Praise for

by Sandra Marton

“This first book of the O’Connell series, Keir O’Connell’s Mistress, vibrates with charismatic characters and a tight, page-turning plot. No one delivers consistent must-reads like Sandra Marton!”

—Romantic Times on Keir O’Connell’s Mistress

“Romance does not get better than a Sandra Marton story. The Sicilian Surrender has power and passion evident in the strength and compassion of an exquisite hero and the heroine’s courage to create a new life. Together they are a formidable couple.”

—Romantic Times on The Sicilian Surrender

“Claiming His Love-Child by Sandra Marton is a truly remarkable love story…Marton crafts a compelling tale filled with emotional highs and lows for her protagonists.”

—Romantic Times on Claiming His Love-Child

More praise for Sandra Marton

“When passion ignites in the tale it is really hot enough to burn!”

—A Romance Review on Marriage on the Edge

“Powerful characterizations, intense emotions, sizzling sensual chemistry and a flair for the unexpected all combine to make this novel a highly entertaining romance. Ms. Marton has a unique way of pulling readers deep into the story right from the beginning.”

—The Best Reviews on Cole Cameron’s Revenge

Dear Reader,

How quickly time passes! I can hardly believe we’ve reached the end of my family saga, The O’Connells. I’m going to miss them. From your notes and e-mails, I know you’ll miss them, too, but what better way to say goodbye to these brothers and sisters than to know they’ve all followed their dreams? That each of them—Keir, Cullen and Sean, Fallon, Megan and now Briana—have found love?

After my last book, the one about Sean, you started asking me about Briana. Said one of you, “Sean needed a special woman, but Briana needs a man who might not even exist.” Ah, but he does. His name is Gianni Firelli, and he’s one of the most exciting heroes I’ve ever created. Gianni wants Bree the minute he sees her. She treats him badly, but that doesn’t turn him off. And when they’re finally alone (but in a rather public place) Bree goes into Gianni’s arms and returns his passion with fiery heat. After that, they avoid each other. It’s for the best, they think, until a terrible accident robs Bree of her best friend, Gianni of his…and a baby of its parents.

Come with me as Briana O’Connell and Gianni Firelli try to find a way past duty, past passion, and toward deep and abiding love.

I hope you enjoy this final book about the O’Connells. It’s hard for me to say goodbye to them, but I’m pleased to have found happiness for them all.

With love,

Sandra

The Sicilian Marriage
Sandra Marton

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

GIANNI FIRELLI was restless.

It was six o’clock on a warm May evening and he’d been trapped at the party celebrating the birth of Stefano Lucchesi’s child for what seemed forever.

The room was too crowded, the voices too loud, and if anyone stuck one more squalling baby under his nose, he was going to forget that the expected response to such an affront on a man’s eardrums was a smile. Between babies-in-bellies and babies-in-blankets, there were almost enough kids here to field a football team.

It looked as if Stefano had married into a fertile clan.

As if that weren’t enough, an hour ago, Tomasso Massini, one of Gianni’s oldest friends, had shown up with his wife. His extremely pregnant wife.

You, too, Tommy? Gianni had thought even as he shook his hand, kissed the wife and said all the right things.

The sexy blonde with the endless legs was the only diversion Gianni had seen, but she’d turned out to be as rude as she was easy on the eyes.

Sighing, he cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Another few minutes and he could make a polite exit. Until then, he’d smile, say the right things, and try to figure out what in God’s name had impelled Stefano to give up his freedom and become not just a husband but also a daddy.

Gianni had nothing against marriage or babies. Someday, he supposed, he’d settle down, marry and have a couple of children of his own, but that was way in the future.

Not yet, though. It was much too soon.

Stefano and Tomasso seemed happy enough, but that didn’t keep him from puzzling over why two sane men would give up their freedom when they were only in their thirties.

Was it something in the air?

He’d almost said that to Tomasso, but you didn’t joke with a man whose wife had a belly the size of a boulder, not even if you’d known him since you were ten. He, Tommy and Stefano had grown up together on the crowded streets of Manhattan’s Little Italy. Their paths didn’t cross often anymore but they were there for each other when it mattered.

Obviously babies mattered.

Somebody—one of Stefano’s new brothers-in-law—brushed past him, a screaming infant in his arms. A smell wafted from the child.

It wasn’t baby powder.

“Sorry,” the guy said, and grinned.

Gianni managed a smile in return. “No problem,” he said, and headed for the terrace where he took a deep, deep breath of fresh air. Okay. He’d stay out here where he could enjoy a little quiet along with the view of Central Park forty stories below and think about whether he wanted to see Lynda tonight without having to pretend he was delighted that his two best friends had obviously lost their minds.

Maybe he should have stayed with his instincts and opted out of this party. He’d been tempted to send a gift from Tiffany’s, tuck in a note explaining how sorry he was he couldn’t make it in person, etc., etc., etc., but how could he not show up at this celebration for Stefano’s child? He’d missed the wedding—bad weather that shut down all the airports had seen to that.

So, he was here.

The blonde with the up-to-her-ears legs was here, too.

Gianni scowled. Was he back to that? Well, there was nothing else to think about. The lady had made an impression. A negative one. And, since he hadn’t come up with much else to do after he’d made the rounds, his thoughts naturally returned to her.

He’d had a toothache once. Try as he had, he couldn’t keep the tip of his tongue from returning to the offending molar.

This was the same ridiculous thing.

Gianni looked into the Lucchesis’ enormous living room. There she was now, talking animatedly with Tomasso’s wife, Karen, as if they were old friends. She smiled, she touched Karen’s arm, she even grinned.

She hadn’t even managed a tilt of the lips for him.

