The Sicilian Surrender

Yeah, Megan answered, looping her arm through Bree’s. Maybe we can finally figure out how many rooms this place really has.

She held out a hand to Fallon, but Fallon smiled and shook her head.

“You guys go ahead. I’m going to step outside for a breath of air.”

Her sisters trooped off and Cullen looked over at her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, flashing another smile. “I just want to take a look at the sky. I’m not used to seeing all these stars.”

Her brother grinned. “Me, neither. Us city types tend to forget.”

Fallon nodded, opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out on the terrace. The stars shone down with crystalline brilliance from a black-velvet sky; the ivory moon seemed caught in the uplifted branches of a stand of trees.

The warm air of the Connecticut summer night enveloped her.

Wineglass in hand, Fallon went down stone steps that still held some of the day’s heat. She made her way slowly along the gentle slope of the hill and through terraced rows of grapevines.

There, the earth was cool and moist against her bare feet—she and her sisters had decided to forgo panty hose under their long bridesmaids’ gowns. The breeze, perfumed by heavy clusters of ripening grapes, smelled delicious.

It had been a lovely day. A wonderful weekend. Her mother was blissfully happy with Dan, who’d turned out to be the kind of stepfather that gave the word luster. Spending time with her sisters and brothers was always fun, and her oldest brother was so crazy in love with his Cassie that it almost made you believe in love.

For someone else, at least, if not for yourself.

Fallon stopped walking, sipped some of the wine, ran a hand lightly over a cluster of velvety grapes.

Then, how come she was feeling so—so—

What? What was she feeling? Weary? Under the weather? Maybe even a little bit down? There was no reason for it, none at—

“Hey.”

She gasped and spun around just as Cullen reached her.

“You scared me to half to death,” she said with a little laugh.

“Sorry. I figured you heard me coming.” He grinned. “I guess I have a delicate walk.”

Fallon grinned back at him. “Delicate” was not a word anyone would use to describe her brothers. Cullen, like the rest of them, was big, six foot two in his stockinged feet.

“Uh-huh. About as delicate as a moose. What are you doing out here?”

Cullen shrugged. “Same as you, kid. Checking the stars, stretching my legs, taking a breather. It’s been a long day.”

“A long weekend, you mean. Fun, though.”

“The gathering of the O’Connell clan always is. Fewer fireworks than usual this time, at least.”

Fallon laughed. “Probably out of deference to Cassie. I guess none of us wanted to scare her off. She scored lots of points, being able to tolerate all of us at one clip.”

“Uh-huh. She seems terrific.”

“I agree.”

Brother and sister sipped their wine.

“Amazing,” Cullen said, after a while. “That Keir got married, I mean.”

“It happens,” Fallon said lightly.

“Sure, but not to us.” They both laughed. “It was a great ceremony.”

“Mmm.”

“Those vows they wrote were cool.”

“Mmm,” Fallon said again, and took another sip of wine.

“Touching.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Touching?”

“Yeah. You know, the sentiments they expressed. Isn’t a man permitted to use the word? You thought so, too.”

Fallon blinked. “Were we talking about me?”

Cullen, who’d hours ago discarded his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt.

“You cried a little,” he said softly. “At the end.”

“Me? Cry at a wedding?” Fallon turned toward him and poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “Cullen. My darling little brother—”

“You’re only a year older than I am, kid. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“The point is, I do not cry at weddings. Why would I? When you’ve been a bride nine trillion times—”

“A magazine-cover bride, six times, and don’t look so surprised. Ma keeps count.”

Fallon looked up at him. “Does she?”

“Damned right. And if you want to know the rest, she sends each of us a copy of every magazine that has you on the cover…As if we all didn’t run to the nearest store and buy up all the copies ourselves.”

Pleased beyond reason, Fallon smiled.

“That’s nice.”

“Nice? It’s necessary. How do you think those magazines stay in circulation? If the O’Connells didn’t buy ’em, who would?” He laughed, ducked away from the fist his sister teasingly aimed at his jaw. “But being a bride on a cover doesn’t make you a bride in real life, babe. We both know that.”

