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

“Oh, come on! Why don’t you just take out a billboard ad saying we’re lovers?”

His brows snapped together. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to disguise the fact.”

“I don’t! But neither do I want you to pay for my underwear.”

With a muttered curse, he pulled the Ferrari into a turnout. Ironically, it was the same turnout where Sabrina had left her rental car to snap pictures of the picturesque town spilling down the cliffs to the sea.

The car halted with a jerk, its nose pointed toward the restless sea. Marco shoved the gearshift into park, set the emergency brake and twisted the key in the ignition before slewing around in his seat. Anger blazed from his eyes.

“I’m not allowed to buy you a gift?”

“A ceramic bowl is a gift. A bottle of perfume is a gift. Two thousand dollars worth of clothing and lingerie crosses the line.”

“Who set these rules?” he demanded, his accent thickening with his anger. “One hundred dollars for perfume, si. Two thousand dollars for clothing, no.”

Thoroughly irritated, Sabrina fell back on the only argument she could. “There are no set rules. Just logic and common sense.”

“This may sound logical to you,” he retorted. “It doesn’t to me.”

She scrubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, hating this argument, hating the memories it brought back of all the times she’d locked horns with her father in an effort to assert her independence, financially and otherwise.

“It’s … It’s not so much the amount that matters as the way you handled it. You should have consulted me before making an arbitrary decision to foot the bill.”

“I ask again. I need to be clear on this, you understand. You want me to consult with you before I buy you any gift, large or small?”

“Yes. No.”

He lifted one brow sardonically, and Sabrina gave a frustrated huff.

“Oh, hell, now I don’t know what I want.”

Her obvious frustration took the edge from Marco’s anger. With a visible effort, he reined in his temper.

“We’re new to each other,” he said in a more even tone. “Still learning this intricate dance. Two steps forward, one back, like a waltz. We’re bound to miss a step or two until we perfect our rhythm.”

He let his glance shift to the sea. The churning waves held his gaze for long moments. When he turned to her again, all trace of anger was gone.

“I loved one woman and lost her. I don’t know yet where we will go, you and I. Neither of us can know at this point. But I do know one thing with absolute certainty. I don’t want to lose you, Sabrina mia.”

Now that was hitting below the belt! She could go nose to nose with her father any day, matching his hardheaded stubbornness with her own. Marco’s quiet declaration took every ounce of fight out of her. Worse, the tender endearment he attached to her name turned her insides to mush.

“I don’t want to lose you, either.”

He framed her face with his palms. “One step forward, my darling.”

It was easy, so easy, to take that step. Sighing, she tipped her chin for his kiss.

She had no idea how long they might have sat there, practicing their steps, if a tour bus hadn’t pulled into the turnout. The tourists piled out, oohing and ahhing over the incredible view. Their cameras were already clicking when Marco keyed the ignition.

They stopped for a late lunch in Torre Annunziata, a small town in the shadow of brooding Mt. Vesuvius, then had to battle horrendous traffic in Naples. Every other street, it seemed, was blocked in preparation for the night’s festivities.

They finally pulled up at Palazzo d’Calvetti a little after five. The butler greeted Marco with the same warmth he’d showed on their previous visit. Bowing to Sabrina, he informed the duke that his mother and sister were in the upstairs salon.

“Grazie, Phillippo. Our bags are in the car. Will you have them taken to my apartments?”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Marco took Sabrina’s elbow to help her up the broad staircase and escorted her to a sitting room rich with antiques and bright sunlight. Donna Maria was seated at a gilt trimmed desk with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, skimming what Sabrina guessed was a last-minute to-do list.

She looked up at their entrance. Pleasure flooded her face at the sight of her son. “Marco! I was beginning to think you would not arrive in time for dinner.”

He bent to kiss her on both cheeks. “Traffic was a nightmare, Mama.”

The duchess welcomed Sabrina with a voice that was a few degrees warmer than on her previous visit but stopped well short of gushing.

Marco’s sister, on the other hand, more than made up her mother’s reserve. She was a slender brunette in orange-striped leggings and an eye-popping electric-blue tunic that echoed the blue streak in her short, spiky black hair. With a yelp of delight, she threw herself into her brother’s arms for an exuberant reunion.

Laughing, Marco had to cut into her torrent of Italian. “AnnaMaria, be still long enough for me to introduce to my houseguest.”

“So this is your American, eh?” She turned in the circle of his arms and raked Sabrina from head to foot with the critical eye of an artist. “Mama told me you look much like Gia. I think … The hair, yes. The eyes, a little. But not the mouth. Or the bones. Those wonderful bones are yours.”

Sabrina could have kissed her!

“Ah, here is Etienne and my beautiful bambinos. Come meet Marco’s American.”

The burly French sculptor carried a doe-eyed little girl in one arm. A boy of four or five swung like a mischievous chimp from the other. The boy let go only long enough for his father to engulf Sabrina’s hand in a thorny palm.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Russo.”

“And I, you. I attended an exhibit of your work at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art a few years ago.”

“Ah, oui. The Paris au Printemps Exhibition.”

He didn’t ask her opinion of his work but the question came through in a quizzically raised brow. Sabrina responded with a warm smile.

“I was especially intrigued by one piece. I think it was titled An Afternoon in Montmartre. I was amazed at how you captured the quarter’s vibrancy in two pieces of twisted metal and a rope of flickering neon.”

“AnnaMaria! Take charge of these monkeys! I want to go out on the terrace and speak more with this so very intelligent and charming woman.”

“You have no time for flirting, Etienne. If Mama is done with me, we need to feed and bathe the children before we dress for dinner.”

“An entire house full of servants,” the sculptor complained with a good-natured grin, “and she insists we feed, scrub and tuck these two in ourselves.”

“Go!” the duchess instructed her daughter and son-in-law. “See to your children.”

“What can we do to help?” Marco asked his mother.

“Nothing. Everything is as well ordered as it’s going to be. But I hope you and Sabrina will excuse me if I, too, go rest a bit before dinner.”