Not that he cared. She wasn’t his type at all. He preferred his women petite, dark-haired and quintessentially feminine. Lynda met those standards. She was also all curves, where the blonde was as skinny as a boy. Lynda smiled when a man smiled at her. The blonde didn’t. She meted out favors with the stinginess of a miser opening his purse.

A waiter stepped out on the terrace. “Something to drink, sir?”

Gianni nodded, took a glass of red wine from the tray and raised it to his lips.

He and the blonde had arrived in the lobby at the same time. The doors of the private elevator for the penthouse were closing when he heard a voice call out.

“Hey,” a woman said.

A slim hand had thrust between the doors.

Gianni hit the button that reversed the doors’ direction. They opened, and he saw the blonde.

Not my type, was his first thought.

He gave her a polite smile. “Sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

She gave him a long look. Her expression was one of suspicion.

“This is a private elevator,” she said.

Gianni’s smile tilted. “Indeed it is.”

“It only goes to the penthouse.”

“How convenient,” he said dryly. “That happens to be where I’m going.”

“Did the doorman—”

“Perhaps you’d like to see my driver’s license, passport and birth certificate,” he said, his smile fading. “Or perhaps I should ask to see yours.”

That, at least, had put a stain of color across the arcs of her high cheekbones.

“I’m going to the Lucchesi party.”

“So am I. Or, at least, I will once you step inside and the doors shut.”

She entered the elevator and stood beside him, eyes straight ahead. Okay. He’d decided to give it another try.

“Are you a friend of Fallon’s?”

“No,” she said, without looking at him.

“Stefano’s?”

“No.”

“Then are you with—”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your affair,” she said, still staring straight ahead. Then she turned toward him, her eyes cold as ice. “Besides, I’m not interested.”

It was his turn to be the one whose face stung with heat.

“I assure you,” he said, “I’m not—”

The elevator stopped, the doors opened. Gianni stepped out first without waiting for the woman to precede him. It was a good thing the car opened directly into Stefano’s foyer. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if they’d ended up in front of an apartment door and he’d had to decide whether to ring the bell or tell her she could go straight to hell.

Pathetic, he knew. Even more pathetic that she’d reduced him to such childish musings. He’d almost told her what he was thinking but he’d spotted Stefano coming toward him and he’d smiled, only to have the blonde sweep past him, give a little squeal of delight and run straight into Stefano’s arms.

“Stefano,” she’d cried happily, and Gianni, mouth thinning in disgust, had let himself blend into the crowd.

Apparently the Ice Princess reserved her smile solely for a favored few.

Now, watching her, he saw her flash that smile for Stefano’s wife and baby daughter as she took the child from Fallon’s arms. He saw her lips purse as if she were cooing. The baby kicked its legs and the blonde not only smiled again, but she threw back her head and laughed.

It was quite a laugh. Husky. Throaty. Under the right circumstances, he suspected that laugh would be sexy as hell.

Gianni narrowed his eyes.

He could see he’d made some errors about the woman. They were unimportant, given the circumstances, but he was a man who liked to get the details straight. Her hair wasn’t blond, it was half a dozen shades of palest gold. And she wasn’t skinny. Slender, yes, but with rounded hips and a nicely defined backside.

And when, still laughing, she hoisted the baby high in the air, her breasts lifted and only a blind man wouldn’t have noticed that they were round and full…

And not confined by a bra.

The pale green silk dress clung to her body just enough so he could see the outline of her nipples.

What were they like? Small? Large? What color would they be? Rosebud-pink, he imagined, like her mouth. Soft to the touch, silken and responsive. They’d tighten under his caress, bloom under the laving of his tongue…

Hell, what was he doing?

This was a christening, not a stag party. And wasn’t it a good thing he was on the terrace so he could turn his back to the room, because his wandering thoughts were having an all-too-predictable effect on his anatomy.

Gianni concentrated on the Manhattan skyline, bathed now in the variegated orange hues of the setting sun, but thinking about the colors of things wasn’t a good idea right now. It took him straight back to the blonde’s breasts.

Green was a better color. The green of the boxwood, growing in some of the terrace’s many planters.

The green silk of the woman’s dress and the way it molded to her…

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Stefano had come up beside him, grinning, holding out a bottle of wine. Gianni nodded and held out his glass for a refill.

“Was it that obvious?” he said with a rueful smile.

“Are you kidding? Of course.”

Gianni sighed. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, I’m only speaking the truth.”

“Easy for you to say, Lucchesi.”

“Well, sure, but who wouldn’t react to such beauty?”

“Let’s not go overboard here,” Gianni said. “She’s attractive, assuming you like the type.”

“Attractive?”

“Yes. You know, she’s got all the right equipment in all the right places.” Stefano was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. He thought back to how the blonde had greeted his old friend, married or not. “But that doesn’t make her gorgeous.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

“Why would I joke? I’m dead serious. Plus, she’s got all the charm of a tarantula.”

Stefano’s expression turned grim. “You’d better be glad you and I’ve been friends since P.S. 26, Firelli, or I’d pin your ears back.”

“What wrong with you, man? You’d take me on because I don’t agree a woman’s gorgeous?”

“Damned right I would. This particular woman is—this woman is…” Stefano’s eyebrows rose again. “What woman?”

Was this what happened to a man when he married and had a child? Did he lose his sanity as well as his freedom?

“The blonde, of course,” Gianni said impatiently. “The one who greeted you with such, uh, warmth…and, by the way, doesn’t Fallon object to that kind of thing?”

Stefano’s eyes widened. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Wonderful,” Gianni said coldly. “I’m glad you think this is—”

“The blonde,” Stefano gasped. “Oh my God, the blonde!”

“That’s it.” Gianni slapped his glass on a nearby table and started toward the doors.

Stefano grabbed his arm. “Where are you going, you idiot?”

“Lucchesi,” Gianni said through his teeth, “I’d hate to wipe up the floor with you while your guests watch, but so help me—”

“I was talking about my daughter!”

