Читать онлайн книгу «The Sicilian Surrender» автора Sandra Marton

The Sicilian Surrender
Sandra Marton
When it comes to women, Stefano Lucchesi thinks he's known them all. But Fallon O'Connell is beautiful and wealthy in her own right and appears to need no one. Stefano's determined to have her, body and soul….Fallon is determined to resist! Until an accident threatens her beauty and ends her supermodel career. Now she needs Stefano's help, even if that means surrender. Because only the Sicilian's passion can heal her body and restore her soul….



“You can’t leave until we’ve had our dance.”
“I know, but here…?”
“Here. Right here. Right now.” His voice had taken on a note of command, and then it softened. “Please,” he said, and opened his arms.
He saw the little lift of her breasts and knew she’d caught her breath. Would she turn him down? If she did, he’d be a gentleman and let her go.
The hell with that. He hadn’t made a fortune by being a gentleman. If she said no he’d pull her into his arms, bring her soft body against his, stroke his hands over her until she sighed and said yes to dancing with him, yes to making love with him, yes, yes, yes….
“Yes,” Fallon whispered, and went into his arms.
Dear Reader,
The exciting, passion-filled story of the O’Connell family continues!
The Sicilian Surrender is the second book in my new family saga. Fallon O’Connell is a world-famous model. She doesn’t enjoy living her life in the spotlight, but she’s learned to accept it as part of her job. Stefano Lucchesi is the powerful CEO of a multinational corporation. He despises the paparazzi who stalk him and values his privacy above everything else. Fate brings these two people together in Sicily, an island simmering in the heat of the summer sun. But destiny has more planned for Fallon and Stefano than a simple chance encounter. A dark, rainy night. A narrow road. The squeal of tires, a car crash, and their lives are forever changed. Only love can heal Fallon, just as only love can reach Stefano’s closely guarded heart.
As you discovered in my last family saga, THE BARONS, you can enjoy The Sicilian Surrender even if you haven’t read the prior book, Keir O’Connell’s Mistress. Join me on an exciting journey through the lives of a dynamic family. The O’Connells and I welcome you.
With love,


You can visit Sandra at http://www.sandramarton.com or write to her at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268, U.S.A.

The Sicilian Surrender
Sandra Marton




Special thanks to Joni Jones
for sharing her love of Sicily and its people with me.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE
THE sun was a blurred golden orb in a lowering sky as the sirocco blew in from the sea, howling through the ruins of the castello like the voices of the rebellious gladiators who had once defended this bit of Sicily against the power and might of ancient Rome.
Stefano Lucchesi thought of those men as he mounted the last stone steps and stood on the top of the cliff. To the west, Mount Etna slumbered in the humid air. Below, the stormy waters of the Mediterranean pounded the rocky shore.
How many times had a sentry stood in this same place, watching for the enemy? Romans, Greeks, Arabs and Normans had all spilled their blood here in the name of dominion. Pirates had hunted offshore, lying in wait for unwary ships like packs of hungry wolves.
Invader after invader had conquered this land of his ancestors, until, at last, it shook free of its shackles and created enemies of its own, an aristocracy that grew fat on the sweat of those who tilled this rocky soil.
Stefano turned his back to the sea, dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and surveyed his kingdom. Time had not treated it kindly. All that remained of the castello were tumbled stone walls and a handful of pillars.
Perhaps that was as it should be. There was a certain ironic justice in the way time had evened the balance sheet. What his great grandfather three times removed had built here, what his grandfather had ultimately lost in a feud so bitter it had ended in bloodshed, had long-ago crumbled to dust.
Even the land had been sold. Stefano had ordered his attorney to buy it back, piece by piece, from gnarled old men in baggy black suits who reminded him of his grandfather. Stefano had named a price that was more than fair, but the attorney’s representatives had no success.
All the old men seemed eager to sell land that was basically dry and barren until they heard the buyer’s name.
“Lucchesi?” they said.
One even spat on the ground by way of punctuation.
Stefano was amazed that the name should still evoke violent emotion after more than seventy years. He’d said so to his lawyer, who grinned, shook his head and said that Stefano needed to rent the Godfather movies and watch them from start to finish.
“It’s the Mafia thing,” Jack said. “How can you have Sicilian blood running through your veins and not understand? Those old guys knew your grandpa. They hated him. Why should you expect a welcome from them?”
Why, indeed?
Stefano knew little about the Mafia. He’d grown up in America, where his grandfather had immigrated decades before his birth. His father died when he was a baby and his mother, a New Orleans homecoming queen, dragged him from city to city in a frenzied search for excitement. Stefano was twelve when she died.
His paternal grandparents, who he hardly knew, took him in.
Tough, street smart, hiding his fear behind a mask of arrogance, he couldn’t have been easy for them to handle. His grandmother fed him and clothed him and otherwise washed her hands of him. His grandfather tolerated him, disciplined him and finally loved him with all his heart.
Perhaps his grandfather’s advanced years, coupled with Stefano having come to know him so late in the old man’s life, explained why he didn’t have what Jack called “the Mafia thing” in his blood. His grandfather never told him tales of bloodshed and revenge. He told him, instead, of La Sicilia, of Castello Lucchesi, of the cliffs and the volcano and the sea.
Those were the things that beat in Stefano’s blood, the things he cherished without ever having seen them.
It was only on his deathbed that the old man motioned him close, whispered of honor and pride and famiglia, of how he’d had to abandon everything and come to America to save what he could: Stefano’s father and, by extension, Stefano.
“I will get it all back,” Stefano had vowed.
It took time. Years to work his way through college, though by his senior year, he was impatient. During summer internships, he’d learned to hate the falseness of the corporate life that had been his goal, to despise the “old boy” network that was already working to deny him entry, the handshake that often accompanied the knife in the back.
His college roommate felt the same way. TJ was into computers. In those days, billionaires were made overnight in Internet start-up companies. TJ was going to be one of those billionaires. He had a great idea, he had the skill, the vision…
All he needed was the money.
One winter day, his hard-earned next semester’s tuition in hand, Stefano climbed into his ancient VW, headed toward Yale—and kept on going north, to a casino where he bought into a game of high-stakes poker. It was the first unplanned thing he’d ever done since the day he’d promised his grandfather to win back the Lucchesi honor, but he didn’t let himself think about that.
He told himself he deserved a day off. He was a good poker player; he played for fun in school. In fact, he’d won his old VW at a poker table at a middle of the night game in his college dorm, when another guy thought he’d been bluffing with a flush showing on the table.
That day at the casino, Stefano won more than a VW.
He won thousands of dollars.
The casino gave him a free room. He staggered to it, showered, slept, ate and returned to the table. Three days later, he drove back to school, dumped a small fortune on his surprised roommate’s bed and watched TJ stare at the bills in disbelief.
“Whadja do, man, rob a bank?”
“There’s your start-up investment,” Stefano said. “I want fifty-one percent control.”
