cushions. “Your ankle …”
Sabrina was more concerned about other body parts at the moment. Like the aching tips of her breasts. And the spasms deep in her belly. And the wet heat between her thighs.
“Please tell me you have a condom somewhere close at hand,” she begged.
The hunger in his dark eyes gave way to a flash of genuine amusement. “I’m Italian. What do you think?”
“I think,” she panted, “we’d better stop talking and get the damned thing on.”
He dragged his jeans over and extracted a packet from his wallet. “Ecco.”
Sabrina snatched it out of his hands. “Let me.”
He was all hard ridges and hot steel. So hard, she would have taken him in her mouth if she hadn’t been desperate to take him into her body. So hot, she barely got the condom on before he jerked out of her hand and eased her back down onto the cushions.
Their first time was slow and careful.
Sabrina almost went mad at Marco’s deliberate pace. In, out, in. Each insertion stretched her eager flesh. Every withdrawal left her panting for more.
She could feel her climax building. Feel the sensations spiraling outward from her core. Wanting to take him with her, she hooked her good leg around his thigh and clenched her vaginal muscles.
Every cord and tendon in his body went rigid. He gave a low grunt, but refused to thrust harder or faster. Instead, he wedged his hand between their straining bodies and pressed his thumb against her pulsing flesh.
Sabrina exploded in a flash of pleasure so intense the whole room seemed to rock. Marco whipped his hand away and surged into her. His body locked with hers, he rode her climax to his own.
Gradually, the room stopped spinning. Air rushed back into Sabrina’s lungs. She looked up into the face a few inches from her own and gave a breathless laugh.
“Wow.”
His mouth curved into a smug grin. “I think so, too.”
They made love the second time in the shower.
Marco was afraid she might slip on the slick tiles and insisted on accompanying her into the spacious, walk-in enclosure.
He also insisted on soaping her down, front and back. She returned the favor. Mere moments later he had his shoulder blades planted against the tiles and Sabrina’s thighs locked around his waist.
The third time came later, well past midnight.
Driven by a different kind of hunger, they invaded the kitchen. Sabrina was naked under the cashmere robe Marco had draped around her. He’d pulled on his jeans but hadn’t bothered with a shirt or shoes.
She perched on a high swivel stool. Her elbows were propped on a counter made of tiles decorated with grape vines and baskets of lemons. Marco got out the seafood au gratin casserole Signora Bertaldi, bless her, had left in the fridge and slid it into the oven.
While they waited for the casserole to bubble, Sabrina munched on olives and tore pieces from a crusty loaf of bread to dip in oil and balsamic vinaigrette. Marco got out a corkscrew and another bottle of wine.
“Here.”
She held up a fat black olive. Corkscrew and bottle in hand, he leaned forward, so she could pop it into his mouth. His strong white teeth just missed crunching down on her fingers.
“Mmm, good.”
He set the bottle aside and dipped a crust of bread through the vinegar and oil mixture. Teasing, taunting, he drew the crust along her lower lip. Her eyes held his as she swiped her tongue over her lips and licked the drops of oil and sweet, tart vinegar.
His gaze locked on her mouth, Marco rounded the counter. Sabrina’s borrowed robe gaped at her knees. He opened it further by the simple expedient of easing his hips between her thighs.
The next thing either of them knew, the oven was smoking and the seafood au gratin was bubbling over the sides of its dish in fat, sizzling splats.
Sabrina woke in Marco’s arms the next morning. To her relief, she found the ache in her ankle had subsided to an occasional twinge and the swelling had almost completely disappeared. Gleefully, she abandoned the Ace bandage and traded the crutches for the cane Marco had delivered from the pharmacy in Positano.
While he showered, she slipped into a lacy camisole and a lightweight wool Emanuel Ungaro pantsuit, both in misty blue. Her ballet flats didn’t do a whole lot for the outfit but she knew she wasn’t ready for the three-inch heels on her only other pair of shoes.
They left shortly after breakfast for Sorrento and the first of the two facilities she intended to check out that day. The bustling harbor city had been a favored vacation spot since the days of Pompeii. Warm Mediterranean breezes made for streets lined with palm trees and a jumble of outdoor cafes. The balmy atmosphere provided an exotic backdrop for the colorful Christmas decorations still displayed in the streets and shop windows.
Sabrina craned her neck to take in the elegant nineteenth century facades of the hotels that had drawn so many visitors to this seaside resort. Only one had the available rooms and conference facilities to meet her client’s needs.
The Excelsior Vittoria Grand Hotel sat high on the cliff once occupied by the Emperor Augustus’s villa. With its fin de siècle buildings and magnificent views of Mount Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples, the hotel had played host to kings and queens as well as a long list of celebrities that included Enrico Caruso, Jack Lemmon, Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren.
Marco pulled up at its impressive portico and turned the car keys over to the parking valet. Sabrina had taken a lesson from the experience at Ravello. Concerned his presence might jack up the cost estimates, she asked him to enjoy a cup of cappuccino in the hotel’s terrace café while she met with the assistant manager.
“Are you sure you don’t wish me to help you take notes?” he asked, clearly amused by her stubborn determination to handle matters herself.
She countered with another question. “Have you attended any functions at the Excelsior?”
“Several,” he admitted.
“Go.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. Have a cup of coffee.”
“Very well. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.”
She met with the assistant manager in his office before taking a tour of the hotel’s facilities. She had the quote he’d sent in response to her initial e-mail. After viewing the conference setup and finalizing meal selections, she bargained hard to get him to knock another ten percent off his bottom line.
Flushed with victory, she joined Marco on the sun-drenched terrace. He rose and slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose.
“I take it your negotiations went well.”
“They did.”
“Congratulations.”
“Two sites down; two to go. At
