New Year Fireworks

“Do you have wireless here?” she asked hopefully.

“I do.”

“Mind if I use my laptop to log on?”

“Not at all. Here, I’ll write the password for you.”

He stopped at the table and jotted down a sequence of numbers and letters. Sabrina tucked the folded paper into the pocket of her jacket.

“Thanks. I think I mentioned I’m in Italy on business. I have several appointments I need to confirm. I also need to contact my partners. We’re working a project with a very tight deadline.”

“I understand. But first we eat, yes?”

“Yes!”

The mouthwatering scent of garlic and onions grew more pronounced as they entered the dining room. Like the library, this room, too, looked out on the sea. The table was a beautiful burnished oak and long enough to seat twelve comfortably. A smaller table had been set with china and crystal out on the terrace. It was tucked in a corner that protected it from the sea breezes and warmed by a tall, umbrella-like patio heater.

Lemon trees in ceramic pots provided splashes of color. Despite the lateness of the season, flowering bougainvillea climbed the walls. Enchanted, Sabrina passed the crutches to Marcos and eased into the chair he pulled out for her.

“I’ll tell Signora Bertaldi we’re ready,” he said. “I would offer you an aperitif, but you should not combine alcohol with the drug I prescribed for you.”

“No problem. The view alone is enough to get me high.”

While Marco went inside, she breathed in a lungful of salty air and leaned forward to peer over the terrace wall.

Yikes! Good thing she wasn’t acrophobic. She was sitting suspended in seemingly thin air, with only the wave-splashed rocks a hundred or so feet below.

Her host returned a few moments later with Rafaela’s mama. “This is Signora Bertaldi. She runs this house—and me—with a most skilled hand.”

The older woman blushed at the compliment. “His Excellency, he exaggerates.”

Her eyes were dark and keen and set in a web of fine wrinkles. They stayed locked with disconcerting intensity on Sabrina’s face.

“Please to excuse my English, Signorina Russo. It is not so good.”

“It’s better than my Italian. I met your daughter this afternoon, by the way. She says your pesce spada will make me weep with joy.”

The strange intensity gave way to a wide smile. “Then it is good I cook the fish for you tonight, si?”

“Si.”

“Please to sit, Excellency. I will bring the olives and antipasto.”

Marco complied and stretched his long legs out. “So, Sabrina. Tell me more about this business that brings you to Italy.”

She couldn’t have scripted a more perfect finish to a day that had edged so close to disaster.

The sunset was glorious. The grilled swordfish was everything Rafaela had promised. The cappuccino came topped with sweet, creamy foam. The company …

Okay, she could admit it. She was seriously in lust with His Excellency, Don Marco Antonio d’Whatever. She’d always been a sucker for a man with smooth, polished manners and linebacker’s shoulders. Not to mention tastes that ranged from opera to water polo to the succulent jerk-chicken skewers cooked up by New York City sidewalk vendors. And let’s not forget eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Still, she didn’t deliberately plan her grimace as she got to her feet after their leisurely meal. Or her clumsy stumble when she tried to get the crutches under her. But she certainly didn’t object when Marco muttered an oath and swept her into his arms.

“You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“I shouldn’t have kept you up so long. You need to rest and elevate your ankle.”

To hell with her ankle. A far more urgent need gripped Sabrina. With his mouth only inches from hers, she ached to brush her lips over his. She could almost taste their silky heat.

She didn’t realize how transparent her thoughts were until they were in the elevator and he bent to press the button to take them to the lower level. When he straightened, he wore his doctor’s face. Cool, assessing, concerned … until his gaze snagged hers.

Gesù!

Marco smothered the oath, but he couldn’t hold back the hunger that punched through him, hot and swift and fierce. He wanted this woman. Wanted to taste her, touch her, hear her moan with pleasure as his mouth and hands roamed her lush, seductive curves.

The hours they’d spent together since their near calamitous meeting had erased his initial, absurd notion she might be Gianetta’s twin. Or even, God help him, her ghost.

