Читать книгу New Year Fireworks - Catherine Spencer, Diana Hamilton - Страница 10

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, ankle-length 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.

“The elevator’s just here,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove. “It will take us up to the dining room.”

Up being the operative word, Sabrina saw when the door swished shut. The control panel indicated the villa was built on four levels. According to the neatly labeled buttons, the garage and main salon occupied the top floor. Below that were the library, the dining room and kitchen. Then came the bedroom level and, finally, the spa and stairs to what she presumed was a private beach.

“You weren’t kidding about vertical,” she commented as the elevator glided upward with silent efficiency.

“It is the price one pays for building where the mountains drop straight into the sea. Ah, here we are.”

The elevator opened onto the library. It was a dream of a room, one Sabrina could happily have spent days or weeks in. Shelves filled with books and art objects lined three walls. The fourth wall was solid glass and gave onto another terrace with dizzying views of the ocean. Her crutches sank into a Turkish carpet at least an inch thick as she maneuvered around a leather sofa with a matching, man-size armchair and ottoman. What caught her attention, though, was the sleek laptop sitting atop a trestle table that looked like it might have once graced a medieval palace.

“Do you have wireless here?” she asked hopefully.

“I do.”

“Mind if I use my laptop to log on?”

“Not at all. Here, I’ll write the password for you.”

He stopped at the table and jotted down a sequence of numbers and letters. Sabrina tucked the folded paper into the pocket of her jacket.

“Thanks. I think I mentioned I’m in Italy on business. I have several appointments I need to confirm. I also need to contact my partners. We’re working a project with a very tight deadline.”

“I understand. But first we eat, yes?”

“Yes!”

The mouthwatering scent of garlic and onions grew more pronounced as they entered the dining room. Like the library, this room, too, looked out on the sea. The table was a beautiful burnished oak and long enough to seat twelve comfortably. A smaller table had been set with china and crystal out on the terrace. It was tucked in a corner that protected it from the sea breezes and warmed by a tall, umbrella-like patio heater.

Lemon trees in ceramic pots provided splashes of color. Despite the lateness of the season, flowering bougainvillea climbed the walls. Enchanted, Sabrina passed the crutches to Marcos and eased into the chair he pulled out for her.

“I’ll tell Signora Bertaldi we’re ready,” he said. “I would offer you an aperitif, but you should not combine alcohol with the drug I prescribed for you.”

“No problem. The view alone is enough to get me high.”

While Marco went inside, she breathed in a lungful of salty air and leaned forward to peer over the terrace wall.

Yikes! Good thing she wasn’t acrophobic. She was sitting suspended in seemingly thin air, with only the wave-splashed rocks a hundred or so feet below.

Her host returned a few moments later with Rafaela’s mama. “This is Signora Bertaldi. She runs this house—and me—with a most skilled hand.”

The older woman blushed at the compliment. “His Excellency, he exaggerates.”

Her eyes were dark and keen and set in a web of fine wrinkles. They stayed locked with disconcerting intensity on Sabrina’s face.

“Please to excuse my English, Signorina Russo. It is not so good.”

“It’s better than my Italian. I met your daughter this afternoon, by the way. She says your pesce spada will make me weep with joy.”

The strange intensity gave way to a wide smile. “Then it is good I cook the fish for you tonight, si?”

“Si.”

“Please to sit, Excellency. I will bring the olives and antipasto.”

Marco complied and stretched his long legs out. “So, Sabrina. Tell me more about this business that brings you to Italy.”

She couldn’t have scripted a more perfect finish to a day that had edged so close to disaster.

The sunset was glorious. The grilled swordfish was everything Rafaela had promised. The cappuccino came topped with sweet, creamy foam. The company …

Okay, she could admit it. She was seriously in lust with His Excellency, Don Marco Antonio d’Whatever. She’d always been a sucker for a man with smooth, polished manners and linebacker’s shoulders. Not to mention tastes that ranged from opera to water polo to the succulent jerk-chicken skewers cooked up by New York City sidewalk vendors. And let’s not forget eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Still, she didn’t deliberately plan her grimace as she got to her feet after their leisurely meal. Or her clumsy stumble when she tried to get the crutches under her. But she certainly didn’t object when Marco muttered an oath and swept her into his arms.

“You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“I shouldn’t have kept you up so long. You need to rest and elevate your ankle.”

