half dozen peaches and a jar of honey went rolling down the brick sidewalk.
    The woman let loose with a shriek, followed by “L’oh il mio dio! Che cosa sono io che vado ora fare?”
    Isabel scooped up the slightly bruised peaches and the honey, which was still intact, from the smooth stone walkway, put them in her own camera bag and handed it to the woman, who beamed at her and said, “Grazie cosi tanto. Siete molto gentili.”
    “Prego,” Isabel said.
    Before Isabel could come up with another appropriate phrase in Italian, the woman waved frantically to someone in a large black car who pulled up and helped her into the back seat. Isabel stood watching as the car, the woman and her camera bag all drove away. Maybe she’d see her again some day or maybe not. Anyway, it was just a case she’d lost. Her camera was hanging around her neck.
    Then she proceeded to the greengrocer where the woman must have bought her fruit. The produce was all beautifully arranged, piled high in a cornucopia of spiky artichokes and tomatoes, shiny purple eggplant and pencil-thin asparagus. She took more pictures.
    She wanted to buy everything in the colorful display, but she had no way to carry anything else since the old lady had taken her bag. Never mind. She could always come back tomorrow and do some more shopping.
    Back at the hotel she decided not to eat dinner in the dining room. Her room came with breakfast and dinner included so she looked at the menu and ordered that night’s special dinner. She asked to have it sent up so she could eat in her room and not feel self-conscious about sitting alone while all around her were couples or families.
    Just the idea of saying “Table for one” or “I’m alone,” sent a lonely chill through her body. Why subject herself to pitying glances from other happy diners? She just couldn’t face it, not after the day she’d had. Even though she’d had a good time seeing the sights and eating the food, she’d been afraid to let down her defenses for so much as a minute. She was afraid Dario would pounce on her and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
    Though everyone she’d met here had been nice—except for Dario Montessori and the lawyer—she didn’t have theenergy to sit down in a room full of strangers and try to make conversation in Italian with the friendly waiters. Here in her room she could relax and get back to studying viticulture and irregular Italian verbs.
    First she had a long soak in the claw-foot tub, scrubbing with a sponge and some lemon-infused soap, letting the tension that came from verbal battles with her tour guide melt away. She took her Guide to Sicily with her into the tub and read a chapter about “Flora and Fauna.” What she read there surprised and annoyed her so much she almost dropped her book in the hot water.
    There was a knock on her door. Dinner already? She’d relaxed so much she’d lost track of time. She might have even dozed off, since she was still on California time and suffering from delayed jetlag. She slipped into the plush terry-cloth robe the hotel provided, wrapped a large towel around her wet hair and went to receive the tray from the maid.
    Instead of the maid, it was Dario Montessori standing there, this time wearing a leather jacket, straight-leg denim jeans and brown leather loafers without socks. All of which she managed to take in despite the shock of seeing him there outside her door. It was easier and safer to focus on his expensive Italian clothes and shoes than on his craggy face half in shadow, half lit by the overhead fixture in