The Sicilian Marriage. Sandra Marton

      Washable silk, the tag said. Light pressing might be required. Light? An elephant could sit on the blouse for an hour and the wrinkles would still be there as soon as it lifted its butt. And what difference did it make? Five minutes on the street, she’d look as if she’d slept in it, anyway.

      Truth was, she’d probably look that way as soon as she put it on. She was sweating. Not glowing, the way those lade-da fashion magazines said. Sweating, with a capital S.

      No wonder the rent was so cheap. Well, cheap for New York City. When she’d signed the lease a few months back, she’d figured she was getting a bargain. Some bargain, she thought, as she shoved her hair back from her face.

      The kitchen faucet leaked. Only one of the stove’s burners worked, and there wasn’t any point in talking about the air conditioner. It was supposed to cool the whole place—not much to ask, considering the size of this shoe box the landlord called an apartment.

      Pitiful.

      And so was she.

      Bree yanked out the plug and stood the iron on its heel. That was the only way to describe a woman who was fixated on something that was weeks in the past. A man came on to you like a savage, forced his kisses on you…

      Another time, another place, a woman who’d endured such indignities would have gone straight to her brothers and asked them to defend her honor. She wouldn’t do that, of course—this was the twenty-first century, not the middle ages, and besides, she could handle her own affairs—but the thought of the male contingent of the O’Connell clan beating Gianni Firelli to a pulp held definite appeal.

      Never mind that she’d seemed to respond to what he’d done. If she had, it was only because he’d taken her by surprise. Okay. So she hadn’t handled the scene well. So what? Why keep thinking about it?

      Why keep thinking about the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hand between her thighs?

      Bree said a word that would have stunned her protective brothers, crumpled the blouse into a ball and hurled it across the room.

      As if she gave a pig’s whistle about any of that.

      The job interview. She had to concentrate on that. She needed to be at her best, look her best and how was she going to manage that with Mr. Firelli in her head and a scorch mark the size of Texas on her blouse?

      The blouse was easier to handle.

      She could stand the collar up. Or wear a scarf around her neck. No. The collar wasn’t made to stand up. As for the scarf—Fallon would probably make a scarf look like an ascot.

      She’d make it look like a noose.

      Bree dumped the blouse on the bed. What to wear? She needed this job. She didn’t know anything about being a gofer for a TV producer but she’d learn. She had to. What little she’d saved from her last stint as a waitress was about gone, and an hour spent yesterday with the Sunday Times employment section had been depressing.

      The city seemed in desperate need of everything from accountants to zoologists. Unfortunately two years of college didn’t qualify her for much of anything.

      “You and me, kid,” Sean used to say. “All the O’Connells are busy being grown-ups, except us.”

      Bree stepped into the shower and turned the water cold enough to raise goose bumps.

      That wasn’t true anymore. Sean, the untamable gambler, had been tamed. He’d sunk his winnings into ownership of an exclusive Caribbean resort while she still drifted from job to job and place to place, searching for something she’d like enough to want to do for the rest of her life.

      The score, thus far, was a big, fat zero.

      She shut off the shower, stepped onto the mat and wrapped herself in a bath sheet.

      Who’d want to make a career demonstrating cosmetics to bored matrons with more money than common sense? Spend a lifetime selling prêt à porter to spoiled rich girls? She’d have been one of those overindulged brats herself if it weren’t for the fact that she flat-out refused to accept help from her family.

      Financial help, anyway, and when she’d tried the other kind…well, it hadn’t worked out. Waiting tables at Keir’s vineyard restaurant last winter had gone well enough until she’d not-so-accidentally dumped a glass of wine on a pain-in-the-ass customer who’d complained about everything from the first course to the last.

      More recently, Fallon had wangled her a stint modeling for a new diet drink photo shoot.

      You probably weren’t supposed to stab your index finger between your lips and make gagging noises when the guy watching from the sidelines was the client’s rep. Even so, he’d hit on her. That had been even more nauseating. He was okay to look at, she supposed, but nothing compared to…

      Bree frowned into the mirror. “Stop that,” she said out loud, and marched to her closet.

      What did TV people wear, anyway? Was the desired look funky or professional? Maybe a little of each. The navy silk suit, but with that Bella Sicilia T-shirt she’d picked up last time she visited Fallon and Stefano.

      The doorbell rang.

      Bree rolled her eyes. What now? The super had already come by to peer at her air conditioner and tell her there was nothing he could do until a new part arrived. Her usual early-morning visitor, Mrs. Schilling from across the hall, had already stopped by to update her on the alien spaceship on the roof.

      Brring, brring, brring.

      Time for another bulletin on the Alien Invasion.

      Bree sighed, knotted the bath sheet more tightly over her breasts and went to the door. She undid the hundred and one locks—each brother had added his own assortment—and cracked the door a couple of inches.

      “Yes, Mrs. Schilling,” she said, “have you heard something more from the Mart—”

      The words caught in her throat. It wasn’t her slightly-batty-but-sweet neighbor standing on the doormat, it was her impossibly arrogant would-be seducer, the man she’d spent the last few weeks loathing. Here he was. In the flesh. The gorgeous flesh.

      What had taken him so long?

      “You!” Oh God, such originality! And such a stupid thought. Bree stood straighter. “What are you doing here, Firelli?”

      “I have to see you.”

      He wasn’t much on originality, either…and why should such a hackneyed phrase make her pulse beat zoom? Definitely, the heat was frying her brain.

      “A charming line,” she said brightly, “but wasted on me. I am absolutely not interested in—”

      “Briana. This is important. Let me in.”

      Like the big, bad wolf, he made the simple words sound tempting. That was the bad news. The good news was that she wasn’t some silly little creature in a nursery rhyme.

      “Not in a million years.”

      “We have to talk.”

      “We have nothing to talk about. And if, by some miracle we did, have you ever heard of that new invention called the telephone?”

      “Damn it, this isn’t a game. Let me in.”

      “You’re right. It isn’t a game.” Bree started to close the door. “Go on home, Firelli. Give us both a break and just—”

      “Briana.” Gianni moved forward and wedged his shoulder in the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. “Please.”

      The word, as much as that shoulder, stopped her cold. Please? She wouldn’t have thought the term was in his vocabulary. At least, not when it came to women. She started to tell him what he could do with his plea but something in his eyes made her reconsider.

      “Something’s wrong,” she said slowly.

      He