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New Year Fireworks: The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride
Three sizzling, intense romances by favourite Mills & Boon authors
New Year
Fireworks
Praise for the authors:
Merline Lovelace
‘With The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution, Merline Lovelace writes a terrifically edgy, yet hopeful, story about two wounded souls.’
—RT Book Reviews
Diana Hamilton
‘Diana Hamilton creates a pleasant story with well-rounded characters and strong story development.’
—RT Book Reviews on The Faithful Wife
Catherine Spencer
‘On New Year’s Eve, the attraction between Cassandra Wilde and Benedict Constantino reached a boiling point …’
—RT Book Reviews
New Year Fireworks
The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution
Merline Lovelace
The Faithful Wife
Diana Hamilton
Constantino’s Pregnant Bride
Catherine Spencer
About the Author
A retired Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with her flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.
Since then, she’s produced more than seventy-five action-packed novels, many of which have made bestseller lists. Over nine million copies of her works are in print in thirty-one countries. Named Oklahoma’s Writer of the Year and the Oklahoma Female Veteran of the Year, Merline is also a recipient of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.
When she’s not glued to her keyboard, she and her husband enjoy traveling and chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma. Check her website at www.merlinelovelace.com for news, contests and information about upcoming releases.
To our traveling buds, Sue & Pat, who shared
the glories of the Amalfi Coast with us despite
the knuckle-biting roads and one sprained ankle.
Next stop—the Pyramids! And very special
thanks to Elizabeth Jennings, doyen of Italy’s
fabulous Women’s Fiction Festival and the kind,
patient fellow author who straightened out
my mangled Italian.
One
Sabrina Russo got only a few seconds’ warning before disaster struck.
The powerful roar of a vehicle rounding the hairpin curve behind her carried clearly on the late December air. Cursing, she kicked herself for parking her rental car in a turnout a good ten yards back. The roads on this portion of Italy’s Amalfi coast were narrow and treacherous at best. Walls of sheer rock hedged the pavement on one side, thousand-foot drops on the other. But, like the worst kind of numbnuts tourist, she’d had to leave the protection of the turnout and inch along this narrow, pebble-strewn verge to snap a picture of the colorful village spilling down the steep mountainside to the blue-green Mediterranean below.
The slick leather soles of her boots provided only marginal traction as she scrambled back toward the turnout. She was still trying to reach its protective guardrail when a flame-red Ferrari convertible swept around the curve.
Sabrina caught a glimpse of the driver—just a glimpse. Her frantic mind registered dark hair, wide shoulders encased in a buckskin-tan-colored jacket, and a startled expression on a face so strong and chiseled it might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. Then the Ferrari was aiming right for her.
“Hey!”
Yelping, she leaped back. She knew she was in trouble when her left boot heel came down on empty air. Faced with the choice of throwing herself forward, under the Ferrari’s tires, or toppling down the steep precipice behind her, she opted for the tumble.
She didn’t fall far, but she hit hard. The cell phone she’d been using to shoot the photos flew out of her hands. A rocky outcropping slammed into her hip. Her gray wool slacks and matching, hip-length jacket protected her from the stony, serrated edges. The wool provided little buffer, however, when she crashed into a stunted, wind-tortured tree that clung to the cliffside with stubborn tenacity.
Pain shot from her ankle to her hip in white-hot waves. The achingly blue Mediterranean sky blurred around the edges.
“Signorina! Signorina! Mi sente?”
A deep, compelling voice pierced the gray haze. Sabrina fought the agony shooting through her and turned her head.
“Ecco, brava. Apra gli’ occhi.”
Slowly, so slowly, a face swam into view.
“Wh—what happened?”
“Siete …” He gave a quick shake of his head and shifted to flawless English. “You fell from the road above. Luckily, this cypress broke your descent.”
Sabrina blinked, and a twisted tree trunk came into focus. Its thin branches and silvery-green leaves formed a backdrop for the face hovering over her. Even dazed and confused, she felt its sensual impact.
The man was certifiably gorgeous! Whiskers darkened his cheeks and strong, square chin. His mouth could tempt a saint to sin, and Sabrina was certainly no candidate for canonization. His short, black hair had just a hint of curl, and his skin was tanned to warm oak.
But it was his eyes that mesmerized her. Dark and compelling, they stared into hers. For an absurd moment, she had the ridiculous notion he was looking into her soul.
Then more of her haze cleared and she recognized the driver of the Ferrari. Anger spiked through her, overriding the pain.
“You almost hit me!”
She planted a hand against the tree trunk and tried to sit up. The attempt produced two immediate reactions. The first was a searing jolt that lanced from her ankle to her hip. The second was a big hand splayed against her shoulder, accompanied by a sharp order.
“Be still! You’re not bleeding from any external wounds, but you may have sustained a concussion or internal injuries. Tell me, do you hurt when you breathe?”
