The Sicilian Surrender. Sandra Marton

was out of breath by the time she reached level ground. The stranger was gone, which annoyed her. What kind of man watched a woman without making an effort to meet her? Because yes, he was watching her. Not the others.

      Her.

      Fallon strode toward the tent, where the Bridal Dreams people were sprawled in a semi-circular arrangement of canvas chairs, their faces tilted up to the sun.

      Andy looked up and called out to her. “All done?”

      She nodded. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. She grinned back, returned the gesture and opened the door of the ancient little red Fiat she’d rented from the innkeeper as soon as she’d realized how isolated this place was.

      Her jeans and T-shirt were lying in the back seat. Fallon pulled them on over her bikini, grimacing a little at the feel of the hot cotton against her sticky skin.

      She wanted a shower and a cold drink. She wanted to pack her things for tomorrow’s flight home and then, maybe, drive up into the hills for one last look over the sea.

      Most of all, she thought as she let out the clutch and floored the gas pedal, most of all, she never wanted to see this cliff and its castello again.

      Stefano watched Fallon O’Connell walk toward the tent he’d permitted to be raised on his property.

      She seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

      Was he the reason? Yes. He probably was.

      Stefano opened the concealed minifridge built into the wall behind his desk, took out a bottle of water and raised it to his lips.

      The lady thought he was watching her. He’d realized that days ago. The way she stiffened and looked around her whenever he appeared was a dead giveaway.

      It didn’t surprise him. Women who looked like her assumed they had the eye of every man who saw them.

      She was wrong. He wanted nothing to do with her.

      Concern for his privacy had drawn him back, not a woman, and a damned good thing, too. Carla had violated their agreement before he’d even had time to board his plane. She’d brought in more people than she’d said she would, and his housekeeper told him that she’d sought access to the house the instant his back was turned.

      Stefano settled into a leather armchair, put his feet up on a hassock and took another drink of cold water.

      Of course, he’d sent Carla packing. He’d wanted to toss out the lot of them, her and her hedonistic fashionistas, too, but that dark threat she’d made hung over his head. Instead, he’d done the best he could, told his former mistress to get off his property before he had her thrown off.

      Then he’d settled in to get through the week without going crazy from boredom, and that was the only reason he’d taken to observing the Bridal Dreams group.

      Fallon had reached the disreputable-looking old car she’d picked up somewhere. Stefano frowned as she opened the door, pulled out jeans and a T-shirt and slipped them on. The shirt was oversize but the jeans clung to her legs. Such impossibly long legs, he thought with lazy appraisal.

      Clothed, she was as magnificent as she’d been in the string bikini.

      Okay. Maybe he paid more attention to her than to the others. What man wouldn’t? She was stunning, the kind of woman who’d silence a room simply by entering it. A man would have to be blind not to enjoy looking at her.

      Tomorrow, there’d be nothing to look at.

      This unwanted intrusion in his life was over. This was the last day the photographic crew would be here. Fallon O’Connell was driving away right now. He couldn’t help smiling at the way the little Fiat bucked. She’d probably let the clutch out too fast. She was driving too fast, too, leaving a plume of dust behind.