They’d dispensed with the table and placed the chessboard on the carpet. Sabrina sat with her back against the sofa and her foot propped on a folded cushion. Marco sat cross-legged opposite her. He’d raked his fingers through his hair after one of her more outrageous moves. No longer neat and combed straight back, it showed more curl in the dark, disordered waves.

She itched to reach across the board and comb her hand through those waves. Or feather a finger along the dark sweep of his eyebrow. Or …

“Your move.”

With a start, she saw he’d opened with queen’s knight to a6. She advanced her king’s pawn and the hunt was on.

She lost that game and paid with one of her beaded ballet slippers. They played to a draw on the next. Then Marco claimed her other shoe and she retaliated in the next game by crushing him with five moves.

“Ha! Take that!”

She expected him to peel off a sock or yield his belt. Instead, he dragged his black pullover over his head.

Sabrina’s throat went bone dry. She’d snuggled against that broad chest each time Marco had carried her. Snuggling was good. She’d enjoyed snuggling. Seeing his upper half naked and in the flesh was better.

Her heart hammering, she let her gaze roam over the wide shoulders, the muscled pecs, the scattering of dark hair that swirled around his nipples and arrowed down toward his flat belly.

She didn’t realize he’d deliberately sabotaged her concentration until she lost the next two games in a row. In the first, she forfeited her Versace scarf. She debated for several moments after the second.

What to surrender? Her slacks? Her red sweater? Or … Hmm. Her gaze dropped to the Ace bandage wrapped around her ankle.

“Don’t even think it.”

The amused warning brought her head up with a snap. Marco was watching her with the satisfied smile of a hunter who’s cornered his prey. Her skin prickled everywhere his gaze touched.

“The bandage would be cheating.”

“All’s fair in love and strip chess, fella.”

“In that case …”

With a quick sweep of his arm, he shoved the board out of the way. Sabrina started to protest the careless treatment of such beautiful pieces. The protest got stuck in her throat when Marco caught her elbow and slowly, inexorably, drew her down until she lay beside him on the silky carpet.

“Now, my beautiful Sabrina, I will claim my prize.”

He slid a hand under the hem of her sweater. Her belly hollowed at the feel of his warm palm against her skin. Then his hand moved upward, tugging the sweater with it.

Cool air kissed her exposed flesh. So did Marco. She quivered as his mouth grazed her midriff, over the lace of her demibra, the mounds of her breasts. He tugged the sweater higher, and Sabrina raised her arms. The red knit came off, was flung aside. The hunger in his eyes stirred her to near fever pitch.

“I imagined you like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Stretched out beneath me. Your arms above your head. Your mouth mine to take.”

Suiting his actions to his words, he covered her mouth with his.

A flash fire ignited in Sabrina’s blood. Her tongue met his. Her hands planed over his shoulders, his back, down the track of his spine. His skin felt smooth and hot over taut muscle and corded tendons.

They were both breathing fast when he fumbled for the front fastening on her bra. Sabrina retained just enough rational thought to gasp out a protest.

“You … You haven’t won that yet.”

“All’s fair,” he retorted with a wolfish grin.

The fastening gave and her bra went the way of her sweater. Marco’s grin morphed into a look of such raw hunger that Sabrina’s nipples tightened even before he bent to take one in his mouth. His teeth rasped the sensitive bud. His tongue soothed it. His teeth tormented her again.

Pleasure streaked from Sabrina’s breast to her belly. Her back arched. She was hot and wet and ready long before he reached for the side zipper on her slacks.

He had her naked in less than a minute. When he rose to peel off his own clothing, her already erratic pulse went berserk. She almost licked her lips at the sight of his lean flanks and flat stomach. His sex, she saw with a jolt of fierce, primal elation, was hard and erect.

She reached for him, eager to wrap her hand around the steely shaft, but he turned away to drag the cushions off the sofa.

“We must take care, eh?” His accent thickening, he positioned her atop the cushions. “Your ankle …”

Sabrina was more concerned about other body parts at the moment. Like the aching tips of her breasts. And the spasms deep in her belly. And the wet heat between her thighs.