She drew in a cautious breath. “No.”
“Can you move your head?”
She tried a tentative tilt. “Yes.”
“Lie still while I check for broken bones.”
“Hey! Watch where you put those hands, pal!”
Impatience stamped across his classic features. “I am a doctor.”
Good excuse to cop a feel, Sabrina thought, too pissed to appreciate his gentle touch.
“You have no business taking these hairpin turns so fast,” she informed him. “Especially when there’s no guardrail. I had nowhere to go but down. If I hadn’t hit this tree I could have … Ow!”
She clenched her teeth against the agony when he ran his hands down her calf to her ankle.
Frowning, the doc sat back on his heels. “With your boot on, I can’t tell if the ankle is broken or merely sprained. We must get you to the hospital for X-rays.”
He glanced from her to the road above and back again.
“My cell phone is in the car. I can call an ambulance. Unfortunately, the closest will have to come from the town of Amalfi, thirty kilometers from here.”
Terrific! Thirty kilometers of narrow, winding roads with blind curves and snaking switchbacks. She’d be down here all day, clinging to this friggin’ tree.
“It’s better if we get you to the car and I drive you to the hospital myself.”
Sabrina eyed the slope doubtfully. “I don’t think I’m up for a climb.”
“I’ll carry you.”
He said it with such self-assurance that she almost believed he could. He had the shoulders for it. They looked wide and solid under his suede bomber jacket.
Sabrina was no lightweight, however. She kept in shape with daily workouts, but her five-eight height and lush curves added up to more pounds than she cared to admit in polite company.
“Thanks, anyway, but I’ll wait for the ambulance.”
“You could black out again or go into shock.” Pushing to his feet, he braced himself at an angle on the slope and issued a brusque order. “Take my hand.”
The imperious command rubbed her exactly the wrong way. She’d spent a turbulent childhood and her even more tempestuous college years rebelling against her cold, autocratic father. She’d paid the price for her revolt many times over, but she still didn’t take orders well.
“Anyone ever tell you that you need to work on your bedside manner, Doc? It pretty well sucks.”
His dark brows snapped together in a way that clearly said he wasn’t used to being taken to task by his patients. She answered with a bland smile. After a short staring contest, his scowl relaxed into a reluctant grin.
“I believe that has been mentioned to me before.”
The air left Sabrina’s lungs a second time. The man was seriously hot without that crooked grin. With it, he made breathing a lost cause.
“Shall we start again?” he suggested in a less impatient tone. “I am Marco Calvetti. And you are?”
“Sabrina Russo.”
“Allow me to help you up to the car.” He reached down a hand. “If you please, Signorina Russo.”
It was either wait for the ambulance or take him up on his offer. No choice, really. Sabrina needed to get her ankle looked at and be on her way. She had business to take care of. Important business that could put the fledgling company she’d started with her two best friends into the black for the first time since they’d launched it.
She laid her hand in his, her nerves jumping when his fingers folded around hers. Loose stones rattled and skittered down the slope as she levered up and onto her uninjured leg. Once vertical, she got a good look at the sheer precipice only a few yards beyond her tree.
“Oh, God!”
“Don’t look down. Put your arm around my neck.”
When she complied, he lifted her and hooked an elbow under her knees. She could feel the muscles go taut under the buttery suede as he made his careful way up the slope. Determined not to look down, she kept her gaze locked on his profile.
The dark bristles sprouting on his cheeks and chin only accentuated his rugged good looks. He had a Roman nose, she decided, straight and strong and proud. His eyes were a clear, liquid brown. And was that a sprinkling of silver at his temple?
Interesting man. When he wasn’t trying to run people down, that is. The black skid marks leading to the convertible nosed onto the narrow verge made Sabrina bristle again.
“You came around that corner way too fast. If I hadn’t jumped backward, you would have hit me.”
“You should not have left the safety of the turnout,” he countered. “Why did you do something so foolish?”
She hated to admit she’d been mesmerized by the incredible view and was snapping pictures like an awestruck tourist, but she had no other excuse short of an outright lie. Sabrina had committed more than her share of sins in her colorful past. Lying wasn’t one of them.
“I was taking pictures. For my business,” she added, as if that would lessen the idiocy.
He didn’t roll his eyes but he came damned close. “What business is that?”
“My company provides travel, translation and executive support services for Americans doing business in Europe. I’m here to scout locations for a high-level conference for one of our clients.”
He nodded, but made no comment as they approached the red convertible. Raising a knee, he balanced her on a hard, muscled thigh and reached down to open the passenger door. Despite her efforts to protect her ankle, Sabrina was gritting her teeth by the time he’d jockeyed her into the seat.
“My purse,” she ground out. “It’s in the rental car.”
He did the almost-eye-roll thing again.
