was in a plane crash,” Belle said hastily. “Everyone else on board was killed. He was rescued but his leg was torn up badly and they thought it might have to be amputated. But it wasn’t.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Sophie sat down abruptly at the table. “You’re not kidding.”
“No,” said her mother. “I wish I was. Cesare and Dorotea were frantic. He was in a hospital somewhere in South America. He didn’t even call them until a month after it happened, and he refused to let them fly down. Dora sat here in this kitchen and cried her eyes out.”
“Why didn’t I know this?” Sophie shook her head blindly. “Where was I?”
There was a silence in the kitchen. “You were on vacation,” said Belle. “It was at the beginning of October. I guess it just got overlooked after you got back.”
“Yes, and you know how busy you are, cara mia,” her mother put in. “I’m sorry. We just got our wires crossed, I suppose.”
Sophie rose from the table. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. But it wasn’t. She walked to the back door and stepped out onto the small porch, needing the fresh spring air and a moment alone.
At the beginning of October. The month was a difficult one for her. Kirk had died in October, and for the past two years she’d gone to a friend’s cabin beside a lake in Wisconsin to grieve alone. It would suit her just fine if the month of October were erased from the calendar.
Then the shock of what she’d just been told set in. Images of Marco rose. Playing basketball, dancing a wild swing with one of his sisters on New Year’s Eve, climbing the oak tree to bring down her stranded kitten—Marco was such an active, vital man. His whole life had been built around his physical capabilities.
He would be like a wild animal in a cage.
Her breath caught and she forced down the sob that threatened. It was ridiculous to cry for Marco now. His accident had been seven months ago. He’d survived, and if he’d come home for the anniversary party under his own steam, he must be doing fine.
A door slammed and the sound jarred her into looking around. A man stood on the back porch of the Espositos’ house. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair—
And a cane.
He’d been waiting for the excuse to talk to her for days.
Now that she was actually standing mere yards from him, the breezy greeting Marco had practiced flew right out of his head. God, she was beautiful. He stood there, staring like an idiot as she turned her head and met his eyes.
The impact slammed into his gut so hard he had to take a deep breath. Clearing his throat, he raised his voice to carry over the fence between them. “Hello, Sophie.”
She simply stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled gently. “Hello, Marco. I heard you were home.”
He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, even for a minute, but he wanted less to humiliate himself with a tumble down his parents’ porch steps, so he tore his gaze away and concentrated on getting down the steps and over to the white picket fence as fast as possible. The whole time, he was conscious of her watching his labored progress, and the slow burn of helpless rage at his uncooperative limb gnawed at the lining of his masculine pride. If only—
No, he wasn’t going to go there. He had a burn leg, a knee that had forgotten it was supposed to bend, flex and bear weight. That was reality.
It would get better than it was right now, he’d been assured, but he could never join his former colleagues in the field again because he couldn’t hike over rough terrain and he couldn’t carry a heavy pack of equipment for more than a hundred yards. He knew, because he’d tried.
That was reality. And thinking about the way his life should be would destroy him as surely as that damned plane crash had destroyed his leg.
He stopped when he reached the fence and leaned one arm casually atop one of the posts, forcing his inner turmoil back into submission as his gaze took in the woman he’d never forgotten. He hadn’t asked about her once in the years since he’d held her last, because he didn’t want anyone to think she was anything more to him than a good family friend.
It was for her own good. If she’d thought there was hope, he knew she’d have waited for him forever.
Still, he’d listened avidly whenever his sisters got to talking about the neighbors on his infrequent visits home. For a while, Liz and Luisa had gleefully brought up her name, rubbing his nose in the dates she’d had, but after the first year had passed, they’d stopped mentioning Sophie at all. He’d nearly broken down and asked them about her several times, and only the knowledge that he’d be leaving again in another day had kept him from inquiring.
Now, he wouldn’t be leaving anymore. There was no reason to deny himself the pleasure that once had been his for the taking.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, his eyes wandering over her slender body with intense interest. “You look... fantastic.”
“Thank you.” She slowly stepped down from the stoop and came across the small lawn to her side of the fence. “It’s nice to see you again. Are you home for the you-know-what?” Her voice was hushed, in case his mother was close enough to overhear any discussion of the anniversary party.
“Yes, that and some other things.” What was different about her? She seemed reserved and wary, not simply shy as she’d been before, and though her words were pleasant, they were impersonally uttered as if she were speaking to an acquaintance. It was probably simply that she was remembering how they’d parted.
He couldn’t blame her for being mad. But still, here she was, and he was pretty sure he could charm her into forgiving him. After all, she’d said she loved him.
“I just heard about your accident.” Her voice was still subdued. “It must be frustrating for you.”
“It has its moments.” He gave her his best unconcerned shrug. “How have you been?”
She appeared to consider the question. “I’m doing well.”
“Sophie...” He hesitated. “About the way things ended between us—”
She passed a hand in front of her in a gesture intended to erase his words. “That was a long time ago, Marco, and I’ve forgotten it. I still consider you a friend.”
He frowned. That wasn’t the response he’d expected—or hoped for. This quiet, reserved woman was a marked contrast to the girl who once had hung on his every word. “I’d like to take you out for dinner, get to know you again. Are you free tonight?”
Her eyes widened, the brown completely eclipsed by a blank look of shock, and he realized it was the first time he’d been able to discern any emotion other than generic friendliness in her eyes. “That’s very nice of you, but—”
The back door opened behind her and they both stopped and looked at her mother, framed in the doorway. She was holding a very young infant cradled in one arm. “Sophie, this baby’s starting to fuss. Shall I warm a bottle?”
She
