New Year Fireworks: The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride

“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 this rate, I’ll have the information I need in plenty of time to prepare our final submission.”

“I’m glad,” he said, relieving her of her briefcase. “I was worried the accident may have impacted your ability to make your scheduled meetings.”

“It would have,” Sabrina admitted. “I couldn’t have negotiated these roads or found my way around nearly as well without your help. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

His slow smile raised goose bumps up and down her spine.

“Very much my pleasure.”

The day’s second site survey required a trip by hydrofoil to the Isle of Capri. Like Sorrento, it had been a popular vacation destination since the time of the ancient Greeks. Its rocky cliffs rose from an azure bay, with resort hotels strung out along both sea level and the heights.

Sabrina had visited Capri’s fabled Blue Grotto only once and would have loved to make a return trip. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to transfer to a small boat and ride the choppy waves into the cave. Her appointment with the manager of the hotel high on the cliffs overlooking the bay was set for two o’clock.

Marco accompanied her on the funicolare ride to the top of the cliffs. Good-naturedly he once again agreed to wait at a café in Piazza Umberto I. Sabrina wasn’t as successful in her negotiations this time and almost wished she’d brought His Excellency along for additional firepower. Still, she left with a quote that was considerably under the one provided to her by the hotel in Ravello.

“Too bad,” she commented to Marco on the hydrofoil back to Sorrento. “Ravello would have been my first choice. I liked the size of their breakout rooms and their audiovisual set up. Once I have the last estimate in hand, I might call Donati and see if he’ll cut another five percent off his bottom line.”

Stuffing her notes into her briefcase, she gave herself up to the vibrating hum of the boat’s engine and the simple pleasure of Marco’s arm draped over the back of her seat.

They’d left the Rolls parked at the ferry terminal. Marco held the passenger door for her and leaned down, his hand propped on the open door frame.

“How’s your ankle holding up?”

“Good.”

“Can you manage another stop?”

“Sure. Where?”

“My mother commanded me to bring you for dinner,” he reminded her with a wry smile. “I can beg off if you wish.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you certain? I love my mother dearly, but she can be a bit overwhelming at times.”

“Trust me. I learned at an early age to hold my own against overwhelming and overbearing.”

He settled in the driver’s seat and gave her a thoughtful glance as he buckled his seat belt. “You must tell me about this father of yours sometime.”

“I will. Sometime.”

But not with the sun sinking toward the sea and the early December dusk gathering on the hills. Right now Sabrina wanted to drink in the spectacular views of the Bay of Naples and enjoy the company of this intriguing, complex man.

“I’d rather you tell me about yours. I’d like to know a little about your background before I meet your mother.”

“My father died when I was four. I barely remember him. I have a sister, AnnaMaria. She’s an artist. She works mainly in bronzes and lives in Paris with her husband, also an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Etienne Girard?”

“I have! I attended an exhibit of his work a few years ago. His sculptures are, ah, very intense.”

“Very,” Marco agreed with a grin. “I’m still learning to interpret the message in rusted iron and neon.”

“And your mother?”