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“You can’t leave until we’ve had our dance.”
“I know, but here…?”
“Here. Right here. Right now.” His voice had taken on a note of command, and then it softened. “Please,” he said, and opened his arms.
He saw the little lift of her breasts and knew she’d caught her breath. Would she turn him down? If she did, he’d be a gentleman and let her go.
The hell with that. He hadn’t made a fortune by being a gentleman. If she said no he’d pull her into his arms, bring her soft body against his, stroke his hands over her until she sighed and said yes to dancing with him, yes to making love with him, yes, yes, yes….
“Yes,” Fallon whispered, and went into his arms.
Dear Reader,
The exciting, passion-filled story of the O’Connell family continues!
The Sicilian Surrender is the second book in my new family saga. Fallon O’Connell is a world-famous model. She doesn’t enjoy living her life in the spotlight, but she’s learned to accept it as part of her job. Stefano Lucchesi is the powerful CEO of a multinational corporation. He despises the paparazzi who stalk him and values his privacy above everything else. Fate brings these two people together in Sicily, an island simmering in the heat of the summer sun. But destiny has more planned for Fallon and Stefano than a simple chance encounter. A dark, rainy night. A narrow road. The squeal of tires, a car crash, and their lives are forever changed. Only love can heal Fallon, just as only love can reach Stefano’s closely guarded heart.
As you discovered in my last family saga, THE BARONS, you can enjoy The Sicilian Surrender even if you haven’t read the prior book, Keir O’Connell’s Mistress. Join me on an exciting journey through the lives of a dynamic family. The O’Connells and I welcome you.
With love,
You can visit Sandra at http://www.sandramarton.com or write to her at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268, U.S.A.
The Sicilian Surrender
Sandra Marton
Special thanks to Joni Jones
for sharing her love of Sicily and its people with me.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
THE sun was a blurred golden orb in a lowering sky as the sirocco blew in from the sea, howling through the ruins of the castello like the voices of the rebellious gladiators who had once defended this bit of Sicily against the power and might of ancient Rome.
Stefano Lucchesi thought of those men as he mounted the last stone steps and stood on the top of the cliff. To the west, Mount Etna slumbered in the humid air. Below, the stormy waters of the Mediterranean pounded the rocky shore.
How many times had a sentry stood in this same place, watching for the enemy? Romans, Greeks, Arabs and Normans had all spilled their blood here in the name of dominion. Pirates had hunted offshore, lying in wait for unwary ships like packs of hungry wolves.
Invader after invader had conquered this land of his ancestors, until, at last, it shook free of its shackles and created enemies of its own, an aristocracy that grew fat on the sweat of those who tilled this rocky soil.
Stefano turned his back to the sea, dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and surveyed his kingdom. Time had not treated it kindly. All that remained of the castello were tumbled stone walls and a handful of pillars.
Perhaps that was as it should be. There was a certain ironic justice in the way time had evened the balance sheet. What his great grandfather three times removed had built here, what his grandfather had ultimately lost in a feud so bitter it had ended in bloodshed, had long-ago crumbled to dust.
Even the land had been sold. Stefano had ordered his attorney to buy it back, piece by piece, from gnarled old men in baggy black suits who reminded him of his grandfather. Stefano had named a price that was more than fair, but the attorney’s representatives had no success.
All the old men seemed eager to sell land that was basically dry and barren until they heard the buyer’s name.
“Lucchesi?” they said.
One even spat on the ground by way of punctuation.
Stefano was amazed that the name should still evoke violent emotion after more than seventy years. He’d said so to his lawyer, who grinned, shook his head and said that Stefano needed to rent the Godfather movies and watch them from start to finish.
“It’s the Mafia thing,” Jack said. “How can you have Sicilian blood running through your veins and not understand? Those old guys knew your grandpa. They hated him. Why should you expect a welcome from them?”
Why, indeed?
Stefano knew little about the Mafia. He’d grown up in America, where his grandfather had immigrated decades before his birth. His father died when he was a baby and his mother, a New Orleans homecoming queen, dragged him from city to city in a frenzied search for excitement. Stefano was twelve when she died.
His paternal grandparents, who he hardly knew, took him in.
Tough, street smart, hiding his fear behind a mask of arrogance, he couldn’t have been easy for them to handle. His grandmother fed him and clothed him and otherwise washed her hands of him. His grandfather tolerated him, disciplined him and finally loved him with all his heart.
Perhaps his grandfather’s advanced years, coupled with Stefano having come to know him so late in the old man’s life, explained why he didn’t have what Jack called “the Mafia thing” in his blood. His grandfather never told him tales of bloodshed and revenge. He told him, instead, of La Sicilia, of Castello Lucchesi, of the cliffs and the volcano and the sea.
Those were the things that beat in Stefano’s blood, the things he cherished without ever having seen them.
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