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

       Three

      Food. She needed food.

      The thought dragged Sabrina from a deep sleep. Or maybe it was the scents teasing her nostrils. Eyes closed, mind still only half engaged, she sniffed the air. The tantalizing aromas of garlic and onions sizzling in olive oil competed with something sweet and yeasty and fresh baked.

      A loud rumble emanated from the vicinity of her stomach, reminding Sabrina she hadn’t eaten since the roll and a cup of coffee she grabbed at the airport before claiming her rental car and driving south toward the Amalfi coast. She’d planned to stop at a restaurant along the way and lunch on the region’s incredible seafood.

      Instead, she remembered with a sudden jolt, she’d almost become food for the fishes!

      The memory of how close she’d come to tumbling off a cliff and plunging into the sea brought her lids up. She blinked, confused for a moment by the unfamiliar surroundings, then the haze cleared.

      She was in a bedroom. In Marco Calvetti’s villa. Stretched out on a king-size bed. With her left leg stuck up at a thirty-degree angle and pillows propped under her knee and ankle. A cold compress was draped over the swollen joint.

      She wiggled a bit to get comfortable and surveyed the room with more interest. It was a perfect blend of Mediterranean and modern, with Moorish arches and stucco walls painted a warm terra-cotta. An exquisitely carved antique chest stood against one wall. A flat-screen plasma TV hung on another.

      But it was the view through the arches that held Sabrina spellbound. It gave onto a long, narrow terrace. Potted geraniums, hibiscus and trailing vines added splashes of color to an otherwise unbroken vista of sea and sky.

      “Holy cow!”

      Was that faint blur in the distance Capri? Sicily? Sabrina wasn’t sure what part of the coast she was on or which direction the windows faced. She itched to get out onto the terrace for a better look and was gingerly lowering her foot when a soft knock sounded on the door behind her.

      “Si,” she called. “Entri.”

      “Good,” Marco said when he opened the door. “You are awake.”

      “Barely.”

      She struggled to sit up as he came into the room. The first thing she noticed was that he was carrying a set of aluminum crutches. The second, that his sexy whiskers were gone.

      Clean-shaven, his hair damp and slicked back, his broad shoulders molded by a cream-colored, V-neck sweater, he still looked good enough to eat.

      Which reminded her …

      “Please tell me that’s Rafaela’s mama’s cooking I smell.”

      “It is indeed. I came to ask if you would like a tray here. Or are you feeling up to dinner on the main terrace? It is heated, so we’d be quite comfortable.”

      “You have another terrace with a view like this?”

      “Several, actually. The villa is like the others along this stretch of coast. More vertical than horizontal, I’m afraid. But you don’t need to worry about navigating stairs,” he assured her. “I had an elevator installed when the place was built. The lift is very useful for Signora Bertaldi—Rafaela’s mama. And for my own when she comes over from Naples for a visit.”

      “Then dinner on the terrace it is.”

      Now that she’d recovered from the shock of the accident and wooziness caused by the pills, Sabrina found herself intensely curious about the sexy doc.

      “Does your mother visit often?” she asked as she pushed off the bed and onto her one good foot.

      “Not often.” He kept a firm grip on her arm while she experimented with the lightweight crutches. “Nor do I, for that matter. This is only my second time this year.”

      That surprised her. This bedroom didn’t have an unused feel to it. The oversize marble tiles showed not a single dust bunny and light flooded through sparkling windowpanes. Rafaela’s mama must have a squad of maids at her disposal to keep everything so fresh smelling and spotless.

      “So where do you spend the rest of the year?”

      “In Rome. That’s where I have my practice.”

      Interesting. She knew now he had a mother in Naples and a practice in Rome. There were still some significant gaps in her database, however. Like whether there was a Mrs. Doc/Duke somewhere in the picture. Never shy, Sabrina figured there was only one way to find out.

      “What about your wife? She must love coming down to this beautiful villa.”

      “My wife died three years ago.”

      “Oh, I’m sorry.”

      “So am I. Come, let’s test your skill with these crutches.”

      His tone didn’t invite further questions or expressions of sympathy. Sabrina swallowed her curiosity and clumped a few tentative steps.

      “Be careful not to put too much pressure on your armpits. You don’t want to compress the nerves there. Use the foam handgrips to support yourself as much as possible.”

      He stayed close by her side her while she made a circuit of the spacious suite.

      “Your rental car has been delivered,” he said when he was satisfied she could maneuver. “Your cases are just outside, in the hall. Would you like me to bring them in so you can freshen up before we eat?”

      “Yes, please.”

      She felt like she’d rolled in dirt, then gone to sleep in her clothes. Oh, wait! That’s exactly what she had done.

      “Can you manage alone, or shall I have Signora Bernaldi come help you?”

      “I can manage.”

      “Very well.”

      He set her roller bag and briefcase on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and carried her smaller tote into the adjoining bathroom.

      “There’s a phone on the vanity and one by the toilet. Press one-six if you require assistance.”

      “One-six. Got it.”

      “I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

      Sabrina fished in her suitcase for a black, ankle-length crinkle skirt and a velvet jacket trimmed with lace, then hobbled into the bath. The oval whirlpool tub drew a look of intense longing but she suspected she couldn’t climb in without having to call for help climbing out.

      Not that she’d mind getting naked with the doc. Especially now that she knew he was single.

      Not single, she amended. A widower.

      The thought of what he must have suffered sobered her.

      She’d never lost a spouse, but had come close to losing her father when he was diagnosed with cancer several years ago. Foolishly, Sabrina had thought his illness might finally breach the walls between them. Instead it had left Dominic Russo more determined than ever to mold his only child into the woman he thought she should be.

      She’d resisted his determined efforts for most of her life. With her mother watching helplessly from the sidelines, she and her father had engaged in a running battle of wills. Sabrina’s warfare had taken the form of outrageous pranks and, later, wild parties.

      His illness had sobered her, though. Shaken by his near brush with death, Sabrina had abandoned her own career as a top buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue and agreed to serve as the executive director of the Russo Foundation.

      Big mistake. Huge. Her father couldn’t give up an ounce of control. He’d questioned her decisions, countered her orders and generally made her life a living hell. She’d stuck it out, trying to make it work, until she finally admitted she could never fit the mold he’d designed for her.

      Shaking