This was so embarrassing.
Caterina looked around her apartment and prayed no one would ever find out. Unless there were hidden cameras planted, or she’d suddenly become famous on TMZ, her shameful secret should be safe. But it came at a high price.
Humiliation for the female species.
With a groan, she did the deed and dropped the handwritten paper into the small fire she’d created in a kitchen pot. As the flames ate up and spit out burnt pieces, she reminded herself creating a love spell to find her soulmate was an extremely healthy thing to do.
Over a year ago, she’d arrived in Italy devastated. Heartbroken. Her entire life had blown up a week before her planned extravagant wedding, and she’d left everything behind to carve out a new life for herself. One without her being dependent on any man—including her father. One on her own terms.
Now, she’d finally found some vestige of happiness and it was time to venture into the dating pool again. She missed men—from their musky scent to their hard muscles, sexy smiles, and confident swaggers. She missed the rough touch of a hand on hers, and the powerful way they’d guide her under an elbow to gently lead. She missed the thrill of a first kiss, lips tentatively sliding over hers before his tongue slid masterfully inside to stroke and pleasure.
She missed sex.
Badly.
But she wasn’t yet ready for dating sites, or match-ups by well-meaning friends who had no clue what she was looking for. She’d stumbled on the violet, fabric covered Book of Spells while antiquing in Milan. The moment her fingers closed around the worn spine, she’d experienced a jolt of anticipation. It was even written in English—a real find when most books were Italian. The spell was quite simple—make a list of all the qualities one needed in a soulmate, chant a quick spell to Earth Mother, and burn the piece of paper in fire. Place a second copy of the list under her mattress. Then wait for Mr. Right.
Yeah, so much better than Tinder.
She glanced at the list for the final time to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
1. A man who is passionate and madly in love with her.
2. A hard worker
3. A man with great loyalty
4. A man who makes her feel safe
5. A man who is tender
6. A man who supports and believes in her
7. A man with character
8. A man who loves her father
9. A man who makes her believe in love again
10. A man who isn’t afraid to give her all of himself
11. A man who rocks her world in bed
Yes, it was a perfect list. Shaking her head, she shoved the paper under her mattress, cleaned up the mess, and put the book on the table. At least she felt as if she had done something to further her goal. A first step was crucial toward getting what one desired, as her father used to say. A pang of loneliness hit her when she thought of him, running Winsor Winery alone. When she’d walked in on her fiancé, Devon, screwing one of the tasting clients right before their wedding, she’d lost a future husband and Papa had lost a partner. Papa had been forced to go outside their tight-knit world to hire a new assistant. From his emails, though, it seemed her father had made the right choice with Ripley Savage. And yet he continued to beg her to come home to take over the business where, in his opinion, she belonged.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t ready to return to the scene of her heartbreak, and had been too cowardly to tell her father the truth.
There was a good chance she’d never be ready.
Guilt consumed her. Her entire life had revolved around a business that had been as much a part of her as her next breath. Through good and bad seasons, the grapes and her father had been her only constants.
But she’d never known anything else, had never had the choice of a different life.
The moment she’d tasted freedom, Cat realized the endless possibilities that lay before her, so she wanted nothing more to do with making wine. She’d steeped herself in travel, finally deciding to try her hand at designing and creating purses to see if she could eventually launch a successful business of her own. She’d taken classes, immersed herself in fine leathers and textiles, visiting endless purse designers to study, and felt on the brink of being able to finally begin.
Cat glanced at some of her samples, piled high on the small table. The studio apartment located in the expensive Brera district of Milano was small, but functional. Sure, the kitchen had a barely working stove and no dishwasher, but the ceilings soared high and the oversized windows allowed sun to pour in. The walls were bright yellow, the floors a warm pine, and the small wrought iron terrace gave her the outdoor space she craved. Thank goodness she didn’t need to cook. Besides, why cook in Italy when she could sample the amazing array of delights at her fingertips? Cat trusted the professionals. She’d made a ton of friends from her regular routine of eating out, and it was more fun than slaving in her nonexistent kitchen trying to make boxed pasta.
The small television got a few channels, but she had her laptop, and wifi, so she didn’t need much else. Her only imprint was the many plants and flowers that sprung from the corners and shelves, scenting the air with heavy perfumes and clean oxygen.
She’d come a long way from her majestic home amidst the rolling hills of upstate New York, where attending glamorous parties and social networking had been her main function for the business. She’d let Devon, her ex-fiancé, take the reins of her responsibility. Her opinions on running the winery were brushed aside, along with her numerous attempts to expand into catering events and renovate the tasting barn. How many times had he smiled charmingly and told her to let him and her father take care of things? That his future wife shouldn’t have to worry about the business that held her name? Even worse, when had it become so easy to step back and let Devon lead? Her father had raised her to be strong, especially after her mother died when she was only twelve years old, but she’d lost her way. His duplicity had forced her to examine what she really wanted out of life, and her own role in this world. She was still figuring it out, but had learned more about herself this past year than her entire overprotected youth.
She glanced at her slim rose gold watch. It was Friday evening and she needed to get out of the house. She might have created a love spell, but chances were slim that her Mr. Right would be knocking at her door. To meet him, she’d have to actually leave the house.
God helps those who help themselves.
She hoped God wasn’t too pissed she was relying on a bit of old fashioned witchcraft to find a mate. Anyway, she’d tried church socials numerous times and that certainly wasn’t working either. It was harder than she thought to meet interesting, single men and she wasn’t the type to be picked up at a bar.
