Chapter One

Those eyes.

They were heart-stoppers. Large, brown, and soulful. I could stare at this guy's eyes for hours and not feel the time pass. As it was, I was barely aware of the Christmas carols playing on a loudspeaker. As much as I loved "It Came upon a Midnight Clear"-it was my favorite carol, after all-the melody's beauty couldn't match these eyes. Even the decorations behind him in the shop window, a joyful collection of green, white, red, and silver hand-knit stockings on a mock fireplace, weren't nearly as distracting. There was no street, no sound, no holiday rush. There was just me and him.

He blinked-a knowing sort of blink that let me know he was aware of my stare. I swallowed hard, transfixed. I'd seen pictures of him, videos even, but he was finally here, live, right in front of me. Talk about your yuletide treasures-any breathing woman would swoon.

He wasn't a brute; he was elegant and sophisticated. I watched him turn his head regally, as if to prove he didn't need to look at me like I needed to look at him. And then, after a moment of denying me his magnetic gaze, he looked at me again. Deeper this time, I swear. I've always been a goner for a great pair of eyes, but these were magnificent, framed with the kind of thick lashes women would die for.

I stepped a bit closer, feeling hopelessly drawn to him. I'm too old to fangirl anyone, but he was a celebrity. One of a kind. I'd probably never get the chance to be this close to him again in my lifetime. I was dying to touch him, to see if he'd feel as fantastic as I was certain he did. So I took one more daring step closer.

And then he spit on me.

After all, vicu–a are a close relation to camels and alpacas, and both are notorious spitters.

I blinked and reared back, the shock of vicu–a spit on my cheek blasting me out of my stupor.

"Pardon Zorro's bad manners," came a deep voice from behind me. A linen handkerchief held by a tanned hand floated into my field of vision. "He's not always a gentleman in new surroundings." Vincenzo Marani held up a chastising finger to his vicu–a charge. "You should never spit on a woman like Libby Beckett. You should revere her." Still, a wry smile crept across his face as he turned back to me and wiped my cheek. "But I did tell you to take care if you got close."

He had indeed. I felt a flush of embarrassment at being too smitten to follow directions. "You did." I noticed the elegant VM embroidered on one corner of the brilliantly white linen square. "I'll wash this and get it back to you."

Vincenzo held up one hand. "Please, no. It can be yours. I have dozens-for obvious reasons. And I suspect you will need it again if the rest of Zorro's herd does not mind their manners." He shrugged. "I try to make up for them, but . . ."

Vincenzo Marani, otherwise known as the Gallant Herdsman, did a pretty good job of making up for his uncouth companions, if you ask me. The vicu–a were intriguing and cute-rather like overgrown Bambis with wildly expensive coats-but I'd never use that word to describe Vincenzo. The man was stunningly handsome and suave. I'd spent the last three months researching his career and the small herd of vicu–a he would bring here for his visit. Despite devouring a lot of articles and videos, I still hadn't figured out how he managed to pull off his beguiling aura of rough-hewn elegance. The man was as captivating as the animals he had brought-maybe even more so.

The sold-out tickets to his event at my yarn shop Y.A.R.N. the next afternoon were a testament to the man's charms. Vincenzo was somehow posh but not pompous, luxurious but still low-key. He could somehow live in the exclusive world of the Italian fashion design house his family ran and yet still dig into a great American cheeseburger. Charisma on a monumental scale.

All of which made his appearance the perfect event for my shop. Some attendees were drawn by the chance to experience the ultra-luxurious, ultra-exclusive fiber that came from vicu–a. I had described the fiber to my friend Margo as "the knitter's Lamborghini." But probably just as many-if not more-were here for the Gallant Herdsman scheduled to demonstrate shearing them.

Y.A.R.N. stood to benefit either way, so as far as I was concerned, it didn't matter. This shop had been my dream for so long, and it thrilled me to think our second holiday season was set to brilliantly exceed our first.

