скачать книгу бесплатно
“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?”
