New Year Fireworks: The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride
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“… do you know about her?”
The duchess’s sharp question came through the open door of the third room, as did Marco’s reply.
“I know enough, Mama.”
The exchange was in Italian but clear enough for Sabrina to follow easily. She took another step before she realized her soft-soled flats and the rubber tip of her cane masked her approach.
“You say she’s in Italy on business?”
“She and her partners provide travel and support services for executives doing business in Europe. She’s scouting conference sites.”
Time to announce her presence, Sabrina thought. She lifted the cane, intending to thump it on the parquet floor. The duchess’s next comment stopped her cold.
“If half the articles my secretary pulled off the Internet about this woman are true, she’s scouting more than conference sites.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s the daughter of Dominic Russo, the American telecommunications giant. He put her on the board of the foundation that oversees his charitable interests, but subsequently removed her. The rumor is he’s disinherited her. Cut her off without a cent.”
“Ah,” Marco murmured. “So that’s why she’s so determined to make it on her own.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that she fell right at your feet?”
Sabrina had heard enough. Bringing the cane down with a loud thud, she entered the salon.
Marco stood behind a tray holding an array of bottles, a silver martini shaker in his hand. His mother was seated in a tall-backed armchair and had the grace to appear chagrined for a moment. But only for a moment. Her chin lifted as Sabrina gave her a breezy smile.
“Your information’s accurate, Your Excellency, except for one point. My father didn’t remove me from the board of the Russo Foundation. I quit. Are those martinis in that shaker, Marco?” she asked with cheerful insouciance. “If so, I’ll take two olives in mine.”
“Two olives it is,” he confirmed with a gleam of approval in his dark eyes.
His mother was less admiring. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Ms. Russo,” she said coolly. “I wish only to watch out for my son’s welfare.”
“I understand, Your Excellency. No offense taken.”
“I’m perfectly capable of watching out for my own welfare,” Marco drawled as he handed his mother a tall-stemmed martini glass. “But I thank you for your concern.”
The duchess merely sniffed.
She unbent a little over dinner served in a glass-enclosed conservatory that looked out over the lights of the city.
“Have you visited this part of Italy before, Ms. Russo?”
“Only once, when I was a student at the University of Salzburg. One of my roommates was a history major. We drove down from Austria one weekend to explore the ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum.”
“So you’ve not spent time in Napoli.”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“You must call me Donna Maria.”
Sabrina’s lips twitched at the royal command. “Certainly. And please, call me Sabrina.”
“We have a painting by Lorenzo de Caro in the gallery. It depicts the city as it was in the early eighteenth century. You must let me show it to you after dinner.”
The rest of the meal passed with polite queries concerning Sabrina’s year in Salzburg and her current business. Not until she and the duchess had made their way to the galley, leaving Marco to look over a document his mother wanted his opinion on, did she learn the ulterior motive behind the invitation to view de Caro’s masterpiece.
The painting was small, only about twelve by eighteen inches, but so luminous that it instantly drew the eye. Lost in the exquisitely detailed scene of a tall-masted ship tied up at wharf beside the fortress, Sabrina almost missed Donna Maria’s quiet question.
“How much has my son told you about his wife?”
“Only that she died in a tragic boating accident. If Marco wants me to know more,” she added pointedly, “I’m sure he’ll tell me.”
The duchess hiked a brow. “You are a very direct young woman.”
“I try to be, Donna Maria.”
“Then I will tell you bluntly that I love my son very much and don’t wish to see him hurt again.”
“I don’t plan to hurt him.”
“Not intentionally, perhaps.” Her forehead creasing, the duchess studied her guest’s face. “But this resemblance to Gianetta …”
“It can’t be that remarkable,” Sabrina said with some exasperation.
“Come and judge for yourself.”
Donna Maria led the way to the opposite wing of the gallery. It was lined with portraits of men and women in every form of dress from the late Middle Ages onward. Cardinals. Princesses. Dukes and duchesses in coronets trimmed with fur and capped with royal red.
