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That didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a real hottie when one almost ran her over. Especially one who could kiss like Marco Calvetti. She could still feel the delicious aftershocks of their session in the elevator.
“Uh-oh.” Devon squinted into the camera at her end of the connection. “You’ve got that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one that says your doc is fair game.”
“Well, he is. His wife died a few years ago. I may be reading between the lines, but I think he’s buried himself in his work since then. You wouldn’t believe how gorgeous his villa is, yet this is only the second time this year he’s driven down from Rome.”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, mulling over her impressions of her host.
“He’s really charming, guys, but also rather intense. It wouldn’t hurt him to loosen up a little.”
Devon and Caroline exchanged knowing, computer-generated glances.
“If anyone can loosen the man up,” Dev drawled, “you can. Just remember you’re now one of the walking wounded. Go easy on that ankle.”
“And don’t worry about scouting conference sites,” Caro added. “Worst-case scenario, we can give Global Security fewer options.”
“Absolutely not.” Her professional pride stung; Sabrina was adamant. “This contract is too important. We’re not scaling back our proposal. I’ll be good to go tomorrow,” she said firmly.
Which wouldn’t give her time to loosen up the doc, she thought with real regret. Too bad. She could think of any number of inventive ways to follow up on that kiss.
Desire rippled through her as she said goodnight to her friends, shut down her laptop, and rewrapped her ankle. The damned thing still throbbed, but the ache was bearable so she decided against the pills sitting on the bedside table. Instead, she let the restless murmur of the sea surging against the rocks lull her to sleep.
She was up and dressed by eight the next morning. The faint scent of yeasty, fresh-baked rolls told her Signora Bertaldi was already at work in the kitchen.
Thankfully, Sabrina had stuffed a pair of merino wool palazzo pants in her suitcase at the last minute. The wide legs made getting them on over her still-swollen ankle a breeze. She teamed the oyster-colored slacks with a lightweight red sweater and a Versace scarf in a riot of colors. The rubber-soled beaded ballet slippers provided nonskid traction as she made her way along the tiled hall to the elevator.
She fully intended to hold the doc to his promise to check the sprain before she left. First, though, she intended to hold Signora Bertaldi to her promise of a goat cheese frittata for breakfast. If the frittata came anywhere close to the woman’s grilled swordfish, heaven awaited on the floor above.
So did Marco, she discovered when she thumped into the library. He put aside the newspaper he’d been reading and sprang to his feet.
“You should have rung for help.”
“I didn’t need it,” she replied when she recovered from the sight of the doc in well-washed jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a silky black pullover that showed off some very impressive pecs.
Raising a crutch, she waved the tip in an airy circle. “I’m getting the hang of these things. What I do need, though, is coffee. Hot. Thick. Sweet.”
“Of course.” His assessing glance dropped to her foot. “But first, how is your ankle this morning?”
“Still fat and ugly, but it doesn’t ache as much.”
“Good. I’ll look at it after we eat. Shall we have breakfast here in the library or on the terrace?”
“The terrace, please. I want to soak in every last ounce of your incredible view before I hit the road.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” He matched his step to hers as they crossed through the dining room and went out on the spacious terrace. “I have a proposal for you to consider. Before I put it to you, let me fetch your coffee and tell Signora Bertaldi you are up and about.”
Amused, Sabrina sank into the chair he held out for her and turned her face to the sun. She could get used to being waited on by a duke. Not that Marco fit her notions of royalty as shaped by her previous contacts.
She’d dated the playboy son of a Saudi sheik once. Just once. It was an eye-opening and not particularly pleasant experience. She’d also attended a couple of parties in London where Prince Harry popped in. He was great fun but way too young for her. Marco, on the other hand, was just the right age, height, size and shape.
Regret flickered through her. Too bad she was working against such a tight deadline. She wouldn’t have minded a few more days with the sexy doc. Maybe she could extend her stay in Italy after she finished checking out conference sites. Or arrange a return visit once they had the Global Security contract firmed up.
She was considering the possibilities when Marco returned with two cups of espresso topped with frothy cream. As he passed her one of the cups, he sprang the proposal he’d mentioned earlier.
“I think you should stay here for the rest of your time on the Amalfi coast. Use this villa as a home base and make day trips to the locations you want to check out.”
The suggestion dovetailed so closely with Sabrina’s thoughts she almost choked on her first sip of the thick, sweetened coffee. Her startled glance met Marco’s calm gaze. If there was more than mere courtesy behind the invitation, he hid it well.
Her first instinct was to jump on the offer. Excitement pulsed through her at the thought of another session or two of close body contact with this intriguing man. Unfortunately, the road map she hastily conjured up in her mind quashed that quiver of excitement. The distances involved weren’t all that great but she’d have to navigate them on tortuous roads, then gimp around on crutches.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said with genuine regret. “It’s very tempting, but I don’t think I’m up to driving out and back each day on these roads.”
