Catherine Spencer - The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle

She held the phone at arm’s length. “Do you feel up to talking to his lordship, Arlene?” she inquired, loud enough for half the people in the hotel to hear.

Arlene nodded, unable to keep a straight face. When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, she wondered.

“Hello, Domenico,” she said, picking up the handset on the bedside table.

“I hear you’re recovered.” Seductive baritone verging on bass, his voice stroked sinfully against her ear and vibrated the length of her body. “I’m greatly relieved.”

“Thank you, both for your concern and for the flowers. If a woman has to suffer a migraine, waking up to pink roses does make it a little easier to bear.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

A pause hummed along the line, which she took to mean the conversation was at an end. “Well, I’ll say good night, then—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “Arlene, I blame myself for what happened today. Expecting you to work as long as others who are used to our climate was unforgivable of me, and I apologize.”

“There’s no need. You heard my friend Gail, a moment ago. I’m a grown woman. I could, and should have spoken sooner. As it was, I put you to a great deal of trouble at a time when you’ve got your hands full with the harvest. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, and won’t be returning to the vineyard?”

“Of course not. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight—at least, I will unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a purr. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

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