A muscle jerked in Stefano’s jaw. Fast-forward a dozen years.
The start-up had made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Now, even though his money was invested in aerospace companies, in Texas oil, in luxury condos in Manhattan, he’d never forgotten the pledge he’d made his grandfather.
Two years ago, he’d set out to fulfill it, but it had taken the conversation with his attorney to remind him that there were places and people where ancient vendettas still made the blood hot with rage.
The hot sirocco wind beat at Stefano’s back, whipping his dark hair around his lean face. He pushed the strands back and again tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Double our initial offer,” he’d instructed his attorney.
“That’s far too much money. The land isn’t worth—”
“No, but their pride is. Make the offer, and make it clear that I have my pride to consider, too. Tell them I’m making them an offer they can’t refuse.”
Jack had met the statement with a long silence. At last, he’d cleared his throat.
“You watched those movies, huh?”
Stefano had laughed. “Just make the offer and get back to me.”
Now it was done. All this—the land, the cliffs, what remained of the castello and the view that stretched on forever—was his. So was the house he’d built, just beyond the ruins. He’d had the architect blend it into the rugged scenery and use stones from the original castle. The result was a handsome home, high-ceilinged, with walls of glass that looked over the volcano and the sea.
Stefano smiled. His grandfather, he was certain, would have been pleased.
Tonight, just after moonrise, he’d come out here again with a bottle of moscato and a glass. He’d pour the wine, lift the glass to the sea and toast the spirit of all those who’d come and gone before him.
And he would try to keep this place invisible to the rest of the world.
If the tabloids got word, they’d have a field day with what he’d done. It would put a sexy spin on the gossip that already swirled around him. He was building an empire, they said. He was a man of mystery. He was uno lupo solo. A lone wolf.
They were right about that, at least. Lucchesi Enterprises had made Stefano a public figure. Because of it, he cherished seclusion in his day-to-day life.
He’d followed his usual practice in building his new house, hiring only those who agreed to sign contracts that contained confidentiality clauses, making it clear his lawyers would be merciless in enforcing those clauses. Word would get out eventually, he knew, but this would give him some breathing room.
A little while ago, a helicopter had buzzed overhead. There was nothing unusual in that; helicopters were part of the twenty-first century. Still, he’d looked up, wondering if somehow the paparazzi had already caught up with him.
“Stef-an-oh.”
Stefano caught his breath. Was it the wind? The sound of that voice, calling his name. No. It had to be the wind.
“Stef-annn-oh. Yoo-hoo. Don’t you hear me?”
He blinked. The wind couldn’t put words into sentences, couldn’t paint the slender figure of a woman looking up at him from the foot of the hill, one hand scooping back her blond hair, the other cupping her mouth.
Carla? His heart thudded. It couldn’t be. She was in New York. He’d left her there one morning last week, tears trailing down her perfectly made-up face, stopping when she realized he meant every word, her voice rising to a shriek as she told him what she thought of him.
The trouble had started when she burst into his apartment without warning and found him sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee and looking at photos of the island: the windswept cliffs, the old ruins and the new house.
“Omygod,” she’d said breathlessly, “darling, what is this?”
There’d been no sense in saying he didn’t know. The architect had put together a handsome final portfolio, and each photo was neatly labeled.
Castello Lucchesi, Sicily.
“A house,” he’d said indifferently, as if that were all there was to it.
“Your house,” she’d said, in that breathless way he’d once found charming and now found irritating. “And it’s perfect for the cover of the premiere issue of Bridal Dreams.”
“No.”
“Now, Stefano,” she’d said, slipping into his lap, “you know I was hired to make Bridal Dreams the best magazine in the world. The first issue can make me or break me.”
No, he’d said again, and she’d changed tack, twisted around so she was straddling him, put her hot mouth to his.
He should have thrown her out right then. Their relationship had grown stale; it was over and he knew it. He’d lost interest in Carla—she was self-centered and superficial, and she wanted things he had no intention of giving her—a place in his life, a future with him.
He’d been with a dozen women who’d wanted the same things and he was no more interested in permanent commitment to Carla than he’d been with the others. Carla had known that, going in; she said her life was her career, but somewhere along the way, she’d decided to change her game plan.
So he’d lifted her from his lap, told her “No” again, and as she began to weep, his phone rang. It was his pilot, saying his Learjet had been serviced and was ready whenever he was.
“Where are you going?” Carla cried as he started for the door. “You have to do this for me, Stefano. You have to!”
When he didn’t answer, she’d gone from crying to cursing and screaming…
And now she was here. On his land. His island. Scrambling up the hill toward him like something out of a bad dream.
He felt his insides knot into a ball of fury at her temerity in violating this place. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that this wasn’t a shrine. The only thing he had the right to be angry about was that she’d followed him on this trip without being invited, but that didn’t keep him from jamming his hands even harder into his pockets and balling them into fists.
“Darling,” she squealed as she reached him. “Aren’t you surprised to see me?”
“How did you find me?” he said curtly.
“That’s not much of a hello.”
“You’re right. It’s a question. Please answer it.”
She smiled as she rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his unmoving mouth.
“It wasn’t that difficult. I’m sure you think I have a bubble for a brain, but even a child could have—”
“I’m sorry you made such a long journey for nothing, Carla.”
“Is that all you have to say to me after I’ve come so far to be with you?”
His mouth twisted. She had come for her own reasons. Being with him had nothing to do with it. He knew that, and she knew he knew it.
“—such a magnificent place, darling, and to think you didn’t intend to share it with—”
“Was that helicopter yours?”
“Yes. Yes, it was. It landed in a field just a little way from here and then a taxi—”
“Go back to it and tell the pilot to take you back to the airport.”
Carla blinked. “What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. I just can’t believe you’d send me away.”
Tears glinted in her eyes. She was good at this, he thought grimly. Very good.
“Carla.” He spoke quietly, feeling the anger inside him approaching critical mass and determined not to let her know it. He valued self-control as much as privacy. Explosive emotion was the one thing Sicilian he didn’t admire. It had led his grandfather to ruin. “You’re not staying here.”
“You mean…” Her mouth trembled. “You mean, I’m not welcome.”
He almost laughed. Did she really think a show of injured feelings would work?
“I mean,” he said carefully, “I didn’t invite you.”
“You didn’t have to. We’ve been together a long time.”
“Four months.” His voice turned cold. He knew it, but all at once, he didn’t care.
“Four months,” she repeated, making it sound like a lifetime, “and now, just because I asked you a simple favor—”
“I gave you a simple answer. No one is putting my home on the cover of a magazine.”
“Then, it is your home?” she said with a sly little smile. “You’re not developing this property into a resort?”
Stefano cursed himself for being a fool. “Goodbye, Carla,” he said, and started past her.
She reached out and caught his sleeve.
“I don’t want it for a cover, Stefano. I want it for the entire issue.”
He laughed.
