The Duke's New Year's Resolution / Quade's Babies: The Duke's New Year's Resolution

“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.

“Okay, okay,” she gasped. “You found the not-so-sweet spot.”

He relieved the frontal pressure and applied it sideways. More prepared this time, Sabrina merely gritted her teeth.

“It is not as bad as I feared,” he said when he’d completed the test.

“Easy for you to say!”

“I don’t believe you’ve torn the ligaments, merely strained them. We will wrap the ankle in a compression bandage. Then you must stay off your feet, apply ice and take the painkillers I will prescribe.”

“Stay off my feet for how long?”

“As a minimum, until the swelling goes down and the pain lessens. After that, you may require crutches for a few days to a week.”

“A week!”

Sabrina swallowed a groan. Her tight schedule was disintegrating before her eyes. She’d already rearranged it once to spend Christmas Day in Austria with her two best friends and business partners.

Sabrina, Devon McShay and Caroline Walters had met years ago while spending their junior year studying at the University of Salzburg. Filled with the dreams and enthusiasm of youth, the three coeds had formed a fast friendship. They’d maintained that friendship long distance in the years that followed. Until last May, when they’d met for a minireunion.

After acknowledging that their lives hadn’t lived up to their dreams, they’d decided to pool resources. Two months later, they’d quit their respective jobs and launched European Business Services, Incorporated. EBS for short. Specializing in arranging transportation, hotels, conference facilities, translation and other support services for busy executives.

Now Devon McShay, the former history professor, Caroline Walters, the quiet, introverted librarian, and Sabrina the one-time rebel and good-time girl were hard-nosed businesswomen. They had an office and a small staff in a Washington, D.C., suburb and had spent megabucks on advertising. They’d landed a few jobs, but nothing big until aerospace mogul Cal Logan hired EBS to work his short-notice trip to Germany.

Sabrina had done most of the frantic prep work for Logan’s five-day, three-city blitz, but came down with the flu the day before she was supposed to fly to Germany. Devon took the trip instead, with some interesting results. Sexy Cal Logan had made it plain he wanted to merge more than business interests with Devon.

Dev was now scrambling to put together a conference for high-level Logan Aerospace executives while Caroline and Sabrina divided forces to scout locations for the lucrative new contract they’d just landed with Global Security International.

Their client wanted to hold the conference the second week in February in either Italy or Spain. Caro and Sabrina had jumped on the computer to find locations with sufficient available rooms and conference facilities on such short notice.

Their choices narrowed to a handful of potential sites, Caro flew into Barcelona to physically inspect those along Spain’s Costa Bravo. Sabrina was supposed to check the possibilities here, on Italy’s Amalfi Coast. They had less than two weeks to put together an acceptable proposal, and Sabrina wasn’t about to let a little thing like a sprained ankle deter her.

There was another side to her determination. One that went deeper and struck at what she was. Or what she used to be. She’d struggled too long to get out of her father’s shadow…and taken too much crap from him and his lawyers when she’d resigned from the board of the Russo Foundation to go into business with her two friends. Sabrina fully intended to make it on her own and make a success of EBS, which meant hopping off this exam table and getting her butt in gear.

She aimed her best smile at the doc/duke. “Bring on the ace bandage and painkillers, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Your way to where?”

“I’m booked in a hotel in Ravello tonight. I’m scouting it as a possible conference site.”

According to Sabrina’s research, the picturesque mountaintop resort was only a short distance from Positano as the crow flew. Too bad she couldn’t sprout wings. The trip would take forever on these tortuous roads.

“You cannot drive to Ravello if you take prescription narcotics,” the doc countered firmly. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. Under Italian law you cannot drive at all.”

“Great!” She blew out a frustrated breath. “Okay, forget the drugs. Just bandage me up, throw in a set of crutches and I’ll gimp on down the coast.”

Marco hesitated. He was tempted to comply with her request—extremely tempted. The woman’s resemblance to Gianetta had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He would like nothing more than to send Sabrina Russo on her way and slam the door on the memories she’d stirred.

Unfortunately, his personal preferences conflicted with the oath he’d taken as a physician and the knowledge that he was at least partially responsibility for this woman’s injury.

“I’m afraid you don’t appreciate the seriousness of your sprain,” he told his reluctant patient. “It will heal itself in time if you’re careful. If you bring the wrong pressure to bear on your ankle, however, you could cause more serious damage that might require surgery to repair. Or leave you with a permanent limp.”

She paled a little at that. Satisfied that he had her attention, Marco pressed on.

“I should like you to remain in Positano tonight. I’ll tend to your ankle and, if your condition allows, you may continue your journey tomorrow.”

She gave in grudgingly. “I guess I have no choice.”

“Very well. Rafaela, a pressure bandage, please.”