Sabrina Russo was nothing like his temperamental, tempestuous wife. Her laugh was spontaneous and natural, without a hint of frenzy lurking just under the surface. Her lively mind challenged his. And her mouth … Sweet Jesus, her mouth!

The elevator glided to a stop and the door slid open, but Marco made no move to exit. He knew he shouldn’t yield to the urge to kiss this woman. She was his patient, a guest in his home. An American entrepreneur, impatient to be on her way and complete the tasks that had brought her to Italy. They were casual acquaintances at best. Strangers who would say goodbye in the morning.

The stern lecture proved completely ineffectual against the heat that raced through his veins. Only by an exercise of iron will could he hold off until he was sure she understood his intent. He saw it in the quick flare of her eyes. Heard it in the sudden rasp of her breath. With a low growl, Marco bent his head and took her mouth with his.

She tasted of dark coffee and sweet, rich cream. He angled his mouth, wanting more of her. Her arms locked around his neck. Her head tipped. She opened her lips, welcoming him, answering hunger with hunger.

He shifted her in his arms, his blood firing when her full breasts flattened against his chest. His body was so taut and straining with need he almost missed it when she gave a small jerk. He whipped up his head and caught her trying to cover a wince.

“Christ! I hurt you.”

“No!” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. “I banged my foot. The elevator … it’s so small.”

Shame and disgust hammered at him with vicious blows. Calling himself all kinds of a pig, Marco angled her injured foot away from the elevator wall.

“To kiss you like that was inexcusable of me,” he ground out as he carried her into the corridor. His footsteps echoing on the tiles, he strode toward the guest suite. “I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

The flush faded as her mouth tipped into a smile. “I’m not.”

Still thoroughly disgusted with his lack of control, Marco shook his head. “I don’t usually assault injured women.”

“You don’t, huh?” Amusement danced in her eyes. “How about those who aren’t injured?”

“You tease, but that was no way for me—for anyone!—to treat a guest.”

“Hey, you can’t take all the credit, Doc. I was giving as good as I got back there in the elevator.” She cocked a brow. “Or was I?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “You were, Ms. Russo. You most definitely were.”

That was still no excuse for his behavior. It took a fierce effort of will, but Marco managed to block the all-too-vivid feel of her mouth hot and eager under his and shouldered open the door to the guest suite. Signora Bertaldi had come down to straighten the room while he and Sabrina lingered over cappuccino. The bed was turned back, the sheets smoothed, the pillows plumped and ready.

Firmly suppressing the erotic and highly inappropriate thoughts that jumped into his head, Marco tugged down the top sheet and lowered his burden.

“We left the crutches upstairs. I’ll ask Signora Bertaldi to bring them to you. She waited to help you prepare for bed before she left for the evening.”

“Sure you don’t want to tuck me in yourself?”

Laughter lurked behind her all-too-innocent expression. She was teasing him again. He knew it, but the knowledge didn’t keep the gates from springing open and the mental images he’d just suppressed from pouring through. He could see her stretched out on those smooth sheets, one arm curled above her head, her lips parted in invitation …

Dammit!

“No,” he admitted with brutal honesty. “I am not at all sure. But I’ll send Rafaela’s mama to you.”

Marco was sweating when he left the guest suite. Shunning the elevator, he took the stairs to the upper floor. What the devil was wrong with him? Why did this woman stir such intense, erotic fantasies?

He hadn’t remained completely celibate after his wife’s death. He was a man. He had normal appetites, the usual physical needs. There were women in Rome, sophisticated women who played the game of flirtation and seduction with practiced charm. Yet none of them had roused him like this long-limbed American beauty.

Now he had to decide what the devil he would do about it.

Four

“Oh, yuck! Your ankle looks like an overcooked bratwurst.”

Grinning at her friend’s apt description, Sabrina swung the laptop propped on her stomach around. Its built-in camera made a dizzying sweep of the guest bedroom before her face was once again displayed on the screen alongside those of her two partners. How the heck had the world survived before videoconferencing?

“It is pretty gross,” she agreed with a glance at her garish, yellow-and-purple lower limb. She’d un-bandaged the ankle to let it breathe for a while. Before wrapping it up again and crawling under the covers for the night, she’d decided to try and contact her partners.

