his, Marco noted other differences, as well. Her breasts were fuller, her hips rounder and she had the long, sleek legs of a thoroughbred. She was much a woman, this American. Very much a woman.
Marco was more prepared this time when his groin went tight. Nevertheless, the punch hit hard and forced a reminder that this woman was his patient and would be a guest in his home. Willing his rebellious body to behave, he lowered her into the passenger seat and reached across her for the shoulder harness.
He smells like antiseptic soap, Sabrina thought, feeling more than a little woozy. Soap and suede and some subtle, tangy aftershave she’d only now noticed. She’d been too shaken—or too pissed—to sniff his neck before.
“How far is it to your villa?” she asked when he’d backed the convertible out of the clinic’s courtyard.
“Not far. About five kilometers.”
“Oh, boy! On these roads, that means we’ll get there when? Midnight?”
“I promise, you’ll arrive in plenty of time for a nap before dinner.”
“I may zonk out before then,” she warned as her head lolled against the seat back.
“I hope so.” One corner of his mouth tipped up. “That will save much wear and tear on the floorboards!”
Despite the lethargy creeping through her, Sabrina registered the impact of that crooked grin. Holy crap! The man should come with a warning label. When he dropped his brusque me Doctor/you Jane attitude and let himself be human, His Excellency was downright dangerous.
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” she replied.
And not just her thumping foot, she admonished herself sternly. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by sexy Italians right now. Caroline was depending on her for input into the megaproposal they had to submit by the end of next week. Sprain or nor sprain, crutches or no crutches, Sabrina intended to provide the required info.
For now, though, she’d just rest her head against the back of the seat and let the cool December air play with her hair. The loose tendrils fluttered around her face as the Ferrari maneuvered through the narrow streets of Positano.
The village was practically vertical. Pastel-painted shops and homes stair-stepped down the mountainside seemingly right on top of each other. At the bottom of the incline, dominating the piazza, was the cathedral. Beyond the church was the pebbly shore lined with colorful fishing boats.
As Sabrina had noted on the way into town, many of the small hotels and restaurants were shuttered. Umbrellas were folded and chairs neatly stacked on the terraces of open-air restaurants. Yet a few hardy tourists huffed up the steep, cobbled street, guidebooks in hand.
A momentary worry threaded through her as she wondered how the heck she’d handle streets like this on crutches, but she pushed the thought aside with a drug-induced optimism. She’d manage. Somehow.
When they left the town, the road once again became a narrow slice of pavement cut out of sheer rock. Rather than look down, Sabrina slumped in her seat and closed her eyes.
The next thing she heard was Marco’s deep voice murmuring in her ear. “We’re here. Don’t stir. I’ll carry you to your room.”
She felt his arm slide under her knees. His other went around her waist. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she wrapped an arm around his neck.
He lifted her easily. She could get used to this mode of transportation, she thought as she snuggled against his chest and buried her nose in the warm skin of his jaw.
“You need a shave,” she complained sleepily.
“So I do. My apologies, Signorina. I’m on vacation, you see, and had not thought I would get this close to such a beautiful woman.”
She nuzzled closer. “‘S okay. You look good with bristles. You look good, period.”
“Grazie.”
She formed a hazy impression of a vine-covered arch, whitewashed walls, the sound of the sea slapping against rocks. Then a door opened and a gray-haired woman bustled out. Rafaela’s mom, Sabrina thought as the woman greeted Marco in a torrent of Italian.
She heard him respond with her name, say something about ice. Mere moments later he lowered her onto sheets that smelled of sunshine and starch. His hands were gentle as he removed her one remaining boot. She was asleep almost before he propped a cushion under her injured ankle to elevate it.
Three
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