“Yes. And I told you…” Gianni blinked. “Your daughter?” He felt the color rise in his face. “You were talking about—about—”

“About Cristina. Of course. And you thought I was talking about a woman.”

“Hell.” Gianni turned away, leaned his arms on the terrace railing and stared blindly into the gathering dusk. Things were going from bad to worse. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “I’m an idiot.”

Stefano chuckled. “I’m happy we agree.” The men fell silent for a minute. Then Stefano cleared his throat. “So, which blonde are we talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gianni said, waving his hand in dismissal. A couple of seconds went by. “The one who damned near threw herself into your arms when she got here.”

“Not a very good description, Firelli. All women throw themselves into my arms.”

Gianni chuckled. “Better not let your wife hear you say that.”

“Better not let his wife hear what?” Fallon said, smiling as she joined the men. “Gianni, it’s good to see you again.”

Gianni smiled and kissed her cheek. “And you, Fallon. Motherhood has made you even lovelier. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.”

Fallon batted her lashes. “You Sicilians! You always know how to make a woman feel good.”

“Some women,” Stefano said. Fallon raised her eyebrows. “It seems one of our guests turned down the chance to have her name added to Gianni’s little black book.”

“Stefano,” Gianni said warningly.

Stefano slipped his arm around his wife. “Come on, don’t be shy. If you’re interested in one of our guests—”

“I’m not,” Gianni said quickly. “I only said—”

“Point her out,” Fallon said. “I’ll introduce you.”

Gianni looked at Stefano, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Damn it, Lucchesi! Fallon, your husband’s letting his imagination run away with him.”

“I know who she is,” Stefano said, as if Gianni weren’t there.

“You don’t,” Gianni said quickly. How in hell had this gotten away from him so fast? “There must be half a dozen blondes at this party.”

“But you said this one threw herself into my arms.”

“And?”

“And that she was attractive.” Stefano winked at his wife. “Attractive, mind you, but not beautiful.”

“What,” Gianni said coldly, “is your point?”

“My point,” Stefano said smugly, “is that I know who she is.” He paused, just long enough so that Fallon and Gianni gave him their full attention. “The lady in question is my sister-in-law.”

Gianni stared at his old friend. “Your—”

“He was talking about Briana,” Stefano told Fallon. “And why would a man who thinks a woman is attractive but not beautiful be fixated on her?”

“I am not fixated on her. I’ve never found that type of woman interest…Oh, hell. I’m killing myself here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Fallon said agreeably. She let go of her husband and linked her arm through Gianni’s. “And the only way out is to let me introduce you to Bree so you can find just what, exactly, it is you never find interesting.”

Stefano and Fallon were laughing, so he laughed, too, or tried to, as she all but dragged him into the crowded room. Thank God, he thought, after a quick look around. Bree or Briana, whatever her name was, was gone.

“I’d love to meet her,” he said, lying through his teeth. “Too bad she seems to have left.”

“She went upstairs to diaper the baby,” Fallon said, heading for the curving staircase that led to the penthouse’s upper level, “and I’m not going to let you back out of this.”

“Fallon. Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said about your sister. I’m sure she’s charming. Beautiful, too. And—”

“Bree,” Fallon said, “there you are,” and Gianni turned from his hostess and looked at the woman coming down the steps toward them.

He’d gotten it right the first time.

Briana O’Connell wasn’t beautiful.

She was spectacular.

All that blond hair, tumbling over her shoulders to frame a face dominated by sea-blue eyes. That mouth, yes, rosebud-pink and just full enough to make him wonder how it would feel to sink into its soft warmth. The high breasts, slender waist, delicately rounded hips and long, hell, endless legs.

At least she wasn’t trying to freeze him with a look. How could she, when she gave him a glance that lasted no more than a second?

“Bree, this is Gianni Firelli. Gianni, my baby sister, Bree.”

“It’s Briana,” the blond vision said, and turned her attention to Fallon. “The baby fell asleep as soon as I put her in her bassinet. I left her with her nanny. Is that all right?”

“It’s fine. Uh, Bree? Gianni’s one of Stefano’s oldest friends.”

This time, Gianni got the full force of her icy gaze. “How nice for them both. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Why should I excuse you?” he said, before he could stop himself. He stepped away from Fallon, moved closer to Briana and pitched his voice slow enough that only she would hear him. “Are you always so rude, or is this personal?”

Those deep blue eyes met his and suddenly he saw something in their depths, a flash of heat so intense it threatened to sear his soul.

“You flatter yourself,” she whispered.

And then she was gone.

Gianni had never understood what people meant when they said their blood was boiling, but he understood it now. He stared after her, imagined the pleasure of going after her, grabbing her and shaking her until she begged for mercy…

Or of swinging her into his arms, carrying her away, taking her to a room where he could strip her of that green dress and that icy look, put his hands in her hair and kiss her until she was helpless and pleading for more…

“I’m terribly sorry, Gianni.”

He blinked, focused his eyes on Fallon’s face. She looked as shocked as he felt.

“Bree’s not—She’s not a rude person. I don’t know what came over her.”

Summoning a smile wasn’t easy, but he managed. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Look, let me go find her and—”

“No.” His voice was sharp. Carefully he manufactured another smile and started over. “Really, Fallon, I’m not offended.”

“Well, you should be. When I get her alone later—”

“Forget it. Maybe she had a difficult day.”

“Bree? A difficult day?” Fallon gave a ladylike snort. “I don’t know how. My sister doesn’t do anything that might be considered difficult.”

Except treat men as if they were contemptible, Gianni thought, but he wasn’t going to say anything like that. Her sister’s behavior wasn’t Fallon’s responsibility.

“Doesn’t she have a job?”

