Читать книгу New Year Fireworks - Catherine Spencer, Diana Hamilton - Страница 16

The next morning they kicked off their New Year’s Eve celebrations with a slow, delicious session between the sheets.

Sabrina couldn’t think of any better way to end the old year and get ready to ring in the new—until she joined Marco on the terrace for breakfast. Signora Bertaldi’s cappuccino and fresh-baked brioche had her salivating even before she greeted the older woman.

“Buon mattina, signora.”

“Buon mattina.” Beaming, Marco’s housekeeper placed a foam-topped porcelain cup before Sabrina. “I don’t cook the lentils and sausage this morning because you will eat them tonight, at Palazzo d’Calvetti, yes?”

“I, uh, think so.”

Sabrina looked to Marco for guidance. His nod confirmed lentils and sausage were on the menu.

“You must be sure to have both,” the cook instructed. “For luck.”

“I will.”

When she went into the kitchen for the plates she’d kept warming in the oven, Sabrina turned to Marco.

“What’s the schedule of events for this evening?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking good enough to eat in tan slacks, a sky-blue oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a white sweater knotted loosely over his shoulders.

“Plan on a long night. Dinner at seven, with thirty or so close family and friends. The ball begins at ten.”

“How many attend that?”

“The guest list usually runs to about four hundred. At midnight, we’ll watch the fireworks displays from the terrace, with more music and dancing to follow. Those with enough staying power usually try to greet the dawn. But don’t feel you have to stay up all night. Your ankle gives us a built-in excuse to go upstairs any time we wish.”

“Upstairs?”

“I usually remain in town over Fiesta di San Silvestro and Il Capodanno. It’s easier than fighting the crowds jamming the streets. I was going to tell you this morning to pack a few overnight things.”

Sabrina wasn’t so sure about this sleepover. She could handle a dinner for thirty or so and easily get lost in the crowd of four hundred at the ball, but the prospect of facing the duchess across a breakfast table didn’t exactly light her jets.

“Are you sure I won’t be intruding on your mother’s hospitality?”

“Not at all. I have my own apartments in a separate wing of the palazzo.”

That issue resolved, Sabrina addressed a more pressing one.

“We’ll have to drive into Naples early enough for me to hit the shops. I need a gown for tonight.”

“And some red underwear,” he reminded her with a grin that sent little shivers down her back.

Oh, boy! Less than a half hour out of Marco’s bed and she wanted back in it. She had it bad, Sabrina realized. Reeeally bad.

“And some red underwear,” she confirmed with a catch in her breath.

“You might find something to suit you in Positano. A friend of mine owns a boutique that caters to the guests at La Sirenuse.”

La Sirenuse, Sabrina recalled, was the five-star hotel with rooms booked a year in advance by movie stars and oil tycoons. If the boutique was good enough for them, it was certainly good enough for her.

“It’s worth a shot.”

“I’ll call Lucia and tell her we’ll stop by on our way to Naples. If you don’t find something there, I know several good shops in the city.”

Two minutes after walking through the front door of Lucia Salvatore’s elegant boutique Sabrina knew she’d struck gold. Forewarned by Marco’s call, the vivacious owner had three fabulous gowns ready for Sabrina to try on.

She swept out of the dressing area to model each gown for Marco. He heartily approved of the strapless black taffeta with a full skirt that rustled when she walked. He was even more enthusiastic over the shimmering emerald satin that hugged her breasts and waist before exploding into rainbow-colored layers of chiffon. But the gold lamé body sheath won his vote, hands down.

The slinky fabric clung to Sabrina’s every curve, shooting off pinpoints of light with each step. The diagonally cut bodice narrowed to a slender strap and was clasped with a jeweled leopard that draped over her left shoulder. The skirt was slit to the thigh on the right side.

“That one,” Marco pronounced. “It must be that one.”

Sabrina had to agree, especially when Lucia produced a pair of gold sandals with manageable heels.

“Don Marco said you have hurt your ankle and must take care how you walk. It’s good that you are so tall. These should work well for you.”

The thong sandals worked very well. Sabrina took a practice turn around the dressing area and didn’t wobble once.

“You will need long gloves,” Lucia announced. “And for your hair …” She tapped a finger against her lower lip and surveyed her customer with a connoisseur’s eye. “You will wear it up to show off our little pet, yes?”

Sabrina swept up her hair with both arms and angled around until the glittering leopard draped over her shoulder caught the light.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured to the jeweled beast. “We have to show you off.”

“I have just what you need.” The boutique owner unlocked a glass case and slid out a hair comb. “It is antique and perhaps a little expensive, but the golden topaz stones are perfect with this dress.”

A glimpse at the price tag indicated it was more than a little expensive. But Sabrina knew she had to have it the moment she twisted her heavy mane atop her head and anchored it with the comb.

“I’ll take it. Now please tell me you have some red briefs in stock.”

“Briefs?”

“Briefs, bikinis, hipsters … I’ll take whatever you have as long as they’re red.”