“It’ll be the most incredible magazine anyone’s ever seen!” He tugged his arm free of her hand and began walking down the slope. Carla hurried alongside him, slipping a little in her stiletto heels. “Just listen, okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“The way I’ve planned things will protect your precious privacy as much as it heightens the intimacy of the shoot.”
They reached the bottom of the hill. Stefano looked around for her taxi. The road and the driveway were empty.
“Here’s my plan, Stefano.” Carla moved in front of him, face glowing under the soft lights that had just come on in the rear of the house. “One of everything. One world-class photographer, one incredible makeup artist, one unbelievably gorgeous model—”
She cried out as he cupped her elbows and hauled her to her toes.
“No! Are you deaf? There will be no shoot. No model, no photographer, no anything.”
“You’re hurting me.”
He probably was. Carefully, he took his hands from her and stepped back.
“Where’s your cab?”
“I sent it back.” She smiled. “I sent the helicopter back, too.”
“Wait here. I’ll have someone drive you to the airport,” he said, and walked away from her for what would surely be the last time.
“Stefano.”
Her voice was soft; it held something that made the hair rise on the back of his neck, but he kept going.
“Which magazine would you rather see these photos in, Bridal Dreams…or Whispers?”
He came to an abrupt stop.
“You have a minute to reconsider that threat,” he said as he swung toward her, “and then I’m going to pick you up and throw you off my land.”
Carla’s face was white. She was frightened. But she was determined, too. He could see it in the tilt of her head.
“I’ve already made all the arrangements. The model, the makeup man, the photographer…They’ll all be here tomorrow.”
He felt his jaw drop. Dimly, in a part of his mind that was observing all this with dry curiosity, he wondered what the world would think if it knew that one sentence, spoken by one woman, could have such an effect on il lupo solo.
“Excuse me?”
“I said—”
He moved quickly, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let go!”
“Damn you, explain yourself!”
“I’ll sue you for assault if you don’t let go!”
It wouldn’t be assault, it would be murder. He was a heartbeat away from it. Stunned by the intensity of his rage, he let her go.
“Explain yourself.”
“I did, but you wouldn’t listen.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him. Her voice took on timbre; excitement flashed in her eyes. “You think you know all about making money? Maybe, but you don’t know squat about magazine publishing. You debut a new magazine or relaunch an old one, what you need is to produce an issue that’ll set the country talking. Just one issue, and the magazine will be so hot it’ll sizzle. And so will I.”
“Sizzle some other way. No one is setting foot here without my permission.”
“We’ll be here three days, no more than that. I won’t insult you by offering you money for the right to do the shoot here.”
He laughed, and her cheeks reddened.
“Don’t make me force your hand, darling.”
“Force it?” he said through his teeth.
“You want to keep your life a deep, dark mystery, don’t you?” She smiled slyly. “Offhand, I can think of half a dozen tabloids that would love an exclusive interview with the great Stefano Lucchesi’s mistress—along with aerial photos of his new hideaway.”
In the ensuing silence, Stefano could hear everything. The pound of his heart. The distant boom of the surf and the sharp cry of a bird far over the rolling sea. He could feel the shadows behind him, the ghosts of the wild warriors who’d done whatever was necessary to protect this place.
“I could kill you,” he said softly. “No one would know. All I have to do is drag you to the top of the cliff and throw you off. By the time your remains washed up, the crabs would have eaten their fill.”
Carla’s smile trembled but she moved closer to him.
“You’re a heartless bastard when you want to be, Stefano Lucchesi, but killing women? Never.”
Stefano stared at his former lover for long moments. Then he spat at her feet, brushed past her and headed for the house.
So much for his dreams.
She had defiled this place.
Maybe his grandfather had been wise to have left the island behind.

CHAPTER TWO
ALL the oceans of the world looked the same from 35,000 feet…and wasn’t it sad when you’d flown so often that you could think of nothing but that when you were almost seven miles above the Atlantic?
Fallon O’Connell sat back, pressed the button that fully reclined her soft leather seat and wondered when she’d turned into such a world-weary cynic.
Across the aisle, a little boy traveling with his mother sat with his nose almost pressed to the glass, enthralled by the cloudless view of the ocean miles below and by the wonder of leaving Connecticut this evening and arriving in Italy tomorrow morning…but then, the kid hadn’t made this trip a million times.
She’d been as excited as he was, her first flight to Europe ten years ago.
Fallon closed her eyes.
She was on her way to an island in the Mediterranean for a one week shoot, a suite in a mansion waiting for her as well as the best makeup artist and cameraman in the business ready to work their magic…
Her mouth twitched.
A little enthusiasm might be a good idea right about now.
She sighed, sat up straight and peered out the window again.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want the job. What model wouldn’t? The inaugural cover of Bridal Dreams and inside it, pages and pages of glossy photographs devoted to her.
Of course, she wanted it.
So, what was the problem? That was what her brother Cullen had asked her last night, after Keir’s and Cassie’s wedding.
The newlyweds had finally made their laughing escape, but the O’Connell clan wasn’t finished celebrating. They’d moved the festivities from the lushness of the Tender Grapes restaurant up to the handsome stone house that overlooked Deer Hill Vineyard.
Sean lit a fire on the massive hearth.
Anybody want to roast an ox? he’d said, to much laughter.
Cullen opened another bottle of Deer Hill’s prize-winning Chardonnay.
Damn good thing Keir bought himself a vineyard instead of a soft drink franchise, he’d said, to more laughter.
Cullen filled all their glasses. Sean went through Keir’s collection of CDs and put on something soft and classical while their mother and stepfather settled on the sofa. Megan, Briana and Fallon kicked off their stiletto heels and groaned with pleasure.
How about taking the dollar tour? Bree said.
Yeah, Megan answered, looping her arm through Bree’s. Maybe we can finally figure out how many rooms this place really has.
She held out a hand to Fallon, but Fallon smiled and shook her head.
“You guys go ahead. I’m going to step outside for a breath of air.”
Her sisters trooped off and Cullen looked over at her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, flashing another smile. “I just want to take a look at the sky. I’m not used to seeing all these stars.”
Her brother grinned. “Me, neither. Us city types tend to forget.”
Fallon nodded, opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out on the terrace. The stars shone down with crystalline brilliance from a black-velvet sky; the ivory moon seemed caught in the uplifted branches of a stand of trees.
The warm air of the Connecticut summer night enveloped her.
Wineglass in hand, Fallon went down stone steps that still held some of the day’s heat. She made her way slowly along the gentle slope of the hill and through terraced rows of grapevines.
There, the earth was cool and moist against her bare feet—she and her sisters had decided to forgo panty hose under their long bridesmaids’ gowns. The breeze, perfumed by heavy clusters of ripening grapes, smelled delicious.
It had been a lovely day. A wonderful weekend. Her mother was blissfully happy with Dan, who’d turned out to be the kind of stepfather that gave the word luster. Spending time with her sisters and brothers was always fun, and her oldest brother was so crazy in love with his Cassie that it almost made you believe in love.
For someone else, at least, if not for yourself.
