Diana Hamilton - New Year Fireworks

She and Marco departed the hotel after lunch on a gorgeously landscaped terrace overlooking the sea. During the drive back down to the coast, she mulled over the revised estimate Donati had provided.

“How does it look?” Marco asked.

“The numbers seem high at first glance. I’ll have to compare them to the final estimates from the other hotels.”

“I’ll call Donati and see if he can do better.”

“No!”

Her sharp negative drew a surprised glance.

“Thanks,” Sabrina said, tempering her tone, “but I prefer to handle these negotiations myself.”

“My apologies. I merely wished to help.”

She winced at the ice-coated reply. When he wanted to, the doc could wield one hell of a scalpel.

“Now it’s my turn to apologize. It’s just …”

She paused, chewing on her lower lip. The stubborn need to assert her independence had driven her for so long. She couldn’t shake it, even now.

“My father doesn’t believe I can make it on my own,” she said finally. “I’m determined to prove him wrong.”

“I see.” Marco thought about that for a moment. “This is the father who taught you to play chess?”

“One and the same.”

“He underestimates your killer instinct. I have your measure now, however. You won’t win this evening as easily as you did this morning.”

She couldn’t resist the challenge. “Maybe we should up the stakes.”

“Maybe we should. What do you suggest?”

Laughing, she waggled her brows. “Ever play strip chess?”

She was kidding. Mostly. And completely unprepared when Marco dug into his jacket pocket.

One handed, he flipped up his cell phone and punched a speed-dial button. His conversation was in Italian, but Sabrina caught enough to experience a sudden shortness of breath.

“The meeting took longer than anticipated,” he informed his housekeeper. “There’s no need for you to wait for our return.”

He listened a moment and nodded.

“That will be fine. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ciao. ”

The phone went back into his jacket pocket. The slow, predatory smile he gave Sabrina told her the night ahead could prove extremely interesting!

Marco lost one of his loafers in the first game. He forfeited its mate in the second.

“I’ve never seen such unorthodox moves,” he protested. “You sacrificed a queen and a knight to gain a pawn.”

“Thus opening the back door for my bishop. Stop whining and pay up.”

He gave a huff of laughter and kicked off the loafer. As they reset the chess pieces for the next game, Sabrina calculated how many additional wins she’d have to score before she had him naked.

Socks, two.

Jeans, one pair.

One each belt, silky black pullover and, presumably, briefs.

Good thing they’d cut the two-minutes-per-move time limit down to one. Anticipation was putting her into a fast burn.

Anticipation, and the fact that they were alone in the villa. Stretched out on the plush Turkish rug in the library. With one of Vivaldi’s violin concerti coming through the speakers and glasses of wine within easy reach. Since she hadn’t had to resort to the painkillers after that first, powerful dose yesterday afternoon, she was enjoying the full-bodied red made from grapes grown in the Irpinia hills outside Naples.

They’d dispensed with the table and placed the chessboard on the carpet. Sabrina sat with her back against the sofa and her foot propped on a folded cushion. Marco sat cross-legged opposite her. He’d raked his fingers through his hair after one of her more outrageous moves. No longer neat and combed straight back, it showed more curl in the dark, disordered waves.

She itched to reach across the board and comb her hand through those waves. Or feather a finger along the dark sweep of his eyebrow. Or …

“Your move.”

With a start, she saw he’d opened with queen’s knight to a6. She advanced her king’s pawn and the hunt was on.

She lost that game and paid with one of her beaded ballet slippers. They played to a draw on the next. Then Marco claimed her other shoe and she retaliated in the next game by crushing him with five moves.

“Ha! Take that!”

She expected him to peel off a sock or yield his belt. Instead, he dragged his black pullover over his head.

Sabrina’s throat went bone dry. She’d snuggled against that broad chest each time Marco had carried her. Snuggling was good. She’d enjoyed snuggling. Seeing his upper half naked and in the flesh was better.

Her heart hammering, she let her gaze roam over the wide shoulders, the muscled pecs, the scattering of dark hair that swirled around his nipples and arrowed down toward his flat belly.

She didn’t realize he’d deliberately sabotaged her concentration until she lost the next two games in a row. In the first, she forfeited her Versace scarf. She debated for several moments after the second.

What to surrender? Her slacks? Her red sweater? Or … Hmm. Her gaze dropped to the Ace bandage wrapped around her ankle.

“Don’t even think it.”

The amused warning brought her head up with a snap. Marco was watching her with the satisfied smile of a hunter who’s cornered his prey. Her skin prickled everywhere his gaze touched.

“The bandage would be cheating.”

“All’s fair in love and strip chess, fella.”

“In that case …”

With a quick sweep of his arm, he shoved the board out of the way. Sabrina started to protest the careless treatment of such beautiful pieces. The protest got stuck in her throat when Marco caught her elbow and slowly, inexorably, drew her down until she lay beside him on the silky carpet.

“Now, my beautiful Sabrina, I will claim my prize.”

He slid a hand under the hem of her sweater. Her belly hollowed at the feel of his warm palm against her skin. Then his hand moved upward, tugging the sweater with it.

Cool air kissed her exposed flesh. So did Marco. She quivered as his mouth grazed her midriff, over the lace of her demibra, the mounds of her breasts. He tugged the sweater higher, and Sabrina raised her arms. The red knit came off, was flung aside. The hunger in his eyes stirred her to near fever pitch.

“I imagined you like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Stretched out beneath me. Your arms above your head. Your mouth mine to take.”

Suiting his actions to his words, he covered her mouth with his.

A flash fire ignited in Sabrina’s blood. Her tongue met his. Her hands planed over his shoulders, his back, down the track of his spine. His skin felt smooth and hot over taut muscle and corded tendons.

They were both breathing fast when he fumbled for the front fastening on her bra. Sabrina retained just enough rational thought to gasp out a protest.

“You … You haven’t won that yet.”

“All’s fair,” he retorted with a wolfish grin.

The fastening gave and her bra went the way of her sweater. Marco’s grin morphed into a look of such raw hunger that Sabrina’s nipples tightened even before he bent to take one in his mouth. His teeth rasped the sensitive bud. His tongue soothed it. His teeth tormented her again.

Pleasure streaked from Sabrina’s breast to her belly. Her back arched. She was hot and wet and ready long before he reached for the side zipper on her slacks.

He had her naked in less than a minute. When he rose to peel off his own clothing, her already erratic pulse went berserk. She almost licked her lips at the sight of his lean flanks and flat stomach. His sex, she saw with a jolt of fierce, primal elation, was hard and erect.

She reached for him, eager to wrap her hand around the steely shaft, but he turned away to drag the cushions off the sofa.