“But do you not wish for ecru with this dress? Or perhaps …” She stopped, laughing as the light dawned. “Ah, yes. You must wear red for luck.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Come with me.”

Moments later, the gown went into a zippered bag. Shoes, long gloves, comb and flame-red hipsters went into a tissue-lined tote. Pleased with her purchases, Sabrina dug out her American Express card.

“Oh, no, Ms. Russo.”

“You don’t take American Express? No problem. We can put it on Visa.”

“No, no.” The brunette flashed a quick look at the man waiting patiently in the front room of the boutique. “When Don Marco called, I assumed … That is, he told me …”

“Told you what?”

“He said you were his guest and instructed me to send the bill for whatever you purchased to his villa.”

Sabrina stiffened, but kept her smile firmly in place. “He’s a real sweetie pie, isn’t he? Just go ahead and charge the items to my card.”

The shop owner looked taken aback at hearing His Excellency referred to as a sweetie pie, but she ran the AmEx card without further discussion. Sabrina signed the ticket and sailed out with her purchases in hand.

“All set.”

“Good. Let me take those.”

She waited until they were in the Ferrari and on the narrow, winding road out of town to let loose with both barrels.

“Lucia said you told her to send the bills for my purchases to the villa. Do not embarrass me like that again.”

“Embarrass you?” He looked honestly bewildered. “How does that embarrass you?”

“Oh, come on! Why don’t you just take out a billboard ad saying we’re lovers?”

His brows snapped together. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to disguise the fact.”

“I don’t! But neither do I want you to pay for my underwear.”

With a muttered curse, he pulled the Ferrari into a turnout. Ironically, it was the same turnout where Sabrina had left her rental car to snap pictures of the picturesque town spilling down the cliffs to the sea.

The car halted with a jerk, its nose pointed toward the restless sea. Marco shoved the gearshift into park, set the emergency brake and twisted the key in the ignition before slewing around in his seat. Anger blazed from his eyes.

“I’m not allowed to buy you a gift?”

“A ceramic bowl is a gift. A bottle of perfume is a gift. Two thousand dollars worth of clothing and lingerie crosses the line.”

“Who set these rules?” he demanded, his accent thickening with his anger. “One hundred dollars for perfume, si. Two thousand dollars for clothing, no.”

Thoroughly irritated, Sabrina fell back on the only argument she could. “There are no set rules. Just logic and common sense.”

“This may sound logical to you,” he retorted. “It doesn’t to me.”

She scrubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, hating this argument, hating the memories it brought back of all the times she’d locked horns with her father in an effort to assert her independence, financially and otherwise.

“It’s … It’s not so much the amount that matters as the way you handled it. You should have consulted me before making an arbitrary decision to foot the bill.”

“I ask again. I need to be clear on this, you understand. You want me to consult with you before I buy you any gift, large or small?”

“Yes. No.”

He lifted one brow sardonically, and Sabrina gave a frustrated huff.

“Oh, hell, now I don’t know what I want.”

Her obvious frustration took the edge from Marco’s anger. With a visible effort, he reined in his temper.

“We’re new to each other,” he said in a more even tone. “Still learning this intricate dance. Two steps forward, one back, like a waltz. We’re bound to miss a step or two until we perfect our rhythm.”

He let his glance shift to the sea. The churning waves held his gaze for long moments. When he turned to her again, all trace of anger was gone.

“I loved one woman and lost her. I don’t know yet where we will go, you and I. Neither of us can know at this point. But I do know one thing with absolute certainty. I don’t want to lose you, Sabrina mia.”

Now that was hitting below the belt! She could go nose to nose with her father any day, matching his hardheaded stubbornness with her own. Marco’s quiet declaration took every ounce of fight out of her. Worse, the tender endearment he attached to her name turned her insides to mush.

“I don’t want to lose you, either.”

He framed her face with his palms. “One step forward, my darling.”

It was easy, so easy, to take that step. Sighing, she tipped her chin for his kiss.

She had no idea how long they might have sat there, practicing their steps, if a tour bus hadn’t pulled into the turnout. The tourists piled out, oohing and ahhing over the incredible view. Their cameras were already clicking when Marco keyed the ignition.

They stopped for a late lunch in Torre Annunziata, a small town in the shadow of brooding Mt. Vesuvius, then had to battle horrendous traffic in Naples. Every other street, it seemed, was blocked in preparation for the night’s festivities.

They finally pulled up at Palazzo d’Calvetti a little after five. The butler greeted Marco with the same warmth he’d showed on their previous visit. Bowing to Sabrina, he informed the duke that his mother and sister were in the upstairs salon.

“Grazie, Phillippo. Our bags are in the car. Will you have them taken to my apartments?”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Marco took Sabrina’s elbow to help her up the broad staircase and escorted her to a sitting room rich with antiques and bright sunlight. Donna Maria was seated at a gilt trimmed desk with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, skimming what Sabrina guessed was a last-minute to-do list.

She looked up at their entrance. Pleasure flooded her face at the sight of her son. “Marco! I was beginning to think you would not arrive in time for dinner.”

