The Duke's New Year's Resolution / Quade's Babies: The Duke's New Year's Resolution

Her eyes were dark and keen and set in a web of fine wrinkles. They stayed locked with disconcerting intensity on Sabrina’s face.

“Please to excuse my English, Signorina Russo. It is not so good.”

“It’s better than my Italian. I met your daughter this afternoon, by the way. She says your pesce spada will make me weep with joy.”

The strange intensity gave way to a wide smile. “Then it is good I cook the fish for you tonight, si?”

“Si.”

“Please to sit, Excellency. I will bring the olives and antipasto.”

Marco complied and stretched his long legs out. “So, Sabrina. Tell me more about this business that brings you to Italy.”

She couldn’t have scripted a more perfect finish to a day that had edged so close to disaster.

The sunset was glorious. The grilled swordfish was everything Rafaela had promised. The cappuccino came topped with sweet, creamy foam. The company…

Okay, she could admit it. She was seriously in lust with His Excellency, Don Marco Antonio d’Whatever. She’d always been a sucker for a man with smooth, polished manners and linebacker’s shoulders. Not to mention tastes that ranged from opera to water polo to the succulent jerk-chicken skewers cooked up by New York City sidewalk vendors. And let’s not forget eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Still, she didn’t deliberately plan her grimace as she got to her feet after their leisurely meal. Or her clumsy stumble when she tried to get the crutches under her. But she certainly didn’t object when Marco muttered an oath and swept her into his arms.

“You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“I shouldn’t have kept you up so long. You need to rest and elevate your ankle.”

To hell with her ankle. A far more urgent need gripped Sabrina. With his mouth only inches from hers, she ached to brush her lips over his. She could almost taste their silky heat.

She didn’t realize how transparent her thoughts were until they were in the elevator and he bent to press the button to take them to the lower level. When he straightened, he wore his doctor’s face. Cool, assessing, concerned…until his gaze snagged hers.

Gesù!

Marco smothered the oath, but he couldn’t hold back the hunger that punched through him, hot and swift and fierce. He wanted this woman. Wanted to taste her, touch her, hear her moan with pleasure as his mouth and hands roamed her lush, seductive curves.

The hours they’d spent together since their near calamitous meeting had erased his initial, absurd notion she might be Gianetta’s twin. Or even, God help him, her ghost.

Sabrina Russo was nothing like his temperamental, tempestuous wife. Her laugh was spontaneous and natural, without a hint of frenzy lurking just under the surface. Her lively mind challenged his. And her mouth…Sweet Jesus, her mouth!

The elevator glided to a stop and the door slid open, but Marco made no move to exit. He knew he shouldn’t yield to the urge to kiss this woman. She was his patient, a guest in his home. An American entrepreneur, impatient to be on her way and complete the tasks that had brought her to Italy. They were casual acquaintances at best. Strangers who would say goodbye in the morning.

The stern lecture proved completely ineffectual against the heat that raced through his veins. Only by an exercise of iron will could he hold off until he was sure she understood his intent. He saw it in the quick flare of her eyes. Heard it in the sudden rasp of her breath. With a low growl, Marco bent his head and took her mouth with his.

She tasted of dark coffee and sweet, rich cream. He angled his mouth, wanting more of her. Her arms locked around his neck. Her head tipped. She opened her lips, welcoming him, answering hunger with hunger.

He shifted her in his arms, his blood firing when her full breasts flattened against his chest. His body was so taut and straining with need he almost missed it when she gave a small jerk. He whipped up his head and caught her trying to cover a wince.

“Christ! I hurt you.”

“No!” Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. “I banged my foot. The elevator…it’s so small.”

Shame and disgust hammered at him with vicious blows. Calling himself all kinds of a pig, Marco angled her injured foot away from the elevator wall.

“To kiss you like that was inexcusable of me,” he ground out as he carried her into the corridor. His footsteps echoing on the tiles, he strode toward the guest suite. “I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

The flush faded as her mouth tipped into a smile. “I’m not.”

Still thoroughly disgusted with his lack of control, Marco shook his head. “I don’t usually assault injured women.”

“You don’t, huh?” Amusement danced in her eyes. “How about those who aren’t injured?”

“You tease, but that was no way for me—for anyone!—to treat a guest.”

“Hey, you can’t take all the credit, Doc. I was giving as good as I got back there in the elevator.” She cocked a brow. “Or was I?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “You were, Ms. Russo. You most definitely were.”

That was still no excuse for his behavior. It took a fierce effort of will, but Marco managed to block the all-too-vivid feel of her mouth hot and eager under his and shouldered open the door to the guest suite. Signora Bertaldi had come down to straighten the room while he and Sabrina lingered over cappuccino. The bed was turned back, the sheets smoothed, the pillows plumped and ready.

Firmly suppressing the erotic and highly inappropriate thoughts that jumped into his head, Marco tugged down the top sheet and lowered his burden.

“We left the crutches upstairs. I’ll ask Signora Bertaldi to bring them to you. She waited to help you prepare for bed before she left for the evening.”

“Sure you don’t want to tuck me in yourself?”

Laughter lurked behind her all-too-innocent expression. She was teasing him again. He knew it, but the knowledge didn’t keep the gates from springing open and the mental images he’d just suppressed from pouring through. He could see her stretched out on those smooth sheets, one arm curled above her head, her lips parted in invitation…

Dammit!

“No,” he admitted with brutal honesty. “I am not at all sure. But I’ll send Rafaela’s mama to you.”

Marco was sweating when he left the guest suite. Shunning the elevator, he took the stairs to the upper floor. What the devil was wrong with him? Why did this woman stir such intense, erotic fantasies?

He hadn’t remained completely celibate after his wife’s death. He was a man. He had normal appetites, the usual physical needs. There were women in Rome, sophisticated women who played the game of flirtation and seduction with practiced charm. Yet none of them had roused him like this long-limbed American beauty.

Now he had to decide what the devil he would do about it.

Chapter Four

“Oh, yuck! Your ankle looks like an overcooked bratwurst.”

Grinning at her friend’s apt description, Sabrina swung the laptop propped on her stomach around. Its built-in camera made a dizzying sweep of the guest bedroom before her face was once again displayed on the screen alongside those of her two partners. How the heck had the world survived before videoconferencing?

“It is pretty gross,” she agreed with a glance at her garish, yellow-and-purple lower limb. She’d unbandaged the ankle to let it breathe for a while. Before wrapping it up again and crawling under the covers for the night, she’d decided to try and contact her partners.

She’d caught Devon in Germany, where she was working frantically to set up the premerger meeting of executives from Logan Aerospace and Hauptmann Metal Works. Caroline, like Sabrina, was scouting sites for the job that had unexpectedly dropped into their laps last week.

“You need to stay off that ankle,” Caro insisted, her heart-shaped face showing genuine concern. “Hole up at your hotel for the next few days and do not, I repeat, DO NOT even think about checking out those conference sites. I’ll finish here and zip over to Italy. I can be there Thursday. Friday at the latest.”