Читать книгу New Year Fireworks - Catherine Spencer, Diana Hamilton - Страница 14

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?”

The question was polite, but the slight if unmistakable emphasis on the last word almost made Sabrina do a double take.

Good grief! Did the woman think she’d tumbled down a cliff in a deliberate attempt to snare her rich, handsome son? Had that—or some similar ploy—been tried before? She’d have to ask Marco later.

“I’m recovering quite well, Your Excellency. Your son has taken excellent care of me.”

She would have loved to add that his bedside manner was improving every day, too. Wisely, she refrained.

“Indeed.”

With a regal nod, the duchess led the way past the marble staircase to the west wing of the palazzo.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to mount the stairs so I’ve ordered an aperitif tray to be set up in the Green Salon. It’s on this floor and there’s a water closet just there, across the hall, if you wish to use it.”

“Thank you, I do.”

“We’ll wait for you in the salon,” Marco said. “It’s the third room on the left.”

Sabrina didn’t dawdle. Her lip gloss and hair restored to order, she left the powder room and counted the rooms as she passed them. The first looked like it might have been once been the palazzo’s armory and now served as a museum for antique weapons displayed in locked cases. The second was an office of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing tall, leather-bound volumes of documents. Sabrina’s partner, Devon the history buff, would salivate at the sight of those musty volumes.

“… do you know about her?”

The duchess’s sharp question came through the open door of the third room, as did Marco’s reply.

“I know enough, Mama.”

The exchange was in Italian but clear enough for Sabrina to follow easily. She took another step before she realized her soft-soled flats and the rubber tip of her cane masked her approach.

“You say she’s in Italy on business?”

“She and her partners provide travel and support services for executives doing business in Europe. She’s scouting conference sites.”

Time to announce her presence, Sabrina thought. She lifted the cane, intending to thump it on the parquet floor. The duchess’s next comment stopped her cold.

“If half the articles my secretary pulled off the Internet about this woman are true, she’s scouting more than conference sites.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the daughter of Dominic Russo, the American telecommunications giant. He put her on the board of the foundation that oversees his charitable interests, but subsequently removed her. The rumor is he’s disinherited her. Cut her off without a cent.”

“Ah,” Marco murmured. “So that’s why she’s so determined to make it on her own.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that she fell right at your feet?”

Sabrina had heard enough. Bringing the cane down with a loud thud, she entered the salon.

Marco stood behind a tray holding an array of bottles, a silver martini shaker in his hand. His mother was seated in a tall-backed armchair and had the grace to appear chagrined for a moment. But only for a moment. Her chin lifted as Sabrina gave her a breezy smile.

“Your information’s accurate, Your Excellency, except for one point. My father didn’t remove me from the board of the Russo Foundation. I quit. Are those martinis in that shaker, Marco?” she asked with cheerful insouciance. “If so, I’ll take two olives in mine.”

“Two olives it is,” he confirmed with a gleam of approval in his dark eyes.

His mother was less admiring. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Ms. Russo,” she said coolly. “I wish only to watch out for my son’s welfare.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. No offense taken.”

“I’m perfectly capable of watching out for my own welfare,” Marco drawled as he handed his mother a tall-stemmed martini glass. “But I thank you for your concern.”

The duchess merely sniffed.

She unbent a little over dinner served in a glass-enclosed conservatory that looked out over the lights of the city.

“Have you visited this part of Italy before, Ms. Russo?”

“Only once, when I was a student at the University of Salzburg. One of my roommates was a history major. We drove down from Austria one weekend to explore the ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum.”

“So you’ve not spent time in Napoli.”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“You must call me Donna Maria.”

Sabrina’s lips twitched at the royal command. “Certainly. And please, call me Sabrina.”

“We have a painting by Lorenzo de Caro in the gallery. It depicts the city as it was in the early eighteenth century. You must let me show it to you after dinner.”

The rest of the meal passed with polite queries concerning Sabrina’s year in Salzburg and her current business. Not until she and the duchess had made their way to the galley, leaving Marco to look over a document his mother wanted his opinion on, did she learn the ulterior motive behind the invitation to view de Caro’s masterpiece.

The painting was small, only about twelve by eighteen inches, but so luminous that it instantly drew the eye. Lost in the exquisitely detailed scene of a tall-masted ship tied up at wharf beside the fortress, Sabrina almost missed Donna Maria’s quiet question.

“How much has my son told you about his wife?”

“Only that she died in a tragic boating accident. If Marco wants me to know more,” she added pointedly, “I’m sure he’ll tell me.”

The duchess hiked a brow. “You are a very direct young woman.”

“I try to be, Donna Maria.”