“An endless succession of them. She’s been a photographer, a travel consultant, a salesclerk, a game show research assistant…” Fallon smiled. “Our mother says she’s still finding herself but to be honest, my other sister and I don’t think she ever lost herself in the first place. She’s just, well, flighty.”

It was a nice way of saying Briana O’Connell was unreliable, not just rude and sullen. The woman wouldn’t be any sane man’s type, let alone his.

“Fallon,” he said, taking his hostess’s hands in his, “I’ve had a wonderful afternoon.”

“You’re not leaving?”

He smiled and brought her hands to his lips, pressed a light kiss to the back of each.

“I’m afraid I must. I have a dinner appointment this evening.”

“Ah. Too bad. Stefano and I hoped you’d stay after the others left. He loves to talk about old times with you.”

“Another time, I promise. Make my goodbyes to him, will you?”

“Yes, absolutely.” Fallon linked her arm through his as they walked slowly through the foyer. “And Gianni…I’m really terribly sorry about my sister.”

“No need. I’ve been rebuffed before.”

Fallon laughed, turned to him and cupped his face in her hands.

“You’re a bad liar, Gianni Firelli. We both know that there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t do a maidenlike swoon if you smiled in her direction.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” he said lightly.

She laughed again, rose on her toes and pressed a demure kiss to his lips.

“It was good seeing you. And thank you for the beautiful gift for Cristina.”

“My pleasure. Ciao, Fallon.”

“Goodbye, Gianni.”

The elevator was waiting. He stepped inside, kept smiling until the car doors closed. Then he let the scowl he’d been fighting darken his face as he took his cell phone from his pocket.

Lynda answered on the first ring. “Hello,” she said in that breathless whisper that always made his muscles tighten.

Strangely enough, they didn’t tighten this time.

“It’s me.”

“Gianni.” Her whisper became a purr. “I hoped you’d call. Are you coming over?”

The elevator reached the lobby. He stepped briskly from the car, nodded to the doorman when he opened the door that led to the street.

“Let’s have dinner.”

“Of course, darling. Are we going out? Shall I put on something pretty…Or shall I stay as I am? I just took a bath and all I’m wearing is that pink silk robe you gave me.”

Pink. Rosebud-pink, like Briana O’Connell’s mouth.

“Gianni? Can you hear me?”

He cleared his throat. “I hear you, Lynda.”

“What do you want to do? We could try that new restaurant everyone’s talking about. You know, Green Meadows. It’s supposed to be spectacular.”

Green, like the dress that outlined Briana’s supple body. Spectacular, like her magnificent face…

“Gianni?”

All at once, Gianni knew what he wanted to do. It had nothing to do with Briana O’Connell. Nothing at all. It was just something that had been coming for a few weeks, and it was time he dealt with it.

“Lynda?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bother making reservations. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He paused. “And get dressed,” he added gently. “All right?”

He heard the swift intake of her breath. “Gianni? Is everything all right?”

“Twenty minutes,” he said, and pressed the disconnect button.

An hour later, he left Lynda’s apartment for the last time. She was crying and he hated knowing he’d made that happen but at the very start of their relationship they’d agreed neither of them was interested in commitment, and that when the time came to end things, they’d do it with honesty.

“I know,” she’d said tearfully, when he’d reminded her of that, “but I thought things had changed.”

Nothing had changed. It never did. Women always said one thing at the start of a relationship and another at its end.

Gianni sighed. Darkness had finally claimed the city and he was eager to get home, take a long shower and put the strange day behind him. He thought of hailing a cab, then decided he’d rather walk.

Tomorrow, he’d send Lynda something to cheer her. A bracelet, perhaps. Something expensive enough to assuage her tears and his guilty conscience because honesty was one thing, but dissolving a relationship with no warning was another.

The truth was, he really hadn’t thought about ending things until a little while ago. He’d been satisfied enough until he’d gone to that damned party. Until he’d looked into the eyes of a woman who didn’t seem to care that he existed and saw, in those eyes, something else.

That one swift, blinding flash of heat.

A sharp wind blew down 57th Street, surprisingly cold after the warmth of the day. Gianni turned up the collar of his jacket, tucked his hands deep in his pockets and picked up his pace.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHY DIDN’T YOU like him?”

Bree looked up from her salad. There it was, the question she’d been waiting for since Fallon phoned and asked her out to lunch. The only surprise was that it had taken her sister a week to make the call and almost half an hour to ask the question.

“Who?” Bree said innocently. Why give away more than was necessary?

“You know who. Gianni Firelli.”

Bree popped a grape tomato into her mouth and chewed contemplatively. She had two choices. She could say “Who?” and pretend not to know what her sister was talking about, or she could tell her to mind her own business. Neither response was going to get her very far. Growing up, she’d learned what that determined tilt of her eldest sister’s chin meant.

The best thing was to tackle this head-on.

“I assume,” she said, putting down her fork, “we’re talking about the fact that I didn’t fall at the man’s feet.”

“Fall at his feet? A simple ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ would have done it.”

“I said ‘hello.’”

“You know what I mean, Bree. You almost took his head off.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. I can’t believe you behaved so badly!”

Behaved so badly? Bree’s chin lifted, just like Fallon’s. “And I can’t believe you still think I’m six years old.”

“You were rude.”

“I was honest.”

“Being rude isn’t being honest.”

“Your opinion, not mine. Are you going to eat that last croissant?”

“No. And don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing anything. I just don’t want to be badgered.”

“Your manners were appalling.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” Bree said sweetly, “but you’re my sister, not my mother.”

“And a good thing, too. If Ma’s plane hadn’t landed late, she’d have been at the party in time to see you in action. Can you imagine how she’d have reacted?”

“No.” Bree’s tone had gone from sugary to saccharine. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Obviously Big Sister hadn’t expected a reply to what she’d meant as a rhetorical question.