Fallon narrowed her eyes. “What’s happening here? You think, now that Keir’s gone down the aisle, we all should?”

Cullen shuddered. “Hell, no!”

“Good. Because I’m not the least bit interested in getting married.”

“Fine with me. I’m just wondering why you were crying.” His voice gentled. “You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. If some guy out there hurt you or something—”

“Oh, Cull,” Fallon said softly. Her lips curved in a smile; she clasped her brother’s forearms, lifted to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Hey, did I or did I not beat up Billy Buchanan for you in fifth grade, when he wrote ‘I Luv Amy’ on that fence instead of ‘I Luv Fallon’ after he’d sworn to be your boyfriend forever?”

Fallon grinned. “Probably because he couldn’t spell Fallon, but yes, you did.”

“Well, any other SOB gives you a bad time, you tell me, okay?”

She stared at Cullen, wondering what he’d say if he knew that she didn’t even date anymore, that one man too many had coveted her as a trophy to be won and ignored her as a woman who wanted to be loved for who she was, not what she was.

“Sis?”

Fallon smiled and looped her arm through his. “Okay.”

They began walking up the hill, toward the turreted stone house illuminated by moonlight.

“It was just that it all seemed so—so right,” she said after a minute, her voice soft and low. “The flowers. The words. The music. The way Keir and Cassie looked at each other. I guess you’re right. It was touching.”

“Sure.”

“Not that I want any of it for myself.”

“Your career,” Cullen said, nodding as if he understood that there was no room in her life for anything else.

Except, how could he understand when she didn’t? After years of hard work, her career was at its peak…and she wasn’t enjoying it half as much as she’d expected.

She’d hit it big at seventeen, just walking along a New York street on a break between finishing high school and starting college. A man had come up to her, shoved his card at her, said, when she jerked back, that he wasn’t a child molester or a lunatic, that he owned a modeling agency and if she wasn’t a fool, she’d come in to talk with him.

Fallon had never been a fool. You didn’t get to be valedictorian of your class or survive a childhood spent moving from place to place by being stupid. She’d checked out the name of the agency, called for an appointment and met with the man who now bore the distinction of having discovered her.

By the time she was eighteen, her face was everywhere. So was she. A week in Spain, another in Paris, long weekends in the Caribbean and on Florida’s Gold Coast that very first year, and scores of places ever since.

Maybe that was why she’d been so emotional yesterday, at the wedding. Maybe it was knowing that Keir and Cassie were going to put down roots.

Maybe it was why she was staring out the jet’s window again, wondering when she’d realized that one ocean was like another, one island like another, one man like another—

“Miss O’Connell?”

Fallon looked up. The cabin attendant was standing over her, smiling and offering the breakfast menu. She shook her head, declined everything but a small pot of coffee.

When it came, she raised her seat halfway and poured a cup.

You had to watch your weight when you modeled, more and more as the years sped by. The svelte figure you had at eighteen wasn’t the same as the one you had at twenty-eight.

Twenty-eight, she thought, sipping at the hot black coffee. Pushing thirty. Not bad in this business. Her body was still all right; hours in the gym kept it that way, but she’d have to do some things to her face soon, if she wanted to keep going. Maybe get her eyelids done or her mouth plumped with collagen. Take a shot of Botox to keep wrinkles from between her brows.

She hated even the thought of doing something so artificial. As it was, there were times she looked in the mirror after someone had done her hair and her face, after someone else had chosen what she would wear, after still another person told her to look soulful or excited or whatever would sell cars or hand lotion, and wondered who she was.

Surgery, injections, little tucks and snips would only make the real Fallon more difficult to find.

Sometimes, she looked in the mirror and wondered what life would be like if she were a real person instead of a woman created by the camera.

Fallon grimaced and put down her cup.

For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her?

She was Fallon O’Connell, supermodel. Thousands of women would give anything to trade places with her, and every last one of them would tell her she was certifiably crazy not to be happy.

She had a wonderful, exciting life. And she knew, even if nobody else except her family did, that she was more than just a pretty face.