The nurse had anticipated the request and had a rolled bandage in hand. She was every bit as efficient as her mama, Marco thought, pleased all over again that he’d paid her tuition to nursing school.

When he moved his stool closer and propped Sabrina’s foot on his knee, her breath hissed in. Marco used his gentlest touch to wrap the ankle. The skin around the injured joint was distended, the bruising already vicious.

The calf above, however, was long and smooth and shapely. As he cupped the firm flesh, a jolt went through him. This time the shock had nothing to do with seeing what appeared to be the ghost of his dead wife. This time it was lust, hard and fast and hot.

Gesù! What possessed him today? Disgusted with himself, he caught only the tail end of his patient’s question to Rafaela.

“…recommend a good hotel?”

“The tourist season is over, Signorina Russo. We have only one hotel still open. The five-star Le Sireneuse. It’s quite elegant and very popular with film stars and visiting dignitaries. Their rooms are usually booked a year or more in advance, but I’ll call and see if they have anything available, yes?”

“Thanks.”

Rafaela slid out the cell phone clipped to her waist and made the quick call.

“It’s as I feared, Signorina. The hotel is fully booked. I’ll try The Neptune. It’s just outside town and may still be open.”

Marco brought the bandage under a delicate arch and waged a fierce internal debate. His gut told him to say nothing, to let this woman find her own accommodations. She disturbed him in too many ways. Yet the sense of responsibility bred into him with his name and title would not allow him to ignore the fact he had contributed to her present predicament. Then there was that haunting resemblance to Gianetta…

“There’s no need to call another hotel. You must stay at my villa tonight.”

“Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It is no imposition, I assure you. The villa is small, merely a vacation home, but has several guest suites. I should prefer to keep a watch on you to make sure you don’t suffer any residual effects from the accident. And,” he added with a smile for the nurse, “Rafaela’s mama will cook for us. Rafaela will tell you her mama serves the best grilled swordfish on the Amalfi coast.”

“It’s true, Signorina. Mama’s pesce spada will make you weep with joy.” The young nurse kissed her fingertips in tribute to her mother’s skills. “You will taste nothing like it.”

“Well…”

“Good,” Marco said. “It is settled. How does the bandage feel? Not too tight?”

His patient tried a tentative wiggle. “It’s fine.”

After securing the bandage with a Velcro strap, he carefully lowered her foot and rose. “Before I give you something for the pain, please tell me if you have ever experienced an adverse reaction to drugs or have a medical condition I should be aware of.”

“No to both.”

Marco considered the range of drugs available at the small clinic and wrote an order for an opiate that would provide swift relief with the fewest side effects. While he waited for Rafaela to return with the medication, he flipped up his cell phone and arranged to have Sabrina’s rental car delivered to his villa.

“We will leave the keys here at the clinic. Ah, here are your pills. They are very strong,” he warned.

After she downed the correct dosage, Marco helped her into the wheelchair again. They made a stop at the woman’s washroom, where Sabrina hopped in with Rafaela’s assistance and out again a few moments later.

When he wheeled her out of the clinic and scooped her into his arms for the transfer to the Ferrari, he could tell she was already starting to feel the effects of the fast-acting medication. Her body was pliant in his arms, her breasts soft against his ribs. While he held her, she turned her face up to his.

“Thanks for taping me up, Doc. Duke. Marco.”

Her smile was wide and natural. Nothing like Gianetta’s teasing pout. He hadn’t noticed the dimples before, perhaps because Sabrina Russo hadn’t relaxed and smiled at him until this point. And her eyes were a warmer, richer brown than he’d first thought.

Holding her this close, her mouth just a whisper from his, Marco noted other differences, as well. Her breasts were fuller, her hips rounder and she had the long, sleek legs of a thoroughbred. She was much a woman, this American. Very much a woman.

Marco was more prepared this time when his groin went tight. Nevertheless, the punch hit hard and forced a reminder that this woman was his patient and would be a guest in his home. Willing his rebellious body to behave, he lowered her into the passenger seat and reached across her for the shoulder harness.

He smells like antiseptic soap, Sabrina thought, feeling more than a little woozy. Soap and suede and some subtle, tangy aftershave she’d only now noticed. She’d been too shaken—or too pissed—to sniff his neck before.

“How far is it to your villa?” she asked when he’d backed the convertible out of the clinic’s courtyard.

“Not far. About five kilometers.”

“Oh, boy! On these roads, that means we’ll get there when? Midnight?”

“I promise, you’ll arrive in plenty of time for a nap before dinner.”

“I may zonk out before then,” she warned as her head lolled against the seat back.

“I hope so.” One corner of his mouth tipped up. “That will save much wear and tear on the floorboards!”

