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

The question was polite, but the slight if unmistakable emphasis on the last word almost made Sabrina do a double take.

Good grief! Did the woman think she’d tumbled down a cliff in a deliberate attempt to snare her rich, handsome son? Had that—or some similar ploy—been tried before? She’d have to ask Marco later.

“I’m recovering quite well, Your Excellency. Your son has taken excellent care of me.”

She would have loved to add that his bedside manner was improving every day, too. Wisely, she refrained.

“Indeed.”

With a regal nod, the duchess led the way past the marble staircase to the west wing of the palazzo.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to mount the stairs so I’ve ordered an aperitif tray to be set up in the Green Salon. It’s on this floor and there’s a water closet just there, across the hall, if you wish to use it.”

“Thank you, I do.”

“We’ll wait for you in the salon,” Marco said. “It’s the third room on the left.”

Sabrina didn’t dawdle. Her lip gloss and hair restored to order, she left the powder room and counted the rooms as she passed them. The first looked like it might have been once been the palazzo’s armory and now served as a museum for antique weapons displayed in locked cases. The second was an office of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing tall, leather-bound volumes of documents. Sabrina’s partner, Devon the history buff, would salivate at the sight of those musty volumes.

“… do you know about her?”

The duchess’s sharp question came through the open door of the third room, as did Marco’s reply.

“I know enough, Mama.”

The exchange was in Italian but clear enough for Sabrina to follow easily. She took another step before she realized her soft-soled flats and the rubber tip of her cane masked her approach.

“You say she’s in Italy on business?”

“She and her partners provide travel and support services for executives doing business in Europe. She’s scouting conference sites.”

Time to announce her presence, Sabrina thought. She lifted the cane, intending to thump it on the parquet floor. The duchess’s next comment stopped her cold.

“If half the articles my secretary pulled off the Internet about this woman are true, she’s scouting more than conference sites.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the daughter of Dominic Russo, the American telecommunications giant. He put her on the board of the foundation that oversees his charitable interests, but subsequently removed her. The rumor is he’s disinherited her. Cut her off without a cent.”

“Ah,” Marco murmured. “So that’s why she’s so determined to make it on her own.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that she fell right at your feet?”

Sabrina had heard enough. Bringing the cane down with a loud thud, she entered the salon.

Marco stood behind a tray holding an array of bottles, a silver martini shaker in his hand. His mother was seated in a tall-backed armchair and had the grace to appear chagrined for a moment. But only for a moment. Her chin lifted as Sabrina gave her a breezy smile.

“Your information’s accurate, Your Excellency, except for one point. My father didn’t remove me from the board of the Russo Foundation. I quit. Are those martinis in that shaker, Marco?” she asked with cheerful insouciance. “If so, I’ll take two olives in mine.”

“Two olives it is,” he confirmed with a gleam of approval in his dark eyes.

His mother was less admiring. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Ms. Russo,” she said coolly. “I wish only to watch out for my son’s welfare.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. No offense taken.”

“I’m perfectly capable of watching out for my own welfare,” Marco drawled as he handed his mother a tall-stemmed martini glass. “But I thank you for your concern.”

The duchess merely sniffed.

She unbent a little over dinner served in a glass-enclosed conservatory that looked out over the lights of the city.

“Have you visited this part of Italy before, Ms. Russo?”

“Only once, when I was a student at the University of Salzburg. One of my roommates was a history major. We drove down from Austria one weekend to explore the ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum.”

“So you’ve not spent time in Napoli.”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“You must call me Donna Maria.”

Sabrina’s lips twitched at the royal command. “Certainly. And please, call me Sabrina.”

“We have a painting by Lorenzo de Caro in the gallery. It depicts the city as it was in the early eighteenth century. You must let me show it to you after dinner.”

The rest of the meal passed with polite queries concerning Sabrina’s year in Salzburg and her current business. Not until she and the duchess had made their way to the galley, leaving Marco to look over a document his mother wanted his opinion on, did she learn the ulterior motive behind the invitation to view de Caro’s masterpiece.

The painting was small, only about twelve by eighteen inches, but so luminous that it instantly drew the eye. Lost in the exquisitely detailed scene of a tall-masted ship tied up at wharf beside the fortress, Sabrina almost missed Donna Maria’s quiet question.

“How much has my son told you about his wife?”

“Only that she died in a tragic boating accident. If Marco wants me to know more,” she added pointedly, “I’m sure he’ll tell me.”

The duchess hiked a brow. “You are a very direct young woman.”

“I try to be, Donna Maria.”

“Then I will tell you bluntly that I love my son very much and don’t wish to see him hurt again.”

“I don’t plan to hurt him.”

“Not intentionally, perhaps.” Her forehead creasing, the duchess studied her guest’s face. “But this resemblance to Gianetta …”

“It can’t be that remarkable,” Sabrina said with some exasperation.

“Come and judge for yourself.”

Donna Maria led the way to the opposite wing of the gallery. It was lined with portraits of men and women in every form of dress from the late Middle Ages onward. Cardinals. Princesses. Dukes and duchesses in coronets trimmed with fur and capped with royal red.