“Well, she’d have—she’d have—”

“Sent me to my room without supper? Docked my allowance?”

The sisters glared at each other. Then Fallon sighed.

“Okay, maybe I’m overreacting.”

“Hallelujah,” Bree said, picking up her fork again.

“But you really were abrupt.”

“I wanted to be sure Mr. Firelli got the message.”

“Which was?”

“That I wasn’t interested.”

“Gianni’s a very nice guy.”

“No doubt.”

“And he’s good-looking.”

“Good-looking?” Bree shrugged, put down her fork and reached for the butter. “I suppose.”

“Give me a break! You know he’s good-looking.”

“What I know,” Bree replied, breaking off a piece of croissant and buttering it, “is that Gianni Firelli is gorgeous.”

“Well, of course he is. He’s…” Fallon blinked. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. He’s, what, six-one? Six-two? Shoulders out to here, solid muscle straight down to his toes, black hair, green eyes, a face like a Greek god’s—”

“Italian,” Fallon said, staring at her.

“A minor detail. The point is, the man’s incredible. An out-and-out hottie.” Bree reached for her glass of white wine and smiled at the dumbstruck expression on her sister’s face. “Give me a break, Fallon. I’m not dead! Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Fallon said, sitting back in the booth. “Tell me more.”

“What more is there? I’m sure there were a dozen women at your party who’d have happily killed for the chance to be introduced to him.”

“But?”

“But, as I already told Karen—”

“Karen?” Fallon said, bewildered.

“Karen Massini. Tomasso’s wife.”

“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting you and she knew each other before I married Stefano.”

“Only for years and years,” Bree said, rolling her eyes. “We were friends in college. Close friends. Then she married Tomasso, moved to California and we lost touch, but ever since she got pregnant and they moved back to New York—”

“Yes, okay, I remember,” Fallon said, impatient to return to the current topic. “So, you and Karen talked about Gianni?”

“She said she’d noticed him looking at me and…You know how these things go.”

Fallon wanted to reach across the table and shake her sister. Don’t try to play matchmaker, cara, her husband had told her at breakfast. Gianni and Briana didn’t connect. End of story. Stefano had taken her in his arms. Not everyone is lucky enough to fall in love at first sight.

No. Not in love, perhaps, but something had happened between Stefano’s old friend and her baby sister. Fallon was certain. Karen wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the way he’d looked at Bree. And the way Bree had looked at him, even as she was giving him the brush-off.

“No,” she said carefully, “I don’t know how these things go. What did Karen say?”

“Oh, I don’t remember, exactly.” Bree patted her lips with her napkin and pushed away her plate. “Something about me taking pity on the guy and at least giving him a smile.”

“You see? You were so impolite that people noticed. Poor Gianni.”

“Poor Gianni,” Bree said, the words coated with sarcasm, “needs your sympathy the way a bear needs a fur coat. He has a mistress.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. A mistress, and he was coming on to me anyway. What do you think of him now? Or didn’t he bother mentioning that we’d met in the elevator and he tried a pickup line before the doors had the chance to shut?”

“Well,” Fallon said, thinking back to the first time she and her husband met, “well—”

“Look, there’s just something about the guy I don’t like, okay? End of story.”

“Bree. Honey, you’ve gone through how many relationships? Sooner or later, there’s always something about the guy you don’t like, whatever that means. Don’t make a face. I know you’re a big girl—”

“An adult,” Bree said coolly, “but neither you nor Megan seem able to hang on to that thought.”

“We just want you to be happy. To find someone to love.”

“Lust isn’t love.”

Fallon blushed. “Sometimes it’s the way love begins.”

“Well, not for me.” Bree’s expression turned dreamy. “I’ll meet the right man someday. He’ll be gentle and sweet. He’ll never do anything to upset me. He might not stand out in a crowd, but—”

“What about passion?”

“Sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Passion isn’t only about sex,” Fallon said softly, “but if you think that making love isn’t special, you haven’t been with the right man.”

“Sex Ed 101,” Bree said and, just as she’d hoped, her sister laughed. Good. She really didn’t want to get into this topic. “Don’t worry about me, okay? And lunch is on me. No arguments.”

Fallon watched Briana rummage in her handbag. “Bree?” she said, so softly that Bree looked up. “This passion thing. I know you. You’re full of fire. Full of life. Why would you want to deny it?”

“Amazing,” Bree replied, trying for a light tone. “Karen made the same speech. Do the two of you really think you know what’s best for me?”

“I barely know Karen, but I admire her insight. Did you ever consider we might be right? Maybe you’re kidding yourself. Maybe what you really want is a man who’ll sweep you off your feet?”

Briana’s eyes flashed. Fallon had pushed too far. It was time for the truth.

“Sweep me off my feet, huh? Like our father did to our mother?” She leaned forward, all attempts at good humor gone. “I was the baby, so maybe you think I don’t remember, but I do. Ma struggling to pretend it was okay with her whatever he did, smiling when she wanted to cry, never saying an unkind word to him or about him.”

“Bree—”

“Our mother turned herself into a doormat because of that ‘sweeping her off her feet’ crap. She lived for our father, lived through him, and if you think I’m going to let myself in for the same nonsense, you’re crazy!”

“Is that how you think of me?” Fallon said quietly. “As a doormat for my husband?”

“No! I didn’t mean—”

“Stefano swept me off my feet. Qasim swept Megan off hers, and one look at our sisters-in-law and I could tell it was the same for them. We’re all head over heels, passionately in love with our husbands. Are we all doormats?”

“No, no, I never…” Bree took a steadying breath. “This is pointless,” she said. “I’m just not looking for passion. If it works for you, great, but I know myself. I want—”

“Something quiet.”

“Yes.”

“Something undemanding.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that!”

