Her Italian Soldier. Rebecca Winters

       “Lucca,” she called softly to him. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Come on.”

      Using a gentle rolling motion, she managed to get him on his back. More unintelligible words flew out of his mouth.

      His tear-washed face was her undoing. She bent over him and started kissing his eyelids and cheeks. “Lucca?” she whispered. “The war is over. You’re home and safe.” She ran her lips over every rugged line and angle of the face haunting her dreams. Her hands massaged his shoulders, willing him to relax and let go of the powerful flashback.

      “Hush, now,” she murmured against his lips, both of theirs salty from his tears. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

      Just when she thought she wasn’t getting through to him he muttered, “Annabelle?”

      “Yes!” she cried, so relieved he’d come back to reality she didn’t care what he thought of her unorthodox methods. Her sorrow for what he’d suffered went too deep for tears. He’d been injured and had lost his best friend. She rocked him in her arms. With a swift strength she could scarcely credit, he pulled her body toward him.

      Dear Reader,

      Up to the time I was fifteen, going on sixteen, our eight -member family got along with the Buick my father drove.(He looked exactly like Charles Boyer in his younger days.) Then something incredible happened. In 1955 he came home from work one day driving a convertible that was so adorable I thought I was seeing things. He’d bought a Porsche 356 Carrera Cabriolet. It was gleaming white, with red leather seats, and looked like a toy. I’d never heard of a Porsche, but if you could fall in love with a car, I did.

      A month later it was time for me to take my driving test, and Daddy taught me how to drive in the Porsche with its stick shift. The day after I got my licence, he let me drive it to my high school. Needless to say I was the most popular girl at the school that day, and never got over my love of foreign sports cars. When you read this novel, Her Italian Soldier, you’ll see I still have a mad passion for them.

      I dedicate this book to the most saintly, brilliant, wonderful, generous father in the world.

      Enjoy!

       Rebecca Winters

      About the Author

      REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now swelled to include three beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wild flowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon^® romance novels, because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.

      Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at: www.rebeccawinters-author.com.

      Her Italian

      Soldier

      Rebecca Winters

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      ANNABELLE Marsh stood at the bathroom sink while she began removing her makeup. She didn’t recognize the blond woman in the mirror staring back at her. There was an unnatural gleam to her shoulder-length hair she could never have achieved on her own. Her eyes really weren’t that violet. Nor were her brows and lashes quite as dark.

      Artificially flawless skin highlighted by a subtle bloom brought out her high cheekbones. The makeup artist had defined her mouth to make it look more voluptuous. Her fingernails and toenails possessed their own polished sheen.

      She’d had a bevy of fairy godmothers doing what they did best as they’d transformed her. Marcella of Marcella’s Italian haute couture salon in Rome chose all the designer clothes that Annabelle would wear throughout her photo shoots in Italy. She’d added jewels as the final touch for the shoot that had started four days ago at an air force base outside Rome in front of an MB-Viper fighter jet.

      It had been a lark so far—loads of fun.

      “Three weeks of being the Amalfi Girl,” Guilio told her. “My wife and I will see to your every comfort. Then—since you insist—you can go back to being Ms. Marsh.”

      “You mean the forgettable Ms. Marsh.” She’d had long enough to stop grieving over a failed marriage and divorce two years earlier, and had taken back her maiden name. But a lack of self confidence, remained as one of its by-products.

      His brown brows lifted. “If you were forgettable, I wouldn’t have picked you for the most important project of my life.”

      Annabelle shook her head in disbelief. “I still don’t know what you see in me.”

      “My brothers and I, the whole Cavezzali family, have been in the business of designing cars since World War Two. But I was the one who dreamed up the Amalfi sports car. It’s been my life’s work. I saw the lines of it in my sleep years ago and lines, Annabelle, are like the bones of a beautiful woman. What lies beneath determines what will eventually become a masterpiece.”

      She flashed him a teasing smile. “You saw my bones?”

      “Right away. They spoke to me. They said, ‘Guilio? At last you have found what you’ve been looking for.’” The charm and exuberance of the attractive sixtysomething Italian couldn’t be denied. “I am going to form a marriage that will show a whole new face of the elegant world of the Italian sports car.”

      Annabelle would never forget that day two months ago when the dynamic car designer had come to the Amalfi dealership in Los Angeles, California. He and her boss, Mel Jardine, the owner of the complex who sold the most Amalfi cars in the States, had business to talk over. Guilio was launching a spectacular new sports car.

      Being Mel’s personal assistant, Annabelle had taken care of all the arrangements to make Guilio comfortable, including catering their meals. He’d insisted she remain for the day-long meetings and he was so attentive, she feared the married man might be interested in her in a nonprofessional way. But he soon dispelled that worry by bringing on another one. He told her in front of Mel he wanted Annabelle to be the model to advertise his new car.

      She laughed at the absurd notion, but he kept right on talking while Mel shot her a glance that said she should listen to this Italian genius.

      “I’m perfectly serious. For the last year I’ve been searching for the right woman. I had no exact face or figure in mind. I only knew one day she would come along and I would know her.” He stared at her. “And here you are. You have that Amalfi Girl look. You’re unique, just like the car. Mel will tell you I’ve never used a female model before.”

      Annabelle knew he spoke the truth. She was familiar with the brochures around the shop. They only featured prosperous Italian men in ads with his cars, like a businessman from Milan, or a socialite from Florence.

      “I’m so flattered I don’t know what to say, Mr. Cavezzali.”

      “Guilio. Please.”

      “Guilio, then. But why bring in a woman now?” She was filled with curiosity. “Out of the whole car industry, your ads are the most appealing just as they are,” she assured him and meant it.

      He tapped his fingertips together. “That’s gratifying to hear, but I want this campaign to be sensational. It’s in honor of my brilliant boy.” The hushed quality in his tone told Annabelle how very deeply he loved his son.

      “Lucca went to military school at eighteen and has distinguished himself as a fighter pilot with many decorations to his credit.” His eyes moistened. “He’s my pride and joy. I’ve named my latest creation the Amalfi MB-Viper to let him know how much I