She smiled, remembering the way Sean and Cullen had greeted her at the Hartford airport a few days ago, enfolding her in rib-squeezing hugs, Sean saying he was glad to see she was still as homely as sin, Cullen adding yes, it was true, and wasn’t it a terrible shame?

Fallon chuckled. Her family knew how to keep her grounded.

She pressed the seat button and sat up straight.

Enough of this silliness. She had to concentrate on the job ahead. It was an incredible assignment. She’d be the only model in the shoot, and she’d work with Maurice, her favorite photographer, and Andy, a genius of a makeup artist who’d always been able to make her look ethereal.

Carla—the Bridal Dreams editor who’d set up the whole thing—would be there, too, but that was it. Just their little group, and nobody else, not even the mansion’s owner. That was a relief. She’d done shoots on private property before and sometimes the owners got so star-struck and excited, they got in the way.

Not this time.

This owner, Carla said, was an old man with a bad temper. God only knew what magic Carla had worked to convince him to let them use the site for the shoot. When Fallon had asked, Carla winked and said it was a secret. She’d probably used that same magic to get the old guy out of the way. Carla said she’d given him the option of staying around but he’d refused.

So there’d be just a handful of people, people Fallon already knew, and the ruins of an old castle, a view Carla swore went on forever, the sun, the sea, the beach…

And the volcano, smoldering in the distance.

She felt better, just imagining it.

She’d been to Sicily before, only for a couple of days. That had been work, too, but she’d been one of three models. The other girls had hated the island. They said it was too rugged, too old-world, too windswept, but Fallon had loved it.

Sicily was reality. Islands where the trees were lush, the land gently rolling, the people smiling and laid-back were fantasies.

A touch of reality was a breath of fresh air in a life where the end product was illusion.

The sound of the jet’s engines changed. It was subtle, but she’d flown enough to recognize the different nuances in tone. The pilot was throttling back. Soon, he’d put down the flaps and lower the landing gear.

Fallon leaned toward the window. The sky was turning light; a slender red thread stretched across the horizon. They’d be over land any minute, touching down in Paris where she’d change planes for the last leg of her flight.

Perhaps, she thought with a little kick of excitement, perhaps Sicily was where she’d finally figure out who she was and what she was going to do with the rest of her life, because the truth was, the future was on her mind lately.

On her mind, a lot.

Fallon shut her eyes, blocked out the sound of the engines and the excited voice of the little boy across the aisle. She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly and deeply.

A couple of relaxation exercises, she’d be absolutely fine.

A few hours later, not even a day’s worth of relaxation exercises would have helped calm her nerves.

What kind of place was this?

Was there supposed to be a deluge in Catania at this time of year? Was she supposed to be so wet and cold that she was shivering?

Plus, nobody spoke English. Well, nobody here at the cab stand. Nobody spoke Italian, either. Fallon did, a little. More than a little; she had a good ear and she’d picked up a considerable amount of the language when she lived in Milan for six weeks at the start of her career.

What people were talking here sounded like Italian, but it wasn’t. It was a dialect, sort of what you heard in New York when you went into one of those fantastic little shops all the way downtown where they said “proh-voh-lone” when they meant “prah-vah-lohn-eh” or “scun-geel” when they meant “scun-gee-lee.”

You thought you understood. And you did. Almost. But there was a huge difference between clarifying things by smiling and pointing at a chunk of cheese or a tray of octopus and trying to figure out how to ask if this was or was not the place to wait for a private car that was supposed to come for you.

Fallon shoved a wet hank of hair from her eyes.

Where the hell was her ride?

Her flight had come in on time. She’d collected her luggage, gone through customs, headed out the door absolutely according to Carla’s directions…

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more, without the protection of an umbrella or a raincoat, just a thin cotton jacket over an even thinner T-shirt and cotton slacks.

Where was that miserable car?

She darted out from the wretched protection of an overhang and checked the road again, searching for a car that looked as if its driver might be searching for her.

