The Sicilian's Bride by Carol Grace Page A

No one needed to fill his days with backbreaking physical labor and his nights at his computer studying plans and projects and making spreadsheets. All that to try to make up for the past mistakes and to forget. Mostly to forget.
    “I thought you said true Sicilians were easygoing.”
    “Most of the time, yes. Some of them all the time. I have an excuse for being different. Also it’s my nature and the nature of owning a business. You’ll see.” If she was sensible and left and went home, she wouldn’t have to face the hard work of owning a business.
    He ate a tomato, then leaned back in his chair and studied her for a long moment. He’d talked quite enough about the Montessori fortunes or lack thereof. More than she needed to know.
    Angelo must have noticed the contrast between his ex-fiancée, the stunning Magdalena, oozing self-confidence and bravado, and the plainly dressed American who sat across from him. Fortunately the name Magdalena was not mentioned. If he was lucky he’d get through the whole day without hearing it.
    In a strange way it was a relief to be with someone who hadn’t lived here all her life, who didn’t know everyone and their secrets from their past. It made him feel a sense of detachment, if only briefly, from his work and his family and the past and the pressures he put on himself.
    This woman across the table from him with her red-gold hair and her casual American clothes was a stranger in a strange land. A blank tablet. She’d never seen the Roman ruins or eaten capellini Timballo or tasted Nero D’avola. He didn’t want to like anything about her, but he couldn’t help admiring her as she experienced these things for the first time.She had quite remarkable dark eyes that lit up at the sight of the old ruins or the taste of a superb wine. He liked it that she had no idea what really motivated him, what had really happened in the past, and if he had his way, she never would.
    “You ask a lot of questions, but you keep quiet about yourself,” he said.
    “There’s not much to say. As you know, I have no family except for my uncle, who’s dead. I quit my job to come here. If everyone in the wine business is working hard now then I feel guilty taking you away from your grapes. You must have work to do. Perhaps we should leave.”
    He shook his head. “I work hard so the family can live, but even I don’t live to work as you do in America.”
    “How do you know what we do in America?”
    “I read. I’ve seen movies.”
    “Really? What have you seen?”
    “We were talking about you. You left a job behind, anything else?”
    “A rented apartment. Some friends.”
    “No boyfriend?” If she had one, there was a chance she’d go back to him.
    “No boyfriend,” she said brusquely. But a tell-tale flush colored her cheeks. There was a story there she wasn’t sharing. He knew something about that. As much as he respected her privacy, he couldn’t help being curious.
    “I’m surprised.”
    “That I’m independent?”
    “That you’re single at your age. What’s wrong with American men?”
    “Most of them are married,” she explained. “Which is fine with me. Since I prefer being on my own.” She looked down at the table, studying the silverware. Why did he have the feeling this was a painful subject despite her smooth explanation? Or it could be she found the flatware fascinating. Whatever it was, she recovered quickly and looked up, her face composed, her gaze steady. “I could ask you the same thing. If you’re not married, why not? What’s wrong with Italian women?”
    He choked on a bitter laugh. “Ah, there’s a subject. Italian women are loud and opinionated. Once you meet some of them you’ll see.” Fortunately she’d never met Magdalena, and she never would, because she’d moved to Milan. “They have power and they run the families. My mother can attest to that. She and my father are currently in Palermo to take care of some business. So my grandmother