New Year Fireworks. Diana Hamilton
emerald satin that hugged her breasts and waist before exploding into rainbow-colored layers of chiffon. But the gold lamé body sheath won his vote, hands down.
The slinky fabric clung to Sabrina’s every curve, shooting off pinpoints of light with each step. The diagonally cut bodice narrowed to a slender strap and was clasped with a jeweled leopard that draped over her left shoulder. The skirt was slit to the thigh on the right side.
“That one,” Marco pronounced. “It must be that one.”
Sabrina had to agree, especially when Lucia produced a pair of gold sandals with manageable heels.
“Don Marco said you have hurt your ankle and must take care how you walk. It’s good that you are so tall. These should work well for you.”
The thong sandals worked very well. Sabrina took a practice turn around the dressing area and didn’t wobble once.
“You will need long gloves,” Lucia announced. “And for your hair …” She tapped a finger against her lower lip and surveyed her customer with a connoisseur’s eye. “You will wear it up to show off our little pet, yes?”
Sabrina swept up her hair with both arms and angled around until the glittering leopard draped over her shoulder caught the light.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured to the jeweled beast. “We have to show you off.”
“I have just what you need.” The boutique owner unlocked a glass case and slid out a hair comb. “It is antique and perhaps a little expensive, but the golden topaz stones are perfect with this dress.”
A glimpse at the price tag indicated it was more than a little expensive. But Sabrina knew she had to have it the moment she twisted her heavy mane atop her head and anchored it with the comb.
“I’ll take it. Now please tell me you have some red briefs in stock.”
“Briefs?”
“Briefs, bikinis, hipsters … I’ll take whatever you have as long as they’re red.”
“But do you not wish for ecru with this dress? Or perhaps …” She stopped, laughing as the light dawned. “Ah, yes. You must wear red for luck.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Come with me.”
Moments later, the gown went into a zippered bag. Shoes, long gloves, comb and flame-red hipsters went into a tissue-lined tote. Pleased with her purchases, Sabrina dug out her American Express card.
“Oh, no, Ms. Russo.”
“You don’t take American Express? No problem. We can put it on Visa.”
“No, no.” The brunette flashed a quick look at the man waiting patiently in the front room of the boutique. “When Don Marco called, I assumed … That is, he told me …”
“Told you what?”
“He said you were his guest and instructed me to send the bill for whatever you purchased to his villa.”
Sabrina stiffened, but kept her smile firmly in place. “He’s a real sweetie pie, isn’t he? Just go ahead and charge the items to my card.”
The shop owner looked taken aback at hearing His Excellency referred to as a sweetie pie, but she ran the AmEx card without further discussion. Sabrina signed the ticket and sailed out with her purchases in hand.
“All set.”
“Good. Let me take those.”
She waited until they were in the Ferrari and on the narrow, winding road out of town to let loose with both barrels.
“Lucia said you told her to send the bills for my purchases to the villa. Do not embarrass me like that again.”
“Embarrass you?” He looked honestly bewildered. “How does that embarrass you?”
“Oh, come on! Why don’t you just take out a billboard ad saying we’re lovers?”
His brows snapped together. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to disguise the fact.”
“I don’t! But neither do I want you to pay for my underwear.”
With a muttered curse, he pulled the Ferrari into a turnout. Ironically, it was the same turnout where Sabrina had left her rental car to snap pictures of the picturesque town spilling down the cliffs to the sea.
The car halted with a jerk, its nose pointed toward the restless sea. Marco shoved the gearshift into park, set the emergency brake and twisted the key in the ignition before slewing around in his seat. Anger blazed from his eyes.
“I’m not allowed to buy you a gift?”
“A ceramic bowl is a gift. A bottle of perfume is a gift. Two thousand dollars worth of clothing and lingerie crosses the line.”
“Who set these rules?” he demanded, his accent thickening with his anger. “One hundred dollars for perfume, si. Two thousand dollars for clothing, no.”
Thoroughly irritated, Sabrina fell back on the only argument she could. “There are no set rules. Just logic and common sense.”
“This may sound logical to you,” he retorted. “It doesn’t to me.”
She scrubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, hating this argument, hating the memories it brought back of all the times she’d locked horns with her father in an effort to assert her independence, financially and otherwise.
“It’s … It’s not so much the amount that matters as the way you handled it. You should have consulted me before making an arbitrary decision to foot the bill.”
“I ask again. I need to be clear on this, you understand. You want me to consult with you before I buy you any gift, large or small?”
“Yes. No.”
He lifted one brow sardonically, and Sabrina gave a frustrated huff.
“Oh, hell, now I don’t know what I want.”
Her obvious frustration took the edge from Marco’s anger. With a visible effort, he reined in his temper.
“We’re new to each other,” he said in a more even tone. “Still learning this intricate dance. Two steps forward, one back, like a waltz. We’re bound to miss a step or two until we perfect our rhythm.”
He let his glance shift to the sea. The churning waves held his gaze for long moments. When he turned to her again, all trace of anger was gone.
“I loved one woman and lost her. I don’t know yet where we will go, you and I. Neither of us can know at this point. But I do know one thing with absolute certainty. I don’t want to lose you, Sabrina mia.”
Now that was hitting below the belt! She could go nose to nose with her father any day, matching his hardheaded stubbornness with her own. Marco’s quiet declaration took every ounce of fight out of her. Worse, the tender endearment he attached to her name turned her insides to mush.
“I don’t want to lose you, either.”
He framed her face with his palms. “One step forward, my darling.”
It was easy, so easy, to take that step. Sighing, she tipped her chin for his kiss.
She had no idea how long they might have sat there, practicing their steps, if a tour bus hadn’t pulled into the turnout. The tourists piled out, oohing and ahhing over the incredible view. Their cameras were already clicking when Marco keyed the ignition.
They stopped for a late lunch in Torre Annunziata, a small town in the shadow of brooding Mt. Vesuvius, then had to battle horrendous traffic in Naples. Every other street, it seemed, was blocked in preparation for the night’s festivities.
They finally pulled up at Palazzo d’Calvetti a little