Fiats and Alfa-Romeos went by. And taxis, lots of taxis, and, damn it, she’d have taken one if she knew where she was going but she didn’t have the address. Why would she have needed it, when a car was picking her up?

Fallon dashed back to the wall, soaked to the skin, her hair dripping down her back and in her eyes, her clothes plastered to her body.

Maurice, the photographer, and Andy, the makeup guy, had flown over yesterday with Carla. She’d had to come a day late because of the wedding. No doubt the three of them were sitting in that castle, warm and dry, drinking vino while she stood here and drowned.

Okay. To hell with waiting for a driver who wasn’t coming. She’d go into the terminal, find a phone, call the Bridal Dreams office…

And reach nobody. It was the beginning of the day here, which meant it was still the middle of the night in New York.

“Damn,” she said under her breath, “damn, damn!”

A big black car pulled out of the line of traffic and turned toward the curb. Fallon held her breath. Was the driver looking for her? She couldn’t see him; the windows were darkly tinted and the rain was coming down in sheets, but yes, the car was stopping, the driver was getting out, going around the car, opening the door…

Fallon raced to the car and tossed her suitcase inside.

The driver looked startled. “Signorina. Uno momento!”

“It’s okay,” she gasped, “you don’t have to put the case in the trunk. Just let me get inside where it’s dry.”

“By all means,” a deep, amused voice said. “Any port will do in a storm.”

A man was sitting in the shadowed corner of the back seat, smiling at her.

Fallon’s first thought was that he was gorgeous. Dark hair, heavily-lashed dark eyes, a classical Roman nose…

Her second was that this couldn’t possibly be her car if someone was already inside it.

Her third was that she was out of the wet and the cold for the first time in almost half an hour.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose…Is there the slightest possibility someone sent you to meet me?”

The man grinned. “I’d love to say yes but, regretfully, I have to say that nobody sent me to meet you.”

“Ah.” Still crouched just inside the car, Fallon put her hand to her hair and shoved the sodden mass from her face. “Well, then, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I mean, I’ve been waiting for a car that was supposed to come for me, and—”

“How about fate?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would it be all right if I said fate sent me to meet you?”

Oh, yes. Definitely gorgeous, and with a smooth line.

“Unfortunately,” she answered, with a quick smile, “fate’s not going to take me where I’m going.” Still smiling, she started scooting backward. “Again, my apologies for—”

“My driver can take you wherever you’re going.”

She blinked. Stefano knew he’d surprised her with his offer. Hell, he’d surprised himself, too.

What was he doing, telling a strange woman she could use his car to take her wherever it was she was going? On the other hand, she was a delectable stranger, even as wet as she was. Even? Stefano let his gaze drop to her breasts, their roundness, their tight little nipples perfectly outlined under her clinging shirt.

If anything, the rain heightened her beauty.

He felt a quick stir in his loins, a sudden surge of hunger that shocked him with its intensity. He hadn’t felt this kind of desire since his breakup with Carla. Actually, not for weeks before that.

“That’s very generous of you, signore, but I can’t accept.”

His eyes lifted to hers. Her face was a little flushed, as if she’d noticed the way he’d looked at her. She was shivering, which made sense considering how wet she was, and Stefano cursed himself for evaluating her sexually at such a moment.

“Of course you can. I’m getting out here and my driver has nowhere to go after he leaves me. He can take you to your hotel.”

Fallon shook her head. “That’s just it. I’m not going to a hotel. I—”

“The rain’s coming in. Why don’t you sit down, let Luigi shut the door and turn on some heat while we discuss this.”

She hesitated. He knew she had to be weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Should a woman get into a car with a stranger or not?

He smiled.

“You’re American.”

“Yes.”

“Well, so am I. That makes us kindred souls. What’s the title of that old book? Strangers in a Strange Land.”

“Heinlein,” she said, with a delighted smile, and that seemed to do it. The woman bounced onto the leather seat beside him, shoved her hair back from her face and held out her hand. “Fallon O’Connell,” she said, but when he reached for her hand she laughed, drew it back, wiped the wetness on her trouser leg before holding it out again. “I’m soaked.”