“Something safe,” Fallon said softly, and reached for Bree’s hand. “What are you afraid of, sis?”

“Nothing,” Briana said quickly, and even as she said it, she knew she was lying.

She was afraid. Of the dreams she’d had about Gianni Firelli each night since the party. Of the way he’d made her feel. Of that one cataclysmic instant when she’d looked into his eyes and felt the earth tilt under her feet.

Of losing herself, her dreams, her hopes, her very being, in the fires of passion.

MAY BECAME JUNE, and June slipped into July.

The days were hot and muggy. New Yorkers who could afford it abandoned the city in droves. You were more likely to bump into your Fifth Avenue neighbor on the beaches in the Hamptons or on village greens in the Connecticut hills than in the city.

Gianni didn’t notice the heat. He was immersed in a trial that was finally nearing its conclusion. It had been a complicated case, one that required his personal attention. He’d gone back and forth to the coast several times, even now, in the trial’s final hours. Days took on a numbing similarity when you spent them on airplanes.

Invitations came in, as they always did: dinner parties at the beach, long weekends in the country. He hadn’t dated anyone since the break-up with Lynda. Word had gotten out and hostesses everywhere were doing their best to inveigle him into meeting eligible women, but he wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t in the mood for parties, either. Not since May. Not since Briana O’Connell had treated him with a curtness that had bordered on contempt. He needed closure.

Entering his penthouse on a Friday evening, tired after another round of flights and depositions, Gianni grimaced at that overused word. Closure was the feel-good term of the decade.

In this case, though, it was true.

He shrugged off his jacket, undid his tie and the buttons on his shirt as he made his way to the bedroom.

Lack of closure was why he couldn’t get what had happened out of his mind. He was furious with himself that he hadn’t told the lady what he thought of her, but how could he? He’d been a guest in Stefano’s home, and she was Stefano’s sister-in-law.

Gianni tossed his cuff links on the dresser, added his wallet and change, peeled down to his briefs and started for the shower before remembering the heavy vellum envelope the doorman had given him. It had been hand-delivered.

Gianni eyed the envelope narrowly. It was, surely, some kind of invitation. The delivery by messenger, the vellum stock were dead giveaways. Well, whatever he’d been invited to, he wasn’t going. He wasn’t in the mood for people and small talk but someone, somewhere was waiting for an answer and he believed in being polite even if…

Hell.

He tore open the envelope and felt his bad mood dissolve. Tomasso and Karen had had their baby. A girl. His smile turned into a grin. They were having a Welcome to the World party for the child. Karen’s idea, without question. Gianni didn’t know her well but from what he’d observed and from what Tomasso said, Karen was the antithesis of her pragmatic husband. She was day to his night, Tomasso had told him with the kind of smile that made it clear it was a winning combination.

Gianni’s grin faded. Damn it, the party was tonight.

Sighing, he shut his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Lord, he was tired. The last thing he was in the mood for was a party, but another life had come into the world and even if he couldn’t yet understand the appeal of fatherhood, he wanted to clap Tomasso on the back, kiss Karen and wish them well.

Gianni dropped the invitation on the dresser and headed for the shower.

Tonight, at least, nobody would try to play matchmaker, not with the baby the center of attention.

Better still, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he’d run into Briana O’Connell.

“Hallelujah,” he muttered, and stepped under the spray.

SO MUCH for snowballs and hell.

He ran into the Ice Princess just minutes after walking into the party. At least, he would have if he hadn’t spotted her and come to a screeching halt.

She was standing with a group of people, her back to him, but that didn’t matter. The hair tumbling down her back, the endless legs, showcased by heels so spiked they should have been declared a hazard to a man’s health, were dead giveaways.

All her attention was focused on a guy doing his best to make her laugh. Damned if he wasn’t succeeding.

Gianni felt his muscles tense. This woman laughed easily for anybody but him.

What was she doing here? Tomasso, he thought grimly, and just then, Tomasso had the misfortune to stroll by. Gianni grabbed his shoulder and glared.

“Did you invite her?”

“Invite who?”

“Damn it, Tomasso…No. You wouldn’t do that to me. It was Fallon.”

“It was Fallon what?” Tomasso said, his bewilderment so genuine that Gianni knew he was blameless.

“Fallon who put Karen up to this. To inviting Briana O’Connell.” Gianni jerked his head in Bree’s direction. “Stefano’s wife is the only one who’d—”

“Nobody put Karen up to anything. Briana is Karen’s best friend.”

It was Gianni’s turn to look shocked. “Her best friend?”

“Well, they’d been out of touch for a few years, but yeah, best pals, way back when. They went to college together. Roomed together. They were sorority sisters. You know, the whole nine yards.” Tomasso raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Gianni said wearily. “There’s no problem.”

“You sure?” Tomasso offered a friendly leer. “You and she have something going on?”

“Only if you’d describe a spider as having something going on with a fly.” Gianni laughed and slung his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “How about taking me to meet that new daughter of yours?”

The baby was cute, as babies went. The food was good, the ale was cold, and twenty minutes after he’d arrived, Gianni was ready to leave.

World War Three had not erupted. The Ice Princess either didn’t know he was here or she knew he was here and was ignoring him. She was still chatting with the same group of people. The only thing that had changed was that now he could hear her laugh.

It was the laugh he’d heard at Stefano’s. Husky. Sexy. Secretive.

It was driving him out of his mind.

How could she laugh when he was so royally ticked off? How come she didn’t know he was here? She had to know. He hadn’t been aware of the connection between her and Karen, but she’d certainly known he and Tomasso were friends, and—

And, he didn’t have to worry about her driving him insane because he was already climbing the steps of the asylum. Why else would he stand here watching her? Why would he give a damn? Why would he feel his temper rising and his blood pressure increasing?