“These are my parents.” She stopped in front of a portrait depicting a willowy blond and a stern-looking man in a uniform dripping with medals. “And here are my husband and I in our wedding finery.”
The painter had captured the couple in the bloom of youth. There was no mistaking the love in the young Donna Maria’s eyes or the pride in her husband’s as he gazed down at her.
“How happy you both look.”
“We were,” the duchess said softly.
Her gaze lingered on the portrait for a long moment before moving to another. This one showed her seated on a garden bench with her two children standing beside her.
“This is Marco at the age of eight, and my daughter AnnaMaria at age six.”
Sabrina could see the man Marco would become in the boy’s erect posture and intelligent eyes.
“And this is Gianetta,” the duchess said, her tone hardening. “Marco had this painted shortly after they were married.”
Unlike the other portraits in the gallery, this one was an informal collage of sky and sea and sail. At its center was a windblown, laughing woman manning the helm of a sleek boat. The colors were vivid, the strokes bold slashes of sunlight on shadow.
Disconcerted, Sabrina leaned forward for a closer look. She might have been looking at a portrait of herself in her younger, wilder days. The hair, the eyes, the angle of the chin … No wonder everyone close to Marco gawked when they saw his houseguest!
“She was beautiful,” the duchess said, making no effort to disguise her bitterness. “So beautiful and charming and unpredictable that everyone fell all over themselves to find excuses for her erratic behavior. Everyone except me. I could never … I will never forgive her for putting my son through such hell.”
Whoa! That was a little more information than Sabrina had anticipated. Donna Maria didn’t give her time to process it before zeroing in for a direct attack.
“Is the resemblance between you and Gianetta more than physical, Ms. Russo? Are those other stories my secretary pulled from the Internet true?”
Sabrina’s eyes narrowed. “As I said earlier, you shouldn’t believe everything posted on the Internet.”
The duchess refused to be fobbed off. Like a lioness protecting her cub, she went straight for the jugular.
“Which story isn’t true? The one that claims you seduced the son of a sheik? The one that says you like to party until dawn at nightclubs in New York and Buenos Aires and London?”
The gloves were off now, Sabrina thought grimly. Like they’d been so many times with her father. Well, she was older and a whole lot wiser this time around. The body blows didn’t hit as hard or hurt as badly as they did when her father threw them.
“Sorry, Your Excellency.” Her shrug was deliberately careless. “I’m well past the age of having to defend my actions. To you or anyone else. Shall we join Marco for coffee?”
With Sabrina’s ankle so improved, Marco returned his mother’s Rolls and reclaimed his Ferrari. The powerful sports car ate up the miles between Naples and his seaside villa in less than an hour.
Sabrina was quiet for most of the trip, more shaken than she wanted to admit by the exchange with his mother. Her past had come back to haunt her with a vengeance. All those wild parties … All those torrid affairs … She couldn’t deny them and was damned if she’d try.
She wondered whether the duchess had poured the juicy stories into her son’s ears. Marco gave no sign of it when he accompanied her to the guest suite.
Or when he took her in his arms.
Or when his mouth came down on hers.
The heat was instant and so intense Sabrina knew she was in trouble. Her bones had never liquefied like this. Her blood had never bubbled and boiled. She wanted this man more with each breath she took but, somehow, found the strength to ease out of his embrace.
“Your mother showed me Gianetta’s portrait. She looked so vibrant. So full of life.”
“She was,” he said simply. “I loved her with all the passion of my youth.”
Sabrina hugged her waist. She’d tasted passion, too. Many times. But with the brutal clarity of hindsight, she saw that she’d never truly loved. Not the way Marco described.
She could love this man, though. She knew it, deep in her heart. She was already halfway there.
She was still dealing with that disconcerting realization when he unbelted the jacket of her pantsuit and undid the buttons, one by one.
“Ah, Sabrina.”
He dipped his head and kissed her nose, her mouth, her chin, the swell of her breasts above the lacy chemise.
“You enchant me,” he murmured in Italian, his voice low and rough. “You enthrall me. You make me feel alive again.”