Fallon stopped walking, sipped some of the wine, ran a hand lightly over a cluster of velvety grapes.
Then, how come she was feeling so—so—
What? What was she feeling? Weary? Under the weather? Maybe even a little bit down? There was no reason for it, none at—
“Hey.”
She gasped and spun around just as Cullen reached her.
“You scared me to half to death,” she said with a little laugh.
“Sorry. I figured you heard me coming.” He grinned. “I guess I have a delicate walk.”
Fallon grinned back at him. “Delicate” was not a word anyone would use to describe her brothers. Cullen, like the rest of them, was big, six foot two in his stockinged feet.
“Uh-huh. About as delicate as a moose. What are you doing out here?”
Cullen shrugged. “Same as you, kid. Checking the stars, stretching my legs, taking a breather. It’s been a long day.”
“A long weekend, you mean. Fun, though.”
“The gathering of the O’Connell clan always is. Fewer fireworks than usual this time, at least.”
Fallon laughed. “Probably out of deference to Cassie. I guess none of us wanted to scare her off. She scored lots of points, being able to tolerate all of us at one clip.”
“Uh-huh. She seems terrific.”
“I agree.”
Brother and sister sipped their wine.
“Amazing,” Cullen said, after a while. “That Keir got married, I mean.”
“It happens,” Fallon said lightly.
“Sure, but not to us.” They both laughed. “It was a great ceremony.”
“Mmm.”
“Those vows they wrote were cool.”
“Mmm,” Fallon said again, and took another sip of wine.
“Touching.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Touching?”
“Yeah. You know, the sentiments they expressed. Isn’t a man permitted to use the word? You thought so, too.”
Fallon blinked. “Were we talking about me?”
Cullen, who’d hours ago discarded his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt.
“You cried a little,” he said softly. “At the end.”
“Me? Cry at a wedding?” Fallon turned toward him and poked a finger into the middle of his chest. “Cullen. My darling little brother—”
“You’re only a year older than I am, kid. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“The point is, I do not cry at weddings. Why would I? When you’ve been a bride nine trillion times—”
“A magazine-cover bride, six times, and don’t look so surprised. Ma keeps count.”
Fallon looked up at him. “Does she?”
“Damned right. And if you want to know the rest, she sends each of us a copy of every magazine that has you on the cover…As if we all didn’t run to the nearest store and buy up all the copies ourselves.”
Pleased beyond reason, Fallon smiled.
“That’s nice.”
“Nice? It’s necessary. How do you think those magazines stay in circulation? If the O’Connells didn’t buy ’em, who would?” He laughed, ducked away from the fist his sister teasingly aimed at his jaw. “But being a bride on a cover doesn’t make you a bride in real life, babe. We both know that.”
Fallon narrowed her eyes. “What’s happening here? You think, now that Keir’s gone down the aisle, we all should?”
Cullen shuddered. “Hell, no!”
“Good. Because I’m not the least bit interested in getting married.”
“Fine with me. I’m just wondering why you were crying.” His voice gentled. “You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. If some guy out there hurt you or something—”
“Oh, Cull,” Fallon said softly. Her lips curved in a smile; she clasped her brother’s forearms, lifted to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“Hey, did I or did I not beat up Billy Buchanan for you in fifth grade, when he wrote ‘I Luv Amy’ on that fence instead of ‘I Luv Fallon’ after he’d sworn to be your boyfriend forever?”
Fallon grinned. “Probably because he couldn’t spell Fallon, but yes, you did.”
“Well, any other SOB gives you a bad time, you tell me, okay?”
She stared at Cullen, wondering what he’d say if he knew that she didn’t even date anymore, that one man too many had coveted her as a trophy to be won and ignored her as a woman who wanted to be loved for who she was, not what she was.
“Sis?”
Fallon smiled and looped her arm through his. “Okay.”
They began walking up the hill, toward the turreted stone house illuminated by moonlight.
“It was just that it all seemed so—so right,” she said after a minute, her voice soft and low. “The flowers. The words. The music. The way Keir and Cassie looked at each other. I guess you’re right. It was touching.”
“Sure.”
“Not that I want any of it for myself.”
“Your career,” Cullen said, nodding as if he understood that there was no room in her life for anything else.
Except, how could he understand when she didn’t? After years of hard work, her career was at its peak…and she wasn’t enjoying it half as much as she’d expected.
She’d hit it big at seventeen, just walking along a New York street on a break between finishing high school and starting college. A man had come up to her, shoved his card at her, said, when she jerked back, that he wasn’t a child molester or a lunatic, that he owned a modeling agency and if she wasn’t a fool, she’d come in to talk with him.
Fallon had never been a fool. You didn’t get to be valedictorian of your class or survive a childhood spent moving from place to place by being stupid. She’d checked out the name of the agency, called for an appointment and met with the man who now bore the distinction of having discovered her.
By the time she was eighteen, her face was everywhere. So was she. A week in Spain, another in Paris, long weekends in the Caribbean and on Florida’s Gold Coast that very first year, and scores of places ever since.
Maybe that was why she’d been so emotional yesterday, at the wedding. Maybe it was knowing that Keir and Cassie were going to put down roots.
Maybe it was why she was staring out the jet’s window again, wondering when she’d realized that one ocean was like another, one island like another, one man like another—
“Miss O’Connell?”
Fallon looked up. The cabin attendant was standing over her, smiling and offering the breakfast menu. She shook her head, declined everything but a small pot of coffee.
When it came, she raised her seat halfway and poured a cup.
You had to watch your weight when you modeled, more and more as the years sped by. The svelte figure you had at eighteen wasn’t the same as the one you had at twenty-eight.
Twenty-eight, she thought, sipping at the hot black coffee. Pushing thirty. Not bad in this business. Her body was still all right; hours in the gym kept it that way, but she’d have to do some things to her face soon, if she wanted to keep going. Maybe get her eyelids done or her mouth plumped with collagen. Take a shot of Botox to keep wrinkles from between her brows.
She hated even the thought of doing something so artificial. As it was, there were times she looked in the mirror after someone had done her hair and her face, after someone else had chosen what she would wear, after still another person told her to look soulful or excited or whatever would sell cars or hand lotion, and wondered who she was.
Surgery, injections, little tucks and snips would only make the real Fallon more difficult to find.
Sometimes, she looked in the mirror and wondered what life would be like if she were a real person instead of a woman created by the camera.
Fallon grimaced and put down her cup.
For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her?
She was Fallon O’Connell, supermodel. Thousands of women would give anything to trade places with her, and every last one of them would tell her she was certifiably crazy not to be happy.
She had a wonderful, exciting life. And she knew, even if nobody else except her family did, that she was more than just a pretty face.
She smiled, remembering the way Sean and Cullen had greeted her at the Hartford airport a few days ago, enfolding her in rib-squeezing hugs, Sean saying he was glad to see she was still as homely as sin, Cullen adding yes, it was true, and wasn’t it a terrible shame?