To hell with her ankle. A far more urgent need gripped Sabrina. With his mouth only inches from hers, she ached to brush her lips over his. She could almost taste their silky heat.

She didn’t realize how transparent her thoughts were until they were in the elevator and he bent to press the button to take them to the lower level. When he straightened, he wore his doctor’s face. Cool, assessing, concerned … until his gaze snagged hers.

Gesù!

Marco smothered the oath, but he couldn’t hold back the hunger that punched through him, hot and swift and fierce. He wanted this woman. Wanted to taste her, touch her, hear her moan with pleasure as his mouth and hands roamed her lush, seductive curves.

The hours they’d spent together since their near calamitous meeting had erased his initial, absurd notion she might be Gianetta’s twin. Or even, God help him, her ghost.

Sabrina Russo was nothing like his temperamental, tempestuous wife. Her laugh was spontaneous and natural, without a hint of frenzy lurking just under the surface. Her lively mind challenged his. And her mouth … Sweet Jesus, her mouth!

The elevator glided to a stop and the door slid open, but Marco made no move to exit. He knew he shouldn’t yield to the urge to kiss this woman. She was his patient, a guest in his home. An American entrepreneur, impatient to be on her way and complete the tasks that had brought her to Italy. They were casual acquaintances at best. Strangers who would say goodbye in the morning.

The stern lecture proved completely ineffectual against the heat that raced through his veins. Only by an exercise of iron will could he hold off until he was sure she understood his intent. He saw it in the quick flare of her eyes. Heard it in the sudden rasp of her breath. With a low growl, Marco bent his head and took her mouth with his.

She tasted of dark coffee and sweet, rich cream. He angled his mouth, wanting more of her. Her arms locked around his neck. Her head tipped. She opened her lips, welcoming him, answering hunger with hunger.

He shifted her in his arms, his blood firing when her full breasts flattened against his chest. His body was so taut and straining with need he almost missed it when she gave a small jerk. He whipped up his head and caught her trying to cover a wince.

“Christ! I hurt you.”

“No!” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. “I banged my foot. The elevator … it’s so small.”

Shame and disgust hammered at him with vicious blows. Calling himself all kinds of a pig, Marco angled her injured foot away from the elevator wall.

“To kiss you like that was inexcusable of me,” he ground out as he carried her into the corridor. His footsteps echoing on the tiles, he strode toward the guest suite. “I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

The flush faded as her mouth tipped into a smile. “I’m not.”

Still thoroughly disgusted with his lack of control, Marco shook his head. “I don’t usually assault injured women.”

“You don’t, huh?” Amusement danced in her eyes. “How about those who aren’t injured?”

“You tease, but that was no way for me—for anyone!—to treat a guest.”

“Hey, you can’t take all the credit, Doc. I was giving as good as I got back there in the elevator.” She cocked a brow. “Or was I?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “You were, Ms. Russo. You most definitely were.”

That was still no excuse for his behavior. It took a fierce effort of will, but Marco managed to block the all-too-vivid feel of her mouth hot and eager under his and shouldered open the door to the guest suite. Signora Bertaldi had come down to straighten the room while he and Sabrina lingered over cappuccino. The bed was turned back, the sheets smoothed, the pillows plumped and ready.

Firmly suppressing the erotic and highly inappropriate thoughts that jumped into his head, Marco tugged down the top sheet and lowered his burden.

“We left the crutches upstairs. I’ll ask Signora Bertaldi to bring them to you. She waited to help you prepare for bed before she left for the evening.”

“Sure you don’t want to tuck me in yourself?”

Laughter lurked behind her all-too-innocent expression. She was teasing him again. He knew it, but the knowledge didn’t keep the gates from springing open and the mental images he’d just suppressed from pouring through. He could see her stretched out on those smooth sheets, one arm curled above her head, her lips parted in invitation …

Dammit!

“No,” he admitted with brutal honesty. “I am not at all sure. But I’ll send Rafaela’s mama to you.”

Marco was sweating when he left the guest suite. Shunning the elevator, he took the stairs to the upper floor. What the devil was wrong with him? Why did this woman stir such intense, erotic fantasies?

He hadn’t remained completely celibate after his wife’s death. He was a man. He had normal appetites, the usual physical needs. There were women in Rome, sophisticated women who played the game of flirtation and seduction with practiced charm. Yet none of them had roused him like this long-limbed American beauty.

Now he had to decide what the devil he would do about it.