Okay. All right. Closure. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? He felt a muscle jump in his cheek. Closure was what he’d get, and right now.

There must have been something in his face as he strode across the room because the people she was with fell silent. Only one man was still laughing; a look from him and the laugh turned into something that sounded like a caw.

“What’s the matter?” Briana O’Connell said.

She swung around and he saw the surprise and something more flash across her face, something he would have missed if he weren’t feeling it himself.

Desire, hot, raw and savage, sluiced through his blood.

“You,” she said, so dramatically that he almost laughed.

“Me,” he said, and reached for her arm.

“Hey.” She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” the man who’d been laughing said, “what do you think you’re doing?”

Gianni swung toward him. “Whatever I’m doing,” he said pleasantly, “it’s none of your business.” The guy’s face turned a sickly grey. Okay. Maybe he didn’t say it pleasantly. “The lady and I have things to discuss.”

He looked at Briana. Her face was as pink as the guy’s was grey. He could see the pulse beating in her throat. Was she afraid of him? She ought to be. He’d had about all he was going to take.

“You’re crazy. We have nothing to—”

She gasped as he slid his hand to her wrist and encircled it.

“Don’t give me a hard time.”

“You son of a bitch,” she said, her voice trembling, but it was there again, swift as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, that flash of heat flaring in her eyes.

Gianni stepped closer.

“Your choice, princess. Are you coming with me, or do I pick you up and carry you?”

“Bree?” the guy said, and Gianni grudgingly gave him credit for having more balls than brains.

She hissed a word he hadn’t thought she’d know, then slicked the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. He felt his body tighten in response. When she tore her hand from his, he let her do it. He knew it was the small victory she needed so she could spin on one of those wicked stiletto heels and head for the front door.

He was no more than a step behind her.

Did somebody call his name? He didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t think about anything but the swing of her buttocks, the way her short lemon-yellow skirt flared around her thighs as she strode from the apartment.

The elevator was just outside, waiting for them as if he’d planned it. She stepped into the car and jabbed a button. He stepped inside and she tried to shoot past him just as the door began to close. His vision clouded; he grabbed her arm and spun her toward him as the doors slid shut.

“Let go of me!” She jerked under his hands, eyes hot, breasts rising and falling with each quick breath. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What I should have done the day we met,” he said, and he hauled her against him and kissed her.

She cried out, but the sound was lost against his plundering mouth. She beat her fists against his shoulders and tried to twist her face away from his but he tunneled his hands into her hair, angled her face to his, and kissed her again.

“Bastard,” she panted, “you no good bas—”

And then she wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his.

The first taste of her and he was lost. She fell back against the wall of the car, her body arching against his, breasts soft against his chest, hips lifting to the thrust of his.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh please…”

Gianni groaned, cupped her backside and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, pressed herself against his erection and he felt a rush of desire so primitive it was almost his undoing.

“Tell me,” he said. “Say it. Say you want me. That you want this.”

“Yes. Yes!”

He slid his hand under her skirt. Only a scrap of lace lay between his questing fingers and her flesh. She was hot and wet and when he felt her against his palm, he had to fight for control all over again.

He stroked her, then slid a finger inside the damp fabric that kept him from her, and she cried out, dug her fingers into his hair, kissed him with the same urgency he felt, the same blind need.

And the car rocked to a stop.

The doors opened. They must have, because the next thing he knew, he heard a startled gasp, a laugh, saw Briana’s eyes open, heard her horrified cry.

Gianni didn’t turn around. He reached out blindly to the control panel and hit a button. The doors shut. The elevator began to descend again.

“Briana,” he said, “Bree…”

She twisted against him with the desperation of a wild creature caught in a trap and struck out with her fist. He grunted when one blow connected with his jaw.

“Damn it,” he said, grabbing her hands as she slid down his body, “will you listen to me?”

The elevator reached the lobby. She shot from the car as if the demons of hell were at her heels. The surprised doorman yanked the front door wide with only seconds to spare, then stared at Gianni.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Gianni drew a ragged breath as he stepped from the car.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, and knew it was the biggest lie he’d ever told in his life.

CHAPTER THREE

AUGUST in New York always was hot, humid and altogether unbearable. The last thing any sane human being would do in such weather was stand over an ironing board, especially when the AC was gasping its death throes, but that was what Bree was doing early on the first Monday of the month.

Ironing was mindless. You could listen to the radio, hum along with an Elton John oldie and let your thoughts drift on the calm seas of boredom. That was what Bree was doing.

For instance, right now, she was thinking about whether or not to go to her brother’s beach house on Nantucket Island. Cullen and Marissa had invited her up for the weekend.

“The weather’s gorgeous,” Marissa said when she called, “and we’re going to have a barbecue. Nothing fancy. We’ll just invite in some interesting neighbors.”

Bree sighed as she spread a silk blouse over the ironing board. “Some interesting neighbors,” in female-speak, was sure to mean “some interesting men.” Her sisters and sisters-in-law, still basking in the glow of their own happiness, kept trying to fix her up with the right man. She’d already met a handsome vintner, thanks to Cassie; a suave hotelier, courtesy of Savannah; a sexy sheikh, compliments of Megan, a hotshot CEO, pointed in her direction by Fallon, and now Marissa wanted to introduce her to a Nantucket something-or-other.

One thing was certain. The O’Connell women all had impeccable taste. The men they’d set in her path were handsome, charming and, she was sure, great catches.

It wasn’t their fault that not a one was as gorgeous, as sexy, as altogether spectacular as Gianni Firelli…and, she was certain, not a one of them was the same kind of rotten SOB.

Bree brought the iron down with enough force to smooth out a wrinkle in a sheet of steel.

She’d tried to forget about him. Forget that elevator ride. Forget that she hated herself for not having dealt with him properly. Now, here he was, back in her head.