Fallon chuckled. Her family knew how to keep her grounded.
She pressed the seat button and sat up straight.
Enough of this silliness. She had to concentrate on the job ahead. It was an incredible assignment. She’d be the only model in the shoot, and she’d work with Maurice, her favorite photographer, and Andy, a genius of a makeup artist who’d always been able to make her look ethereal.
Carla—the Bridal Dreams editor who’d set up the whole thing—would be there, too, but that was it. Just their little group, and nobody else, not even the mansion’s owner. That was a relief. She’d done shoots on private property before and sometimes the owners got so star-struck and excited, they got in the way.
Not this time.
This owner, Carla said, was an old man with a bad temper. God only knew what magic Carla had worked to convince him to let them use the site for the shoot. When Fallon had asked, Carla winked and said it was a secret. She’d probably used that same magic to get the old guy out of the way. Carla said she’d given him the option of staying around but he’d refused.
So there’d be just a handful of people, people Fallon already knew, and the ruins of an old castle, a view Carla swore went on forever, the sun, the sea, the beach…
And the volcano, smoldering in the distance.
She felt better, just imagining it.
She’d been to Sicily before, only for a couple of days. That had been work, too, but she’d been one of three models. The other girls had hated the island. They said it was too rugged, too old-world, too windswept, but Fallon had loved it.
Sicily was reality. Islands where the trees were lush, the land gently rolling, the people smiling and laid-back were fantasies.
A touch of reality was a breath of fresh air in a life where the end product was illusion.
The sound of the jet’s engines changed. It was subtle, but she’d flown enough to recognize the different nuances in tone. The pilot was throttling back. Soon, he’d put down the flaps and lower the landing gear.
Fallon leaned toward the window. The sky was turning light; a slender red thread stretched across the horizon. They’d be over land any minute, touching down in Paris where she’d change planes for the last leg of her flight.
Perhaps, she thought with a little kick of excitement, perhaps Sicily was where she’d finally figure out who she was and what she was going to do with the rest of her life, because the truth was, the future was on her mind lately.
On her mind, a lot.
Fallon shut her eyes, blocked out the sound of the engines and the excited voice of the little boy across the aisle. She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly and deeply.
A couple of relaxation exercises, she’d be absolutely fine.

A few hours later, not even a day’s worth of relaxation exercises would have helped calm her nerves.
What kind of place was this?
Was there supposed to be a deluge in Catania at this time of year? Was she supposed to be so wet and cold that she was shivering?
Plus, nobody spoke English. Well, nobody here at the cab stand. Nobody spoke Italian, either. Fallon did, a little. More than a little; she had a good ear and she’d picked up a considerable amount of the language when she lived in Milan for six weeks at the start of her career.
What people were talking here sounded like Italian, but it wasn’t. It was a dialect, sort of what you heard in New York when you went into one of those fantastic little shops all the way downtown where they said “proh-voh-lone” when they meant “prah-vah-lohn-eh” or “scun-geel” when they meant “scun-gee-lee.”
You thought you understood. And you did. Almost. But there was a huge difference between clarifying things by smiling and pointing at a chunk of cheese or a tray of octopus and trying to figure out how to ask if this was or was not the place to wait for a private car that was supposed to come for you.
Fallon shoved a wet hank of hair from her eyes.
Where the hell was her ride?
Her flight had come in on time. She’d collected her luggage, gone through customs, headed out the door absolutely according to Carla’s directions…
And waited.
And waited.
And waited some more, without the protection of an umbrella or a raincoat, just a thin cotton jacket over an even thinner T-shirt and cotton slacks.
Where was that miserable car?
She darted out from the wretched protection of an overhang and checked the road again, searching for a car that looked as if its driver might be searching for her.
Fiats and Alfa-Romeos went by. And taxis, lots of taxis, and, damn it, she’d have taken one if she knew where she was going but she didn’t have the address. Why would she have needed it, when a car was picking her up?
Fallon dashed back to the wall, soaked to the skin, her hair dripping down her back and in her eyes, her clothes plastered to her body.
Maurice, the photographer, and Andy, the makeup guy, had flown over yesterday with Carla. She’d had to come a day late because of the wedding. No doubt the three of them were sitting in that castle, warm and dry, drinking vino while she stood here and drowned.
Okay. To hell with waiting for a driver who wasn’t coming. She’d go into the terminal, find a phone, call the Bridal Dreams office…
And reach nobody. It was the beginning of the day here, which meant it was still the middle of the night in New York.
“Damn,” she said under her breath, “damn, damn!”
A big black car pulled out of the line of traffic and turned toward the curb. Fallon held her breath. Was the driver looking for her? She couldn’t see him; the windows were darkly tinted and the rain was coming down in sheets, but yes, the car was stopping, the driver was getting out, going around the car, opening the door…
Fallon raced to the car and tossed her suitcase inside.
The driver looked startled. “Signorina. Uno momento!”
“It’s okay,” she gasped, “you don’t have to put the case in the trunk. Just let me get inside where it’s dry.”
“By all means,” a deep, amused voice said. “Any port will do in a storm.”
A man was sitting in the shadowed corner of the back seat, smiling at her.
Fallon’s first thought was that he was gorgeous. Dark hair, heavily-lashed dark eyes, a classical Roman nose…
Her second was that this couldn’t possibly be her car if someone was already inside it.
Her third was that she was out of the wet and the cold for the first time in almost half an hour.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose…Is there the slightest possibility someone sent you to meet me?”
The man grinned. “I’d love to say yes but, regretfully, I have to say that nobody sent me to meet you.”
“Ah.” Still crouched just inside the car, Fallon put her hand to her hair and shoved the sodden mass from her face. “Well, then, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I mean, I’ve been waiting for a car that was supposed to come for me, and—”
“How about fate?”
“Excuse me?”
“Would it be all right if I said fate sent me to meet you?”
Oh, yes. Definitely gorgeous, and with a smooth line.
“Unfortunately,” she answered, with a quick smile, “fate’s not going to take me where I’m going.” Still smiling, she started scooting backward. “Again, my apologies for—”
“My driver can take you wherever you’re going.”
She blinked. Stefano knew he’d surprised her with his offer. Hell, he’d surprised himself, too.
What was he doing, telling a strange woman she could use his car to take her wherever it was she was going? On the other hand, she was a delectable stranger, even as wet as she was. Even? Stefano let his gaze drop to her breasts, their roundness, their tight little nipples perfectly outlined under her clinging shirt.
If anything, the rain heightened her beauty.
He felt a quick stir in his loins, a sudden surge of hunger that shocked him with its intensity. He hadn’t felt this kind of desire since his breakup with Carla. Actually, not for weeks before that.
“That’s very generous of you, signore, but I can’t accept.”
His eyes lifted to hers. Her face was a little flushed, as if she’d noticed the way he’d looked at her. She was shivering, which made sense considering how wet she was, and Stefano cursed himself for evaluating her sexually at such a moment.
