Her Italian Soldier. Rebecca Winters

had worn off. He needed some more quick before the pain flared out of control, as it had done last night.

      Last night…

      He rubbed a hand over his prickly jaws, groaning in self-disgust.

      Sunlight filled the room, forcing him to squint. He checked his watch. Twenty to eleven. He found himself alone, still dressed in the same clothes minus his shoes, which she’d removed. The bed was in total disarray, evidence he’d had one of his nightmares. The quilt and pillows lay on the floor.

      Naturally she was long gone. By now the American would have alerted his father, who had her allegiance. Lucca was sure he could expect a visitor shortly.

      A spate of Italian invective poured out of him.

      He turned slowly to roll off the mattress and gave a start to see his near-empty bottle of pills on the bedside table. It hadn’t been there last night. She’d even supplied a glass of water. On the other side of the lamp lay the cane. He decided the nurses at the hospital had nothing on her. His father required efficiency. She had that trait down pat.

      Lucca had planned on total privacy for one night, but he had to admit that being this close to his pills meant he didn’t need to suffer another accident on the way to the kitchen.

      After swallowing three, his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon on the last leg of his flight to Naples. During the long wait for the train to Salerno, sleep had been impossible. The lack of it always increased the pain. By the time he’d hired a car to drive him to Ravello, he’d been ready to collapse.

      A quick scan of the room revealed none of her belongings. He heard no noise and imagined the car she’d mentioned had already come for her. Alone at last, he got up from the bed and tested his weight with the cane. Last night’s accident had been an aberration. As long as he didn’t lean on it too heavily, the cane would do fine until he’d recovered.

      The trip from the bathroom to the kitchen wasn’t too bad. His duffel bag was still on the floor where he’d left it. It looked untouched.

      He opened the fridge and found it stocked. This house had belonged to his mother’s family. She and his father had lived in it until she’d died. In the will, she’d left the house and property to Lucca. At the time he’d joined the military, he and his father weren’t speaking, but he knew Guilio would keep an eye on it.

      How strange he’d decided to install his new American employee here. Even though she’d claimed she wanted to stay at a farmhouse, his father wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to open up the house where he’d started out his married life for just any person working for him. This woman had to occupy a unique place in the scheme of things.

      That’s why she hadn’t opened up to him last night. She and his father had something private going on. He had to admit she’d recovered fast from her fright last night. His interrogation of her proved she was a quick study.

      Naturally Guilio would have sent down one of the maids from the villa to make sure things were ready for her. He reached for a handful of fat grapes from a bowl and popped them in his mouth. Their juice squirted pure sugar.

      The microwave was new. His father had set her up with the necessities. A jar of freeze-dried coffee stood next to it. He preferred cappuccino chiaro, but in the military he’d learned to drink it black and made himself a cup.

      In his line of vision to the terrace he noticed several branches from one of the lemon trees had grown and formed an overhang. While he leaned against the sink to sip the hot brew, he saw movement beneath them. Beyond the French doors he watched the back of a woman of medium height picking daisies near the half-hidden railing.

      Her hair was caught beneath a large, broad-rimmed straw hat. The rest of her was dressed in a sleeveless white top trimmed with a small white eyelet ruffle. Equally immaculate white pants skimmed womanly hips down to the bone-colored sandals on her feet, where he glimpsed frosted pink toenails.

      He waited until she turned enough for him to see the classic profile of Signorina Marsh. So she hadn’t gone off early … Last night her bathrobe had covered up her slender curves.

      The whiteness of her fresh-looking outfit combined with the profusion of white petals drew his gaze. With that face partially hidden beneath the hat rim and set against a backdrop of blue sky melding into cobalt waters far below, it was like beholding one of those picture-perfect postcards in dazzling Technicolor.

      As she came in through the unlocked doors bringing the sunshine with her, her eyes lit on him, but she kept going and put the flowers in a ceramic pitcher on the counter. After filling it with water, she placed it in the center of the rectangular kitchen table, which was inlaid with hand-painted tiles of lemons.

      His mother used to bring in fresh flowers in the early morning. He experienced a moment’s resentment to be reminded of happier times that would never come again.

      “I’ve always wanted to be able to decorate with flowers from my own garden. These are for me, but enjoy them if you want to. They’re glorious.” Dusting off her hands, she reached for a large straw handbag lying on one of the chairs and walked over to the side door.

      With a parting glance from eyes a rare shade of periwinkle she added, “My ride will be arriving any minute. I’m going to walk out to the drive so you can remain invisible.” She started to open the door, then paused.

      “Please wipe that morose expression off your face. You’re probably not that bad-looking when you aren’t carrying the world around on your shoulders like Atlas. Surely you realize I didn’t mean the things I said last night.”

      “Only half,” he muttered in an acerbic tone after finishing the rest of his coffee.

      “Hmm, maybe three quarters. When you make yourself another cup of coffee, there’s sugar in the cupboard. I’d say you needed a little sweetening. Before I leave, tell me the truth. How recently were you released from the hospital?”

      His lips twisted unpleasantly. “What hospital would that be?” He opened the fridge and found a plum to bite into.

      “The one where you had surgery on your right thigh. You’re favoring your other leg and can’t get into any one comfortable position for long.”

      He munched until there was nothing left but the pit, which he removed and tossed in the wastebasket in the corner. “You’re mistaken, signorina.”

      “No.” Annabelle remained firm. “The medication you’re taking tells me otherwise.”

      On cue his dark brows furrowed with menace. “What makes you such an authority?”

      “I’m a nurse with experience taking care of patients recovering from heart and thoracic surgery, gunshot wounds, broken bones.”

      Stillness surrounded him before she saw a look of alarm break out on his face. “What’s wrong with my father?”

      She blinked, trying to make sense of his hyperspeed leap from the subject at hand to Guilio. Once the light dawned, she cried, “No, no—I’m not working for your father in that capacity. I’m helping do some advertising for him. As far as I know, he’s fine!” she assured him, noting that his first reaction had been one of a son who loved his father. That cleared up one question haunting her.

      His eyes looked disbelieving.

      “You’re the person I’m worried about, signore. I’ve a feeling you left the hospital before it was wise. Combined with the fall you had last night, you need to nurse that leg as much as possible. Even if the pain has subsided for now, you’re wiped out.”

      “Grazie for your concern.”

      She decided the ice between them was thawing a few degrees. His sarcasm didn’t come off sounding quite as bitter as before. “Prego.” It was one of few words she knew in Italian for you’re welcome.

      “One more thing, signore. I told Guilio I didn’t