New Year Fireworks. Diana Hamilton

by the mingled scents of broiled tomatoes, basil and melted goat cheese, she returned the older woman’s greeting.

      “Signorina Russo will be staying with us for a while longer,” Marco informed her, speaking in English for the benefit of his guest. “You have additional help coming in from the village this morning, si?”

      “Si, Excellenza.” Signora Bertaldi placed the tray on the table. “The two who always assist me when you are in residence.”

      “Bring in more if you need them.”

      “I will,” she promised as she positioned a heaping platter before Sabrina.

      Marco himself poured fresh-squeezed orange juice from a carafe on the tray. The offerings also included a basket of fresh-baked rolls, a ramekin of creamy butter and an assortment of jams. Wishing them buon appetito, Signora Bertaldi left them to the dazzling sunshine and the sumptuous breakfast.

      After breakfast Marco examined Sabrina’s ankle. He had her sink into the soft leather of the sofa in the library and carefully unwrapped the Ace bandage. The swelling had gone down considerably but the skin was mottled with ugly purple-yellow bruises.

      He rotated her foot gently, frowning when she fought to hide a grimace. “You really should stay off this today. It requires more ice and elevation.”

      “No can do. I need to get to work. How about I stretch out on the backseat of your Ferrari with an ice pack draped over my ankle?”

      The prospect of driving around the Amalfi coast with a bandaged foot sticking out the rear window of his lean, mean machine didn’t seem to particularly faze him, but he came up with an alternate suggestion.

      “I have a better idea. My mother keeps a small fleet of vehicles at her home in Naples. I’ll call and ask to borrow a sedan. It will give you more room and comfort.”

      “You’re brave enough to tackle these hairpin turns in a big, honkin’ sedan?”

      “I’ve done it many times, I assure you.”

      “It will take you forever to get to Naples and back,” Sabrina protested, remembering her own meandering journey after she left the interstate just south of the city.

      “I’ll have the car delivered. It will take an hour, two at most. During that time you will rest here on the sofa, with your foot up.”

      The command sounded so much like the ones her father used to issue that Sabrina bristled instinctively. Common sense kicked in a second or two later.

      “Deal.”

      He rewrapped her ankle and helped her stretch out on the soft leather. Propping a pillow under her foot, he straightened and gestured toward the speakers attached to a high-tech iPod dock.

      “Would you like to listen to some music while I fetch ice and make my calls?”

      “What have you got on there?”

      “Everything from Andrew Lloyd Weber to Zucchero.”

      Sabrina opted for show tunes over Italian pop rock. While Sarah Brightman and Steve Barton blended their voices in the haunting love duet from The Phantom, she let her gaze roam the library. Until now she’d caught only brief glimpses of the room as she and Marco passed through it.

      She took her time now, seeking clues to the personality of the man who fascinated her more by the moment. She couldn’t make out the titles of the books in the shelves lining three walls and itched for a closer look. She settled for studying the treasures interspersed among the volumes.

      That bust of a Roman matron looked as though it might have been carved while Pompeii was still a thriving metropolis. And that small oil painting on an ornate stand was either a Caravaggio or a damned good copy. A caduceus carved from translucent alabaster occupied place of honor amid a collection of objects that looked more like medieval torture implements than medical instruments. On the shelf next to the caduceus was a chess set with tall, elaborately decorated pieces in ivory and red.

      Not until her gaze had made a complete circuit of the library did something begin to nag her. She couldn’t put a finger on it right away. Frowning, Sabrina made another sweep of the bookcases before glancing at the long table that served as Marco’s desk.

      A maroon leather paper tray and blotter sat squarely in the center of the slab of polished oak. A gold Mont Blanc pen jutted from its holder beside the blotter. Next to it was his sleek laptop and a cordless phone propped up in its charger.

      What was missing, Sabrina realized after another puzzled moment, were photographs. Most desks contained at least one, framed and positioned for optimal viewing. Usually of the owner’s spouse or family.

      Intensely curious now, she glanced around again. Nope. No snapshots. No formal portraits. Not even one of those cartoonlike caricatures sketched by the street artists who plied every piazza in Rome.

      Apparently Marco didn’t choose to surround himself with visible reminders of the wife he’d lost three years ago. Was her death still so painful?

      Although intensely curious, Sabrina wouldn’t poke her nose into his past. God knew enough people had poked into hers over the years.

      Maybe he’d open up a little when they knew each other better. The prospect of spending the next few days getting to know the handsome doc had Sabrina humming along with Sarah Brightman.

       Five

      “You invited one of your patients to recuperate in your villa? An American?”

      Marco smiled at the sniff that came through the phone. A Neapolitan born and bred, his mother had a native’s disdain of foreigners. That included Sicilians, Sardinians and Corsicans as well as everyone west of the Apennines and north of the Abruzzi.

      “Who is this woman?”

      “Her name is Sabrina Russo. She’s in Italy on business. Since I was partially responsible for her injury, I felt I should offer the hospitality of my home.”

      That touched on another sore spot. His mother understood why Marco preferred to stay at his own villa during his infrequent trips down from Rome instead of the palazzo in Naples his family had called home for generations. He still had apartments there, an entire floor. He and Gianetta had occupied the apartment most of their marriage, until Marco had accepted his current position as chief of neurosurgery at Rome’s prestigious Bambino Gesù Children’s Hospital.

      Palazzo d’Calvetti was still his home, but these days he preferred the simple solitude of this villa he’d had constructed after Gianetta’s death. His mother understood, but she didn’t like it.

      Marco dined with her regularly, which mollified her somewhat. And dutiful son that he was, he made the requisite appearances at her numerous charity and social events, including the big New Year’s Eve gala. That reminded him …

      “If Ms. Russo is still in Italy on the Feast of St. Silvestro, I’d like to bring her to your ball.”

      The request produced a startled silence. Marco understood his mother’s surprise. He hadn’t escorted any woman to the ball since Gianetta. With good reason.

      The media had gone into a feeding frenzy after Gianetta’s death. Even now the paparazzi hounded him mercilessly, and one disgusting rag insisted on trumpeting him as Italy’s most eligible bachelor. He preferred to keep his private life private and was careful to avoid the appearance of anything more than casual friendship with the women he dated. Until now, that had meant not escorting any of them to the ball so steeped in his family’s history and tradition.

      Marco could rationalize the break with his longstanding policy without much difficulty. Sabrina would be in Italy for a short time. Her life and her business interests were on the other side of the Atlantic. At best, the attraction sizzling between them could spark only a brief affair.

      But spark it would.

      He’d