Catherine Spencer - New Year Fireworks - The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride

“Sure you don’t want to tuck me in yourself?”

Laughter lurked behind her all-too-innocent expression. She was teasing him again. He knew it, but the knowledge didn’t keep the gates from springing open and the mental images he’d just suppressed from pouring through. He could see her stretched out on those smooth sheets, one arm curled above her head, her lips parted in invitation …

Dammit!

“No,” he admitted with brutal honesty. “I am not at all sure. But I’ll send Rafaela’s mama to you.”

Marco was sweating when he left the guest suite. Shunning the elevator, he took the stairs to the upper floor. What the devil was wrong with him? Why did this woman stir such intense, erotic fantasies?

He hadn’t remained completely celibate after his wife’s death. He was a man. He had normal appetites, the usual physical needs. There were women in Rome, sophisticated women who played the game of flirtation and seduction with practiced charm. Yet none of them had roused him like this long-limbed American beauty.

Now he had to decide what the devil he would do about it.

“Oh, yuck! Your ankle looks like an overcooked bratwurst.”

Grinning at her friend’s apt description, Sabrina swung the laptop propped on her stomach around. Its built-in camera made a dizzying sweep of the guest bedroom before her face was once again displayed on the screen alongside those of her two partners. How the heck had the world survived before videoconferencing?

“It is pretty gross,” she agreed with a glance at her garish, yellow-and-purple lower limb. She’d un-bandaged the ankle to let it breathe for a while. Before wrapping it up again and crawling under the covers for the night, she’d decided to try and contact her partners.

She’d caught Devon in Germany, where she was working frantically to set up the premerger meeting of executives from Logan Aerospace and Hauptmann Metal Works. Caroline, like Sabrina, was scouting sites for the job that had unexpectedly dropped into their laps last week.

“You need to stay off that ankle,” Caro insisted, her heart-shaped face showing genuine concern. “Hole up at your hotel for the next few days and do not, I repeat, DO NOT even think about checking out those conference sites. I’ll finish here and zip over to Italy. I can be there Thursday. Friday at the latest.”

Devon countered with an alternate plan. “Don’t cut your schedule short, Caro. I’ll put things on hold here and fly down tomorrow. I can play nurse to ‘Rina and scope out sites at the same time.”

“Guys. Really. No need for either of you to charge to the rescue. I’ll manage just fine.”

“Sure you will,” Devon scoffed. Her warm brown eyes held a combination of affection and concern. “I’ve been to the Amalfi coast. I know it’s straight up and down. I also remember you mentioning that the hotel in Ravello had a lot of stairs and terraces.”

“Actually, I’m not staying at the hotel. The doc who almost hit me offered to put me up at his villa tonight. He wants to check my ankle tomorrow to make sure I’m good to go before I take to the road again.”

“That’s the least the jerk can do,” Dev huffed.

“Hey, did I mention that the jerk is a duke as well as a doc?”

Judging by their expressions, her partners weren’t impressed.

“He’s also seriously hot,” Sabrina added nonchalantly.

The too-casual comment didn’t fool either of her friends. They’d known her too long. They knew, as well, the good-time-girl reputation she’d worked so hard to maintain during her rebellious teen and college years.

Sabrina still enjoyed a good time. She wasn’t particularly vain, but she recognized that her long legs and seductive curves attracted as many men as her family name and her father’s wealth once had. As a consequence, she maintained a wide circle of male friends. Several had pushed to become more than friends. After so many years of resisting her father’s attempts to dominate her, though, Sabrina was in no hurry to give up the freedom she’d struggled so hard to achieve.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a real hottie when one almost ran her over. Especially one who could kiss like Marco Calvetti. She could still feel the delicious aftershocks of their session in the elevator.

“Uh-oh.” Devon squinted into the camera at her end of the connection. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that says your doc is fair game.”

“Well, he is. His wife died a few years ago. I may be reading between the lines, but I think he’s buried himself in his work since then. You wouldn’t believe how gorgeous his villa is, yet this is only the second time this year he’s driven down from Rome.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, mulling over her impressions of her host.

“He’s really charming, guys, but also rather intense. It wouldn’t hurt him to loosen up a little.”

Devon and Caroline exchanged knowing, computer-generated glances.

“If anyone can loosen the man up,” Dev drawled, “you can. Just remember you’re now one of the walking wounded. Go easy on that ankle.”

“And don’t worry about scouting conference sites,” Caro added. “Worst-case scenario, we can give Global Security fewer options.”

“Absolutely not.” Her professional pride stung; Sabrina was adamant. “This contract is too important. We’re not scaling back our proposal. I’ll be good to go tomorrow,” she said firmly.

Which wouldn’t give her time to loosen up the doc, she thought with real regret. Too bad. She could think of any number of inventive ways to follow up on that kiss.

Desire rippled through her as she said goodnight to her friends, shut down her laptop, and rewrapped her ankle. The damned thing still throbbed, but the ache was bearable so she decided against the pills sitting on the bedside table. Instead, she let the restless murmur of the sea surging against the rocks lull her to sleep.

She was up and dressed by eight the next morning. The faint scent of yeasty, fresh-baked rolls told her Signora Bertaldi was already at work in the kitchen.

Thankfully, Sabrina had stuffed a pair of merino wool palazzo pants in her suitcase at the last minute. The wide legs made getting them on over her still-swollen ankle a breeze. She teamed the oyster-colored slacks with a lightweight red sweater and a Versace scarf in a riot of colors. The rubber-soled beaded ballet slippers provided nonskid traction as she made her way along the tiled hall to the elevator.

She fully intended to hold the doc to his promise to check the sprain before she left. First, though, she intended to hold Signora Bertaldi to her promise of a goat cheese frittata for breakfast. If the frittata came anywhere close to the woman’s grilled swordfish, heaven awaited on the floor above.

So did Marco, she discovered when she thumped into the library. He put aside the newspaper he’d been reading and sprang to his feet.

“You should have rung for help.”

“I didn’t need it,” she replied when she recovered from the sight of the doc in well-washed jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and a silky black pullover that showed off some very impressive pecs.

Raising a crutch, she waved the tip in an airy circle. “I’m getting the hang of these things. What I do need, though, is coffee. Hot. Thick. Sweet.”

“Of course.” His assessing glance dropped to her foot. “But first, how is your ankle this morning?”

“Still fat and ugly, but it doesn’t ache as much.”

“Good. I’ll look at it after we eat. Shall we have breakfast here in the library or on the terrace?”