New Year Fireworks: The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
to handle matters herself.
She countered with another question. “Have you attended any functions at the Excelsior?”
“Several,” he admitted.
“Go.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. Have a cup of coffee.”
“Very well. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.”
She met with the assistant manager in his office before taking a tour of the hotel’s facilities. She had the quote he’d sent in response to her initial e-mail. After viewing the conference setup and finalizing meal selections, she bargained hard to get him to knock another ten percent off his bottom line.
Flushed with victory, she joined Marco on the sun-drenched terrace. He rose and slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose.
“I take it your negotiations went well.”
“They did.”
“Congratulations.”
“Two sites down; two to go. At this rate, I’ll have the information I need in plenty of time to prepare our final submission.”
“I’m glad,” he said, relieving her of her briefcase. “I was worried the accident may have impacted your ability to make your scheduled meetings.”
“It would have,” Sabrina admitted. “I couldn’t have negotiated these roads or found my way around nearly as well without your help. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
His slow smile raised goose bumps up and down her spine.
“Very much my pleasure.”
The day’s second site survey required a trip by hydrofoil to the Isle of Capri. Like Sorrento, it had been a popular vacation destination since the time of the ancient Greeks. Its rocky cliffs rose from an azure bay, with resort hotels strung out along both sea level and the heights.
Sabrina had visited Capri’s fabled Blue Grotto only once and would have loved to make a return trip. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to transfer to a small boat and ride the choppy waves into the cave. Her appointment with the manager of the hotel high on the cliffs overlooking the bay was set for two o’clock.
Marco accompanied her on the funicolare ride to the top of the cliffs. Good-naturedly he once again agreed to wait at a café in Piazza Umberto I. Sabrina wasn’t as successful in her negotiations this time and almost wished she’d brought His Excellency along for additional firepower. Still, she left with a quote that was considerably under the one provided to her by the hotel in Ravello.
“Too bad,” she commented to Marco on the hydrofoil back to Sorrento. “Ravello would have been my first choice. I liked the size of their breakout rooms and their audiovisual set up. Once I have the last estimate in hand, I might call Donati and see if he’ll cut another five percent off his bottom line.”
Stuffing her notes into her briefcase, she gave herself up to the vibrating hum of the boat’s engine and the simple pleasure of Marco’s arm draped over the back of her seat.
They’d left the Rolls parked at the ferry terminal. Marco held the passenger door for her and leaned down, his hand propped on the open door frame.
“How’s your ankle holding up?”
“Good.”
“Can you manage another stop?”
“Sure. Where?”
“My mother commanded me to bring you for dinner,” he reminded her with a wry smile. “I can beg off if you wish.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Are you certain? I love my mother dearly, but she can be a bit overwhelming at times.”
“Trust me. I learned at an early age to hold my own against overwhelming and overbearing.”
He settled in the driver’s seat and gave her a thoughtful glance as he buckled his seat belt. “You must tell me about this father of yours sometime.”
“I will. Sometime.”
But not with the sun sinking toward the sea and the early December dusk gathering on the hills. Right now Sabrina wanted to drink in the spectacular views of the Bay of Naples and enjoy the company of this intriguing, complex man.
“I’d rather you tell me about yours. I’d like to know a little about your background before I meet your mother.”
“My father died when I was four. I barely remember him. I have a sister, AnnaMaria. She’s an artist. She works mainly in bronzes and lives in Paris with her husband, also an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Etienne Girard?”
“I have! I attended an exhibit of his work a few years ago. His sculptures are, ah, very intense.”
“Very,” Marco agreed with a grin. “I’m still learning to interpret the message in rusted iron and neon.”
“And your mother?”
“Ah, Mama.” His smile turned affectionate and rueful at the same time. “She’s Neapolitan born and bred. She has the blood of our history in her veins—Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Norman, Bourbon. Her father fought against the German military occupation during World War II and helped the city win its freedom in 1943. He was later elected to parliament, but was murdered by the Camorra because of his vigorous efforts to stamp out organized crime. They gunned him down on the front steps of his home.”
His family had certainly suffered their share of tragedy. Like the Kennedys, Sabrina thought.
“After his death, my mother took up the fight herself. She, too, served in parliament until she married my father. Since then, she’s used her title and her influence to help any number of causes.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
“She is.”
Sabrina settled back in her seat, eager to meet the mother and learn more about the son who fascinated her more every hour she spent in his company.
Seven
As Marco explained during the short drive from the ferry dock, the original seat of the Dukes of San Giovanti was a hilltop fort north of Naples. The first duke received his title in 1523, along with his charter to guard the approaches to the rich trading port.
The present seat was a palazzo in the very heart of the city. To reach it, Marco negotiated the traffic-clogged harbor drive with a patience born of long familiarity. Sabrina didn’t mind the slow crawl. It gave her plenty of opportunity to gawk at the massive fortress guarding the harbor. Begun by the Angevins in the eleventh century and added to by the Spanish in subsequent centuries, the castle served as royal residences for a long succession of kings.
She also got glimpses of the famous Quartieri Spagnoli—the Spanish Quarter, laid out by Spanish soldiers in the seventeenth century. The teeming, densely populated area was quintessential Napoli.
Tall, multistory stucco buildings crowded so close together that the balconies on one side of the street almost touched those on the opposite side, completely blocking out the sun. Washing flapped from the balconies like bright pennants. The colorful Christmas decorations strung across the narrow alleys added to the chaotic scene.
Sabrina spotted a crew taking down the Christmas decorations and replacing them with a banner announcing a massive fireworks display and rock concert to celebrate the coming Fiesta di San Silvestro.
“I bet the Spanish Quarter rocks on New Year’s Eve.”
Marco flicked a glance at the dark tunnel of streets. “You don’t want to wander into the Quarter at night. Especially the night of San Silvestro. Some Neapolitans still practice the tradition of throwing broken furniture out the window to show they’re ready for a fresh start.”
“Out