She’d caught Devon in Germany, where she was working frantically to set up the premerger meeting of executives from Logan Aerospace and Hauptmann Metal Works. Caroline, like Sabrina, was scouting sites for the job that had unexpectedly dropped into their laps last week.

“You need to stay off that ankle,” Caro insisted, her heart-shaped face showing genuine concern. “Hole up at your hotel for the next few days and do not, I repeat, DO NOT even think about checking out those conference sites. I’ll finish here and zip over to Italy. I can be there Thursday. Friday at the latest.”

Devon countered with an alternate plan. “Don’t cut your schedule short, Caro. I’ll put things on hold here and fly down tomorrow. I can play nurse to ‘Rina and scope out sites at the same time.”

“Guys. Really. No need for either of you to charge to the rescue. I’ll manage just fine.”

“Sure you will,” Devon scoffed. Her warm brown eyes held a combination of affection and concern. “I’ve been to the Amalfi coast. I know it’s straight up and down. I also remember you mentioning that the hotel in Ravello had a lot of stairs and terraces.”

“Actually, I’m not staying at the hotel. The doc who almost hit me offered to put me up at his villa tonight. He wants to check my ankle tomorrow to make sure I’m good to go before I take to the road again.”

“That’s the least the jerk can do,” Dev huffed.

“Hey, did I mention that the jerk is a duke as well as a doc?”

Judging by their expressions, her partners weren’t impressed.

“He’s also seriously hot,” Sabrina added nonchalantly.

The too-casual comment didn’t fool either of her friends. They’d known her too long. They knew, as well, the good-time-girl reputation she’d worked so hard to maintain during her rebellious teen and college years.

Sabrina still enjoyed a good time. She wasn’t particularly vain, but she recognized that her long legs and seductive curves attracted as many men as her family name and her father’s wealth once had. As a consequence, she maintained a wide circle of male friends. Several had pushed to become more than friends. After so many years of resisting her father’s attempts to dominate her, though, Sabrina was in no hurry to give up the freedom she’d struggled so hard to achieve.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a real hottie when one almost ran her over. Especially one who could kiss like Marco Calvetti. She could still feel the delicious aftershocks of their session in the elevator.

“Uh-oh.” Devon squinted into the camera at her end of the connection. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that says your doc is fair game.”

“Well, he is. His wife died a few years ago. I may be reading between the lines, but I think he’s buried himself in his work since then. You wouldn’t believe how gorgeous his villa is, yet this is only the second time this year he’s driven down from Rome.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, mulling over her impressions of her host.

“He’s really charming, guys, but also rather intense. It wouldn’t hurt him to loosen up a little.”

Devon and Caroline exchanged knowing, computer-generated glances.

“If anyone can loosen the man up,” Dev drawled, “you can. Just remember you’re now one of the walking wounded. Go easy on that ankle.”

“And don’t worry about scouting conference sites,” Caro added. “Worst-case scenario, we can give Global Security fewer options.”

“Absolutely not.” Her professional pride stung; Sabrina was adamant. “This contract is too important. We’re not scaling back our proposal. I’ll be good to go tomorrow,” she said firmly.

Which wouldn’t give her time to loosen up the doc, she thought with real regret. Too bad. She could think of any number of inventive ways to follow up on that kiss.

Desire rippled through her as she said goodnight to her friends, shut down her laptop, and rewrapped her ankle. The damned thing still throbbed, but the ache was bearable so she decided against the pills sitting on the bedside table. Instead, she let the restless murmur of the sea surging against the rocks lull her to sleep.

She was up and dressed by eight the next morning. The faint scent of yeasty, fresh-baked rolls told her Signora Bertaldi was already at work in the kitchen.

Thankfully, Sabrina had stuffed a pair of merino wool palazzo pants in her suitcase at the last minute. The wide legs made getting them on over her still-swollen ankle a breeze. She teamed the oyster-colored slacks with a lightweight red sweater and a Versace scarf in a riot of colors. The rubber-soled beaded ballet slippers provided nonskid traction as she made her way along the tiled hall to the elevator.

