Tabitha swished the straw-colored wine in her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose. She pulled the stainless-steel bucket up to her face and spat the wine out in a quick stream. She set it down again and jotted notes in her notebook.

Hayfields. Honeysuckle. Horse chestnut.

She gulped some water and reached for the next glass in front of her, holding the glass up to the light to examine the color before sticking her nose deep into the glass and sniffing.

Thick and syrupy. Smells like duck liver.

She took a tentative sip and forced herself not to gag when she moved it around her tongue. She spat it out quickly and resumed her notes.

Tastes like duck liver. But not in a good way. In a cirrhosis way.

She signaled the owner of the enoteca, who sprang to attention and gathered the empty glasses. Tabitha saw that he’d placed a tray of charcuterie on the bar in front of her, but she couldn’t risk her palate by eating any of it. She pulled a bag of bland oyster crackers from her purse and nibbled on one, alternating with tiny sips of warm water. She looked longingly at the cheeses in front of her and hoped they wouldn’t spoil before she could eat them. She glanced around the bar, which had grown crowded in the last couple of hours that she’d been here. The Italian night air was warm, and the air thick around them, even though all of the windows were thrown open. She watched the people walking on the sidewalk outside, each more beautiful than the last. A parade of Adonises, with chiseled shoulders and crisp linen shirts, smiling at women with glossy, dark hair and lyrical, teasing laughs.

She turned back to the bar. He’d put six more glasses in front of her, moving on to the reds this time.

“This one is my favorite,” the owner began, but Tabitha put her hand up and forced a smile.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you again not to tell me any details. It works better for me if I don’t know anything about the wine in advance. I can make a much better decision if I’m not influenced.”

He stared at her for a moment and then ran his hand through his dark grey hair. He shook his head, not for the first time tonight, and she watched his jowls wobble with each shake of his head. She sighed.

“Mi forgivo,” she began, mangling rudimentary Italian with the barely-literate Spanish she remembered from high school. “Es muy important-ay.” He furrowed his brow at her, and turned to the man sitting at the bar next to her and raised his shoulders, both hands up in pinched-finger position, the classic Italian pose of confusion.

Tabitha sipped the first wine and wrote while swishing it.

Pomegranates and dragon blood.

She let herself swallow this one, then made a face and scrawled on the next line,

Finishes like a glass of warm milk.

She shoved the glass aside and reached for her water. The man sitting at the bar next to her had been staring at her notes all evening, and she finally glanced over at him, hoping some semi-aggressive eye contact would scare him off. One look at him and she choked on her water, splashing it up from the glass and all over her face. She grabbed her linen napkin off her lap and dabbed her lips.

The man had deep olive skin, thick, curly hair, and strong, dark eyebrows. His gaze was so intent that she wondered if they’d met before. Perhaps he was a movie star? He’d have to be, with a face like that.

“Bongiorno,” she said.

He nodded at the wine glass she had shoved aside, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I didn’t like that one. I know, I barely tasted it, but this is my job. It doesn’t take me more than one sip to know if it’s good or not, and that one, I’m afraid, is not. The rest have been okay.” Tabitha put her hand over her notebook, though she couldn’t tell if he even spoke English. His gaze never wavered from her face. “Most of them, anyway. Some of them.”

She laughed, a short, forced sound that she regretted instantly. Why was she babbling in front of this man, one of approximately a million beautiful Italian men with brooding eyes and a cleft chin? She was acting like a teenager.

“Why don’t you want Francesco to tell you about the wine?”

His deep voice rumbled down her spine and caused her to sit up straighter. Possibly she pushed her breasts out just a bit more, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Oh, no. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I totally want to hear. It’s just that I work better without it.”

“Without a story?”

“I’m here on a buying trip. I work for a company called Old World New School importers, and we want to distribute his wines in the United States. And when I’m tasting, I just do better without any knowledge at all. Just me and the wine. I can judge it better if I go at it completely objectively, you know?”

Francesco picked up the spit bucket and turned his back to dump the contents into the sink and then rinse it out. He set it down and placed both palms on the counter, his eyebrow cocked at her, and the man continued.

“You are, what? A scientist?”

