Diana Hamilton - New Year Fireworks

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 her cane masked her approach.

“You say she’s in Italy on business?”

“She and her partners provide travel and support services for executives doing business in Europe. She’s scouting conference sites.”

Time to announce her presence, Sabrina thought. She lifted the cane, intending to thump it on the parquet floor. The duchess’s next comment stopped her cold.

“If half the articles my secretary pulled off the Internet about this woman are true, she’s scouting more than conference sites.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s the daughter of Dominic Russo, the American telecommunications giant. He put her on the board of the foundation that oversees his charitable interests, but subsequently removed her. The rumor is he’s disinherited her. Cut her off without a cent.”

“Ah,” Marco murmured. “So that’s why she’s so determined to make it on her own.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Don’t you think it’s just a little too coincidental that she fell right at your feet?”

Sabrina had heard enough. Bringing the cane down with a loud thud, she entered the salon.

Marco stood behind a tray holding an array of bottles, a silver martini shaker in his hand. His mother was seated in a tall-backed armchair and had the grace to appear chagrined for a moment. But only for a moment. Her chin lifted as Sabrina gave her a breezy smile.

“Your information’s accurate, Your Excellency, except for one point. My father didn’t remove me from the board of the Russo Foundation. I quit. Are those martinis in that shaker, Marco?” she asked with cheerful insouciance. “If so, I’ll take two olives in mine.”

“Two olives it is,” he confirmed with a gleam of approval in his dark eyes.

His mother was less admiring. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Ms. Russo,” she said coolly. “I wish only to watch out for my son’s welfare.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. No offense taken.”

“I’m perfectly capable of watching out for my own welfare,” Marco drawled as he handed his mother a tall-stemmed martini glass. “But I thank you for your concern.”

The duchess merely sniffed.

She unbent a little over dinner served in a glass-enclosed conservatory that looked out over the lights of the city.

“Have you visited this part of Italy before, Ms. Russo?”

“Only once, when I was a student at the University of Salzburg. One of my roommates was a history major. We drove down from Austria one weekend to explore the ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum.”

“So you’ve not spent time in Napoli.”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“You must call me Donna Maria.”

Sabrina’s lips twitched at the royal command. “Certainly. And please, call me Sabrina.”

“We have a painting by Lorenzo de Caro in the gallery. It depicts the city as it was in the early eighteenth century. You must let me show it to you after dinner.”

The rest of the meal passed with polite queries concerning Sabrina’s year in Salzburg and her current business. Not until she and the duchess had made their way to the galley, leaving Marco to look over a document his mother wanted his opinion on, did she learn the ulterior motive behind the invitation to view de Caro’s masterpiece.

The painting was small, only about twelve by eighteen inches, but so luminous that it instantly drew the eye. Lost in the exquisitely detailed scene of a tall-masted ship tied up at wharf beside the fortress, Sabrina almost missed Donna Maria’s quiet question.