The Sicilian's Bride by Carol Grace Page B

is running the house while Nonno recovers.”
    He stopped his speech about women when the waiter appeared to bring them a bubbling dish hot from the oven called Pasta Alla Norma, a combination of eggplant, tomatoes and ricotta cheese.
    “Who was Norma?” she asked.
    “The heroine of an opera by Bellini, Sicily’s most famous son. Do you like opera?”
    “I don’t know, I’ve never seen one. What’s it about?”
    “Norma is in love with a man who’s thrown her over for someone else. But she gets revenge. She ruins him and has him sentenced to death.”
    “Good for her.”
    “Except at the end, she jumps into the funeral pyre and dies with him.”
    “I prefer happy endings.”
    “So does everyone, but that’s not life.” If she didn’t know that by now, she’d led a charmed life. “You’d like The Marriage of Figaro or The Barber of Seville . Or something by Puccini. Be sure to see an opera while you’re here on vacation. Preferably a happy one.”
    “I don’t think I’ll have the time or the proper dress. And I’m NOT on vacation.”
    She was so predictable. All he had to do was refer to her temporary status or her departure and her cheeks turned pink and her eyes flashed as she glared angrily at him. He watched her high spirits and discomfort, knowing he’d caused it.
    Taking his time he let his gaze wander from her face to her neck to her arms and breasts and tried to picture her in a formal evening gown at the opera. He was so engrossed he almost didn’t notice the waiter who was offering an after-lunch drink from the bar. He shook his head and continued to muse about his companion. She just might enjoy a night at the opera. She certainly had the confidence to try new things. That much was clear. Under other circumstances, he might have offered to take such an attractive woman to the opera since there was absolutely no danger of his ever losing his head and heart to a woman again. He could see her dressed up and gauge her reaction. But she was right, she’d probably be too busy struggling to make a go of it to see an opera. How futile it was, how maddening that she wouldn’t take his advice.
    If her stay was as temporary as he hoped, she wouldn’t be around for the opera season. The sooner she realized she should leave, the better. She’d never make it through a winter on that mountain. Never. As much as it was in his interest to send her packing, it was also the best thing for her as well.
    Feeling more confident about the outcome, he signaled the waiter to order two cannolis and coffee. If she had any memories of Sicily when she returned to the States, he wanted them to be pleasant ones—of sightseeing and delicious food and wine. Not of cold nights and frost on the vines. It was the least he could do in exchange for his land.
    “Are you sure we have time for this?” she asked.
    “Of course. Everyone deserves a day off now and then.We’re hard-working when we have to be, but in Italy everyone always has time to eat. And then we’ll see some other properties I think you’ll like.”
    She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing, he hoped, that there was no point in arguing. Maybe she was finally seeing the light. She didn’t insist that she had no use for a new house with a solid roof and a clean kitchen. But he knew. He knew that she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. He knew she would initially refuse to consider any other property than the one she’d inherited. But he was just as stubborn.
    In the meantime he watched her savor the creamy ricotta filling of the rich pastry. A tiny piece of crisp dough stuck to the corner of her mouth. It was all he could do to keep from reaching across the table to brush it away with his finger. Before he could make a move, she licked her lips and he felt his pulse accelerate wildly. What was wrong with him? Maybe his family was right when they said he’d been working too hard. He hadn’t given a single woman a second look since