“Please tell me you have a condom somewhere close at hand,” she begged.

The hunger in his dark eyes gave way to a flash of genuine amusement. “I’m Italian. What do you think?”

“I think,” she panted, “we’d better stop talking and get the damned thing on.”

He dragged his jeans over and extracted a packet from his wallet. “Ecco.”

Sabrina snatched it out of his hands. “Let me.”

He was all hard ridges and hot steel. So hard, she would have taken him in her mouth if she hadn’t been desperate to take him into her body. So hot, she barely got the condom on before he jerked out of her hand and eased her back down onto the cushions.

Their first time was slow and careful.

Sabrina almost went mad at Marco’s deliberate pace. In, out, in. Each insertion stretched her eager flesh. Every withdrawal left her panting for more.

She could feel her climax building. Feel the sensations spiraling outward from her core. Wanting to take him with her, she hooked her good leg around his thigh and clenched her vaginal muscles.

Every cord and tendon in his body went rigid. He gave a low grunt, but refused to thrust harder or faster. Instead, he wedged his hand between their straining bodies and pressed his thumb against her pulsing flesh.

Sabrina exploded in a flash of pleasure so intense the whole room seemed to rock. Marco whipped his hand away and surged into her. His body locked with hers, he rode her climax to his own.

Gradually, the room stopped spinning. Air rushed back into Sabrina’s lungs. She looked up into the face a few inches from her own and gave a breathless laugh.

“Wow.”

His mouth curved into a smug grin. “I think so, too.”

They made love the second time in the shower.

Marco was afraid she might slip on the slick tiles and insisted on accompanying her into the spacious, walk-in enclosure.

He also insisted on soaping her down, front and back. She returned the favor. Mere moments later he had his shoulder blades planted against the tiles and Sabrina’s thighs locked around his waist.

The third time came later, well past midnight.

Driven by a different kind of hunger, they invaded the kitchen. Sabrina was naked under the cashmere robe Marco had draped around her. He’d pulled on his jeans but hadn’t bothered with a shirt or shoes.

She perched on a high swivel stool. Her elbows were propped on a counter made of tiles decorated with grape vines and baskets of lemons. Marco got out the seafood au gratin casserole Signora Bertaldi, bless her, had left in the fridge and slid it into the oven.

While they waited for the casserole to bubble, Sabrina munched on olives and tore pieces from a crusty loaf of bread to dip in oil and balsamic vinaigrette. Marco got out a corkscrew and another bottle of wine.

“Here.”

She held up a fat black olive. Corkscrew and bottle in hand, he leaned forward, so she could pop it into his mouth. His strong white teeth just missed crunching down on her fingers.

“Mmm, good.”

He set the bottle aside and dipped a crust of bread through the vinegar and oil mixture. Teasing, taunting, he drew the crust along her lower lip. Her eyes held his as she swiped her tongue over her lips and licked the drops of oil and sweet, tart vinegar.

His gaze locked on her mouth, Marco rounded the counter. Sabrina’s borrowed robe gaped at her knees. He opened it further by the simple expedient of easing his hips between her thighs.

The next thing either of them knew, the oven was smoking and the seafood au gratin was bubbling over the sides of its dish in fat, sizzling splats.

Sabrina woke in Marco’s arms the next morning. To her relief, she found the ache in her ankle had subsided to an occasional twinge and the swelling had almost completely disappeared. Gleefully, she abandoned the Ace bandage and traded the crutches for the cane Marco had delivered from the pharmacy in Positano.

While he showered, she slipped into a lacy camisole and a lightweight wool Emanuel Ungaro pantsuit, both in misty blue. Her ballet flats didn’t do a whole lot for the outfit but she knew she wasn’t ready for the three-inch heels on her only other pair of shoes.

They left shortly after breakfast for Sorrento and the first of the two facilities she intended to check out that day. The bustling harbor city had been a favored vacation spot since the days of Pompeii. Warm Mediterranean breezes made for streets lined with palm trees and a jumble of outdoor cafes. The balmy atmosphere provided an exotic backdrop for the colorful Christmas decorations still displayed in the streets and shop windows.