She fully intended to hold the doc to his promise to check the sprain before she left. First, though, she intended to hold Signora Bertaldi to her promise of a goat cheese frittata for breakfast. If the frittata came anywhere close to the woman’s grilled swordfish, heaven awaited on the floor above.

So did Marco, she discovered when she thumped into the library. He put aside the newspaper he’d been reading and sprang to his feet.

“You should have rung for help.”

“I didn’t need it,” she replied when she recovered from the sight of the doc in well-washed jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a silky black pullover that showed off some very impressive pecs.

Raising a crutch, she waved the tip in an airy circle. “I’m getting the hang of these things. What I do need, though, is coffee. Hot. Thick. Sweet.”

“Of course.” His assessing glance dropped to her foot. “But first, how is your ankle this morning?”

“Still fat and ugly, but it doesn’t ache as much.”

“Good. I’ll look at it after we eat. Shall we have breakfast here in the library or on the terrace?”

“The terrace, please. I want to soak in every last ounce of your incredible view before I hit the road.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” He matched his step to hers as they crossed through the dining room and went out on the spacious terrace. “I have a proposal for you to consider. Before I put it to you, let me fetch your coffee and tell Signora Bertaldi you are up and about.”

Amused, Sabrina sank into the chair he held out for her and turned her face to the sun. She could get used to being waited on by a duke. Not that Marco fit her notions of royalty as shaped by her previous contacts.

She’d dated the playboy son of a Saudi sheik once. Just once. It was an eye-opening and not particularly pleasant experience. She’d also attended a couple of parties in London where Prince Harry popped in. He was great fun but way too young for her. Marco, on the other hand, was just the right age, height, size and shape.

Regret flickered through her. Too bad she was working against such a tight deadline. She wouldn’t have minded a few more days with the sexy doc. Maybe she could extend her stay in Italy after she finished checking out conference sites. Or arrange a return visit once they had the Global Security contract firmed up.

She was considering the possibilities when Marco returned with two cups of espresso topped with frothy cream. As he passed her one of the cups, he sprang the proposal he’d mentioned earlier.

“I think you should stay here for the rest of your time on the Amalfi coast. Use this villa as a home base and make day trips to the locations you want to check out.”

The suggestion dovetailed so closely with Sabrina’s thoughts she almost choked on her first sip of the thick, sweetened coffee. Her startled glance met Marco’s calm gaze. If there was more than mere courtesy behind the invitation, he hid it well.

Her first instinct was to jump on the offer. Excitement pulsed through her at the thought of another session or two of close body contact with this intriguing man. Unfortunately, the road map she hastily conjured up in her mind quashed that quiver of excitement. The distances involved weren’t all that great but she’d have to navigate them on tortuous roads, then gimp around on crutches.

“Thanks for the offer,” she said with genuine regret. “It’s very tempting, but I don’t think I’m up to driving out and back each day on these roads.”

“You don’t need to drive them. I’ll be your chauffeur.”

“You?”

“Si.” A smile crept into his dark eyes. “Or don’t you trust my driving? I would remind you that your foot did not thump the floorboards once during the drive from the clinic to the villa. Then again, you were out cold for most of that trip.”

“You must have better things to do than transport me up and down the coast.”

“Actually, I don’t. I’m on vacation until January fifth. My surgical team has threatened to resign en masse if I return before that date. I have nothing on my schedule until then except a mandatory appearance at the ball my mother gives each year to celebrate La Fiesta di San Silvestro.”

“That’s on New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?”

“It is. So I’m at loose ends, you see. You would save me from utter boredom.”

She didn’t believe that for a minute. Someone with Marco’s varied interests could easily fill up every minute of his vacation. His library alone could surely keep him occupied for weeks.

Sabrina hesitated, torn between the urge to spend more time with this man and the uncertainty of where it might lead. She didn’t have time for personal entanglements right now. Caro and Dev were depending on her to provide the necessary input for the new contract proposal.

Which would be a lot easier to accomplish with someone who knew the area at the wheel, her traitorous mind pointed out.