She nodded and then shook her head. She’d consumed only one swallow of wine all night, but talking to this guy made her feel dazed. Drunk, even. “No, not a scientist. But there is a lot of science to what I do. You have to understand how all the different compounds work together. There is much more to it than that, of course. It’s about taste and education. I’m a sommelier.” She drew the word out, the French pronunciation that always made her feel stupid, but she suspected it impressed other people. Sum-uhl-YAY. She turned back to the glasses in front of her. The next one was an inky purple, the darkest of the lot, almost opaque in the glass. She could feel the man watching her, but refused to let herself look at him again. She sipped, swished it around, and breathed a few times. She picked up her pen and jotted down some thoughts.

Leather. Long eyelashes. Hard. Smooth. Complex.

When she looked up, she saw his eyes on her writing. The man picked up his glass—a pale red that he drank slowly, closing his eyes slightly as he swallowed. The wine was growing sour and hot in her mouth, but the spit bucket was on the other side of him. She pointed at it. He looked around the bar. She pointed again and waved her hand toward the bucket. By this point, the wine had grown too warm to swallow; she was afraid she’d gag if she tried. He looked puzzled, and knitted his brows as if she were a touch insane.

Afraid she might spit the wine all over his wheat-colored linen shirt, she reached across him and spat directly into the bucket. She could feel his chest against her arm, muscled and unyielding, and her breasts pressed into the bar. She wondered if she could just keep going, crawl straight over him behind the bar and make a run for it so she wouldn’t ever have to see him again. Instead, she retreated to her seat, dragging the bucket to her other side.

“I’m so sorry. I had to spit that out and needed this.”

“You do not drink the wine.”

“I’d be dead if I drank everything I tasted. I have to be smart about wine.”

“Ahh,” he said with a small smile, and then tilted his head back to drain the rest of his glass. “Smart is a very sad way to drink wine.” He stood from his chair and nodded at her.

Almost against her will, Tabitha turned and watched him leave. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered, and his waist narrowed down into his slacks. The crowd seemed to part around him, and she saw other women’s eyes fall on him as he walked.

“Smooth move, classy lady,” she muttered to herself as he disappeared into the warm blue night.

Sighing, Tabitha turned back to the wines in front of her. She had three more reds to taste; then she knew the owner would want her to try the dessert wines. It would be easily another hour before she finished here. And suddenly she was ravenous.

She wasn’t doing this correctly. Cori wanted her to explore the region and get to know the local culture. That would include talking to people, getting to know the chefs, pausing to try the wines with the food. To figure out what she enjoyed. And yet ever since Tabitha landed at the Treviso airport, she’d done nothing but sip and spit. She hardly ate, she’d barely made eye contact with anyone except winemakers, and she certainly hadn’t gotten any stories. She knew this was not what Cori wanted, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her portfolio was filled with copious notes about wines to import, but she hadn’t lived for one second.

She was treating this like Royal treated it, she realized.

Tabitha sighed, closed her eyes, and relaxed her shoulders. She needed to be more like herself, not like Royal Hamilton, Sir Titsalot. Cori had hired her for what she did best—her ability to experience wine in her own unique way. This mad quest to taste every single wine in the Veneto region was going to make everyone insane.

She sipped the next one, closed her eyes when she swished it in her mouth, and thought about the man who had just left the bar. She wondered what his full lips might feel like on her neck.

Ripe and luscious. A dripping honeyed fig.

The next wine was dark and heavy, a Corvina with deep cherry and peppercorn flavors. She wondered what it was like to touch his hair.

Thick, dark, velvety. A modern-day vampire.

She swirled the final glass for a long time before sipping, thinking about the scent of his skin she’d caught when she leaned past him. Yes, it had been to spit out a mouthful of warm wine into a bucket, but she’d touched him and had to resist the urge to lick him when she moved back to her seat.

Forest and tinder and leather wrist restraints and a thatch of curly black chest hair that leads down his stomach in a perfect treasure trail.

She crossed out her words, slashing over the description again and again until it was obliterated.

Tobacco, saddle, and brown sugar.

That would do. Typical words that made sense in the wine world. Her face was on fire, and she caught the owner’s eye.

“I think I’m done tasting for the night,” she said. “Maybe I can try the last few tomorrow.”

He nodded, but she hardly noticed, being so intent on the food in front of her. She’d forgotten to eat most of the day today. That could be the only explanation for her shaky hands and her pulse pounding in her ears.

