A few hours later, not even a day’s worth of relaxation exercises would have helped calm her nerves.

      What kind of place was this?

      Was there supposed to be a deluge in Catania at this time of year? Was she supposed to be so wet and cold that she was shivering?

      Plus, nobody spoke English. Well, nobody here at the cab stand. Nobody spoke Italian, either. Fallon did, a little. More than a little; she had a good ear and she’d picked up a considerable amount of the language when she lived in Milan for six weeks at the start of her career.

      What people were talking here sounded like Italian, but it wasn’t. It was a dialect, sort of what you heard in New York when you went into one of those fantastic little shops all the way downtown where they said “proh-voh-lone” when they meant “prah-vah-lohn-eh” or “scun-geel” when they meant “scun-gee-lee.”

      You thought you understood. And you did. Almost. But there was a huge difference between clarifying things by smiling and pointing at a chunk of cheese or a tray of octopus and trying to figure out how to ask if this was or was not the place to wait for a private car that was supposed to come for you.

      Fallon shoved a wet hank of hair from her eyes.

      Where the hell was her ride?

      Her flight had come in on time. She’d collected her luggage, gone through customs, headed out the door absolutely according to Carla’s directions…

      And waited.

      And waited.

      And waited some more, without the protection of an umbrella or a raincoat, just a thin cotton jacket over an even thinner T-shirt and cotton slacks.

      Where was that miserable car?

      She darted out from the wretched protection of an overhang and checked the road again, searching for a car that looked as if its driver might be searching for her.

      Fiats and Alfa-Romeos went by. And taxis, lots of taxis, and, damn it, she’d have taken one if she knew where she was going but she didn’t have the address. Why would she have needed it, when a car was picking her up?

      Fallon dashed back to the wall, soaked to the skin, her hair dripping down her back and in her eyes, her clothes plastered to her body.

      Maurice, the photographer, and Andy, the makeup guy, had flown over yesterday with Carla. She’d had to come a day late because of the wedding. No doubt the three of them were sitting in that castle, warm and dry, drinking vino while she stood here and drowned.

      Okay. To hell with waiting for a driver who wasn’t coming. She’d go into the terminal, find a phone, call the Bridal Dreams office…

      And reach nobody. It was the beginning of the day here, which meant it was still the middle of the night in New York.

      “Damn,” she said under her breath, “damn, damn!”

      A big black car pulled out of the line of traffic and turned toward the curb. Fallon held her breath. Was the driver looking for her? She couldn’t see him; the windows were darkly tinted and the rain was coming down in sheets, but yes, the car was stopping, the driver was getting out, going around the car, opening the door…

      Fallon raced to the car and tossed her suitcase inside.

      The driver looked startled. “Signorina. Uno momento!”

      “It’s okay,” she gasped, “you don’t have to put the case in the trunk. Just let me get inside where it’s dry.”

      “By all means,” a deep, amused voice said. “Any port will do in a storm.”

      A man was sitting in the shadowed corner of the back seat, smiling at her.

      Fallon’s first thought was that he was gorgeous. Dark hair, heavily-lashed dark eyes, a classical Roman nose…

      Her second was that this couldn’t possibly be her car if someone was already inside it.

      Her third was that she was out of the wet and the cold for the first time in almost half an hour.

      She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose…Is there the slightest possibility someone sent you to meet me?”

      The man grinned. “I’d love to say yes but, regretfully, I have to say that nobody sent me to meet you.”

      “Ah.” Still crouched just inside the car, Fallon put her hand to her hair and shoved the sodden mass from her face. “Well, then, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I mean, I’ve been waiting for a car that was supposed to come for me, and—”

      “How about fate?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Would it be all right if I said fate sent me to meet you?”

      Oh, yes. Definitely gorgeous, and with a smooth line.

      “Unfortunately,” she answered, with a quick smile, “fate’s not going to take me where I’m going.” Still smiling, she started scooting backward. “Again, my apologies for—”

      “My driver can take you wherever you’re going.”

      She blinked. Stefano knew he’d surprised her with his offer. Hell, he’d surprised himself, too.

      What was he doing, telling a strange woman she could use his car to take her wherever it was she was going? On the other hand, she was a delectable stranger, even as wet as she was. Even? Stefano let his gaze drop to her breasts, their roundness, their tight little nipples perfectly outlined under her clinging shirt.

      If anything, the rain heightened her beauty.

      He felt a quick stir in his loins, a sudden surge of hunger that shocked him with its intensity. He hadn’t felt this kind of desire since his breakup with Carla. Actually, not for weeks before that.

      “That’s very generous of you, signore, but I can’t accept.”

      His eyes lifted to hers. Her face was a little flushed, as if she’d noticed the way he’d looked at her. She was shivering, which made sense considering how wet she was, and Stefano cursed himself for evaluating her sexually at such a moment.

      “Of course you can. I’m getting out here and my driver has nowhere to go after he leaves me. He can take you to your hotel.”

      Fallon shook her head. “That’s just it. I’m not going to a hotel. I—”

      “The rain’s coming in. Why don’t you sit down, let Luigi shut the door and turn on some heat while we discuss this.”

      She hesitated. He knew she had to be weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Should a woman get into a car with a stranger or not?

      He smiled.

      “You’re American.”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, so am I. That makes us kindred souls. What’s the title of that old book? Strangers in a Strange Land.”

      “Heinlein,” she said, with a delighted smile, and that seemed to do it. The woman bounced onto the leather seat beside him, shoved her hair back from her face and held out her hand. “Fallon O’Connell,” she said, but when he reached for her hand she laughed, drew it back, wiped the wetness on her trouser leg before holding it out again. “I’m soaked.”

      “So you are.”

      Stefano smiled as he clasped her hand in his. God, she was beautiful! Who was she visiting in Sicily? A man? He felt an irrational surge of jealousy for some faceless stranger. Maybe she wasn’t visiting a man. Maybe he ought to stay on the island instead of returning to New York and celebrate his newfound freedom.

      “And your name is…?”