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

she twisted around to face him. “Are you serious?”

      “Very much so. Think of the cost savings if you and your partners didn’t have to fly back and forth from the States to survey locales or provide an on-site presence for your clients.”

      The calm reply left Sabrina scrambling for breath. She’d thought they were just indulging in postcoital banter this morning. She had no idea he considered the forward location a viable possibility.

      “Caroline and Devon and I just started European Business Services six months ago,” she explained. “We don’t have the contracts or the resources yet to open an office in Rome.”

      “I could help. I have a great many connections within the medical community. I also belong to a number of professional associations. Each of these associations rotates their annual conference to various countries.”

      Her brow creased. “You’re offering to steer business my way?”

      “If it will keep you in Italy, yes.” He held up a palm to forestall her instinctive protest. “I know, I know. You’re determined to make a success of EBS on your own. You also don’t want me meddling in your negotiations. But entrepreneurs exploit their personal and professional contacts all the time. You’re shooting yourself in the foot by not taking advantage of my connections, my so lovely, so enchanting Sabrina.”

      She couldn’t argue with that. EBS had landed their first really big contract because one of men she’d dated in her wilder years had referred his old college buddy. The fact that his buddy just happened to be Cal Logan, CEO of Logan Aerospace, had made for a nice chunk of change.

      She wasn’t sure why she kept resisting the idea of using Marco’s influence. At first, she’d worried his title and obvious wealth would affect her negotiations with the hotel managers she’d come to meet with. Now …

      Now she worried her hunger for this man might well be clouding her judgment. All he had to do was toss out the idea of setting up an office in Rome and she was ready to sign a lease!

      The thought of staying close to him, of letting this undeniable attraction sizzle into something even hotter, made her heart skip a few beats. Then her gaze shifted to the temple looming just over his shoulder.

      Their brief conversation about his dead wife leaped into her head. So did an almost photographic image of the portrait the duchess had shown her. Gianetta, the beautiful. Gianetta, the tragic. Gianetta, Marco’s lost love.

      He swore the resemblance was only skin deep. His mother seemed to think otherwise. At this moment, Sabrina didn’t know who was closer to the truth.

      As if sensing that he’d thrown her a curve ball, Marco lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m not asking you to decide right this moment. We have until the fourth of January together. Use the days ahead to think about my proposal, yes?”

      Right. Uh-huh. Sure.

      Like she was going to think of anything else?

       Nine

      The next morning they kicked off their New Year’s Eve celebrations with a slow, delicious session between the sheets.

      Sabrina couldn’t think of any better way to end the old year and get ready to ring in the new—until she joined Marco on the terrace for breakfast. Signora Bertaldi’s cappuccino and fresh-baked brioche had her salivating even before she greeted the older woman.

      “Buon mattina, signora.”

      “Buon mattina.” Beaming, Marco’s housekeeper placed a foam-topped porcelain cup before Sabrina. “I don’t cook the lentils and sausage this morning because you will eat them tonight, at Palazzo d’Calvetti, yes?”

      “I, uh, think so.”

      Sabrina looked to Marco for guidance. His nod confirmed lentils and sausage were on the menu.

      “You must be sure to have both,” the cook instructed. “For luck.”

      “I will.”

      When she went into the kitchen for the plates she’d kept warming in the oven, Sabrina turned to Marco.

      “What’s the schedule of events for this evening?”

      He leaned back in his chair, looking good enough to eat in tan slacks, a sky-blue oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a white sweater knotted loosely over his shoulders.

      “Plan on a long night. Dinner at seven, with thirty or so close family and friends. The ball begins at ten.”

      “How many attend that?”

      “The guest list usually runs to about four hundred. At midnight, we’ll watch the fireworks displays from the terrace, with more music and dancing to follow. Those with enough staying power usually try to greet the dawn. But don’t feel you have to stay up all night. Your ankle gives us a built-in excuse to go upstairs any time we wish.”

      “Upstairs?”

      “I usually remain in town over Fiesta di San Silvestro and Il Capodanno. It’s easier than fighting the crowds jamming the streets. I was going to tell you this morning to pack a few overnight things.”

      Sabrina wasn’t so sure about this sleepover. She could handle a dinner for thirty or so and easily get lost in the crowd of four hundred at the ball, but the prospect of facing the duchess across a breakfast table didn’t exactly light her jets.

      “Are you sure I won’t be intruding on your mother’s hospitality?”

      “Not at all. I have my own apartments in a separate wing of the palazzo.”

      That issue resolved, Sabrina addressed a more pressing one.

      “We’ll have to drive into Naples early enough for me to hit the shops. I need a gown for tonight.”

      “And some red underwear,” he reminded her with a grin that sent little shivers down her back.

      Oh, boy! Less than a half hour out of Marco’s bed and she wanted back in it. She had it bad, Sabrina realized. Reeeally bad.

      “And some red underwear,” she confirmed with a catch in her breath.

      “You might find something to suit you in Positano. A friend of mine owns a boutique that caters to the guests at La Sirenuse.”

      La Sirenuse, Sabrina recalled, was the five-star hotel with rooms booked a year in advance by movie stars and oil tycoons. If the boutique was good enough for them, it was certainly good enough for her.

      “It’s worth a shot.”

      “I’ll call Lucia and tell her we’ll stop by on our way to Naples. If you don’t find something there, I know several good shops in the city.”

      Two minutes after walking through the front door of Lucia Salvatore’s elegant boutique Sabrina knew she’d struck gold. Forewarned by Marco’s call, the vivacious owner had three fabulous gowns ready for Sabrina to try on.

      She swept out of the dressing area to model each gown for Marco. He heartily approved of the strapless black taffeta with a full skirt that rustled when she walked. He was even more enthusiastic over the shimmering emerald satin that hugged her breasts and waist before exploding into rainbow-colored layers of chiffon. But the gold lamé body sheath won his vote, hands down.

      The slinky fabric clung to Sabrina’s every curve, shooting off pinpoints of light with each step. The diagonally cut bodice narrowed to a slender strap and was clasped with a jeweled leopard that draped over her left shoulder. The skirt was slit to the thigh on the right side.

      “That one,” Marco pronounced. “It must be that one.”

      Sabrina had to agree, especially when Lucia produced a pair of gold sandals with manageable heels.

      “Don