was that haunting resemblance to Gianetta…
“There’s no need to call another hotel. You must stay at my villa tonight.”
“Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“It is no imposition, I assure you. The villa is small, merely a vacation home, but has several guest suites. I should prefer to keep a watch on you to make sure you don’t suffer any residual effects from the accident. And,” he added with a smile for the nurse, “Rafaela’s mama will cook for us. Rafaela will tell you her mama serves the best grilled swordfish on the Amalfi coast.”
“It’s true, Signorina. Mama’s pesce spada will make you weep with joy.” The young nurse kissed her fingertips in tribute to her mother’s skills. “You will taste nothing like it.”
“Well…”
“Good,” Marco said. “It is settled. How does the bandage feel? Not too tight?”
His patient tried a tentative wiggle. “It’s fine.”
After securing the bandage with a Velcro strap, he carefully lowered her foot and rose. “Before I give you something for the pain, please tell me if you have ever experienced an adverse reaction to drugs or have a medical condition I should be aware of.”
“No to both.”
Marco considered the range of drugs available at the small clinic and wrote an order for an opiate that would provide swift relief with the fewest side effects. While he waited for Rafaela to return with the medication, he flipped up his cell phone and arranged to have Sabrina’s rental car delivered to his villa.
“We will leave the keys here at the clinic. Ah, here are your pills. They are very strong,” he warned.
After she downed the correct dosage, Marco helped her into the wheelchair again. They made a stop at the woman’s washroom, where Sabrina hopped in with Rafaela’s assistance and out again a few moments later.
When he wheeled her out of the clinic and scooped her into his arms for the transfer to the Ferrari, he could tell she was already starting to feel the effects of the fast-acting medication. Her body was pliant in his arms, her breasts soft against his ribs. While he held her, she turned her face up to his.
“Thanks for taping me up, Doc. Duke. Marco.”
Her smile was wide and natural. Nothing like Gianetta’s teasing pout. He hadn’t noticed the dimples before, perhaps because Sabrina Russo hadn’t relaxed and smiled at him until this point. And her eyes were a warmer, richer brown than he’d first thought.
Holding her this close, her mouth just a whisper from 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. Pastelpainted 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.