“Of course you can. I’m getting out here and my driver has nowhere to go after he leaves me. He can take you to your hotel.”
Fallon shook her head. “That’s just it. I’m not going to a hotel. I—”
“The rain’s coming in. Why don’t you sit down, let Luigi shut the door and turn on some heat while we discuss this.”
She hesitated. He knew she had to be weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Should a woman get into a car with a stranger or not?
He smiled.
“You’re American.”
“Yes.”
“Well, so am I. That makes us kindred souls. What’s the title of that old book? Strangers in a Strange Land.”
“Heinlein,” she said, with a delighted smile, and that seemed to do it. The woman bounced onto the leather seat beside him, shoved her hair back from her face and held out her hand. “Fallon O’Connell,” she said, but when he reached for her hand she laughed, drew it back, wiped the wetness on her trouser leg before holding it out again. “I’m soaked.”
“So you are.”
Stefano smiled as he clasped her hand in his. God, she was beautiful! Who was she visiting in Sicily? A man? He felt an irrational surge of jealousy for some faceless stranger. Maybe she wasn’t visiting a man. Maybe he ought to stay on the island instead of returning to New York and celebrate his newfound freedom.
“And your name is…?”
He laughed. “Sorry. I’m Stefano Lucchesi. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss O’Connell.”
“Fallon, please. It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr.—”
“Stefano.” He let go of her hand, though he really didn’t want to, sat back and folded his arms. “Now that we’ve been formally introduced, tell me why you can’t let my driver take you to your destination.”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, you see, I don’t know the address.”
Stefano grinned. “A mystery vacation?”
She laughed. She had a great laugh, light and musical and real.
“I wish. I’m not on vacation at all.”
“Ah. Don’t tell me. You’re the American sales rep for Lamborghini.”
She laughed again, and he thought how nice it was to be able to make her eyes crinkle up that way.
“I’m here on assignment for a magazine, but the person who hired me didn’t give me an address. It didn’t seem necessary, because she said she’d have a car pick me up.”
Stefano felt his smile tilt. “She said?”
“Yes.”
He drew a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’re a model, Miss O’Connell.”
“It’s Fallon, remember? And yes, I am. Did you just recognize me?”
She said it with a smile but there was disappointment in her eyes. Why? he wondered. Because he hadn’t recognized her sooner? Yes, that would be the reason. He knew the kind of woman she was, aware of her looks, trading on them, assuming no man could resist her. And he, like a fool, had been busy proving her right.
Until now.
She was connected to Carla, a part of Carla’s plan to violate his sanctuary. And he wanted nothing to do with her.
“No,” he said curtly, “I didn’t recognize you.”
“Oh. Then, how—”
“There’s talk all over the island of the idiots who are going to take foolish pictures for a useless magazine.”
It was a lie. There’d been no talk. Carla had kept to the bargain; she’d been discreet and he’d surely told no one, but it was as good an excuse as any. He was angry, angrier than he had the right to be, and for no good reason. What Fallon O’Connell did for a living was her affair, not his.
Apparently, she thought so, too. Her smile vanished; that lovely face turned cool.
“I don’t consider my occupation useless, Mr. Lucchesi.”
“My apologies,” he said in a way that made a mockery of the words. She knew it, too, because color swept into her cheeks.
“You don’t know anything about my profession, mister! The pictures will be beautiful, and thousands of readers would tell you how much the articles in the magazine—”
“I’m sure they would,” he said, cutting her short, “but then, there’s no accounting for bad taste.”
Just for a second, he thought she was going to slug him. The thought had a certain appeal. Her hand swinging in an arc, his reaching out to stop her, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her against him and crushing that lush mouth beneath his until her indignation became desire…
Damn it, was he crazy?
“Okay.” Her voice was low and trembling with repressed anger. “That’s enough.”
She reached for the door; he caught her hand to stop her and felt a bolt of electricity shoot from her fingers to his before she jerked back.
“How you earn your living is your affair. The point is, I know the place you want.” He leaned forward and tapped his driver’s shoulder. “Luigi. The lady wants to go to the castello. Take her there.”
“I’d rather walk than accept a favor from you.”
“Don’t be a fool. How can you go someplace if you don’t know its location?”
“Just tell me where it is and we’ll call it even.”
“My driver will take you.”
“Damn it, are you deaf? I don’t want to spend another minute in this car!”
“It isn’t the car, it’s me.”
Her eyes flashed. Soaked to the skin, as disheveled as a wet cat, she still had a presence about her.
“You’ve got that right!”
“In that case…” Stefano wrenched the door open, stepped into the road and slammed the door shut. “Arrivederci, Miss O’Connell. Luigi?” He slapped the side of the car. “Andante.”
Fallon O’Connell said something to him. He couldn’t hear it but this close to the smoked glass window, he could see her mouth open in angry indignation.
Whatever it was, he suspected it wasn’t polite.
She reached for the door and he slapped the car again. Luigi, ever obedient, discreetly activated the door locks and floored the gas pedal.
The car shot away from the curb.
Stefano strode into the terminal, got halfway through it and stopped. What the hell was he doing? He cursed under his breath, an eloquent, earthy string of Sicilian that would have made his grandfather proud as he took his cell phone from his pocket and called his pilot.
“Change of plans,” he said briskly. “We’re not going anywhere today. In fact, you might as well take the next few days off. I’ll be staying in Sicily for a while.”
Of course he’d stay, he thought grimly as he hurried back to the taxi stand. What had he been thinking, to risk leaving the castello while Carla and her people were there?
She had instructions. So did his house staff. None of the Bridal Dreams people were to be permitted past the door. Carla had been upset; where would she put her little crew? she’d said. She’d already told them they’d be staying in the castle.
Untell them, he’d said coldly.
For all he gave a damn, she could put them in sleeping bags on the rocky beach, but there was an inn a few miles away and that was where she’d arranged they’d spend the week.
He’d checked to make sure she’d really made the reservations, and he’d pushed up the installation of a full security system for the castello by a couple of months. He’d even gone a step further and arranged for around-the-clock security people to patrol the grounds.
“Taxi, signore?”
Stefano nodded, handed over a few bills and climbed into the cab.
“Il Castello Lucchesi,” he said.
Still, how could he be sure his orders were followed unless he was there?
He’d been stupid to leave his home while strangers were on the property. Going back was the only way to safeguard his privacy.
An image flashed before him of the woman he’d just met, her eyes wide and mysterious, her mouth warm and sensual. For an instant, he thought he could smell her scent, an innocent breath of vanilla that only accentuated the lushness of her beauty.
Stefano’s mouth thinned.
He wasn’t doing this because of Fallon O’Connell. He was doing it because it was logical.
There was no other reason.
None at all.

CHAPTER THREE
A TRAVEL magazine would have dubbed the Lucchesi Estate magnificent.
The setting was spectacular. Tall cypresses flanked the ancient ruins that had once been a medieval castle. It backed against a cliff that fell away to the deep blue Mediterranean, and faced the slumbering volcano called Mount Etna.