Despite the lethargy creeping through her, Sabrina registered the impact of that crooked grin. Holy crap! The man should come with a warning label. When he dropped his brusque me Doctor/you Jane attitude and let himself be human, His Excellency was downright dangerous.

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” she replied.

And not just her thumping foot, she admonished herself sternly. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by sexy Italians right now. Caroline was depending on her for input into the megaproposal they had to submit by the end of next week. Sprain or nor sprain, crutches or no crutches, Sabrina intended to provide the required info.

For now, though, she’d just rest her head against the back of the seat and let the cool December air play with her hair. The loose tendrils fluttered around her face as the Ferrari maneuvered through the narrow streets of Positano.

The village was practically vertical. Pastelpainted shops and homes stair-stepped down the mountainside seemingly right on top of each other. At the bottom of the incline, dominating the piazza, was the cathedral. Beyond the church was the pebbly shore lined with colorful fishing boats.

As Sabrina had noted on the way into town, many of the small hotels and restaurants were shuttered. Umbrellas were folded and chairs neatly stacked on the terraces of open-air restaurants. Yet a few hardy tourists huffed up the steep, cobbled street, guidebooks in hand.

A momentary worry threaded through her as she wondered how the heck she’d handle streets like this on crutches, but she pushed the thought aside with a drug-induced optimism. She’d manage. Somehow.

When they left the town, the road once again became a narrow slice of pavement cut out of sheer rock. Rather than look down, Sabrina slumped in her seat and closed her eyes.

The next thing she heard was Marco’s deep voice murmuring in her ear. “We’re here. Don’t stir. I’ll carry you to your room.”

She felt his arm slide under her knees. His other went around her waist. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she wrapped an arm around his neck.

He lifted her easily. She could get used to this mode of transportation, she thought as she snuggled against his chest and buried her nose in the warm skin of his jaw.

“You need a shave,” she complained sleepily.

“So I do. My apologies, Signorina. I’m on vacation, you see, and had not thought I would get this close to such a beautiful woman.”

She nuzzled closer. “’S okay. You look good with bristles. You look good, period.”

“Grazie.”

She formed a hazy impression of a vine-covered arch, whitewashed walls, the sound of the sea slapping against rocks. Then a door opened and a gray-haired woman bustled out. Rafaela’s mom, Sabrina thought as the woman greeted Marco in a torrent of Italian.

She heard him respond with her name, say something about ice. Mere moments later he lowered her onto sheets that smelled of sunshine and starch. His hands were gentle as he removed her one remaining boot. She was asleep almost before he propped a cushion under her injured ankle to elevate it.

Chapter Three

Food. She needed food.

The thought dragged Sabrina from a deep sleep. Or maybe it was the scents teasing her nostrils. Eyes closed, mind still only half engaged, she sniffed the air. The tantalizing aromas of garlic and onions sizzling in olive oil competed with something sweet and yeasty and fresh baked.

A loud rumble emanated from the vicinity of her stomach, reminding Sabrina she hadn’t eaten since the roll and a cup of coffee she grabbed at the airport before claiming her rental car and driving south toward the Amalfi coast. She’d planned to stop at a restaurant along the way and lunch on the region’s incredible seafood.

Instead, she remembered with a sudden jolt, she’d almost become food for the fishes!

The memory of how close she’d come to tumbling off a cliff and plunging into the sea brought her lids up. She blinked, confused for a moment by the unfamiliar surroundings, then the haze cleared.

She was in a bedroom. In Marco Calvetti’s villa. Stretched out on a king-size bed. With her left leg stuck up at a thirty-degree angle and pillows propped under her knee and ankle. A cold compress was draped over the swollen joint.

She wiggled a bit to get comfortable and surveyed the room with more interest. It was a perfect blend of Mediterranean and modern, with Moorish arches and stucco walls painted a warm terra-cotta. An exquisitely carved antique chest stood against one wall. A flat-screen plasma TV hung on another.

But it was the view through the arches that held Sabrina spellbound. It gave onto a long, narrow terrace. Potted geraniums, hibiscus and trailing vines added splashes of color to an otherwise unbroken vista of sea and sky.

“Holy cow!”

Was that faint blur in the distance Capri? Sicily? Sabrina wasn’t sure what part of the coast she was on or which direction the windows faced. She itched to get out onto the terrace for a better look and was gingerly lowering her foot when a soft knock sounded on the door behind her.

“Si,” she called. “Entri.”

“Good,” Marco said when he opened the door. “You are awake.”

“Barely.”

She struggled to sit up as he came into the room. The first thing she noticed was that he was carrying a set of aluminum crutches. The second, that his sexy whiskers were gone.

Clean-shaven, his hair damp and slicked back, his broad shoulders molded by a cream-colored, V-neck sweater, he still looked good enough to eat.