Sabrina craned her neck to take in the elegant nineteenth century facades of the hotels that had drawn so many visitors to this seaside resort. Only one had the available rooms and conference facilities to meet her client’s needs.

The Excelsior Vittoria Grand Hotel sat high on the cliff once occupied by the Emperor Augustus’s villa. With its fin de siècle buildings and magnificent views of Mount Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, the hotel had played host to kings and queens as well as a long list of celebrities that included Enrico Caruso, Jack Lemmon, Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren.

Marco pulled up at its impressive portico and turned the car keys over to the parking valet. Sabrina had taken a lesson from the experience at Ravello. Concerned his presence might jack up the cost estimates, she asked him to enjoy a cup of cappuccino in the hotel’s terrace café while she met with the assistant manager.

“Are you sure you don’t wish me to help you take notes?” he asked, clearly amused by her stubborn determination to handle matters herself.

She countered with another question. “Have you attended any functions at the Excelsior?”

“Several,” he admitted.

“Go.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. Have a cup of coffee.”

“Very well. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.”

She met with the assistant manager in his office before taking a tour of the hotel’s facilities. She had the quote he’d sent in response to her initial e-mail. After viewing the conference setup and finalizing meal selections, she bargained hard to get him to knock another ten percent off his bottom line.

Flushed with victory, she joined Marco on the sun-drenched terrace. He rose and slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose.

“I take it your negotiations went well.”

“They did.”

“Congratulations.”

“Two sites down; two to go. At this rate, I’ll have the information I need in plenty of time to prepare our final submission.”

“I’m glad,” he said, relieving her of her briefcase. “I was worried the accident may have impacted your ability to make your scheduled meetings.”

“It would have,” Sabrina admitted. “I couldn’t have negotiated these roads or found my way around nearly as well without your help. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

His slow smile raised goose bumps up and down her spine.

“Very much my pleasure.”

The day’s second site survey required a trip by hydrofoil to the Isle of Capri. Like Sorrento, it had been a popular vacation destination since the time of the ancient Greeks. Its rocky cliffs rose from an azure bay, with resort hotels strung out along both sea level and the heights.

Sabrina had visited Capri’s fabled Blue Grotto only once and would have loved to make a return trip. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to transfer to a small boat and ride the choppy waves into the cave. Her appointment with the manager of the hotel high on the cliffs overlooking the bay was set for two o’clock.

Marco accompanied her on the funicolare ride to the top of the cliffs. Good-naturedly he once again agreed to wait at a café in Piazza Umberto I. Sabrina wasn’t as successful in her negotiations this time and almost wished she’d brought His Excellency along for additional firepower. Still, she left with a quote that was considerably under the one provided to her by the hotel in Ravello.

“Too bad,” she commented to Marco on the hydrofoil back to Sorrento. “Ravello would have been my first choice. I liked the size of their breakout rooms and their audiovisual set up. Once I have the last estimate in hand, I might call Donati and see if he’ll cut another five percent off his bottom line.”

Stuffing her notes into her briefcase, she gave herself up to the vibrating hum of the boat’s engine and the simple pleasure of Marco’s arm draped over the back of her seat.

They’d left the Rolls parked at the ferry terminal. Marco held the passenger door for her and leaned down, his hand propped on the open door frame.

“How’s your ankle holding up?”

“Good.”

“Can you manage another stop?”

“Sure. Where?”

“My mother commanded me to bring you for dinner,” he reminded her with a wry smile. “I can beg off if you wish.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you certain? I love my mother dearly, but she can be a bit overwhelming at times.”

“Trust me. I learned at an early age to hold my own against overwhelming and overbearing.”

He settled in the driver’s seat and gave her a thoughtful glance as he buckled his seat belt. “You must tell me about this father of yours sometime.”

“I will. Sometime.”

But not with the sun sinking toward the sea and the early December dusk gathering on the hills. Right now Sabrina wanted to drink in the spectacular views of the Bay of Naples and enjoy the company of this intriguing, complex man.

“I’d rather you tell me about yours. I’d like to know a little about your background before I meet your mother.”