“You don’t need to drive them. I’ll be your chauffeur.”
“You?”
“Si.” A smile crept into his dark eyes. “Or don’t you trust my driving? I would remind you that your foot did not thump the floorboards once during the drive from the clinic to the villa. Then again, you were out cold for most of that trip.”
“You must have better things to do than transport me up and down the coast.”
“Actually, I don’t. I’m on vacation until January fifth. My surgical team has threatened to resign en masse if I return before that date. I have nothing on my schedule until then except a mandatory appearance at the ball my mother gives each year to celebrate La Fiesta di San Silvestro.”
“That’s on New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?”
“It is. So I’m at loose ends, you see. You would save me from utter boredom.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute. Someone with Marco’s varied interests could easily fill up every minute of his vacation. His library alone could surely keep him occupied for weeks.
Sabrina hesitated, torn between the urge to spend more time with this man and the uncertainty of where it might lead. She didn’t have time for personal entanglements right now. Caro and Dev were depending on her to provide the necessary input for the new contract proposal.
Which would be a lot easier to accomplish with someone who knew the area at the wheel, her traitorous mind pointed out.
That was a rationalization. She knew it. But what the heck. If the man wanted to spend his precious vacation time helping her nail down prospective conference sites, who was she to argue?
“If you’re sure you have nothing more pressing to do,” she said slowly, giving him a last out.
“I’m sure. And if you remain over until New Year’s Eve,” he added, “you must accompany me to the ball. It’s really rather spectacular.”
Okay, now she was hooked. What woman in her right mind would pass up the chance to attend a fancy-dress ball with someone like Marco Calvetti? The thought flashed into her mind that it was strange he didn’t already have a date. The man was rich, cultured and a widower. But why look a gift hunk in the mouth?
“I’d planned to wrap up my business and fly home on the thirtieth,” she told Marco. “I’ll have to check on whether I can change my tickets. And get in some serious shopping. And …”
Signora Bertaldi’s arrival with a loaded tray interrupted Sabrina’s hasty revisions to her schedule. Tantalized by the mingled scents of broiled tomatoes, basil and melted goat cheese, she returned the older woman’s greeting.
“Signorina Russo will be staying with us for a while longer,” Marco informed her, speaking in English for the benefit of his guest. “You have additional help coming in from the village this morning, si?”
“Si, Excellenza.” Signora Bertaldi placed the tray on the table. “The two who always assist me when you are in residence.”
“Bring in more if you need them.”
“I will,” she promised as she positioned a heaping platter before Sabrina.
Marco himself poured fresh-squeezed orange juice from a carafe on the tray. The offerings also included a basket of fresh-baked rolls, a ramekin of creamy butter and an assortment of jams. Wishing them buon appetito, Signora Bertaldi left them to the dazzling sunshine and the sumptuous breakfast.
After breakfast Marco examined Sabrina’s ankle. He had her sink into the soft leather of the sofa in the library and carefully unwrapped the Ace bandage. The swelling had gone down considerably but the skin was mottled with ugly purple-yellow bruises.
He rotated her foot gently, frowning when she fought to hide a grimace. “You really should stay off this today. It requires more ice and elevation.”
“No can do. I need to get to work. How about I stretch out on the backseat of your Ferrari with an ice pack draped over my ankle?”
The prospect of driving around the Amalfi coast with a bandaged foot sticking out the rear window of his lean, mean machine didn’t seem to particularly faze him, but he came up with an alternate suggestion.
“I have a better idea. My mother keeps a small fleet of vehicles at her home in Naples. I’ll call and ask to borrow a sedan. It will give you more room and comfort.”
“You’re brave enough to tackle these hairpin turns in a big, honkin’ sedan?”
“I’ve done it many times, I assure you.”
“It will take you forever to get to Naples and back,” Sabrina protested, remembering her own meandering journey after she left the interstate just south of the city.
“I’ll have the car delivered. It will take an hour, two at most. During that time you will rest here on the sofa, with your foot up.”
The command sounded so much like the ones her father used to issue that Sabrina bristled instinctively. Common sense kicked in a second or two later.
“Deal.”
He rewrapped her ankle and helped her stretch out on the soft leather. Propping a pillow under her foot, he straightened and gestured toward the speakers attached to a high-tech iPod dock.
“Would you like to listen to some music while I fetch ice and make my calls?”
“What have you got on there?”
“Everything from Andrew Lloyd Weber to Zucchero.”
Sabrina opted for show tunes over Italian pop rock. While Sarah Brightman and Steve Barton blended their voices in the haunting love duet from The Phantom, she let her gaze roam the library. Until now she’d caught only brief glimpses of the room as she and Marco passed through it.
