Modern Romance February 2020 Books 5-8. Natalie Anderson
kept sweeping gardens artfully filled with stone and marble benches and ornaments, a vast beautiful pond filled with waterlilies and with a wooden bridge traversing it. Dotted around the main structure were small cottages…
Her heart fluttered with excitement as she asked the question she already knew the answer to. ‘Is this Bally House?’ The pictures she had seen did not do it justice. It was like driving into a magical fairy tale.
His answering smile was definitely smug. ‘Sì.’
The driver pulled up in the large courtyard. As she climbed out, Orla noticed with a pang the young couple holding hands as they walked slowly over a meandering path, oblivious to anyone but each other under the setting sun.
Her fingers felt as if they’d had magnets inserted into the tips, pulling them towards Tonino’s hands. She folded her arms across her chest and rammed her hands between her sides and her arms.
They stepped into a large reception area. Three people working at the desk clocked their entrance and, in unison, straightened. The shortest of them, a middle-aged woman, hurried over to greet them.
‘Would you like a drink in the bar or to go straight to your table?’ she asked.
‘We’ll go straight to our table,’ Tonino replied. ‘Thank you, Lorna.’
He’d been there one night. How could he be on first-name terms with the hotel staff already? Orla wondered in amazement. And, as she followed him over polished-oak flooring through a warren of further reception rooms filled with artful antique furniture and dark leather sofas, she wondered how he knew his way around so well. Did he have an inbuilt satnav?
When they reached the huge dining room, the maître d’ greeted Tonino by name and bowed his head respectfully to Orla before leading them to a corner table.
Exposed stone walls, giant fireplaces and thick carpet all drove the feeling of the finest of luxury and yet the restaurant managed to contain the rustic appeal of its setting within it. Each table was set with its own candelabra and she counted six chandeliers hanging from the beamed ceiling.
‘Your casement of wine arrived this afternoon,’ the maître d’ said as he placed leather-bound menus before them. ‘Shall I bring you a bottle of it?’
‘Yes, and anything Miss O’Reilly wants.’
‘Just still water for me, please,’ she said.
‘Very good.’ With another bow, the maître d’ turned on his heel and vanished.
Immediately, Orla stopped pretending to read her menu and leaned forward to ask conspiratorially, ‘You had your own wine delivered here?’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember that business trip to Tuscany I took four years ago?’
‘On my last day in Sicily?’ An image flashed in her head of her sitting on the steps of her father’s villa. She’d been waiting…
Waiting for what?
Tonino nodded. ‘I went to see a run-down monastery ripe for conversion.’
The image disappeared. Orla swallowed moisture into her dry throat. ‘Oh?’
‘I bought it. I converted it into a hotel and spa and turned the land into a vineyard. Our first wine bottles have just been produced.’
‘That’s what you’ve had delivered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow. I’d heard the management here tried to cater to all their guests’ whims but allowing you to have a crate of your own wine…’
‘I’m the management, Orla.’
Confusion creased her brow.
‘I bought Bally House three years ago.’ Tonino had no idea why he held his breath after this confession.
A long time passed where all Orla did was stare at him with open-mouthed shock. Then she leaned forward. ‘You own Bally House? But how? Why? When we met you’d never been to Ireland.’
‘The way you described your country intrigued me. When Bally House came up for sale, the details were sent to me—I have scouts who look worldwide for investment opportunities—I visited, saw its potential and put an offer in.’
The maître d’ returned to the table with the wine bottle in hand. A waiter followed with a bottle of still water.
‘Try some of the wine,’ Tonino urged. ‘Please. I would like to hear your thoughts.’
She pulled a forlorn face. ‘Alcohol doesn’t agree with me any more.’
‘In what way?’
‘The first glass of wine I had after the accident went straight to my head. I passed out. I’ve not dared drink more than a sip of it since.’
‘Then try only a sip of this.’
She rolled her slim shoulders then relaxed with a small laugh. ‘Okay, but if I don’t like it, don’t blame me.’
‘You will like it.’
The laugh she gave this time was louder and huskier. When he filled a third of the glass with the burgundy liquid, she shook her head and chided, ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’
‘It is up to you how much of it you drink.’
Eyes locked on his, she picked the glass up and delicately sniffed the contents. Tonino found himself holding his breath as she put it to her delectable lips and took a sip. Long seconds passed before she swallowed.
‘Well?’ he asked. Orla was the first person unconnected to his business or the world of wine to try it.
‘It’s rank.’
‘Rank?’ The unfamiliar word did not strike him as complimentary.
‘Gross. Disgusting. So disgusting that I think I should try a bit more to reinforce just how gross it is.’ She put the glass back to her lips.
‘You’re playing with me,’ he accused.
The smile she bestowed him with was the most genuine she’d given him since their eyes had met in the cathedral. It dived straight into his chest and pierced it. She took another small drink, put the glass on the table and tilted her head to say softly, ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘So are you.’
Their eyes held. Something passed between them that sent his pulses soaring.
Only the arrival of the waiter at their table broke it. ‘Are you ready to order?’
WHEN ORLA TASTED her starter of cured salmon, crab and smoked roe all wrapped in the most delicate pancake, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. When she took her first bite of her main course of aged fillet of Irish beef and the shiitake tart accompanying it, she decided that if this was heaven, she wanted to stay. If reaching heaven would allow her to drink Tonino’s wine without conking out, then even better. She hadn’t been joking when she called it beautiful. It was easily the most delicious wine she’d ever tasted, and she wished with all her heart that she could have more of it.
‘Were you not tempted to make the menu more Sicilian?’ she asked.
‘This hotel could not be more Irish,’ he said dryly. ‘I don’t think a Sicilian theme would work, do you?’
She shrugged. ‘I know nothing of hotels and restaurants. I was just curious. How many hotels do you own?’
‘Eighteen. I’m in the process of buying another on the Greek island of Agon. I’m flying there tomorrow to deal with some paperwork.’
‘You’re