“Then I will tell you bluntly that I love my son very much and don’t wish to see him hurt again.”

“I don’t plan to hurt him.”

“Not intentionally, perhaps.” Her forehead creasing, the duchess studied her guest’s face. “But this resemblance to Gianetta …”

“It can’t be that remarkable,” Sabrina said with some exasperation.

“Come and judge for yourself.”

Donna Maria led the way to the opposite wing of the gallery. It was lined with portraits of men and women in every form of dress from the late Middle Ages onward. Cardinals. Princesses. Dukes and duchesses in coronets trimmed with fur and capped with royal red.

“These are my parents.” She stopped in front of a portrait depicting a willowy blond and a stern-looking man in a uniform dripping with medals. “And here are my husband and I in our wedding finery.”

The painter had captured the couple in the bloom of youth. There was no mistaking the love in the young Donna Maria’s eyes or the pride in her husband’s as he gazed down at her.

“How happy you both look.”

“We were,” the duchess said softly.

Her gaze lingered on the portrait for a long moment before moving to another. This one showed her seated on a garden bench with her two children standing beside her.

“This is Marco at the age of eight, and my daughter AnnaMaria at age six.”

Sabrina could see the man Marco would become in the boy’s erect posture and intelligent eyes.

“And this is Gianetta,” the duchess said, her tone hardening. “Marco had this painted shortly after they were married.”

Unlike the other portraits in the gallery, this one was an informal collage of sky and sea and sail. At its center was a windblown, laughing woman manning the helm of a sleek boat. The colors were vivid, the strokes bold slashes of sunlight on shadow.

Disconcerted, Sabrina leaned forward for a closer look. She might have been looking at a portrait of herself in her younger, wilder days. The hair, the eyes, the angle of the chin … No wonder everyone close to Marco gawked when they saw his houseguest!

“She was beautiful,” the duchess said, making no effort to disguise her bitterness. “So beautiful and charming and unpredictable that everyone fell all over themselves to find excuses for her erratic behavior. Everyone except me. I could never … I will never forgive her for putting my son through such hell.”

Whoa! That was a little more information than Sabrina had anticipated. Donna Maria didn’t give her time to process it before zeroing in for a direct attack.

“Is the resemblance between you and Gianetta more than physical, Ms. Russo? Are those other stories my secretary pulled from the Internet true?”

Sabrina’s eyes narrowed. “As I said earlier, you shouldn’t believe everything posted on the Internet.”

The duchess refused to be fobbed off. Like a lioness protecting her cub, she went straight for the jugular.

“Which story isn’t true? The one that claims you seduced the son of a sheik? The one that says you like to party until dawn at nightclubs in New York and Buenos Aires and London?”

The gloves were off now, Sabrina thought grimly. Like they’d been so many times with her father. Well, she was older and a whole lot wiser this time around. The body blows didn’t hit as hard or hurt as badly as they did when her father threw them.

“Sorry, Your Excellency.” Her shrug was deliberately careless. “I’m well past the age of having to defend my actions. To you or anyone else. Shall we join Marco for coffee?”

With Sabrina’s ankle so improved, Marco returned his mother’s Rolls and reclaimed his Ferrari. The powerful sports car ate up the miles between Naples and his seaside villa in less than an hour.

Sabrina was quiet for most of the trip, more shaken than she wanted to admit by the exchange with his mother. Her past had come back to haunt her with a vengeance. All those wild parties … All those torrid affairs … She couldn’t deny them and was damned if she’d try.

She wondered whether the duchess had poured the juicy stories into her son’s ears. Marco gave no sign of it when he accompanied her to the guest suite.

Or when he took her in his arms.

Or when his mouth came down on hers.

The heat was instant and so intense Sabrina knew she was in trouble. Her bones had never liquefied like this. Her blood had never bubbled and boiled. She wanted this man more with each breath she took but, somehow, found the strength to ease out of his embrace.

“Your mother showed me Gianetta’s portrait. She looked so vibrant. So full of life.”

“She was,” he said simply. “I loved her with all the passion of my youth.”

Sabrina hugged her waist. She’d tasted passion, too. Many times. But with the brutal clarity of hindsight, she saw that she’d never truly loved. Not the way Marco described.

She could love this man, though. She knew it, deep in her heart. She was already halfway there.

She was still dealing with that disconcerting realization when he unbelted the jacket of her pantsuit and undid the buttons, one by one.

“Ah, Sabrina.”

He dipped his head and kissed her nose, her mouth, her chin, the swell of her breasts above the lacy chemise.

“You enchant me,” he murmured in Italian, his voice low and rough. “You enthrall me. You make me feel alive again.”