She took her time now, seeking clues to the personality of the man who fascinated her more by the moment. She couldn’t make out the titles of the books in the shelves lining three walls and itched for a closer look. She settled for studying the treasures interspersed among the volumes.
That bust of a Roman matron looked as though it might have been carved while Pompeii was still a thriving metropolis. And that small oil painting on an ornate stand was either a Caravaggio or a damned good copy. A caduceus carved from translucent alabaster occupied place of honor amid a collection of objects that looked more like medieval torture implements than medical instruments. On the shelf next to the caduceus was a chess set with tall, elaborately decorated pieces in ivory and red.
Not until her gaze had made a complete circuit of the library did something begin to nag her. She couldn’t put a finger on it right away. Frowning, Sabrina made another sweep of the bookcases before glancing at the long table that served as Marco’s desk.
A maroon leather paper tray and blotter sat squarely in the center of the slab of polished oak. A gold Mont Blanc pen jutted from its holder beside the blotter. Next to it was his sleek laptop and a cordless phone propped up in its charger.
What was missing, Sabrina realized after another puzzled moment, were photographs. Most desks contained at least one, framed and positioned for optimal viewing. Usually of the owner’s spouse or family.
Intensely curious now, she glanced around again. Nope. No snapshots. No formal portraits. Not even one of those cartoonlike caricatures sketched by the street artists who plied every piazza in Rome.
Apparently Marco didn’t choose to surround himself with visible reminders of the wife he’d lost three years ago. Was her death still so painful?
Although intensely curious, Sabrina wouldn’t poke her nose into his past. God knew enough people had poked into hers over the years.
Maybe he’d open up a little when they knew each other better. The prospect of spending the next few days getting to know the handsome doc had Sabrina humming along with Sarah Brightman.
Five
“You invited one of your patients to recuperate in your villa? An American?”
Marco smiled at the sniff that came through the phone. A Neapolitan born and bred, his mother had a native’s disdain of foreigners. That included Sicilians, Sardinians and Corsicans as well as everyone west of the Apennines and north of the Abruzzi.
“Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Sabrina Russo. She’s in Italy on business. Since I was partially responsible for her injury, I felt I should offer the hospitality of my home.”
That touched on another sore spot. His mother understood why Marco preferred to stay at his own villa during his infrequent trips down from Rome instead of the palazzo in Naples his family had called home for generations. He still had apartments there, an entire floor. He and Gianetta had occupied the apartment most of their marriage, until Marco had accepted his current position as chief of neurosurgery at Rome’s prestigious Bambino Gesù Children’s Hospital.
Palazzo d’Calvetti was still his home, but these days he preferred the simple solitude of this villa he’d had constructed after Gianetta’s death. His mother understood, but she didn’t like it.
Marco dined with her regularly, which mollified her somewhat. And dutiful son that he was, he made the requisite appearances at her numerous charity and social events, including the big New Year’s Eve gala. That reminded him …
“If Ms. Russo is still in Italy on the Feast of St. Silvestro, I’d like to bring her to your ball.”
The request produced a startled silence. Marco understood his mother’s surprise. He hadn’t escorted any woman to the ball since Gianetta. With good reason.
The media had gone into a feeding frenzy after Gianetta’s death. Even now the paparazzi hounded him mercilessly, and one disgusting rag insisted on trumpeting him as Italy’s most eligible bachelor. He preferred to keep his private life private and was careful to avoid the appearance of anything more than casual friendship with the women he dated. Until now, that had meant not escorting any of them to the ball so steeped in his family’s history and tradition.
Marco could rationalize the break with his longstanding policy without much difficulty. Sabrina would be in Italy for a short time. Her life and her business interests were on the other side of the Atlantic. At best, the attraction sizzling between them could spark only a brief affair.
But spark it would.
He’d already decided that.
He’d gone to bed last night hungry for this long-limbed American with the sun-kissed blonde hair and laughing eyes. The hunger hadn’t abated after a restless night’s sleep. Just the sight of her limping into the library this morning had given him an unexpected jolt.
She wanted him, as well. He’d seen it in her flushed cheeks and heard it in the flutter of her breath after their kiss in the elevator last night.
The memory of that urgent fumbling made him shake his head. He would handle her with more finesse next time, with more care for her injured ankle. He was plotting his moves when his mother recovered from her surprise.
“Yes, of course you may bring her. I’ll have my secretary add her to the guest list. What is her name again?”
“Russo. Sabrina Russo.”
“Russo.” His mother sniffed again. “Her ancestors must have come from northern Italy. In the south, she would be Rossi.”
“I don’t know where her ancestors came from.”