“My father died when I was four. I barely remember him. I have a sister, AnnaMaria. She’s an artist. She works mainly in bronzes and lives in Paris with her husband, also an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Etienne Girard?”

“I have! I attended an exhibit of his work a few years ago. His sculptures are, ah, very intense.”

“Very,” Marco agreed with a grin. “I’m still learning to interpret the message in rusted iron and neon.”

“And your mother?”

“Ah, Mama.” His smile turned affectionate and rueful at the same time. “She’s Neapolitan born and bred. She has the blood of our history in her veins—Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Norman, Bourbon. Her father fought against the German military occupation during World War II and helped the city win its freedom in 1943. He was later elected to parliament, but was murdered by the Camorra because of his vigorous efforts to stamp out organized crime. They gunned him down on the front steps of his home.”

His family had certainly suffered their share of tragedy. Like the Kennedys, Sabrina thought.

“After his death, my mother took up the fight herself. She, too, served in parliament until she married my father. Since then, she’s used her title and her influence to help any number of causes.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

“She is.”

Sabrina settled back in her seat, eager to meet the mother and learn more about the son who fascinated her more every hour she spent in his company.

Seven

As Marco explained during the short drive from the ferry dock, the original seat of the Dukes of San Giovanti was a hilltop fort north of Naples. The first duke received his title in 1523, along with his charter to guard the approaches to the rich trading port.

The present seat was a palazzo in the very heart of the city. To reach it, Marco negotiated the traffic-clogged harbor drive with a patience born of long familiarity. Sabrina didn’t mind the slow crawl. It gave her plenty of opportunity to gawk at the massive fortress guarding the harbor. Begun by the Angevins in the eleventh century and added to by the Spanish in subsequent centuries, the castle served as royal residences for a long succession of kings.

She also got glimpses of the famous Quartieri Spagnoli—the Spanish Quarter, laid out by Spanish soldiers in the seventeenth century. The teeming, densely populated area was quintessential Napoli.

Tall, multistory stucco buildings crowded so close together that the balconies on one side of the street almost touched those on the opposite side, completely blocking out the sun. Washing flapped from the balconies like bright pennants. The colorful Christmas decorations strung across the narrow alleys added to the chaotic scene.

Sabrina spotted a crew taking down the Christmas decorations and replacing them with a banner announcing a massive fireworks display and rock concert to celebrate the coming Fiesta di San Silvestro.

“I bet the Spanish Quarter rocks on New Year’s Eve.”

Marco flicked a glance at the dark tunnel of streets. “You don’t want to wander into the Quarter at night. Especially the night of San Silvestro. Some Neapolitans still practice the tradition of throwing broken furniture out the window to show they’re ready for a fresh start.”

“Out with the old, in with the new, huh?”

“Exactly.” He maneuvered around a traffic circle and turned onto a wide boulevard. “We have another tradition you may want to consider, however. Wearing red underwear on New Year’s Eve is supposed to bring good luck.”

His smile was slow and wicked.

“I would enjoy seeing you in red underwear. I would enjoy even more getting you out of it.”

“Then I’ll have to hit the shops,” Sabrina said, laughing. “Red panties and a dress for your mother’s New Year’s Ball. If I get everything done I need to and can change my airline reservations.”

“We will get it done.”

“We have New Year’s traditions in the States, too,” she commented as the boulevard sloped up toward the magnificent baroque cathedral dominating the city’s skyline. “When you did your residency in New York, do you remember champagne toasts and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day?”

“I remember more the nonstop football games. Or what you American’s call football.”

“What about resolutions? Do you make ‘em and break ‘em like we do?”

“That’s an all-American tradition.” He threw her a quick look. “Have you made yours for the coming year?”

“Not yet. I’ll have to think about it.”

She didn’t have to think long.

She’d intended to fly home late tomorrow evening. Even if she changed her ticket, she would gain only a few more days in Italy. Marco had to return to Rome by January fifth and she needed to be back in the States by then, working furiously with Caroline to put their final proposal together for the Global Security conference.

