New Year Fireworks: The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer
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in their chairs and deep in a discussion of last year’s American presidential elections. Not surprisingly, Sabrina heartily agreed with her European counterparts that a woman was more than capable of leading either the U.S. or Italy.
“I’m sorry but I need to steal you away,” he said with a smile.
She excused herself from her new friends and rose. The long column of her gown shimmered like molten gold as she hooked her arm through his.
“How’s your ankle?” Marco asked.
“Good. Except for a very short stroll with Uncle Pietro, I’ve kept off it.”
“Can you take a little extra duty? The ball guests are about to arrive. I’d like you to join me in the receiving line.”
She slanted him a surprised glance. “You told me this is the first time you’ve brought a woman to the ball since your wife died. Won’t it add fuel to the speculative fire if I’m included in the receiving line?”
“Unfortunately, the fire has already been fueled. One of the reporters downstairs asked about the woman I was spotted with in Sorrento yesterday. She found out you’re staying at my villa and wanted to know if we’re lovers.”
“She asked you that? In front of your mother?”
“She did.”
“How did you respond?”
“I told her you were my guest. We left it at that.”
Lips pursed, she shook her head. “I seriously doubt it will stay left.”
“Probably not. As you Americans say, however, the best offense is a good defense. Or is it the other way around?”
“Beats me.”
“No matter. We’ll put ourselves in plain sight and let everyone think what they will.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Don’t you think you should clear this with the duchess first?”
“It was her suggestion.”
“You’re kidding!”
He had to smile at her thunderstruck expression. “No, Sabrina mia, I am not.”
“Well, in that case …” Squaring her shoulders, she pasted on a brilliant smile. “Lead on, McDuff.”
Sabrina knew darn well her presence in the receiving line would generate all kinds of speculation. Sure enough, the guests who streamed into the grand ballroom regarded her with expressions that ranged from mild interest to avid curiosity.
Marco introduced her simply as his guest from America, in Italy on business. But the possessive hand he kept at the small of her back didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did the private smiles he gave her between introductions.
Once most of the guests had been received, Marco officially opened the festivities by leading his mother out for the first waltz. Head high, her emerald-and-diamond tiara sparkling in the light, Donna Maria moved with regal grace in her son’s arms.
Her next partner was one of the guests of honor—the mayor of the city of Naples—leaving Marco free to cross the parquet floor and hold out a gloved hand to Sabrina.
“Shall we?”
Either by luck or by design, the song was a slow, dreamy Italian love song. Marco held her close. Too close for ballroom protocol, judging by the glimpses Sabrina caught of raised eyebrows. She knew darn well the tight arm around her waist was intended to take most of the strain off her ankle. That didn’t stop her from reveling in its hard, muscled strength or delighting in the brush of Marco’s lips at her temple.
He was too well mannered to dance only with Sabrina, and far too solicitous of her injury. But before doing his duty with his mother’s other guests, he made sure she was comfortably seated in one of the chairs lining the long ballroom. An assortment of his friends and acquaintances were detailed to keep her entertained.
The group included a wiry professional soccer player, who swore he owed the hump in the bridge of his nose from a kick Marco delivered when they were boys, and a sixtyish socialite arrayed in diamonds who regaled them all with stories from her days as stripper. She had everyone in the group helpless with laughter when a young couple caught Sabrina’s eye. They stood at the edge of the gathering, hesitant to intrude, until she smiled an invitation.
“Please,” she urged. “Join us.”
“No, no, Signorina.” Keeping an arm curled around his wife’s shoulders, the young man demurred. “We come only to wish you happy on this Feast of San Silvestro.”
“Thank you. The same to you.”
“We see you with His Excellency,” his wife said shyly. “We want to tell you … We want you to know …”
She stumbled to a halt and her brown eyes flooded with tears. Concerned, Sabrina started to push to her feet. The young husband stopped her with a quick explanation.
“His Excellency, he operates when no other surgeon would and saves our baby. Theresa and I … We would like to tell you he is a good doctor, a good man.”
“I know,” Sabrina replied softly.
When the young husband led his wife away, she swept her glance over the vast, mirrored hall until she spotted Marco. So tall, so distinguished in his white tie and tails. So damned handsome.
Yet she knew what she now felt for the man had little to do with his admittedly spectacular exterior. Sometime in the past week, she’d fallen for the whole package. Doc. Duke. Fast driver. So-so chess player. Inexhaustible, inventive, incredible lover.
With a small sigh, she turned her attention back to his friends.
Marco joined the group for the final hour before midnight. Music and laughter filled the ballroom. Tuxedoed waiters circulated with glasses with sparkling spumante. The minute hand on watches and clocks raced toward twelve.
Suddenly the lights dimmed. At a signal from the duchess, servers threw open the tall French doors leading to the wide terrace.
“Naples puts on the most spectacular fireworks display in all Italy,” Marco explained. “We can watch in here, where it’s warm, or out on the terrace.”
Sabrina had spotted outdoor umbrella heaters during her short excursion with the admiral and didn’t hesitate. “The terrace, please.”
Glasses in hand, they joined the crowd outside and leaned elbows on the wide balustrade to soak in the incredible view of Naples lit up below. Strung out in a crescent of lights, the city circled the ink-black harbor guarded by the brightly illuminated Angevin fortress.
Judging by the noise that rose in waves, every Neapolitan must have spilled out in the streets. Horns honked. Spoons beat against pots. Raucous shouts and laughter competed with the reverberating bass boom of a rock band.
As if on cue, the noise died down. A hush seemed to settle over the city. Then someone on the terrace started a loud countdown.
“Dieci, nove, otto …”
Other voices joined in the chant.
“Sette, sei, cinque, quattro …”
Marco’s arm tightened around Sabrina’s waist. She turned a laughing face up to his.
“Tre,” she sang out with him. “Due. Uno!”
His mouth came down on hers and not in a polite, celebration kiss. This was a hungry joining that kicked the New Year off with one hell of a start.
Sabrina was so lost in it, so consumed by it, she barely heard the shrill whistle of a rocket launched high into the sky. Marco ended the kiss just as the night exploded in balls of brilliant red.
He hadn’t exaggerated, she decided some twenty minutes later. Naples’s pyrotechnic