That was a rationalization. She knew it. But what the heck. If the man wanted to spend his precious vacation time helping her nail down prospective conference sites, who was she to argue?

“If you’re sure you have nothing more pressing to do,” she said slowly, giving him a last out.

“I’m sure. And if you remain over until New Year’s Eve,” he added, “you must accompany me to the ball. It’s really rather spectacular.”

Okay, now she was hooked. What woman in her right mind would pass up the chance to attend a fancy-dress ball with someone like Marco Calvetti? The thought flashed into her mind that it was strange he didn’t already have a date. The man was rich, cultured and a widower. But why look a gift hunk in the mouth?

“I’d planned to wrap up my business and fly home on the thirtieth,” she told Marco. “I’ll have to check on whether I can change my tickets. And get in some serious shopping. And …”

Signora Bertaldi’s arrival with a loaded tray interrupted Sabrina’s hasty revisions to her schedule. Tantalized by the mingled scents of broiled tomatoes, basil and melted goat cheese, she returned the older woman’s greeting.

“Signorina Russo will be staying with us for a while longer,” Marco informed her, speaking in English for the benefit of his guest. “You have additional help coming in from the village this morning, si?”

“Si, Excellenza.” Signora Bertaldi placed the tray on the table. “The two who always assist me when you are in residence.”

“Bring in more if you need them.”

“I will,” she promised as she positioned a heaping platter before Sabrina.

Marco himself poured fresh-squeezed orange juice from a carafe on the tray. The offerings also included a basket of fresh-baked rolls, a ramekin of creamy butter and an assortment of jams. Wishing them buon appetito, Signora Bertaldi left them to the dazzling sunshine and the sumptuous breakfast.

After breakfast Marco examined Sabrina’s ankle. He had her sink into the soft leather of the sofa in the library and carefully unwrapped the Ace bandage. The swelling had gone down considerably but the skin was mottled with ugly purple-yellow bruises.

He rotated her foot gently, frowning when she fought to hide a grimace. “You really should stay off this today. It requires more ice and elevation.”

“No can do. I need to get to work. How about I stretch out on the backseat of your Ferrari with an ice pack draped over my ankle?”

The prospect of driving around the Amalfi coast with a bandaged foot sticking out the rear window of his lean, mean machine didn’t seem to particularly faze him, but he came up with an alternate suggestion.

“I have a better idea. My mother keeps a small fleet of vehicles at her home in Naples. I’ll call and ask to borrow a sedan. It will give you more room and comfort.”

“You’re brave enough to tackle these hairpin turns in a big, honkin’ sedan?”

“I’ve done it many times, I assure you.”

“It will take you forever to get to Naples and back,” Sabrina protested, remembering her own meandering journey after she left the interstate just south of the city.

“I’ll have the car delivered. It will take an hour, two at most. During that time you will rest here on the sofa, with your foot up.”

The command sounded so much like the ones her father used to issue that Sabrina bristled instinctively. Common sense kicked in a second or two later.

“Deal.”

He rewrapped her ankle and helped her stretch out on the soft leather. Propping a pillow under her foot, he straightened and gestured toward the speakers attached to a high-tech iPod dock.

“Would you like to listen to some music while I fetch ice and make my calls?”

“What have you got on there?”

“Everything from Andrew Lloyd Weber to Zucchero.”

Sabrina opted for show tunes over Italian pop rock. While Sarah Brightman and Steve Barton blended their voices in the haunting love duet from The Phantom, she let her gaze roam the library. Until now she’d caught only brief glimpses of the room as she and Marco passed through it.

She took her time now, seeking clues to the personality of the man who fascinated her more by the moment. She couldn’t make out the titles of the books in the shelves lining three walls and itched for a closer look. She settled for studying the treasures interspersed among the volumes.

That bust of a Roman matron looked as though it might have been carved while Pompeii was still a thriving metropolis. And that small oil painting on an ornate stand was either a Caravaggio or a damned good copy. A caduceus carved from translucent alabaster occupied place of honor amid a collection of objects that looked more like medieval torture implements than medical instruments. On the shelf next to the caduceus was a chess set with tall, elaborately decorated pieces in ivory and red.