The Duke's New Year's Resolution / Quade's Babies. Brenda JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
her into the seat.
“My purse,” she ground out. “It’s in the rental car.”
He did the almost-eye-roll thing again.
Okay, so leaving her purse unattended in Italy—or anywhere else!—wasn’t the smartest thing to do. She certainly wouldn’t have done so under normal circumstances. But this was such an isolated stretch of road and she’d kept her rental car in view the whole time. Except when she’d nose-dived over the side of the cliff, of course.
Good thing she didn’t have her purse with her then. If she had, it might have gone the way of her cell phone. God knew where that was right now. One thing’s for sure, she wasn’t crawling back down the slope to look for it.
“I locked your car,” the doc informed her when he returned with her purse and the keys. “I’ll send someone back for it while you’re being attended to.”
He folded his muscular frame behind the wheel with practiced ease and keyed the Ferrari’s ignition. It came to life with a well-mannered growl.
“I’ll take you to the clinic in Positano. It’s small but well equipped.”
“How far is that?”
“Just there.” He indicated the cluster of colorful buildings clinging to the side of the cliff. “The place you were photographing,” he added on a dry note.
Sabrina was too preoccupied at the moment to respond. Navigating these narrow, twisting roads in the driver’s seat was nerve-racking enough. Sitting in the passenger seat, with a perpendicular drop-off mere inches away, it was a life-altering experience.
Stiff-armed, she braced her palms against the edge of her seat. Her uninjured leg instinctively thumped the floorboards, searching for the nonexistent brake on every turn. She sucked air whenever the Ferrari took a curve but gradually, grudgingly, had to admit the doc handled his powerful machine with unerring skill. Which didn’t explain why he’d seemed to aim right for her a while ago.
She must have startled him as much as he had her. Obviously, he hadn’t expected to encounter a pedestrian on that narrow curve. He wouldn’t encounter this one again, Sabrina vowed as the convertible hugged the asphalt on another switchback turn. She’d learned her lesson. No more excursions beyond the protection of the guardrails.
Dragging her attention from the sheer precipices, she pinned it on the driver. “Your name and accent are Italian, but your English has a touch of New York City in it.”
“You have a good ear. I did a three-year neurosurgical residency at Mount Sinai. I still consult there and fly over two or three times a year.” He sent a swift glance in her direction. “Are you a New Yorker?”
“I was once,” she got out, her uninjured foot stomping the floorboard again. “How about you keep your eyes on the road, Doc?”
She didn’t draw a full breath until the road cut away from the cliffs and buildings began to spring up on her side of the car.
Positano turned out to be a small town but one that obviously catered to the tourist trade during the regular season. This late in the year, many of the shops and restaurants were shuttered. Those still open displayed windows filled with glazed pottery and bottles of the region’s famous limoncello liqueur.
The town’s main street led straight down to a round-domed church and a piazza overlooking the sea, then straight up again. Since it was only two days past Christmas, the piazza was still decorated with festive garlands. A life-size nativity scene held the place of honor outside the church. Sabrina caught a glimpse of colorful fishing boats pulled up on a slice of rocky beach just before the doc made a sharp left and pulled into a small courtyard.
Killing the engine, he came around to the passenger side of the Ferrari. Once again she looped her arm around his neck. Her cheek brushed his when he lifted her. The bristles set the nerves just under her skin to dancing as he carried her toward a set of double glass doors.
The doors swished open at their approach. The nurse at the counter glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Sua Eccellenza!”
Sabrina’s German and French were much better than her Italian, but she was fairly certain nurses didn’t routinely accord physicians the title of Your Excellency. The rest of their conversation was so machine-gun fast, however, she didn’t have time to figure that one out before the nurse rushed forward with a wheelchair.
“Rafaela will take you to X-ray,” the doc said as he lowered her into the chair. “I’ll speak with you after I review the films.”
She must look like she’d just fallen off a cliff, Sabrina thought ruefully. The nurse gave her a fisheyed stare until a sharp order from the doc put her in motion. With a squeak of the chair’s rubber wheels, she propelled Sabrina through another set of double doors.
Marco remained in the reception area for a long time after the doors swished shut. He couldn’t blame Rafaela for gaping at this woman, this Sabrina Russo. The resemblance was incredible.
So incredible, he’d almost lost control of his car when he’d spotted her back there on that narrow road. Thank the Lord instinct had taken over from his shocked brain! Without thinking, he’d cut back into the proper lane and jammed on the brakes.
Then his only concern was getting to her, making sure she’d survived the fall. But now…
Now there was nothing to keep him reliving those terrifying seconds just before she fell. One thought and one thought only hammered into his skull.
He might have killed her. Again.
His jaw clenched so tight his back teeth ground together. Unseeing, Marco stared at the double doors. A phone buzzed somewhere in the distance. Outside, a horn honked with typical Italian impatience.
He heard nothing, saw nothing but the image of the woman who’d disappeared behind the doors. Her face, her features remained vivid in his mind as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
The picture he drew out of his wallet was old and dog-eared. It was the only snapshot he hadn’t been able to bring himself to pack away. His throat tight, he stared down at the laughing couple.
He’d been in his early twenties, a premed student at the University of Milan. Gianetta was three years younger. She looked so vibrant, so alive in this faded picture that a fist seemed to reach into Marco’s chest and rip out his beating, bleeding heart.
How young they’d been then. How blinded by lust. So sure their passion would stand the test of time. So heedless of the words of caution both his family and hers felt compelled to voice.
He should have listened, Marco thought savagely. He’d been premed, for God’s sake! He should have recognized the signs. The soaring highs. The sudden lows. The wild exuberance he’d ascribed to the mindless energy of youth. The seeds had been there, though. He could see them now in the laughing face turned up to the camera.
A face that was almost the mirror image of Sabrina Russo’s.
She could be Gianetta’s sister. Her twin. They had the same sun-streaked blond hair. The same slanting brown eyes. The same stubborn chin.
Or…
His stomach knotting, Marco echoed the irrational, improbable thought that had leaped into his mind when he’d glimpsed the woman in the road.
She could be his wife.
Gianetta, who had insisted on launching the sailboat despite the weather warnings.
Gianetta, whose frantic radio call for help still haunted his dreams.
Gianetta, whose body had never been recovered from the sea.
With a muttered oath, Marco shook his head. He’d been working too hard. Performing too many difficult surgeries. The long hours and unrelenting pace had gotten to him. How absurd to fantasize for so much as a single second that this American,