She wouldn’t think about the ticking clock, Sabrina resolved. She’d enjoy the time she had left in Italy. She’d scout the last hotel, stuff herself on Signora Bertaldi’s cooking, go to a ball and make love morning, noon and/or night to her handsome doc.

With that delicious resolution firmly in mind, she craned her neck for a better view of a fat, white moon rising above the cathedral’s spires.

Sabrina fell instantly in love with the Palazzo d’Calvetti.

Three stories tall and at least eight bays wide, its facade featured different window frames and pediments on each level. She could see the Moorish influence in some, the Italian Renaissance in others. A crowning cornice topped by statues of various saints ran the length of the facade.

Marco parked under a central portico supported by marble columns and escorted Sabrina up the shallow front steps. They were met at the door by a butler who welcomed His Excellency home with genuine warmth.

“Grazie, Phillippo. This is Ms. Russo, my guest.”

The butler blinked in surprise but recovered quickly. “Buona sera, madam.”

Sabrina was starting to get used to these double takes and answered with a smile. “Buona sera.”

“Is my mother in the main salon?” Marco asked.

“She is, Your Excellency, but she wished me to let her know the moment you arrived and she will come down.”

While he pressed a buzzer on the intercom panel, Sabrina took in the magnificent barrel-vaulted main hall lavishly decorated with hand-painted Majolica tiles. A grand staircase bisected the hall in dead center and led in sweeping twin spirals to the upper floors.

She was still absorbing the rich architectural detail when a door slammed on the second floor. A moment later, a slim, silver-haired woman in tailored slacks and a mink-trimmed sweater hurried down the stairs.

“Marco!”

“Buona sera, Mama.” Bending, he kissed her on both cheeks. “Come sta?”

“Bene. Multo bene.”

The affection between the two was genuine and readily apparent, but when the duchess turned to his guest her warm smile vaporized.

“Madre del Dio!”

Sabrina suppressed a sigh. Marco had assured her the resemblance to his dead wife was merely superficial. She was beginning to wonder. He covered the awkward moment with an introduction.

“Sabrina, may I present my mother, Donna Maria di Chivari Calvetti. Mama, this is my guest, Sabrina Russo.”

“Forgive me for staring,” the duchess apologized in musically accented English. “It’s just … You look much like …”

“Like Gianetta,” her son finished calmly. “At first glance, I thought so, too. But you will find, as I have, it is only a trick of the eye.”

An odd expression flickered across his mother’s face. It came and went so quickly Sabrina couldn’t interpret it. She had no difficulty interpreting the cool comment that followed, though.

“I will admit I was surprised when my son told me he had a guest staying at his villa.” She raked a glance at said guest from her windblown hair to the tip of her cane. “I hope you’re recovering from your unfortunate accident?”

The question was polite, but the slight if unmistakable emphasis on the last word almost made Sabrina do a double take.

Good grief! Did the woman think she’d tumbled down a cliff in a deliberate attempt to snare her rich, handsome son? Had that—or some similar ploy—been tried before? She’d have to ask Marco later.

“I’m recovering quite well, Your Excellency. Your son has taken excellent care of me.”

She would have loved to add that his bedside manner was improving every day, too. Wisely, she refrained.

“Indeed.”

With a regal nod, the duchess led the way past the marble staircase to the west wing of the palazzo.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to mount the stairs so I’ve ordered an aperitif tray to be set up in the Green Salon. It’s on this floor and there’s a water closet just there, across the hall, if you wish to use it.”

“Thank you, I do.”

“We’ll wait for you in the salon,” Marco said. “It’s the third room on the left.”

Sabrina didn’t dawdle. Her lip gloss and hair restored to order, she left the powder room and counted the rooms as she passed them. The first looked like it might have been once been the palazzo’s armory and now served as a museum for antique weapons displayed in locked cases. The second was an office of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing tall, leather-bound volumes of documents. Sabrina’s partner, Devon the history buff, would salivate at the sight of those musty volumes.

“… do you know about her?”

The duchess’s sharp question came through the open door of the third room, as did Marco’s reply.

<1...3 4 5 6 7 8 >

На страницу:

Перейти

5 из 8