Читать книгу New Year Fireworks - Catherine Spencer, Diana Hamilton - Страница 13

Marco lost one of his loafers in the first game. He forfeited its mate in the second.

“I’ve never seen such unorthodox moves,” he protested. “You sacrificed a queen and a knight to gain a pawn.”

“Thus opening the back door for my bishop. Stop whining and pay up.”

He gave a huff of laughter and kicked off the loafer. As they reset the chess pieces for the next game, Sabrina calculated how many additional wins she’d have to score before she had him naked.

Socks, two.

Jeans, one pair.

One each belt, silky black pullover and, presumably, briefs.

Good thing they’d cut the two-minutes-per-move time limit down to one. Anticipation was putting her into a fast burn.

Anticipation, and the fact that they were alone in the villa. Stretched out on the plush Turkish rug in the library. With one of Vivaldi’s violin concerti coming through the speakers and glasses of wine within easy reach. Since she hadn’t had to resort to the painkillers after that first, powerful dose yesterday afternoon, she was enjoying the full-bodied red made from grapes grown in the Irpinia hills outside Naples.

They’d dispensed with the table and placed the chessboard on the carpet. Sabrina sat with her back against the sofa and her foot propped on a folded cushion. Marco sat cross-legged opposite her. He’d raked his fingers through his hair after one of her more outrageous moves. No longer neat and combed straight back, it showed more curl in the dark, disordered waves.

She itched to reach across the board and comb her hand through those waves. Or feather a finger along the dark sweep of his eyebrow. Or …

“Your move.”

With a start, she saw he’d opened with queen’s knight to a6. She advanced her king’s pawn and the hunt was on.

She lost that game and paid with one of her beaded ballet slippers. They played to a draw on the next. Then Marco claimed her other shoe and she retaliated in the next game by crushing him with five moves.

“Ha! Take that!”

She expected him to peel off a sock or yield his belt. Instead, he dragged his black pullover over his head.

Sabrina’s throat went bone dry. She’d snuggled against that broad chest each time Marco had carried her. Snuggling was good. She’d enjoyed snuggling. Seeing his upper half naked and in the flesh was better.

Her heart hammering, she let her gaze roam over the wide shoulders, the muscled pecs, the scattering of dark hair that swirled around his nipples and arrowed down toward his flat belly.

She didn’t realize he’d deliberately sabotaged her concentration until she lost the next two games in a row. In the first, she forfeited her Versace scarf. She debated for several moments after the second.

What to surrender? Her slacks? Her red sweater? Or … Hmm. Her gaze dropped to the Ace bandage wrapped around her ankle.

“Don’t even think it.”

The amused warning brought her head up with a snap. Marco was watching her with the satisfied smile of a hunter who’s cornered his prey. Her skin prickled everywhere his gaze touched.

“The bandage would be cheating.”

“All’s fair in love and strip chess, fella.”

“In that case …”

With a quick sweep of his arm, he shoved the board out of the way. Sabrina started to protest the careless treatment of such beautiful pieces. The protest got stuck in her throat when Marco caught her elbow and slowly, inexorably, drew her down until she lay beside him on the silky carpet.

“Now, my beautiful Sabrina, I will claim my prize.”

He slid a hand under the hem of her sweater. Her belly hollowed at the feel of his warm palm against her skin. Then his hand moved upward, tugging the sweater with it.

Cool air kissed her exposed flesh. So did Marco. She quivered as his mouth grazed her midriff, over the lace of her demibra, the mounds of her breasts. He tugged the sweater higher, and Sabrina raised her arms. The red knit came off, was flung aside. The hunger in his eyes stirred her to near fever pitch.

“I imagined you like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Stretched out beneath me. Your arms above your head. Your mouth mine to take.”

Suiting his actions to his words, he covered her mouth with his.

A flash fire ignited in Sabrina’s blood. Her tongue met his. Her hands planed over his shoulders, his back, down the track of his spine. His skin felt smooth and hot over taut muscle and corded tendons.

They were both breathing fast when he fumbled for the front fastening on her bra. Sabrina retained just enough rational thought to gasp out a protest.

“You … You haven’t won that yet.”

“All’s fair,” he retorted with a wolfish grin.

The fastening gave and her bra went the way of her sweater. Marco’s grin morphed into a look of such raw hunger that Sabrina’s nipples tightened even before he bent to take one in his mouth. His teeth rasped the sensitive bud. His tongue soothed it. His teeth tormented her again.

Pleasure streaked from Sabrina’s breast to her belly. Her back arched. She was hot and wet and ready long before he reached for the side zipper on her slacks.

He had her naked in less than a minute. When he rose to peel off his own clothing, her already erratic pulse went berserk. She almost licked her lips at the sight of his lean flanks and flat stomach. His sex, she saw with a jolt of fierce, primal elation, was hard and erect.

She reached for him, eager to wrap her hand around the steely shaft, but he turned away to drag the cushions off the sofa.

“We must take care, eh?” His accent thickening, he positioned her atop the cushions. “Your ankle …”

Sabrina was more concerned about other body parts at the moment. Like the aching tips of her breasts. And the spasms deep in her belly. And the wet heat between her thighs.

“Please tell me you have a condom somewhere close at hand,” she begged.

The hunger in his dark eyes gave way to a flash of genuine amusement. “I’m Italian. What do you think?”

“I think,” she panted, “we’d better stop talking and get the damned thing on.”

He dragged his jeans over and extracted a packet from his wallet. “Ecco.”

Sabrina snatched it out of his hands. “Let me.”

He was all hard ridges and hot steel. So hard, she would have taken him in her mouth if she hadn’t been desperate to take him into her body. So hot, she barely got the condom on before he jerked out of her hand and eased her back down onto the cushions.

Their first time was slow and careful.

Sabrina almost went mad at Marco’s deliberate pace. In, out, in. Each insertion stretched her eager flesh. Every withdrawal left her panting for more.

She could feel her climax building. Feel the sensations spiraling outward from her core. Wanting to take him with her, she hooked her good leg around his thigh and clenched her vaginal muscles.

Every cord and tendon in his body went rigid. He gave a low grunt, but refused to thrust harder or faster. Instead, he wedged his hand between their straining bodies and pressed his thumb against her pulsing flesh.

Sabrina exploded in a flash of pleasure so intense the whole room seemed to rock. Marco whipped his hand away and surged into her. His body locked with hers, he rode her climax to his own.

Gradually, the room stopped spinning. Air rushed back into Sabrina’s lungs. She looked up into the face a few inches from her own and gave a breathless laugh.

“Wow.”

His mouth curved into a smug grin. “I think so, too.”

They made love the second time in the shower.

Marco was afraid she might slip on the slick tiles and insisted on accompanying her into the spacious, walk-in enclosure.

He also insisted on soaping her down, front and back. She returned the favor. Mere moments later he had his shoulder blades planted against the tiles and Sabrina’s thighs locked around his waist.

The third time came later, well past midnight.

Driven by a different kind of hunger, they invaded the kitchen. Sabrina was naked under the cashmere robe Marco had draped around her. He’d pulled on his jeans but hadn’t bothered with a shirt or shoes.

She perched on a high swivel stool. Her elbows were propped on a counter made of tiles decorated with grape vines and baskets of lemons. Marco got out the seafood au gratin casserole Signora Bertaldi, bless her, had left in the fridge and slid it into the oven.

While they waited for the casserole to bubble, Sabrina munched on olives and tore pieces from a crusty loaf of bread to dip in oil and balsamic vinaigrette. Marco got out a corkscrew and another bottle of wine.

“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.