Eight
“He said that?”
Amusement rippled across Caroline’s heart-shaped face, displayed next to Sabrina’s on the laptop’s screen.
“You enthrall him?”
“It didn’t sound as corny in Italian.”
Sabrina scooted up a little higher and balanced the computer on her bent knees. She’d decided to laze amid the rumpled sheets and duvet while Marco showered. After the night just past, she wasn’t sure she’d have enough strength to roll out of bed and take her turn.
At least she’d managed to reach over the side of the mattress for his discarded shirt and pull it on before powering up the computer. She could smell the faint tang of his aftershave mingling with the scent of their lovemaking as she queried her partner.
“Are you sure you don’t mind if I stay in Italy until January fourth, Caroline? That’s the first day I can get out on a new ticket.”
It was also the last day she could spend with Marco before he headed back to Rome. Sabrina shoved that nasty thought aside. They still had today and the Feast of San Silvestro tomorrow and New Year’s Day and …
Caroline interrupted her mental count. “Of course I don’t mind. I won’t get home until late on the third myself. Zap me your estimates and I’ll send you mine. We can do the comparative analysis by e-mail and work up the final proposal when we get home.”
“Will do. I just have one more site to check out. Marco and I are going to hit it today. Then I have to do some serious shopping.”
“For?”
“A ball gown.”
“You’re going to a ball?”
“Yep. We’re going to celebrate the New Year in style.”
“Answer me this, my friend. How will you dance on that ankle?”
Sabrina raised her leg and examined the joint in question.
“The swelling’s gone. I can actually see the bones again. They’re still covered in ugly green and purple, but what the heck. Here, have a look.”
She swiveled the laptop around and aimed the built-in camera at her foot.
“The pain is gone, too,” she said, wiggling her toes. “If I take it easy and use the cane today, I ought to be able to manage at least one waltz tomorrow night. Although …”
She repositioned the laptop and saw her own face screwed up in a grimace.
“I was pretty ambivalent about attending the big bash after meeting Her Excellency yesterday.”
“What changed your mind?”
The grimace morphed into a catlike grin. “Marco. The man can be pretty convincing when he wants to.”
Her partner smiled but still had doubts. “From what you told me about his mother, I have to say she sounds rather formidable.”
“She is.”
Caroline bit her lip. She and Devon knew all too well the scars Sabrina had acquired over the years in her fierce battles with her father.
“You’ve spent a good part of your life fighting to hold your own against a domineering parent. Are you sure you want to enter into battle with another?”
“I’m not engaging in a protracted battle. I’m just attending a party with my studly doc-slash-duke, after which we’ll go our separate ways.”
She shrugged aside the disconcerting twinge that caused and cocked her head.
“The shower just cut off in the bathroom. Gotta go, Caro. I need to confirm the ticket change, get dressed and hit the road. I’ll e-mail a spreadsheet with the final cost estimates for the sites here in Italy as soon as I nail down the last one.”
“Okay. I’ll do the same for the sites in Spain.”
“Ciao for now, girl.”
She ended the videoconference and sent her fingers flying over the keyboard. She’d have to pay a hundred and eighty dollar differential in airfare plus another hundred in penalties for changing her ticket. Add in the cost of a gown and the necessary accessories, and this was turning out to be an expensive stopover.
Since these weren’t business-related expenses, Sabrina intended to cover them from her personal account. Good thing she’d built up a healthy savings before walking away from the board of the Russo Foundation.
Marco emerged from the bathroom just as she clicked the confirm button to purchase the new ticket. “It’s done. I’ve changed my … Yowza!”
She froze with her fingers still curved over the keyboard, speechless at the sight of six foot one of nearly naked male.
He had a towel draped around his hips. Above the fluffy cotton his chest hair gleamed dark and damp. Below, his muscular thighs narrowed down to strong calves and disgustingly healthy ankles. With his bronzed skin and short, curling hair, he could leave a string of broken hearts from Naples to Nashville to Nepal.
“You should give a girl some warning before you stroll into a room looking like that! I almost swallowed my tongue.”
