them in so you can freshen up before we eat?”
“Yes, please.”
She felt like she’d rolled in dirt, then gone to sleep in her clothes. Oh, wait! That’s exactly what she had done.
“Can you manage alone, or shall I have Signora Bernaldi come help you?”
“I can manage.”
“Very well.”
He set her roller bag and briefcase on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed and carried her smaller tote into the adjoining bathroom.
“There’s a phone on the vanity and one by the toilet. Press one-six if you require assistance.”
“One-six. Got it.”
“I’ll wait for you in the hall.”
Sabrina fished in her suitcase for a black, anklelength crinkle skirt and a velvet jacket trimmed with lace, then hobbled into the bath. The oval whirlpool tub drew a look of intense longing but she suspected she couldn’t climb in without having to call for help climbing out.
Not that she’d mind getting naked with the doc. Especially now that she knew he was single.
Not single, she amended. A widower.
The thought of what he must have suffered sobered her.
She’d never lost a spouse, but had come close to losing her father when he was diagnosed with cancer several years ago. Foolishly, Sabrina had thought his illness might finally breach the walls between them. Instead it had left Dominic Russo more determined than ever to mold his only child into the woman he thought she should be.
She’d resisted his determined efforts for most of her life. With her mother watching helplessly from the sidelines, she and her father had engaged in a running battle of wills. Sabrina’s warfare had taken the form of outrageous pranks and, later, wild parties.
His illness had sobered her, though. Shaken by his near brush with death, Sabrina had abandoned her own career as a top buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue and agreed to serve as the executive director of the Russo Foundation.
Big mistake. Huge. Her father couldn’t give up an ounce of control. He’d questioned her decisions, countered her orders and generally made her life a living hell. She’d stuck it out, trying to make it work, until she finally admitted she could never fit the mold he’d designed for her.
Shaking her head at the memory of their titanic clashes, she thumped over to the vanity and sank down on a tufted stool. After stripping off her slacks and sweater, she went to work with a washcloth and lemon-scented soap before dragging a brush through her hair and reapplying her makeup.
The black crinkle skirt went over her head easily and dropped down to hide most of her bandaged ankle. The velvet jacket buttoned up the front, with a froth of ivory-colored lace swirling around the scooped neckline.
Feeling like a new woman, Sabrina dug in her suitcase for a pair of black, beaded ballet flats. She could only get one on, but its nonslip rubber sole provided an extra measure of security on the tiles as she crutched her way to the door.
Marco was waiting in the hall, as promised. Like the guest suite, the long, sunlit corridor sported graceful Moorish arches and a spectacular view of the sea. A magnificent Ming vase with a spray of fresh gladioli added to the fragrance of furniture polish and sunshine.
“The elevator’s just here,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove. “It will take us up to the dining room.”
Up being the operative word, Sabrina saw when the door swished shut. The control panel indicated the villa was built on four levels. According to the neatly labeled buttons, the garage and main salon occupied the top floor. Below that were the library, the dining room and kitchen. Then came the bedroom level and, finally, the spa and stairs to what she presumed was a private beach.
“You weren’t kidding about vertical,” she commented as the elevator glided upward with silent efficiency.
“It is the price one pays for building where the mountains drop straight into the sea. Ah, here we are.”
The elevator opened onto the library. It was a dream of a room, one Sabrina could happily have spent days or weeks in. Shelves filled with books and art objects lined three walls. The fourth wall was solid glass and gave onto another terrace with dizzying views of the ocean. Her crutches sank into a Turkish carpet at least an inch thick as she maneuvered around a leather sofa with a matching, man-size armchair and ottoman. What caught her attention, though, was the sleek laptop sitting atop a trestle table that looked like it might have once graced a medieval palace.
“Do you have wireless here?” she asked hopefully.
“I do.”
“Mind if I use my laptop to log on?”
“Not at all. Here, I’ll write the password for you.”
He stopped at the table and jotted down a sequence of numbers and letters. Sabrina tucked the folded paper into the pocket of her jacket.
“Thanks. I think I mentioned I’m in Italy on business. I have several appointments I need to confirm. I also need to contact my partners. We’re working a project with a very tight deadline.”
“I understand. But first we eat, yes?”
“Yes!”
The mouthwatering scent of garlic and onions grew more pronounced as they entered the dining room. Like the library, this room, too, looked out on the sea. The table was a beautiful burnished oak and long enough to seat twelve comfortably. A smaller table had been set with china and crystal out on the terrace. It was tucked in a corner that protected it from the sea breezes and warmed by a tall, umbrella-like patio heater.
Lemon trees in ceramic pots provided splashes of color. Despite the lateness of the season, flowering bougainvillea climbed the walls. Enchanted, Sabrina passed the crutches to Marcos and eased into the chair he pulled out for her.
“I’ll tell Signora Bertaldi we’re ready,” he said. “I would offer you an aperitif, but you should not combine alcohol with the drug I prescribed for you.”
“No problem. The view alone is enough to get me high.”
While Marco went inside, she breathed in a lungful of salty air and leaned forward to peer over the terrace wall.
Yikes! Good thing she wasn’t acrophobic. She was sitting suspended in seemingly thin air, with only the wave-splashed rocks a hundred or so feet below.
Her host returned a few moments later with Rafaela’s mama. “This is Signora Bertaldi. She runs this house—and me—with a most skilled hand.”
The older woman blushed at the compliment. “His Excellency, he exaggerates.”
Her eyes were dark and keen and set in a web of fine wrinkles. They stayed locked with disconcerting intensity on Sabrina’s face.
“Please to excuse my English, Signorina Russo. It is not so good.”
“It’s better than my Italian. I met your daughter this afternoon, by the way. She says your pesce spada will make me weep with joy.”
The strange intensity gave way to a wide smile. “Then it is good I cook the fish for you tonight, si?”
“Si.”
“Please to sit, Excellency. I will bring the olives and antipasto.”
Marco complied and stretched his long legs out. “So, Sabrina. Tell me more about this business that brings you to Italy.”
She couldn’t have scripted a more perfect finish to a day that had edged so close to disaster.
The sunset was glorious. The grilled swordfish was everything Rafaela had promised. The cappuccino came topped with sweet, creamy foam. The company…
Okay,