“So you are.”

Stefano smiled as he clasped her hand in his. God, she was beautiful! Who was she visiting in Sicily? A man? He felt an irrational surge of jealousy for some faceless stranger. Maybe she wasn’t visiting a man. Maybe he ought to stay on the island instead of returning to New York and celebrate his newfound freedom.

“And your name is…?”

He laughed. “Sorry. I’m Stefano Lucchesi. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss O’Connell.”

“Fallon, please. It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr.—”

“Stefano.” He let go of her hand, though he really didn’t want to, sat back and folded his arms. “Now that we’ve been formally introduced, tell me why you can’t let my driver take you to your destination.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, you see, I don’t know the address.”

Stefano grinned. “A mystery vacation?”

She laughed. She had a great laugh, light and musical and real.

“I wish. I’m not on vacation at all.”

“Ah. Don’t tell me. You’re the American sales rep for Lamborghini.”

She laughed again, and he thought how nice it was to be able to make her eyes crinkle up that way.

“I’m here on assignment for a magazine, but the person who hired me didn’t give me an address. It didn’t seem necessary, because she said she’d have a car pick me up.”

Stefano felt his smile tilt. “She said?”

“Yes.”

He drew a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’re a model, Miss O’Connell.”

“It’s Fallon, remember? And yes, I am. Did you just recognize me?”

She said it with a smile but there was disappointment in her eyes. Why? he wondered. Because he hadn’t recognized her sooner? Yes, that would be the reason. He knew the kind of woman she was, aware of her looks, trading on them, assuming no man could resist her. And he, like a fool, had been busy proving her right.

Until now.

She was connected to Carla, a part of Carla’s plan to violate his sanctuary. And he wanted nothing to do with her.

“No,” he said curtly, “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Oh. Then, how—”

“There’s talk all over the island of the idiots who are going to take foolish pictures for a useless magazine.”

It was a lie. There’d been no talk. Carla had kept to the bargain; she’d been discreet and he’d surely told no one, but it was as good an excuse as any. He was angry, angrier than he had the right to be, and for no good reason. What Fallon O’Connell did for a living was her affair, not his.

Apparently, she thought so, too. Her smile vanished; that lovely face turned cool.

“I don’t consider my occupation useless, Mr. Lucchesi.”

“My apologies,” he said in a way that made a mockery of the words. She knew it, too, because color swept into her cheeks.

“You don’t know anything about my profession, mister! The pictures will be beautiful, and thousands of readers would tell you how much the articles in the magazine—”

“I’m sure they would,” he said, cutting her short, “but then, there’s no accounting for bad taste.”

Just for a second, he thought she was going to slug him. The thought had a certain appeal. Her hand swinging in an arc, his reaching out to stop her, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her against him and crushing that lush mouth beneath his until her indignation became desire…

Damn it, was he crazy?

“Okay.” Her voice was low and trembling with repressed anger. “That’s enough.”

She reached for the door; he caught her hand to stop her and felt a bolt of electricity shoot from her fingers to his before she jerked back.

“How you earn your living is your affair. The point is, I know the place you want.” He leaned forward and tapped his driver’s shoulder. “Luigi. The lady wants to go to the castello. Take her there.”

“I’d rather walk than accept a favor from you.”

“Don’t be a fool. How can you go someplace if you don’t know its location?”

“Just tell me where it is and we’ll call it even.”

“My driver will take you.”

“Damn it, are you deaf? I don’t want to spend another minute in this car!”

“It isn’t the car, it’s me.”

Her eyes flashed. Soaked to the skin, as disheveled as a wet cat, she still had a presence about her.

“You’ve got that right!”

“In that case…” Stefano wrenched the door open, stepped into the road and slammed the door shut. “Arrivederci, Miss O’Connell. Luigi?” He slapped the side of the car. “Andante.”

Fallon O’Connell said something to him. He couldn’t hear it but this close to the smoked glass window, he could see her mouth open in angry indignation.

Whatever it was, he suspected it wasn’t polite.