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    She lifted her gaze to the road, to the vibrant red poppies dotting a sea of green on its edge. That was enough of that.
    Quinn focused on the information Matteo was imparting about Montalcino, the town where the castello was located. It had a bloodthirsty history, warred over for decades by its powerful foreign neighbors and even her own neighboring city-states back in the days before Italy had become a nation. The castello was actually a fortress, he relayed. It had played a strategic role in the struggles between the Sienese and the invading powers.
    “The cellar is actually the old dungeon where the prisoners of war were held. It’s quite a showpiece. We think it gives it great atmosphere.”
    That was one way of putting it. “They actually locked people up down there?”
    “ Si . Some of them died.” He laughed at her horrified expression. “When my grandfather bought the castello and we renovated, we found two old skulls we keep on display.”
    She recoiled. “How very macabre.”
    He shrugged. “Wars happen. Have since the beginning of time.”
    They swept around a turn and a magnificent stone building came into view, perched on the top of a hillside, towering over the mountainous forests that surrounded it. Quinn gasped. “Is that it?”
    He nodded. “The Castello De Campo. Dates back to the Middle Ages.”
    She took in the sprawling brawn of the imposing burnt-orange structure, its square turrets and tall watchtower like something out of a movie. “It’s incredible.”
    Matteo pointed toward the terraced vineyards that extended from the top of the mountain to the bottom. “The De Campo estate is actually a constellation of vineyards. The different slopes and elevations of the mountain offer each varietal the optimum growing conditions. Some of the whites such as the Chardonnay, for instance, are planted further above sea level, where the nights are cool and the ripening season long, whereas the Brunellos, the king of our reds, thrive at a lower level.”
    “Margarite is obsessed with your Brunello.”
    “Who?”
    “My head sommelier.”
    “So she should be,” he murmured cockily. “We’ll have one tonight.”
    She was so exhausted she might fall flat on her face if she drank anything. But Margarite would kill her if she passed up the opportunity to try the famous, lusty De Campo red.
    “The scale is breathtaking,” she said to him. “How many varietals do you produce?”
    “Fifteen.” He flicked her a glance. “Do you ride? I thought we would do the tour by horseback tomorrow.”
    “Not well,” she admitted. She was suspicious of horses. They were big, heavy, unpredictable animals. Kind of like men. She didn’t need either of them in her life.
    It was impossible not to think how much more history De Campo had than Silver Kangaroo as Matteo parked the car in front of the magnificent castello and carried her bags inside. It was everywhere. In the century-old, mature vineyards surrounding the castle, in the family crest on the building as they came in, in the third generation of winemakers producing the glorious vintages here. Silver Kangaroo was only twenty years old. Although there was something to be said for such a young winery winning so many awards in such a short amount of time, it couldn’t compare to De Campo in lineage.
    Matteo led her into the magnificent tiled hallway of the west wing which was the personal residence of the De Campo family. With its cathedral ceiling and stunning frescos it was truly amazing. Like she’d walked into the home of royalty.
    Matteo introduced her to Maria, the Italian housekeeper who had run the De Campo household since he was a boy, then led her up a winding staircase to a turret bedroom that took her breath away. The exposed brick walls of the castello extended into a double-arched stone wall that separated a sitting room with a fireplace from the