Okay, so leaving her purse unattended in Italy—or anywhere else!—wasn’t the smartest thing to do. She certainly wouldn’t have done so under normal circumstances. But this was such an isolated stretch of road and she’d kept her rental car in view the whole time. Except when she’d nose-dived over the side of the cliff, of course.
Good thing she didn’t have her purse with her then. If she had, it might have gone the way of her cell phone. God knew where that was right now. One thing’s for sure, she wasn’t crawling back down the slope to look for it.
“I locked your car,” the doc informed her when he returned with her purse and the keys. “I’ll send someone back for it while you’re being attended to.”
He folded his muscular frame behind the wheel with practiced ease and keyed the Ferrari’s ignition. It came to life with a well-mannered growl.
“I’ll take you to the clinic in Positano. It’s small but well equipped.”
“How far is that?”
“Just there.” He indicated the cluster of colorful buildings clinging to the side of the cliff. “The place you were photographing,” he added on a dry note.
Sabrina was too preoccupied at the moment to respond. Navigating these narrow, twisting roads in the driver’s seat was nerve-racking enough. Sitting in the passenger seat, with a perpendicular drop-off mere inches away, it was a life-altering experience.
Stiff-armed, she braced her palms against the edge of her seat. Her uninjured leg instinctively thumped the floorboards, searching for the nonexistent brake on every turn. She sucked air whenever the Ferrari took a curve but gradually, grudgingly, had to admit the doc handled his powerful machine with unerring skill. Which didn’t explain why he’d seemed to aim right for her a while ago.
She must have startled him as much as he had her. Obviously, he hadn’t expected to encounter a pedestrian on that narrow curve. He wouldn’t encounter this one again, Sabrina vowed as the convertible hugged the asphalt on another switchback turn. She’d learned her lesson. No more excursions beyond the protection of the guardrails.
Dragging her attention from the sheer precipices, she pinned it on the driver. “Your name and accent are Italian, but your English has a touch of New York City in it.”
“You have a good ear. I did a three-year neurosurgical residency at Mount Sinai. I still consult there and fly over two or three times a year.” He sent a swift glance in her direction. “Are you a New Yorker?”
“I was once,” she got out, her uninjured foot stomping the floorboard again. “How about you keep your eyes on the road, Doc?”
She didn’t draw a full breath until the road cut away from the cliffs and buildings began to spring up on her side of the car.
Positano turned out to be a small town but one that obviously catered to the tourist trade during the regular season. This late in the year, many of the shops and restaurants were shuttered. Those still open displayed windows filled with glazed pottery and bottles of the region’s famous limoncello liqueur.
The town’s main street led straight down to a round-domed church and a piazza overlooking the sea, then straight up again. Since it was only two days past Christmas, the piazza was still decorated with festive garlands. A life-size nativity scene held the place of honor outside the church. Sabrina caught a glimpse of colorful fishing boats pulled up on a slice of rocky beach just before the doc made a sharp left and pulled into a small courtyard.
Killing the engine, he came around to the passenger side of the Ferrari. Once again she looped her arm around his neck. Her cheek brushed his when he lifted her. The bristles set the nerves just under her skin to dancing as he carried her toward a set of double glass doors.
The doors swished open at their approach. The nurse at the counter glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Sua Eccellenza!”
Sabrina’s German and French were much better than her Italian, but she was fairly certain nurses didn’t routinely accord physicians the title of Your Excellency. The rest of their conversation was so machine-gun fast, however, she didn’t have time to figure that one out before the nurse rushed forward with a wheelchair.
“Rafaela will take you to X-ray,” the doc said as he lowered her into the chair. “I’ll speak with you after I review the films.”
She must look like she’d just fallen off a cliff, Sabrina thought ruefully. The nurse gave her a fish-eyed stare until a sharp order from the doc put her in motion. With a squeak of the chair’s rubber wheels, she propelled Sabrina through another set of double doors.
Marco remained in the reception area for a long time after the doors swished shut. He couldn’t blame Rafaela for gaping at this woman, this Sabrina Russo. The resemblance was incredible.
So incredible, he’d almost lost control of his car when he’d spotted her back there on that narrow road. Thank the Lord instinct had taken over from his shocked brain! Without thinking, he’d cut back into the proper lane and jammed on the brakes.
Then his only concern was getting to her, making sure she’d survived the fall. But now …
Now there was nothing to keep him reliving those terrifying seconds just before she fell. One thought and one thought only hammered into his skull.
He might have killed her. Again.
His jaw clenched so tight his back teeth ground together. Unseeing, Marco stared at the double doors. A phone buzzed somewhere in the distance. Outside, a horn honked with typical Italian impatience.
He heard nothing, saw nothing but the image of the woman who’d disappeared behind the doors. Her face, her features remained vivid in his mind as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The picture he drew out of his wallet was old and dog-eared. It was the only snapshot he hadn’t been able to bring himself to pack away. His throat tight, he stared down at the laughing couple.