He bent to kiss her on both cheeks. “Traffic was a nightmare, Mama.”

The duchess welcomed Sabrina with a voice that was a few degrees warmer than on her previous visit but stopped well short of gushing.

Marco’s sister, on the other hand, more than made up her mother’s reserve. She was a slender brunette in orange-striped leggings and an eye-popping electric-blue tunic that echoed the blue streak in her short, spiky black hair. With a yelp of delight, she threw herself into her brother’s arms for an exuberant reunion.

Laughing, Marco had to cut into her torrent of Italian. “AnnaMaria, be still long enough for me to introduce to my houseguest.”

“So this is your American, eh?” She turned in the circle of his arms and raked Sabrina from head to foot with the critical eye of an artist. “Mama told me you look much like Gia. I think … The hair, yes. The eyes, a little. But not the mouth. Or the bones. Those wonderful bones are yours.”

Sabrina could have kissed her!

“Ah, here is Etienne and my beautiful bambinos. Come meet Marco’s American.”

The burly French sculptor carried a doe-eyed little girl in one arm. A boy of four or five swung like a mischievous chimp from the other. The boy let go only long enough for his father to engulf Sabrina’s hand in a thorny palm.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Russo.”

“And I, you. I attended an exhibit of your work at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art a few years ago.”

“Ah, oui. The Paris au Printemps Exhibition.”

He didn’t ask her opinion of his work but the question came through in a quizzically raised brow. Sabrina responded with a warm smile.

“I was especially intrigued by one piece. I think it was titled An Afternoon in Montmartre. I was amazed at how you captured the quarter’s vibrancy in two pieces of twisted metal and a rope of flickering neon.”

“AnnaMaria! Take charge of these monkeys! I want to go out on the terrace and speak more with this so very intelligent and charming woman.”

“You have no time for flirting, Etienne. If Mama is done with me, we need to feed and bathe the children before we dress for dinner.”

“An entire house full of servants,” the sculptor complained with a good-natured grin, “and she insists we feed, scrub and tuck these two in ourselves.”

“Go!” the duchess instructed her daughter and son-in-law. “See to your children.”

“What can we do to help?” Marco asked his mother.

“Nothing. Everything is as well ordered as it’s going to be. But I hope you and Sabrina will excuse me if I, too, go rest a bit before dinner.”

“We’ll go up, as well. We can unpack and have an aperitif before the hoards arrive.”

He and Sabrina accompanied the duchess up the grand staircase and parted company on the third floor.

“You’d best be downstairs by a quarter to seven to greet our guests,” she told her son.

“We will.”

She turned toward the east wing, hesitated. Her glance flicked from her son to Sabrina and back again. “Have you warned her about the paparazzi?”

“Not yet.”

“They could be … difficult.”

“We’ll don our armor before we come downstairs.”

“Bene.”

Sabrina contained her curiosity until Marco escorted her into his suite of rooms in the east wing. She caught a glimpse of their bags set side by side on a padded bench in a cavernous bedroom before demanding an explanation.

“What was that about?”

“You’re not the only one who has fed the beasts,” he commented with a dry reference to the articles his mother had pulled off the Internet about her. “They attacked like sharks after Gianetta’s death. One tabloid even hinted I had somehow sabotaged the sailboat.”

“Dear God! Why would you do that?”

“The usual reasons. Jealousy, anger, to rid myself of an inconvenient wife so I could marry my mistress.”

Shrugging, he opened the doors of a parquetry chest to display a well-stocked bar.

“It didn’t seem to matter that I had no mistress. What would you like to drink?”

“It’s going to be a long night. I’d better stick with something nonalcoholic for now.”

Marco chinked ice into two glasses and twisted off the lid on a bottle of Chinotto. The dark liquid fizzed like a carbonated drink and had a unique taste that combined bitter and sweet at the same time.

“We always allow a few members of press to take photographs at the ball. Be warned, they’ll have an avid interest in you.”

“Because I resemble Gianetta?”

His dark eyes held hers. “Because you will be the first woman I’ve invited to the ball since Gianetta.”

Ohh-kaay.

Sabrina took another sip of the fizzing soft drink and willed her heart to stop hammering against her ribs. The waltz Marco had described so beautifully earlier suddenly seemed to have picked up in tempo. She couldn’t shake the feeling she’d just been swept into a sultry tango.

The tempo kicked up yet again a little over an hour later.

Gowned, gloved, her hair anchored high on her head with the topaz-studded comb, she swept out of the bedroom in a glitter of gold. Two paces into the sitting room she caught sight of Marco and stopped dead.

Her jaw sagged. Her breath got stuck somewhere in the middle of her throat. The best she could manage was a breathless whisper.

“Wow.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he answered in a low growl. “You look magnificent, Sabrina mia.”

His eyes devoured her as he crossed the room. Hers drank in the snowy white tie and pleated shirt, the black tails, the jeweled insignia of some royal order pinned to the red sash that slashed across his chest.

Tonight, Sabrina realized as her heart drummed out a wild beat, her handsome doc was every inch a duke.