"Will they be okay here?" I asked as Zorro's three companions, Agua, Pisco, and Rica, walked over from the other side of the small pen we'd set up in my shop's backyard. I was spending the next few days playing temporary landlord to a tiny herd of the world's most expensive fiber source. Well, that and Vincenzo's gleaming Airstream motor home, which now sported a small wreath on its door made of red and green balls of yarn with a pair of knitting needles tucked in one corner. One of my very artistic customers, Arlene, had made it for me to give to him as a welcome present. The trailer and pen took up so much of the backyard that we were going to have to set up chairs in the parking lot for the shearings. A great problem to have, in my opinion.

"They look very happy to me." Vincenzo's silky baritone somehow became silkier. "You are an excellent hostess." He actually took my hand and kissed it, like in the movies. "I am so glad to be here."

Normally, that sort of thing is met with a groan and an eye roll from me, but somehow the Gallant Herdsman made it look like the deepest of authentic compliments. The New England zoo from which his borrowed herd had come-you don't exactly just walk out of Peru with the national animal and most prized livestock-told me Vincenzo is the only non-zoo personnel the vicu–a have ever accepted.

It wasn't hard to see why. The man had been in my yard all of six hours and I felt like Santa had brought me my heart's desire for Christmas. Honestly, Vincenzo could probably charm me-or anyone-into just about anything.

"I still can't believe we were able to make this happen." I tried not to sound breathless. "Vicu–a can only be sheared once every three years, and you're going to shear four of them right here in Collinstown."

Vincenzo gave a small whistle, and the four animals came right to him. No spitting involved. He looked at them with the same love I show my English bulldog, Hank. They looked at him with the devoutly loyal affection Hank shows me.

"They are magnificent animals," he declared. "I am happy to be able to show them to the world." Vincenzo gave me a wink and moved close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne. "But I will admit the very sizable donation the Marani family makes to the zoo on their behalf does help things along."

Many knitters knew the story of how the Marani family had championed the cause of Peruvian vicu–a and the villagers who tended to them. House of Marani was internationally famous for its luxury clothing and textiles. I'd once drooled over a woven Marani vicu–a shawl-until I saw the [...] price tag. Marani coats went for upward of [...]. My very wealthy, very regrettable ex-husband was the only person I'd ever known to own anything from House of Marani. The rest of us couldn't ever hope to move in such seriously high-brow spheres.

And Vincenzo Marani was the epitome of high-brow. Everything about the man-his clothes, his manners, his gleaming top-of-the-mode transportation-spoke of vast wealth and impeccable style. I could easily believe his family had made a donation to the zoo large enough to make anything possible-including the ability to take these four animals on tour in the name of conservation and education. No one else had ever done such a thing.

And I'd convinced him to come here and shear the herd as the Christmas event for my shop. Vincenzo's arrival felt like my finest professional victory, and worth every minute of the complicated process of setting it up. I grinned. "Every business here in Collinstown has come up with some special offering for our holiday festival, but this? This is a whole different level of special."

Vincenzo stroked the neck of one of the vicu–a, and I swear her big eyes fluttered in bliss. "A testament to Collinstown's Chamber of Commerce president, yes?"

I'm sure I blushed like a schoolgirl. "Well, the yarn helps."

"It is amazing, isn't it?" He continued stroking the animals with a loving reverence. "Did you like the skeins I sent over?"

Like? Vicu–a yarn defies words. You think, "Nothing could be worth that kind of money" . . . until you touch it. "I haven't stopped touching it. I'm still trying to decide what pattern is worthy of it."

"I predict you will sell every one of your skeins by the time I am finished shearing. A fine holiday for your shop."

"I don't doubt it." I'd sold one already. Anytime someone balked at the [...] price of the fiber, I simply lifted the top of the lidded crystal bowl I kept them in and let them touch it. 'Nuff said.

Still, I'm not really doing this to sell yarn. I'm doing this for the sheer blissful experience of being close to something that luxurious. Not many things in life are perfect, but this comes close. Really, really close.

Vincenzo looked past me to the decorations now going up all over our main street, Collin Avenue. Only about a third of the wreaths, garland, and lights were up and the place already looked like a snow globe. "You know I am looking forward to spending this weekend here with you," he said in a voice that hinted at a dozen things. His features shifted, a wariness filling those dark, alluring eyes. "But I think you should know . . ."

"Marani!" came a shocking voice from behind me. "You devil, you! How do you manage not to age a bit?"

I was catapulted out of my bliss with the same force as...