On the same plateau, probably where the ancient outbuildings of the castle had once sprawled, stood a modern castle, a structure that was all cool smoked glass and native stone. There was a terrace behind it, a garden surrounding that, and off by itself, a free-form pool with an infinity edge that made it seem as if the water in the pool fell straight down the cliff, into the sea.
Beautiful, all of it…and after almost a week, Fallon hoped to God she’d never set eyes on the place again.
The sun was merciless, blazing down like golden fire from a sky so blue it seemed artificial. Shooting on the terrace hour after hour, with the sea at her back, meant she spent most of her time staring at the castle and all that dark glass. It was like looking at someone wearing mirrored sunglasses. Were they watching you, or was it your imagination? It was always impossible to tell.
Filming in the pool was better, but Maurice thought that setting too tame. He preferred the beach, and that was hell.
The beach was rocky, the stones hot and sharp beneath her bare feet, and even when Maurice motioned her into the surf, the water was tepid against her ankles and calves rather than cooling.
The last day of the shoot seemed endless. Maurice was barking out orders, as usual.
“Angle toward me! Get that arm back! Think sexy!”
Think sexy? All she could think was thirsty, but she moistened her lips, turned a half smile to the camera and clung to the thought that they’d be finished in just another few minutes.
She was hot; her feet were raw from the rocks and her skin was itchy under its layer of sunscreen. Andy had used waterproof makeup on her face and it felt like a mask, and the hairdresser—Carla had brought along more than the three people she’d promised—the hairdresser had sprayed so much gunk at her head that she felt like she was wearing a wig.
“Let’s go, O’Connell! This time, run into the surf. Look like you’re having a good time. Give me lots of splash.”
The only thing she wanted to give him was a sock in the jaw. But she was a pro; she knew how to do her job. And she was trying to do it, she really was. It was just that she’d come here expecting to love this place.
Instead, she hated it.
“Smile. Yes. That’s it. Another one, over your shoulder this time.”
The sun, reflecting off the sea in sparkling flashes, was too bright. She had a headache from it by the end of each day. The beach was impossible to walk on, all those stones cutting into the tender soles of her feet.
“Okay, honey. Drape yourself over the big rock. You know what I want, babe. Lean back on your hands. Nice. Very nice. Bigger smile. Yeah, like that. Good, fine—except turn your head. Give me the look. You know the one. That’s it. Nice. Very nice. Now you’re cookin’.”
Cooking was the word. This place could pass for hell’s anteroom. Had it been this hot last time she was in Sicily?
“Go a little farther into the water. Good. Push your hair back. Use both hands—I want to see those tits lift! That’s it. Perfect. Now wet your lips and smile.
“O’Connell? Turn around. Try one hand on your hip. Give me a pout. Let your lashes droop. Look at me. You’re a bride, you’re on your honeymoon, and you’re looking at your groom with sex on the brain and nothing else. Pretend you’re going to get out of the water soon, go up to that castle and jump his bones. Good. Better. We’re getting there.”
Go up to that castle? No way. The closest she’d come to it was the day she’d arrived.
The driver had taken her through an imposing gate, past a couple of men with ice for eyes who looked as if they should have been wearing camo and combat boots instead of suits, past security cameras tucked high in the trees, toward a soaring edifice of stone and glass.
“Il castello,” the driver said, his voice as solemn as if he were in one of the ancient churches they’d passed on the way.
That he said anything at all startled her. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the airport. He didn’t understand English, he’d indicated with a lift of his shoulders, but it was a lie.
He’d understood every bloody word his arrogant feudal lord had spoken. It was only when Fallon demanded he let her out of the car that the man suddenly turned mute. She’d ended up shouting at him; she’d come close to reaching over the seat and pummeling his shoulders with frustration.
That wasn’t going to happen again.
“How nice,” she said coolly.
The truth was, nice didn’t come close.
She’d been expecting a medieval structure, cold, gloomy and desolate. This was a soaring mansion that somehow bridged the distance between the past and the present. She craned her neck and stared as they drove past it, until the car came to a gliding stop.
Fallon looked around as the driver got out and opened her door.
They’d stopped beside—
A tent?
“Signorina.”
Confused, she looked up at the man. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“Si.”
She stepped from the car. It was a tent, all right. A big one, true, the kind she’d seen at garden parties in the Hamptons, but a tent just the same.
The driver reached in for her suitcase and at that moment the Bridal Dreams crew ran out of the tent to greet her. She hugged Andy and Maurice, exchanged air-kisses with Carla, shook hands with the others and asked the obvious question.
Why were they all hanging around in a tent when there was that big old house just a couple of hundred yards away?
Off-limits, Carla said with a patently false smile. “The owner’s eccentric. He doesn’t want us using it.”
The tent would be their office and dressing room. She’d made catering arrangements for lunch and had a portable john installed in a little cove on the beach.
‘It’s as if we’re camping in the wilderness,’ Carla said with a gaiety anyone could see was false.
“Don’t tell me we’re camping here at night, too,” Fallon muttered, and Carla laughed and laughed.
“Of course not, darling. We all have rooms at an inn just up the coast. It’s a charming little place.”
The others, who’d already seen the inn, groaned so that Fallon knew “charming” was a happy euphemism for not enough hot water, lumpy mattresses and threadbare linens.
Carla was the only smart one. She went back to New York on the second day.
Of course, it made for problems, not having Carla onsite. The stylist or the designer’s rep or somebody else was almost always clutching a cell phone, talking to New York, asking questions, getting things clarified.
Nobody could figure out why Carla had left. It certainly wasn’t the most practical thing to have done but that second morning, Carla’s cell phone had rung, she’d answered it, turned white, glanced up in the direction of the big house on the cliff and the next anyone knew, she was gone.
“Important business in New York,” she’d said, but Fallon didn’t buy it. It just didn’t sound right.
Fallon sighed.
Thank goodness the week was almost over.
Tomorrow morning they’d all fly back to the States, and not a moment too soon. Why she’d ever imagined she’d enjoy being on this godforsaken island was a mystery. She’d had enough of the heat, the rocks, the house or mansion or castello or whatever it was called looming way up there on the cliff.
She didn’t like this place. Nothing about it seemed right, starting on day one when she’d mistaken that big black car at the airport for the one that was supposed to meet her.
That car. That man. Stefano Lucchesi, with the dark and dangerous eyes, the slow smile, the husky, sexy voice.
Ridiculous, how an obnoxious stranger had lodged himself in her mind. She knew the reason: she had zero tolerance for men who thought they owned the world. She’d spent most of the past decade dealing with jerks like that. You damn near tripped over them in every capital on every continent, men who thought that beautiful women were useless and self-indulgent, and that they could be bought or, at least, coerced.
“O’Connell, are you deaf? I said to turn around. Thank you. It’s nice to know you’re still with us.”
Modeling was a strange business. It was full of men like Maurice, all ego and temperament, and ones like Andy, who were gentle and kind.
