In the Italian's Sights by Helen Brooks Page B

hot in the cloudless blue sky. She was wearing a sleeveless pink cotton dress that she’d had for ages, but it was lovely and cool on a warm day, and she had pulled her hair into a high knot so the air could get to the back of her neck. Already she felt sticky. Vittorio looked cool and comfortable and much, much too good-looking.
    He slid out of the car as she approached, opening the passenger door and helping her inside the vehicle with the natural courtesy she’d noticed before. She felt flustered and hot as she sat down, but now the heat came from within rather than without. She exhaled slowly as Vittorio walked round the large bonnet and then stared primly ahead as he joined her in the Range Rover. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, the elusive andevocative scent which she now associated with him, and her nerves responded, tightening and vibrating.
    ‘So.’ He started the engine, swinging the vehicle in a semi-circle before leaving the pebbled area in front of the villa and joining the road they’d travelled on the day before, but in the opposite direction from where her little car sat marooned. ‘What do you know of the liquid gold we harvest?’
    Trying to match his casualness, Cherry smiled. ‘It’s great for dressing salads and grilling meat?’
    ‘Si.’ He grinned, and her traitorous body responded. ‘But there is much more to the oil than that—as I am sure you have heard. It is beneficial in fighting heart disease and obesity, and this was understood even in ancient times. Roman and Greek athletes were known to smear the olive oil over their bodies to improve bloodflow and enhance muscle development, and in some parts of the world this still happens today.’
    Cherry had a mental image of that magnificent body she had practically drooled over at the pool the day before gleaming and oiled and had to swallow hard.
    ‘And of course today the oil is used not just in cooking but in a wide range of cosmetics and soap, and for this the Puglia region is superb. All our oil is extra-virgin—the best quality, si ? Less than one per cent of acidity per hundred grams. And a beautiful yellow. The colour of the sun.’ He grinned again. ‘But I am the bore. This cannot interest you, Cherry.’
    Whatever else Vittorio was, he could never be boring. She glanced at the large strong hands on the steering wheel, the gold watch on his tanned wrist glittering in the sunshine, and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘On the contrary. I find it very interesting to think an industrythat started thousands of years ago is still going strong and is growing more successful if anything. And even I can tell Puglia’s oil is better than what I’ve been used to at home. Before I came to Italy I would never have dreamt of enjoying a basket of local bread dipped in olive oil as lunch, but it’s delicious.’
    ‘ Si —and healthy. We make good bambini —strong sons and daughters, us Italians—and we enjoy life.’
    She dared not let her thoughts go down that route, and as the white-walled, red-roofed buildings of the Carella factory came into view, breathed a silent sigh of relief.
    Vittorio’s manager met them as he brought the Range Rover to a standstill. His name was Federico and he was a cousin of Vittorio’s. It appeared all the dozen or so employees were family. While Vittorio disappeared into the office, Federico escorted her round the factory, where modern machinery had replaced the traditional presses of Vittorio’s grandfather’s day, taking Cherry through the labour-intensive and, in its early stages, back-breaking work needed to process the oil. First the trees must be harvested, he explained, and then—swiftly so that the olives didn’t bruise, oxidise or spoil in any way—the fruit must be pulped to a paste. The paste then had to be stirred vigorously before the final method of extraction was performed.
    ‘And all must be done with love, si ?’ Federico said with a flash of his dark brown eyes.