Which reminded her…

“Please tell me that’s Rafaela’s mama’s cooking I smell.”

“It is indeed. I came to ask if you would like a tray here. Or are you feeling up to dinner on the main terrace? It is heated, so we’d be quite comfortable.”

“You have another terrace with a view like this?”

“Several, actually. The villa is like the others along this stretch of coast. More vertical than horizontal, I’m afraid. But you don’t need to worry about navigating stairs,” he assured her. “I had an elevator installed when the place was built. The lift is very useful for Signora Bertaldi—Rafaela’s mama. And for my own when she comes over from Naples for a visit.”

“Then dinner on the terrace it is.”

Now that she’d recovered from the shock of the accident and wooziness caused by the pills, Sabrina found herself intensely curious about the sexy doc.

“Does your mother visit often?” she asked as she pushed off the bed and onto her one good foot.

“Not often.” He kept a firm grip on her arm while she experimented with the lightweight crutches. “Nor do I, for that matter. This is only my second time this year.”

That surprised her. This bedroom didn’t have an unused feel to it. The oversize marble tiles showed not a single dust bunny and light flooded through sparkling windowpanes. Rafaela’s mama must have a squad of maids at her disposal to keep everything so fresh smelling and spotless.

“So where do you spend the rest of the year?”

“In Rome. That’s where I have my practice.”

Interesting. She knew now he had a mother in Naples and a practice in Rome. There were still some significant gaps in her database, however. Like whether there was a Mrs. Doc/Duke somewhere in the picture. Never shy, Sabrina figured there was only one way to find out.

“What about your wife? She must love coming down to this beautiful villa.”

“My wife died three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Come, let’s test your skill with these crutches.”

His tone didn’t invite further questions or expressions of sympathy. Sabrina swallowed her curiosity and clumped a few tentative steps.

“Be careful not to put too much pressure on your armpits. You don’t want to compress the nerves there. Use the foam handgrips to support yourself as much as possible.”

He stayed close by her side her while she made a circuit of the spacious suite.

“Your rental car has been delivered,” he said when he was satisfied she could maneuver. “Your cases are just outside, in the hall. Would you like me to bring them in so you can freshen up before we eat?”

“Yes, please.”

She felt like she’d rolled in dirt, then gone to sleep in her clothes. Oh, wait! That’s exactly what she had done.

“Can you manage alone, or shall I have Signora Bernaldi come help you?”

“I can manage.”

“Very well.”

He set her roller bag and briefcase on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and carried her smaller tote into the adjoining bathroom.

“There’s a phone on the vanity and one by the toilet. Press one-six if you require assistance.”

“One-six. Got it.”

“I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

Sabrina fished in her suitcase for a black, anklelength crinkle skirt and a velvet jacket trimmed with lace, then hobbled into the bath. The oval whirlpool tub drew a look of intense longing but she suspected she couldn’t climb in without having to call for help climbing out.

Not that she’d mind getting naked with the doc. Especially now that she knew he was single.

Not single, she amended. A widower.

The thought of what he must have suffered sobered her.

She’d never lost a spouse, but had come close to losing her father when he was diagnosed with cancer several years ago. Foolishly, Sabrina had thought his illness might finally breach the walls between them. Instead it had left Dominic Russo more determined than ever to mold his only child into the woman he thought she should be.

She’d resisted his determined efforts for most of her life. With her mother watching helplessly from the sidelines, she and her father had engaged in a running battle of wills. Sabrina’s warfare had taken the form of outrageous pranks and, later, wild parties.

His illness had sobered her, though. Shaken by his near brush with death, Sabrina had abandoned her own career as a top buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue and agreed to serve as the executive director of the Russo Foundation.

Big mistake. Huge. Her father couldn’t give up an ounce of control. He’d questioned her decisions, countered her orders and generally made her life a living hell. She’d stuck it out, trying to make it work, until she finally admitted she could never fit the mold he’d designed for her.

Shaking her head at the memory of their titanic clashes, she thumped over to the vanity and sank down on a tufted stool. After stripping off her slacks and sweater, she went to work with a washcloth and lemon-scented soap before dragging a brush through her hair and reapplying her makeup.

The black crinkle skirt went over her head easily and dropped down to hide most of her bandaged ankle. The velvet jacket buttoned up the front, with a froth of ivory-colored lace swirling around the scooped neckline.

Feeling like a new woman, Sabrina dug in her suitcase for a pair of black, beaded ballet flats. She could only get one on, but its nonslip rubber sole provided an extra measure of security on the tiles as she crutched her way to the door.

Marco was waiting in the hall, as promised. Like the guest suite, the long, sunlit corridor sported graceful Moorish arches and a spectacular view of the sea. A magnificent Ming vase with a spray of fresh gladioli added to the fragrance of furniture polish and sunshine.