a matching, man-size armchair and ottoman. What caught her attention, though, was the sleek laptop sitting atop a trestle table that looked like it might have once graced a medieval palace.
“Do you have wireless here?” she asked hopefully.
“I do.”
“Mind if I use my laptop to log on?”
“Not at all. Here, I’ll write the password for you.”
He stopped at the table and jotted down a sequence of numbers and letters. Sabrina tucked the folded paper into the pocket of her jacket.
“Thanks. I think I mentioned I’m in Italy on business. I have several appointments I need to confirm. I also need to contact my partners. We’re working a project with a very tight deadline.”
“I understand. But first we eat, yes?”
“Yes!”
The mouthwatering scent of garlic and onions grew more pronounced as they entered the dining room. Like the library, this room, too, looked out on the sea. The table was a beautiful burnished oak and long enough to seat twelve comfortably. A smaller table had been set with china and crystal out on the terrace. It was tucked in a corner that protected it from the sea breezes and warmed by a tall, umbrella-like patio heater.
Lemon trees in ceramic pots provided splashes of color. Despite the lateness of the season, flowering bougainvillea climbed the walls. Enchanted, Sabrina passed the crutches to Marcos and eased into the chair he pulled out for her.
“I’ll tell Signora Bertaldi we’re ready,” he said. “I would offer you an aperitif, but you should not combine alcohol with the drug I prescribed for you.”
“No problem. The view alone is enough to get me high.”
While Marco went inside, she breathed in a lungful of salty air and leaned forward to peer over the terrace wall.
Yikes! Good thing she wasn’t acrophobic. She was sitting suspended in seemingly thin air, with only the wave-splashed rocks a hundred or so feet below.
Her host returned a few moments later with Rafaela’s mama. “This is Signora Bertaldi. She runs this house—and me—with a most skilled hand.”
The older woman blushed at the compliment. “His Excellency, he exaggerates.”
Her eyes were dark and keen and set in a web of fine wrinkles. They stayed locked with disconcerting intensity on Sabrina’s face.
“Please to excuse my English, Signorina Russo. It is not so good.”
“It’s better than my Italian. I met your daughter this afternoon, by the way. She says your pesce spada will make me weep with joy.”
The strange intensity gave way to a wide smile. “Then it is good I cook the fish for you tonight, si?”
“Si.”
“Please to sit, Excellency. I will bring the olives and antipasto.”
Marco complied and stretched his long legs out. “So, Sabrina. Tell me more about this business that brings you to Italy.”
She couldn’t have scripted a more perfect finish to a day that had edged so close to disaster.
The sunset was glorious. The grilled swordfish was everything Rafaela had promised. The cappuccino came topped with sweet, creamy foam. The company …
Okay, she could admit it. She was seriously in lust with His Excellency, Don Marco Antonio d’Whatever. She’d always been a sucker for a man with smooth, polished manners and linebacker’s shoulders. Not to mention tastes that ranged from opera to water polo to the succulent jerk-chicken skewers cooked up by New York City sidewalk vendors. And let’s not forget eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
Still, she didn’t deliberately plan her grimace as she got to her feet after their leisurely meal. Or her clumsy stumble when she tried to get the crutches under her. But she certainly didn’t object when Marco muttered an oath and swept her into his arms.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
“I shouldn’t have kept you up so long. You need to rest and elevate your ankle.”
To hell with her ankle. A far more urgent need gripped Sabrina. With his mouth only inches from hers, she ached to brush her lips over his. She could almost taste their silky heat.
She didn’t realize how transparent her thoughts were until they were in the elevator and he bent to press the button to take them to the lower level. When he straightened, he wore his doctor’s face. Cool, assessing, concerned … until his gaze snagged hers.
Gesù!
Marco smothered the oath, but he couldn’t hold back the hunger that punched through him, hot and swift and fierce. He wanted this woman. Wanted to taste her, touch her, hear her moan with pleasure as his mouth and hands roamed her lush, seductive curves.
The hours they’d spent together since their near calamitous meeting had erased his initial, absurd notion she might be Gianetta’s twin. Or even, God help him, her ghost.
Sabrina Russo was nothing like his temperamental, tempestuous wife. Her laugh was spontaneous and natural, without a hint of frenzy lurking just under the surface. Her lively mind challenged his. And her mouth … Sweet Jesus, her mouth!
The elevator glided to a stop and the door slid open, but Marco made no move to exit. He knew he shouldn’t yield to the urge to kiss this woman. She was his patient, a guest in his home. An American entrepreneur, impatient to be on her way and complete the tasks that had brought her to Italy. They were casual acquaintances at best. Strangers who would say goodbye in the morning.
The stern lecture proved completely ineffectual against the heat that raced through his veins. Only by an exercise of iron will could he hold off until he was sure she understood his intent. He saw it in the quick flare of her eyes. Heard it in the sudden rasp of her breath. With a low growl, Marco bent his head and took her mouth with his.
She tasted of dark coffee and sweet, rich cream. He angled his mouth, wanting more of her. Her arms locked around his neck. Her head tipped. She opened her lips, welcoming him, answering hunger with hunger.
He shifted her in his arms, his blood firing when her full breasts flattened against his chest. His body was so taut and straining with need he almost missed it when she gave a small jerk. He whipped up his head and caught her trying to cover a wince.
“Christ! I hurt you.”
“No!” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. “I banged my foot. The elevator … it’s so small.”
Shame and disgust hammered at him with vicious blows. Calling himself all kinds of a pig, Marco angled her injured foot away from the elevator wall.
“To kiss you like that was inexcusable of me,” he ground out as he carried her into the corridor. His footsteps echoing on the tiles, he strode toward the guest suite. “I’m sorry, Sabrina.”