He’d been in his early twenties, a premed student at the University of Milan. Gianetta was three years younger. She looked so vibrant, so alive in this faded picture that a fist seemed to reach into Marco’s chest and rip out his beating, bleeding heart.
How young they’d been then. How blinded by lust. So sure their passion would stand the test of time. So heedless of the words of caution both his family and hers felt compelled to voice.
He should have listened, Marco thought savagely. He’d been premed, for God’s sake! He should have recognized the signs. The soaring highs. The sudden lows. The wild exuberance he’d ascribed to the mindless energy of youth. The seeds had been there, though. He could see them now in the laughing face turned up to the camera.
A face that was almost the mirror image of Sabrina Russo’s.
She could be Gianetta’s sister. Her twin. They had the same sun-streaked blond hair. The same slanting brown eyes. The same stubborn chin.
Or …
His stomach knotting, Marco echoed the irrational, improbable thought that had leaped into his mind when he’d glimpsed the woman in the road.
She could be his wife.
Gianetta, who had insisted on launching the sailboat despite the weather warnings.
Gianetta, whose frantic radio call for help still haunted his dreams.
Gianetta, whose body had never been recovered from the sea.
With a muttered oath, Marco shook his head. He’d been working too hard. Performing too many difficult surgeries. The long hours and unrelenting pace had gotten to him. How absurd to fantasize for so much as a single second that this American, this Sabrina Russo, could be his dead wife!
He was glad now his surgical team had pleaded with him to take a long-overdue break between Christmas and New Year’s. Obviously, he needed it.
With another impatient shake of his head, he pushed through the double doors and strode down the hall toward X-ray.
Two
Wincing, Sabina swung her legs off the X-ray table and sat up on the edge. The remains of the boot they’d had to cut off lay discarded beside the table.
“Allow me to assist you, Ms. Russo.”
Rafaela nudged the wheelchair closer. After a somewhat graceless transfer, the nurse got Sabrina settled into the chair.
“I shall take you to an exam room, yes? Dr. Calvetti will review the X-rays and consult with you there.”
“You called him something else when we first came in,” Sabrina commented as she was wheeled into the corridor. “Eccellenza, wasn’t it?”
“Si.”
“What’s with that?”
“He prefers to use his medical title here at the clinic, but I forget myself sometimes. My mother cooks and cleans for him when he’s in residence at his villa, you see.”
“Not really. Who is he?”
“His Excellency Don Marco Antonio Sonestra di Calvetti, twelfth Duke of San Giovanti, fourteenth Marquis of Caprielle, ninth Marquis d’Almalfi, Count Palatine, sixteenth Baron of Ravenna …” She paused. “Or is it the seventeenth Baron Ravenna?”
“You got me.”
“There are more titles. Many more.” Smiling, Rafaela steered her patient into an exam room and set the brake. “Mama can recite the entire list without taking a breath. She has worked for the Calvetti family since she was a young girl.”
Okay, Sabrina was impressed. So the doc was also a duke. Not to mention a world-class hunk. The combination was almost enough to make her forget how close His Excellency had come to flattening her into roadkill.
But not quite enough to keep her from scowling when he delivered the good news/bad news.
“The X-rays show no sign of concussion or fractured bones in your ankle. However, you may have damaged or torn a ligament. We won’t know for sure until we perform a stress test.”
“Where and when do we do that?”
“It’s a simple test. A manipulation of the foot and ankle. I’ll do it now if you can stand the pain.”
Uh-oh! That didn’t sound good.
“Once we are done, I will prescribe painkillers. But you must be alert for the manipulation, so you can tell me when I hurt you.”
When, not if. That sounded even worse.
“Okay, Doc, let’s get this over with. Or should I say duke?”
“Either will suffice.” Those dark eyes held hers. “Given the circumstances, perhaps we should dispense with titles altogether.”
She wasn’t sure exactly what circumstances he referred to but had no problem with a more egalitarian approach. “That’s fine with me.”
“Good. You must call me Marco. And may I call you Sabrina?”
She granted the polite request with a regal nod. “You may.”
“Very well, Sabrina. Rafaela and I will help you onto the exam table.”
She managed it with their assistance and a couple of hops. Once they had her in place, Rafaela rolled up the hem of the wool slacks. The bruised, inflated sausage she revealed made Sabrina grimace.
“Lovely,” she muttered.
“It will get worse before it gets better,” the doc—duke—Marco warned.
He washed his hands at the sink in the exam room. The scent of antibacterial soap came with him as he rolled a stool close to the table, seated himself and cupped her heel. His touch was gentle, lulling Sabrina into a false sense of security. That lasted only until he flattened his other hand against her shin and applied pressure. The pain almost brought her off the table.