Holding back a sigh, she freshened up, glancing down at her casual, yet sleek outfit of black pants, a snug red shirt, and Prada high-heeled sandals. Her light blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she’d pumped up the volume by adding lots of jewelry. Good enough.
Someone knocked on her door.
Cat froze, staring at the door in a moment of sheer shock and confusion. Could it be? Could the spell have worked that fast? Had her Mr. Right come to her after all—ready to sweep her off her feet?
Her thoughts spun, but she pushed them back and peered through the peephole.
Red petals met her view. “Who is it?” she called out suspiciously.
A feminine voice drifted past the barrier. “Flower delivery for Ms. Winsor.”
Relieved and feeling immensely foolish, she swore not to watch Paranormal Investigations ever again and opened the door. The bouquet of stunning blood-red roses sprang at her with wild abandon. The delivery person transferred the bouquet, had her scribble her name on a piece of paper, and in moments, she was alone again in her apartment.
Who had sent them? It wasn’t her birthday, and she wasn’t dating anyone. Hell, she didn’t even know many men past the casual acquaintance stage. Excited, she plucked the card from the plastic holder and opened it.
Presto.
A shiver of warning crept down her spine. Suddenly, she was struck by the knowledge something big was about to unfurl—something that would change her life. The dark red petals seemed like an omen of doom rather than a symbol of love and affection. Uneasiness prickled her nerve endings.
What was going on?
Cat frowned, reading the word again. Soon. What did this mean? Who would send her red roses with such a cryptic message? She searched for further information but there was nothing else. She tapped the card against her lips and studied the blooms before her. Okay, no need to freak out. She’d just call the flower shop.
It took her only a few minutes to find out the shop knew nothing more. The order had been taken in cash, and the counter person only related he was a tall man with a hoodie pulled over his head. They couldn’t tell her any other details.
Cat glanced at the purple fabric-covered book lying on the table.
Yep, she was now freaking out. Best thing to do was get out of her apartment and grab a cocktail. She suddenly needed to be around a noisy, chattering crowd to calm her worries.
She hit the streets, savoring the muggy air, loud city sounds, and bustling shops along the crowded, crooked pavements. Milan reminded her of the energy and style of Manhattan, just with even better architecture. She passed the Moscova Metro station, deciding to take the short walk and head toward Bar Brera. April held the hints of summer about to bloom, and ended the quiet season where most Italians and tourists stayed locked up through the crazy high and lows of weather that held no rationale. Today, it was as if the world had woken up and decided to go out for a cappuccino or aperitif to enjoy a mild Friday evening.
When she reached the popular café, all the outdoor tables were already taken. She headed straight toward her favorite bartender—Luigi, who always greeted her in a loud booming voice, flirted shamelessly, and shared pictures of his grandbabies with pride. Living in Italy for the past year had done amazing things for her ego and femininity. She enjoyed the open pleasure men found with women, yet there was a formal respect from the majority that made her feel admired, yet safe. Respected in an old-fashioned sort of way that had been a salve to her soul after being brutally treated.
Of course, she’d occasionally slapped down overeager admirers who mistakenly believed her body was public property. But she viewed the encounters as an opportunity to keep up her defenses. Plus, her right hook.
“Ciao, bella!” Luigi called out, recognizing her immediately in the swarming crowd. He plucked the bottle of the Pinot Grigio she preferred, poured a full glass, and adeptly slid it across the bar without pause. “Come stai?”
“Bene, bene.”
She slid her euros on the bar and took a sip of the chilled liquid. Her gaze surveyed the café, where food and cocktails were being served to the after-work crowd. Three men in sharp suits took up the corner of the bar, staring at her with a tad of lust and little true interest. Holding back a sigh, she looked around for a lone table to enjoy her drink, check her phone, and do some serious people watching.
On her second sweep of the room, she spotted him.
Left corner. No plates on the checkered tablecloth. A bottle of whiskey sat by his right elbow. A heavily cut rocks glass was half filled with the amber liquid, placed perfectly in the center of a square white napkin. The man radiated a dark, brooding type aura that kept the chattering crowd at a distance. As Cat studied him in fascination, she noticed he had rough, jagged lines to his features—from his Roman nose to his heavy black brows and stubbled chin. His cheekbones were two sharp slashes across his face. His lips held a perpetual sneer, tilted down at the sides as if he was a man hard to please. Coal-black hair brushed the top of his ears and was worn too long to be fashionable. His skin was a deep olive. He wore a tight black T-shirt and black pants, casting him in perpetual shadow.
No wonder she hadn’t seen him at first. It was as if he was an expert at blending into the background. He was staring into his glass as if it held all the answers, and she held her breath, senses tingling, as she waited for him to look up.
He did.
Lava bubbled through her veins. Her skin flushed at the power of his deep, dark stare, pinning her with eyes as black as obsidian, seething with undertones of sensuality, purpose, and a hint of danger. He held her stare for a few timeless, motionless moments that stretched from seconds to infinity.
Then he looked back down. Lifted his glass. And tipped the liquid down his throat in one long swallow. She watched the muscles of his neck tighten and relax, feeling as if a strange spell had been cast around them both. He slammed the glass down, refilled, and tapped his fingers against the cut rim, as if waiting for something big to happen.
Caterina knew this was a man who was out of her league. She’d usually turn away and seek out a table in the light—where chatter and laughter and light-hearted conversation beckoned. Instead, the memory of the mysterious flowers and the love spell stirred something deep inside. An urge to move forward and push boundaries. An instinct to take a leap and talk with the mysterious stranger.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. She hesitated only a few precious seconds.
Then she walked over to his table.