Her hotel was only a block from here. She would walk slowly, breathe in the night air, really look around for once. She’d been in Italy for two solid weeks now and had hardly seen anything except wine glasses. Next time she’d build in more time to enjoy the scenery. Italy used to be her favorite place in the world. She and Royal had honeymooned here. She had a print made when they returned, and hung it over the wine rack in their house: You can have the world if I can have Italy.

She took it with her when she left him. Yanked it off the wall, in fact.

I get Italy, asshole.

Her memory was interrupted by the pop of a cork, and she looked up to see the handsome man from earlier standing beside her with an open, unlabeled bottle. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed the mouthful of bread and cheese she had just shoved into her face.

“I brought you Prosecco.”

Tabitha tried not to roll her eyes. He was handsome, but not handsome enough to babysit through an amateur attempt at winemaking. “Why is it that every single Italian I’ve ever met has a vat of homebrew in their backyard?”

The corner of his mouth rose in a tiny smirk that formed a small dimple on his cheek, and her pulse quickened.

“Wine, perhaps. You cannot make Prosecco in your garden. This one is from my favorite winery. I thought you might like to taste it.”

She sighed.

“I’m not looking for bubblies right now, just so you know. I mean, I’m happy to taste it, if you are asking for a professional opinion. But I’m not going to buy it. Our sparkling wine division is stocked for the year.”

“Do you ever sip wine only for pleasure?”

“What a ridiculous question.”

He leaned close to her, speaking into her ear. She could see a slight scruff of a beard, barely visible in the amber lights of the bar, dusting over his chin. She fought the urge to touch his whiskers. “I do not want you to buy this, or distribute it, or judge it, or any of the things you do. I want you to taste it.”

Tabitha swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and he pulled away from her.

“You do not want to hear the story of this wine,” he continued, “so you tell me one. What do you think about when you taste this?”

Without breaking his gaze, he reached over the bar and picked up a glass, handed it to her, and then took one for himself. She mimicked his movements: when he brought it to his nose to smell, she did the same. He sipped, and the tiny bubbles cascaded over her tongue. He swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers, and she did the same.

“What do you think of it?”

Tabitha took a deep breath, the remnants of the wine still in mouth, the scent filling her head.

“My mom was a workaholic when I was a kid. We never saw her. But once in a while, on a hot summer day, she would squeeze lemon juice into her hair and then sit out in the backyard so the sun would give her blonde highlights. She’d sit out there for hours, eating honeydew melons and prosciutto, and squeezing more lemons and reading magazines. After that, she’d use the garden hose to rinse out her hair, and then we’d lie on the grass with her until it dried. She had long hair in those days—almost down to her waist—and it would blow around in the breeze. For the rest of the day, if I got close to her, I could smell her hair. I always thought that must be what the sun smelled like.”

His eyes had narrowed, just a bit, and a small smile played on his beautiful lips.

“You like this Prosecco?” he asked.

“I think it is delicious. Better than delicious. One of the best I’ve ever tasted. It tastes like sunshine.”

“Ahhh. You said you tasted it. You did not analyze it.”

Both of their glasses were empty, though Tabitha didn’t remember sipping on hers as they talked. He picked up the bottle.

“If you like, we can continue tasting this wine at my house?”

Holy Italian Stallion, would I like it. I want to taste every inch of your body…

Tabitha had to gulp several times before she could croak out a reply. “Uh, thank you for the offer, but no.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t go home with strange men, particularly men with eyes like yours. Bedroom eyes.”

“You believe I want to hurt you?”

“You think I’m going to take a chance?”

“Who was the last man you made love with?”

“Okay, sure. Why not? It was my husband. Ex-husband. Over a year ago.”

“And this man wounded you?”

“He cut my heart right out of my chest.”

“How long did you know one another?”

Sly devil.

“Seven years. Fair point. I still won’t go to a strange man’s house. Especially when I don’t even know his name.”

He held out his hand. “Giovanni Palmisano. My uncle Francesco is the owner of the enoteca.”

“Giovanni. I’m Tabitha Hamilton. Lawson, I mean. Tabitha Lawson.”

“Tabitha.” He purred it in the Italian way, Ta-bee-ta, sending chills from her ankles straight to the base of her neck. “I will take you out to dinner. We will drink the Prosecco, and after we dine, ti accompagno. I will accompany you to your home to make sure you arrive safely. If you want to invite me into your home, I will go. If not, I will say goodnight and dream of you.”

“Bloody hell,” Tabitha said, and stood up from her chair.