CHAPTER ONE

      GEMMA CARDONE hurried down the hall toward the executive suite of Marinetti Shipyard, heart pounding and nerves snapping like a ship’s sails. Church bells chimed six times, the distant echo clear in the quiet Tuscan morning.

      Since the day she’d come to work in Viareggio nine months ago, she’d relished her leisurely morning walk to her office. Even inside the old building, the tall narrow windows reminded her of the arched portals of the stone train tunnel along Cinque Terre, giving a teasing glimpse of endless sky, the Ligurian Sea and the rugged cliffs that crashed into the water.

      In the ancient village of Manarolo where she had been born and raised, the old-world buildings scrambled up the steep rocky cliffs as if clinging to the stone face like colorful gems.

      On the same rugged cliffs grew the most magnificent grapes used to make a wine found nowhere else.

      It was small and remote and older than time. Everywhere there were steps and narrow lanes. Yet she missed it dreadfully at times, for there was a peace there she’d never found anywhere else.

      It was just the opposite here in Viareggio. It was close to Cinque Terre by sea, yet a world apart with a festive carnival and scores of ships and industry and more tourists than she’d ever seen in a season.

      This seaside coastal town stretched along the endless sandy beaches, meeting the water in a gentle slope. The architecture was pure art nouveau and the pulse of the town was upbeat.

      Every day she looked forward to coming to work for Cesare Marinetti at his shipyard. But not today.

      Just one week ago a tragic accident had taken the life of Cesare’s wife and landed him in the hospital. Marinetti Shipyard had been shut down ever since, in mourning for Signora Marinetti and out of respect for the family.

      Gemma had been on pins and needles since the funeral, worried sick about the heart attack that had kept Cesare hos-pitalized. It was no small wonder that the employees wondered when Cesare would be able to resume control of his shipyard. Until then, who would manage it in his stead?

      The answer had come in the wee hours of the morning.

      “I do not have long to talk,” Cesare had rasped in a voice clearly laced with pain. “The doctors say I need heart bypass surgery, and I believe them.” His sigh was long and weary, like one resigned to his fate. “The shipyard