New Year Fireworks. Diana HamiltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
difficult for me to make house calls to the States. You’d have to stay here, in Italy.”
He said it with a lazy smile but as soon as the words were out the idea took hold. Suddenly thoughtful, he let his gaze drop to her mouth, still swollen from his kisses, and brought it up to meet hers again.
“Why not stay longer, Sabrina?”
“I wish I could. Unfortunately, my partners and I have a company to run.”
Marco curled a tendril of tawny gold around his finger and feathered the ends with his thumb. Just a few days ago he’d driven down from Rome with nothing more than a week of rest and relaxation in mind. Then this woman had dropped into his life. They’d spent less than a week together, but all he had to do was look at her to know he wanted more.
“Since your company provides support for executives doing business in Europe,” he said slowly, “perhaps you should consider the cost effectiveness of establishing a forward operating location in, say, Rome.”
Chuckling, she dropped a kiss on his chest. “That would certainly make house calls more convenient for my personal physician. Now I suggest we postpone any further doctor/patient consultation until later. We gotta get it in gear, fella.”
Marco let the subject drop, but the idea of keeping Sabrina in Italy remained fixed in his mind during the drive to the last conference site on her list, a resort some forty kilometers south of Salerno.
The Villa d’Este sat all by itself on a rocky promontory jutting into the sea. It was a new condo/time share/vacation resort that had been constructed for guests who wanted to avoid the bustle of the more popular tourist locales. The facilities were top rate and the prices comparable to the other sites Sabrina had scouted, but she left ready to cross the place off her list.
“Too isolated and difficult to get to,” she commented as the Ferrari slowed for a truck spewing a black cloud of diesel fumes. “Good thing I made a previsit. On paper, the resort looked perfect.”
With a blind curve ahead, Marco couldn’t pass. He dropped back, his nostrils flaring at the noxious fumes.
“So, which of the other three locales tops your list?”
She flipped through her notes. “I really liked the facilities and unique setting in Ravello, but that estimate came in considerably higher than either Sorrento or Capri. I e-mailed Signor Donati yesterday and asked him to take another look at his catering costs.”
Marco didn’t offer to weigh in with Donati. He’d made that mistake once, and felt the bite of Sabrina’s prickly independence. Yet he knew one phone call from him could resolve the issue.
The knowledge bothered him. He wasn’t used to sitting back while someone else took the lead. He headed a highly skilled surgical team with unquestioned authority. He made life and death decisions daily in the operating theater, and made them fast. In addition to chairing the neurosurgery department at his hospital, he sat on the board of directors for the International Pediatric Neurosurgical Association and the Gamma Radioknife Institute. He routinely loaned his name, his title and his reputation to any number of charitable enterprises. That combination carried as much weight here in southern Italy as it did in Rome.
At Sabrina’s specific request, however, he’d stayed in the background while she met with the hotel personnel in Capri, Sorrento and at the Villa d’Este. He’d shrugged off her stubborn determination to handle matters herself at the time. Now it put a decided dent in his ego. She was foolish not to use his influence, he thought as the truck in front of them belched another wave of noxious fumes.
Muttering a curse, Marco pulled out to pass. A long line of oncoming cars forced him to cut back.
“At this rate, we’ll eat his exhaust all the way back to Salerno.”
The irritated comment drew a quick glance from the woman beside him. She stuffed her notes in her briefcase with a rueful smile.
“I told you before, but I’ll tell you again. I really appreciate you playing chauffer for me this week.”
Marco didn’t want her appreciation. He wanted her. The more he thought about keeping her in Italy, the more determined he was to make it happen.
He needed to lay some groundwork first, and he couldn’t do that with this damned truck spewing fumes in his face. He caught sight of a brown sign ahead denoting the turnoff for a place of historical interest.
“Have you been to the Temple of Poseidon at Paestum?” he asked as the sign flashed by.
“No.”
“It’s too close by for you to miss.”
“Marco, we don’t have a lot of time for sightseeing. It’s almost three o’clock now and we’re still several hours from home.”
He slowed for the turn and cut the wheel. “This won’t take long.”
Sabrina stifled a dart of annoyance. After his good-natured chauffeuring, she could hardly insist they save Paestum for another day.
Still, she couldn’t help thinking of all she needed to get done. At the top of the list was putting her notes in order and e-mailing Caroline the results of her site surveys. When she received the input from Caro’s surveys, she’d have to get to work on a comparative analysis. And sometime before the ball tomorrow night she needed to squeeze in a few hours of shopping. The last thing she was interested in right now was a side trip to view some ruins.
Her minor annoyance evaporated at her first glimpse of the temples. The three massive Doric structures rose from a grassy plain dotted with the scattered remnants of the ancient city built by the Greeks around 600 B.C.
“The one in the center is as large as the Parthenon!” she gasped. “And so beautifully restored.”
She got a better view of the main temple when they pulled into the visitor’s parking lot. Awed, she let her gaze roam the starkly beautiful rows of columns topped by an elaborate frieze and a pitched roof. Marco hooked an arm over the steering wheel, content to sit for a few moments while she absorbed the incredible sight.
“The center temple was dedicated to Poseidon,” he told her. “The god of the sea. He was known as Neptune to the Romans, who took the city from the Greeks and occupied it until well into the ninth century.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Some say it was malaria, some believe it was a Saracen assault. That’s the Temple of Hera on the right. On the left is the Temple of Ceres, goddess of agriculture. Are you up to walking in for a closer view?”
“Most definitely.”
Her ankle had barely given her a twinge all day, but she was more than willing to tuck her arm in Marco’s for the short stroll to the temples. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket. She was developing a real attachment to this soft suede. A cold breeze came in off the sea, bringing with it wispy fingers of fog and making her glad she’d worn a black cashmere sweater under her jacket.
She spotted only two other visitors in the distance, wandering among the ruins of a small amphitheater. With a little thrill, she saw that she and Marco had the temples to themselves. They approached slowly and mounted the steps at the entrance. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Standing amid columns that had tumbled and been rebuilt gave her the eerie sensation of being part of man’s unceasing battle against time and the forces of nature.
“I can almost see a procession of white-robed priests and priestesses,” she murmured. “They must have made offerings to Poseidon in hopes he would fill their nets with fish … then wondered how the heck they’d offended him when a storm blew up and sank their ships.”
“Something I’ve wondered, too.”
Stricken, she glanced up the man beside her. “Oh, Marco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to evoke unhappy memories.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” His gaze drifted around