“Tongue swallowing could be symptomatic of a serious medical condition,” he said solemnly. “You’d better let me have a look.”
He had to drop the towel in order to make the necessary examination. For some reason, he also had to peel off Sabrina’s borrowed shirt.
The laptop got shoved onto the bedside table. The duvet slithered over the side of the mattress. Marco curled his hands under her thighs and tugged her down until she was stretched out under him.
“Open your mouth and say ah.”
“Now that,” Sabrina gasped when they came up for air some time later, “was what I call a thorough examination. I might have to hire you as my personal physician.”
Marco rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand. Christ, she was beautiful. With her tangle of tawny hair and her long, supple body lying limp beside his, she made him feel smug and sated and hungry, all at the same time.
“It would be difficult for me to make house calls to the States. You’d have to stay here, in Italy.”
He said it with a lazy smile but as soon as the words were out the idea took hold. Suddenly thoughtful, he let his gaze drop to her mouth, still swollen from his kisses, and brought it up to meet hers again.
“Why not stay longer, Sabrina?”
“I wish I could. Unfortunately, my partners and I have a company to run.”
Marco curled a tendril of tawny gold around his finger and feathered the ends with his thumb. Just a few days ago he’d driven down from Rome with nothing more than a week of rest and relaxation in mind. Then this woman had dropped into his life. They’d spent less than a week together, but all he had to do was look at her to know he wanted more.
“Since your company provides support for executives doing business in Europe,” he said slowly, “perhaps you should consider the cost effectiveness of establishing a forward operating location in, say, Rome.”
Chuckling, she dropped a kiss on his chest. “That would certainly make house calls more convenient for my personal physician. Now I suggest we postpone any further doctor/patient consultation until later. We gotta get it in gear, fella.”
Marco let the subject drop, but the idea of keeping Sabrina in Italy remained fixed in his mind during the drive to the last conference site on her list, a resort some forty kilometers south of Salerno.
The Villa d’Este sat all by itself on a rocky promontory jutting into the sea. It was a new condo/time share/vacation resort that had been constructed for guests who wanted to avoid the bustle of the more popular tourist locales. The facilities were top rate and the prices comparable to the other sites Sabrina had scouted, but she left ready to cross the place off her list.
“Too isolated and difficult to get to,” she commented as the Ferrari slowed for a truck spewing a black cloud of diesel fumes. “Good thing I made a previsit. On paper, the resort looked perfect.”
With a blind curve ahead, Marco couldn’t pass. He dropped back, his nostrils flaring at the noxious fumes.
“So, which of the other three locales tops your list?”
She flipped through her notes. “I really liked the facilities and unique setting in Ravello, but that estimate came in considerably higher than either Sorrento or Capri. I e-mailed Signor Donati yesterday and asked him to take another look at his catering costs.”
Marco didn’t offer to weigh in with Donati. He’d made that mistake once, and felt the bite of Sabrina’s prickly independence. Yet he knew one phone call from him could resolve the issue.
The knowledge bothered him. He wasn’t used to sitting back while someone else took the lead. He headed a highly skilled surgical team with unquestioned authority. He made life and death decisions daily in the operating theater, and made them fast. In addition to chairing the neurosurgery department at his hospital, he sat on the board of directors for the International Pediatric Neurosurgical Association and the Gamma Radioknife Institute. He routinely loaned his name, his title and his reputation to any number of charitable enterprises. That combination carried as much weight here in southern Italy as it did in Rome.
At Sabrina’s specific request, however, he’d stayed in the background while she met with the hotel personnel in Capri, Sorrento and at the Villa d’Este. He’d shrugged off her stubborn determination to handle matters herself at the time. Now it put a decided dent in his ego. She was foolish not to use his influence, he thought as the truck in front of them belched another wave of noxious fumes.
Muttering a curse, Marco pulled out to pass. A long line of oncoming cars forced him to cut back.
“At this rate, we’ll eat his exhaust all the way back to Salerno.”