And on the periphery were the predators.
Handsome men. Wealthy, powerful men. Men who prowled the clubs where the models danced and drank and relaxed after a day’s hard work, who wanted the pleasure that came of wearing stunning arm-candy.
It was, of course, a reciprocal arrangement. The predators got the arm-candy; the girls got the attention, the gifts, the publicity.
Not Fallon. Not since she’d tumbled, hard, for a so-called captain of industry when she was seventeen. She’d given him her heart and her virginity; he’d given her a diamond bracelet and promises, lots of them.
Only the diamond had stood the test of time.
She’d been cautious after that but still, four years later, she’d ended up in a replay of that first relationship. Her lover had been good-looking, rich, notoriously sexy…and he’d given her up when someone new came along.
“O’Connell? Babe, put your hands on your hips, okay? Great. Hold that…”
Her few liaisons since then had been with nice, down-to-earth guys. No I-Am-In-Command egos to deal with. No hunky powerhouses. Nobody to start her pulse pounding excitement at the sight of him, the way it had in that car at the airport when she saw Stefano Lucchesi, saw that beautiful fallen angel’s face…
A tremor raced down her spine.
She was definitely glad this project was almost finished. What she needed was the noise and energy of New York. She could deal with the crowds, the traffic, the weather that was always either too hot, too cold or too wet a lot better than she could deal with this place.
She was thinking crazy things, plus her senses were playing tricks on her. For instance, she kept having this feeling someone was watching her.
She knew about the crazies who stalked celebrities. A friend had suffered that kind of unwanted attention from a fan without a life. The experience, even viewed from the outside, was spooky and frightening.
This was different.
The first time, she’d been on the cliff posing for Maurice with her back to the sea. Suddenly a door in the castle opened and a man stepped into the garden.
Nothing unusual in that. A place like this would employ a gardener. Half a dozen of them, for all she knew.
He’d walked slowly to the low wall that surrounded the garden, tucked his hands into his pockets and just stood there. Watching her. Or maybe watching the mechanics of the shoot. That was what she’d told herself, when he’d remained motionless for the next five or six minutes. People always gathered to watch when you did a shoot on a street corner or at a resort.
Later the same afternoon, the Bridal Dreams bunch had all been down on the beach, Maurice photographing her in the bridal gown, some moody shot he’d print in blacks and grays, with her standing so that the lacy hem of the gown trailed in the water. She’d been posing, smiling, pouting, whatever felt right or whatever Maurice demanded…
And she’d felt it again. Eyes, watching her.
A figure stood on the cliff. A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, standing with his legs slightly apart, his arms folded across his chest and the wind blowing his dark hair back from his face. The distance was too great for her to make out his features.
The sight of him was intriguing. That hard-looking body. The jeans that fit him like a glove, the black T-shirt, black-lensed sunglasses.
Who was he? Why did the sight of him make her breath catch?
She knew he was watching her, just as she knew he wasn’t a crazy, some guy who’d fallen in love with her photo and wanted to tell her that they came from neighboring galaxies. She knew it in the most scientific way possible.
Her instincts told her so.
Fallon rolled her eyes, just thinking it, and Maurice’s voice pulled her into the present.
“I don’t want smirks, I want pensive,” he shouted.
She nodded, took some deep breaths and gave him pensive.
The man always stayed at a distance, watching her as if he wanted to absorb her into his skin. At the same time he wanted to turn his back and forget he’d ever seen her.
Another scientific deduction. Besides, even if it was true, it made no sense.
The evidence all pointed to his watching not her but the entire group. He was surely one of the security guards that patrolled the place, and if she hadn’t noticed him right away, that was just because he was good at blending into the scenery.
And if her sun-baked brain gave him more depth than that, painted him as almost cruelly masculine and incredibly sexy, that was her fault, not his.
Fallon blew the hair back from her forehead. Without question, the heat was playing games with her mind.
“Maurice?” She swung toward the photographer, hands on her hips. “Listen, Maurice, enough is enough. I’m melting. My makeup’s running, my scalp’s crawling with sweat.”
“You want me to tell you you still look gorgeous? ’Cause you do.”
“Yeah, right. That’s wonderful, but I’ve had it.”
“Ten minutes more, that’s all. Lift your chin like so.”
“You said ten minutes an hour ago.”
Maurice lifted his chin. Fallon left hers where it was.
“Maurice,” she said firmly, “everybody else has gone. They’re all sitting in the tent, out of the sun, drinking something cold and waiting for you so they can take the van back to the inn.”
“Let them wait. I’m not finished. Look at me, O’Connell. Give me a little more attitude. You’re a bride and your groom’s watching you and you want to show him what you’ve got. Good. Fine.”
Did she want to show the man who watched her what she had? She’d thought about him last night, lying in her narrow, lumpy bed. Imagined his face. Would his eyes be dark? His nose classically Roman? His mouth full, his jaw chiseled?
Would he look like the man at the airport?
The skin on the back of Fallon’s neck tingled. He was up there, watching her again.
She knew it.
She looked back, shading her eyes, making no attempt to be discreet and yes, there he was, standing with his arms folded, his eyes hidden behind those omnipresent dark glasses.
A hot arrow of desire shot through her so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she felt her knees turn to water. She wanted—she wanted—
Out of here. That was what she wanted. Turning, she splashed through the shallows to the beach.
“O’Connell?”
Her sunglasses were on a canvas folding chair. She jabbed them on her nose and shoved her feet into a pair of rubber thongs.
“What’s happening, babe?”
“The session’s over, that’s what’s happening.”
“Yeah, but the light’s changing.” Maurice hurried after her as she headed for the path that wound up the cliff. “Babe,” he whined, “look at the sky. Clouds, see? And the water’s getting choppy. Nice little waves coming in. Moody stuff. I thought we’d try something new—”
“I’ll see you later,” Fallon said, and started up the path. Maurice was a great photographer but he never knew when to stop.
She did, and it was now.
She was out of breath by the time she reached level ground. The stranger was gone, which annoyed her. What kind of man watched a woman without making an effort to meet her? Because yes, he was watching her. Not the others.
Her.
Fallon strode toward the tent, where the Bridal Dreams people were sprawled in a semi-circular arrangement of canvas chairs, their faces tilted up to the sun.
Andy looked up and called out to her. “All done?”
She nodded. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. She grinned back, returned the gesture and opened the door of the ancient little red Fiat she’d rented from the innkeeper as soon as she’d realized how isolated this place was.
Her jeans and T-shirt were lying in the back seat. Fallon pulled them on over her bikini, grimacing a little at the feel of the hot cotton against her sticky skin.
She wanted a shower and a cold drink. She wanted to pack her things for tomorrow’s flight home and then, maybe, drive up into the hills for one last look over the sea.
Most of all, she thought as she let out the clutch and floored the gas pedal, most of all, she never wanted to see this cliff and its castello again.

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sandra-marton-2/the-sicilian-surrender/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.