New Year Fireworks. Diana Hamilton

colorful Christmas decorations strung across the narrow alleys added to the chaotic scene.

      Sabrina spotted a crew taking down the Christmas decorations and replacing them with a banner announcing a massive fireworks display and rock concert to celebrate the coming Fiesta di San Silvestro.

      “I bet the Spanish Quarter rocks on New Year’s Eve.”

      Marco flicked a glance at the dark tunnel of streets. “You don’t want to wander into the Quarter at night. Especially the night of San Silvestro. Some Neapolitans still practice the tradition of throwing broken furniture out the window to show they’re ready for a fresh start.”

      “Out with the old, in with the new, huh?”

      “Exactly.” He maneuvered around a traffic circle and turned onto a wide boulevard. “We have another tradition you may want to consider, however. Wearing red underwear on New Year’s Eve is supposed to bring good luck.”

      His smile was slow and wicked.

      “I would enjoy seeing you in red underwear. I would enjoy even more getting you out of it.”

      “Then I’ll have to hit the shops,” Sabrina said, laughing. “Red panties and a dress for your mother’s New Year’s Ball. If I get everything done I need to and can change my airline reservations.”

      “We will get it done.”

      “We have New Year’s traditions in the States, too,” she commented as the boulevard sloped up toward the magnificent baroque cathedral dominating the city’s skyline. “When you did your residency in New York, do you remember champagne toasts and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day?”

      “I remember more the nonstop football games. Or what you American’s call football.”

      “What about resolutions? Do you make ‘em and break ‘em like we do?”

      “That’s an all-American tradition.” He threw her a quick look. “Have you made yours for the coming year?”

      “Not yet. I’ll have to think about it.”

      She didn’t have to think long.

      She’d intended to fly home late tomorrow evening. Even if she changed her ticket, she would gain only a few more days in Italy. Marco had to return to Rome by January fifth and she needed to be back in the States by then, working furiously with Caroline to put their final proposal together for the Global Security conference.

      She wouldn’t think about the ticking clock, Sabrina resolved. She’d enjoy the time she had left in Italy. She’d scout the last hotel, stuff herself on Signora Bertaldi’s cooking, go to a ball and make love morning, noon and/or night to her handsome doc.

      With that delicious resolution firmly in mind, she craned her neck for a better view of a fat, white moon rising above the cathedral’s spires.

      Sabrina fell instantly in love with the Palazzo d’Calvetti.

      Three stories tall and at least eight bays wide, its facade featured different window frames and pediments on each level. She could see the Moorish influence in some, the Italian Renaissance in others. A crowning cornice topped by statues of various saints ran the length of the facade.

      Marco parked under a central portico supported by marble columns and escorted Sabrina up the shallow front steps. They were met at the door by a butler who welcomed His Excellency home with genuine warmth.

      “Grazie, Phillippo. This is Ms. Russo, my guest.”

      The butler blinked in surprise but recovered quickly. “Buona sera, madam.”

      Sabrina was starting to get used to these double takes and answered with a smile. “Buona sera.”

      “Is my mother in the main salon?” Marco asked.

      “She is, Your Excellency, but she wished me to let her know the moment you arrived and she will come down.”

      While he pressed a buzzer on the intercom panel, Sabrina took in the magnificent barrel-vaulted main hall lavishly decorated with hand-painted Majolica tiles. A grand staircase bisected the hall in dead center and led in sweeping twin spirals to the upper floors.

      She was still absorbing the rich architectural detail when a door slammed on the second floor. A moment later, a slim, silver-haired woman in tailored slacks and a mink-trimmed sweater hurried down the stairs.

      “Marco!”

      “Buona sera, Mama.” Bending, he kissed her on both cheeks. “Come sta?”

       “Bene. Multo bene.”

      The affection between the two was genuine and readily apparent, but when the duchess turned to his guest her warm smile vaporized.

       “Madre del Dio!”

      Sabrina suppressed a sigh. Marco had assured her the resemblance to his dead wife was merely superficial. She was beginning to wonder. He covered the awkward moment with an introduction.

      “Sabrina, may I present my mother, Donna Maria di Chivari Calvetti. Mama, this is my guest, Sabrina Russo.”

      “Forgive me for staring,” the duchess apologized in musically accented English. “It’s just … You look much like …”

      “Like Gianetta,” her son finished calmly. “At first glance, I thought so, too. But you will find, as I have, it is only a trick of the eye.”

      An odd expression flickered across his mother’s face. It came and went so quickly Sabrina couldn’t interpret it. She had no difficulty interpreting the cool comment that followed, though.

      “I will admit I was surprised when my son told me he had a guest staying at his villa.” She raked a glance at said guest from her windblown hair to the tip of her cane. “I hope you’re recovering from your unfortunate accident?”

      The question was polite, but the slight if unmistakable emphasis on the last word almost made Sabrina do a double take.

      Good grief! Did the woman think she’d tumbled down a cliff in a deliberate attempt to snare her rich, handsome son? Had that—or some similar ploy—been tried before? She’d have to ask Marco later.

      “I’m recovering quite well, Your Excellency. Your son has taken excellent care of me.”

      She would have loved to add that his bedside manner was improving every day, too. Wisely, she refrained.

      “Indeed.”

      With a regal nod, the duchess led the way past the marble staircase to the west wing of the palazzo.

      “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to mount the stairs so I’ve ordered an aperitif tray to be set up in the Green Salon. It’s on this floor and there’s a water closet just there, across the hall, if you wish to use it.”

      “Thank you, I do.”

      “We’ll wait for you in the salon,” Marco said. “It’s the third room on the left.”

      Sabrina didn’t dawdle. Her lip gloss and hair restored to order, she left the powder room and counted the rooms as she passed them. The first looked like it might have been once been the palazzo’s armory and now served as a museum for antique weapons displayed in locked cases. The second was an office of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing tall, leather-bound volumes of documents. Sabrina’s partner, Devon the history buff, would salivate at the sight of those musty volumes.

      “… do you know about her?”

      The duchess’s sharp question came through the open door of the third room, as did Marco’s reply.

      “I know enough, Mama.”

      The exchange was in Italian but clear enough for Sabrina to follow easily. She took another step before she realized her soft-soled flats and the rubber tip of