The irritated comment drew a quick glance from the woman beside him. She stuffed her notes in her briefcase with a rueful smile.
“I told you before, but I’ll tell you again. I really appreciate you playing chauffer for me this week.”
Marco didn’t want her appreciation. He wanted her. The more he thought about keeping her in Italy, the more determined he was to make it happen.
He needed to lay some groundwork first, and he couldn’t do that with this damned truck spewing fumes in his face. He caught sight of a brown sign ahead denoting the turnoff for a place of historical interest.
“Have you been to the Temple of Poseidon at Paestum?” he asked as the sign flashed by.
“No.”
“It’s too close by for you to miss.”
“Marco, we don’t have a lot of time for sightseeing. It’s almost three o’clock now and we’re still several hours from home.”
He slowed for the turn and cut the wheel. “This won’t take long.”
Sabrina stifled a dart of annoyance. After his good-natured chauffeuring, she could hardly insist they save Paestum for another day.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of all she needed to get done. At the top of the list was putting her notes in order and e-mailing Caroline the results of her site surveys. When she received the input from Caro’s surveys, she’d have to get to work on a comparative analysis. And sometime before the ball tomorrow night she needed to squeeze in a few hours of shopping. The last thing she was interested in right now was a side trip to view some ruins.
Her minor annoyance evaporated at her first glimpse of the temples. The three massive Doric structures rose from a grassy plain dotted with the scattered remnants of the ancient city built by the Greeks around 600 B.C.
“The one in the center is as large as the Parthenon!” she gasped. “And so beautifully restored.”
She got a better view of the main temple when they pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. Awed, she let her gaze roam the starkly beautiful rows of columns topped by an elaborate frieze and a pitched roof. Marco hooked an arm over the steering wheel, content to sit for a few moments while she absorbed the incredible sight.
“The center temple was dedicated to Poseidon,” he told her. “The god of the sea. He was known as Neptune to the Romans, who took the city from the Greeks and occupied it until well into the ninth century.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Some say it was malaria, some believe it was a Saracen assault. That’s the Temple of Hera on the right. On the left is the Temple of Ceres, goddess of agriculture. Are you up to walking in for a closer view?”
“Most definitely.”
Her ankle had barely given her a twinge all day, but she was more than willing to tuck her arm in Marco’s for the short stroll to the temples. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket. She was developing a real attachment to this soft suede. A cold breeze came in off the sea, bringing with it wispy fingers of fog and making her glad she’d worn a black cashmere sweater under her jacket.
She spotted only two other visitors in the distance, wandering among the ruins of a small amphitheater. With a little thrill, she saw that she and Marco had the temples to themselves. They approached slowly and mounted the steps at the entrance. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Standing amid columns that had tumbled and been rebuilt gave her the eerie sensation of being part of man’s unceasing battle against time and the forces of nature.
“I can almost see a procession of white-robed priests and priestesses,” she murmured. “They must have made offerings to Poseidon in hopes he would fill their nets with fish … then wondered how the heck they’d offended him when a storm blew up and sank their ships.”
“Something I’ve wondered, too.”
Stricken, she glanced up the man beside her. “Oh, Marco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to evoke unhappy memories.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” His gaze drifted around the ring of inner columns. “The people who worshipped here thousands of years ago recognized the capriciousness of the gods. That’s as good an explanation for Gianetta’s drowning as any I’ve been able to come up with.”
The quiet comment mirrored Sabrina’s thoughts of a few moments ago. Somehow, putting his wife’s death in such a timeless historical context made it a little more understandable. But only a little.
When they exited the temple, Sabrina hugged his arm tight against her side.
“Shall we sit for a moment?” he asked, steering her toward a stone bench strategically positioned for contemplation of the decorative frieze. “I want to follow up on our conversation this morning.”
“Which one?” A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. “The one where you told me to open up and say ah? Or the one where we discussed making you my personal physician?”
“The possibility isn’t as remote as it sounds. I think you should consider my suggestion of setting up a forward operating location in Rome.”
Surprised, she twisted around to face him. “Are you serious?”