The Sicilian Surrender. Sandra Marton

      Stefano watched Fallon O’Connell walk toward the tent he’d permitted to be raised on his property.

      She seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

      Was he the reason? Yes. He probably was.

      Stefano opened the concealed minifridge built into the wall behind his desk, took out a bottle of water and raised it to his lips.

      The lady thought he was watching her. He’d realized that days ago. The way she stiffened and looked around her whenever he appeared was a dead giveaway.

      It didn’t surprise him. Women who looked like her assumed they had the eye of every man who saw them.

      She was wrong. He wanted nothing to do with her.

      Concern for his privacy had drawn him back, not a woman, and a damned good thing, too. Carla had violated their agreement before he’d even had time to board his plane. She’d brought in more people than she’d said she would, and his housekeeper told him that she’d sought access to the house the instant his back was turned.

      Stefano settled into a leather armchair, put his feet up on a hassock and took another drink of cold water.

      Of course, he’d sent Carla packing. He’d wanted to toss out the lot of them, her and her hedonistic fashionistas, too, but that dark threat she’d made hung over his head. Instead, he’d done the best he could, told his former mistress to get off his property before he had her thrown off.

      Then he’d settled in to get through the week without going crazy from boredom, and that was the only reason he’d taken to observing the Bridal Dreams group.

      Fallon had reached the disreputable-looking old car she’d picked up somewhere. Stefano frowned as she opened the door, pulled out jeans and a T-shirt and slipped them on. The shirt was oversize but the jeans clung to her legs. Such impossibly long legs, he thought with lazy appraisal.

      Clothed, she was as magnificent as she’d been in the string bikini.

      Okay. Maybe he paid more attention to her than to the others. What man wouldn’t? She was stunning, the kind of woman who’d silence a room simply by entering it. A man would have to be blind not to enjoy looking at her.

      Tomorrow, there’d be nothing to look at.

      This unwanted intrusion in his life was over. This was the last day the photographic crew would be here. Fallon O’Connell was driving away right now. He couldn’t help smiling at the way the little Fiat bucked. She’d probably let the clutch out too fast. She was driving too fast, too, leaving a plume of dust behind.