It was the heat. The damned heat. Bad enough it was a million degrees outside and almost that in her apartment. Was this a day to sweat over a hot iron in her tiny kitchen?

It was, if you were going on a job interview.

Too much heat and humidity could turn your brain to mush. She couldn’t afford that. She had a job interview in less than an hour. Why waste time thinking about something that was history?

Yes, she’d behaved like an idiot. Yes, the memory still made her cringe. Yes, she wished she’d slapped Gianni Firelli’s face but—

But, she hadn’t.

The interview. She’d think about the interview. About how difficult it was to get the miserable wrinkles out of this miserable blouse because the iron was too hot and the ironing board table didn’t stand straight on the worn linoleum floor. The stupid legs wobbled…

Her legs had wobbled, when Gianni kissed her.

The faint scent of scorched silk rose from the ironing board. Bree snatched the iron off the blouse. Too late. There was a brown spot right on the collar the size of a quarter.

“Damn, damn, damn!”

Washable silk, the tag said. Light pressing might be required. Light? An elephant could sit on the blouse for an hour and the wrinkles would still be there as soon as it lifted its butt. And what difference did it make? Five minutes on the street, she’d look as if she’d slept in it, anyway.

Truth was, she’d probably look that way as soon as she put it on. She was sweating. Not glowing, the way those lade-da fashion magazines said. Sweating, with a capital S.

No wonder the rent was so cheap. Well, cheap for New York City. When she’d signed the lease a few months back, she’d figured she was getting a bargain. Some bargain, she thought, as she shoved her hair back from her face.

The kitchen faucet leaked. Only one of the stove’s burners worked, and there wasn’t any point in talking about the air conditioner. It was supposed to cool the whole place—not much to ask, considering the size of this shoe box the landlord called an apartment.

Pitiful.

And so was she.

Bree yanked out the plug and stood the iron on its heel. That was the only way to describe a woman who was fixated on something that was weeks in the past. A man came on to you like a savage, forced his kisses on you…

Another time, another place, a woman who’d endured such indignities would have gone straight to her brothers and asked them to defend her honor. She wouldn’t do that, of course—this was the twenty-first century, not the middle ages, and besides, she could handle her own affairs—but the thought of the male contingent of the O’Connell clan beating Gianni Firelli to a pulp held definite appeal.

Never mind that she’d seemed to respond to what he’d done. If she had, it was only because he’d taken her by surprise. Okay. So she hadn’t handled the scene well. So what? Why keep thinking about it?

Why keep thinking about the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hand between her thighs?

Bree said a word that would have stunned her protective brothers, crumpled the blouse into a ball and hurled it across the room.

As if she gave a pig’s whistle about any of that.

The job interview. She had to concentrate on that. She needed to be at her best, look her best and how was she going to manage that with Mr. Firelli in her head and a scorch mark the size of Texas on her blouse?

The blouse was easier to handle.

She could stand the collar up. Or wear a scarf around her neck. No. The collar wasn’t made to stand up. As for the scarf—Fallon would probably make a scarf look like an ascot.

She’d make it look like a noose.

Bree dumped the blouse on the bed. What to wear? She needed this job. She didn’t know anything about being a gofer for a TV producer but she’d learn. She had to. What little she’d saved from her last stint as a waitress was about gone, and an hour spent yesterday with the Sunday Times employment section had been depressing.

The city seemed in desperate need of everything from accountants to zoologists. Unfortunately two years of college didn’t qualify her for much of anything.

“You and me, kid,” Sean used to say. “All the O’Connells are busy being grown-ups, except us.”

Bree stepped into the shower and turned the water cold enough to raise goose bumps.

That wasn’t true anymore. Sean, the untamable gambler, had been tamed. He’d sunk his winnings into ownership of an exclusive Caribbean resort while she still drifted from job to job and place to place, searching for something she’d like enough to want to do for the rest of her life.

The score, thus far, was a big, fat zero.

She shut off the shower, stepped onto the mat and wrapped herself in a bath sheet.

Who’d want to make a career demonstrating cosmetics to bored matrons with more money than common sense? Spend a lifetime selling prêt à porter to spoiled rich girls? She’d have been one of those overindulged brats herself if it weren’t for the fact that she flat-out refused to accept help from her family.

Financial help, anyway, and when she’d tried the other kind…well, it hadn’t worked out. Waiting tables at Keir’s vineyard restaurant last winter had gone well enough until she’d not-so-accidentally dumped a glass of wine on a pain-in-the-ass customer who’d complained about everything from the first course to the last.

More recently, Fallon had wangled her a stint modeling for a new diet drink photo shoot.

You probably weren’t supposed to stab your index finger between your lips and make gagging noises when the guy watching from the sidelines was the client’s rep. Even so, he’d hit on her. That had been even more nauseating. He was okay to look at, she supposed, but nothing compared to…

Bree frowned into the mirror. “Stop that,” she said out loud, and marched to her closet.

What did TV people wear, anyway? Was the desired look funky or professional? Maybe a little of each. The navy silk suit, but with that Bella Sicilia T-shirt she’d picked up last time she visited Fallon and Stefano.

The doorbell rang.

Bree rolled her eyes. What now? The super had already come by to peer at her air conditioner and tell her there was nothing he could do until a new part arrived. Her usual early-morning visitor, Mrs. Schilling from across the hall, had already stopped by to update her on the alien spaceship on the roof.

Brring, brring, brring.

Time for another bulletin on the Alien Invasion.

Bree sighed, knotted the bath sheet more tightly over her breasts and went to the door. She undid the hundred and one locks—each brother had added his own assortment—and cracked the door a couple of inches.

“Yes, Mrs. Schilling,” she said, “have you heard something more from the Mart—”

The words caught in her throat. It wasn’t her slightly-batty-but-sweet neighbor standing on the doormat, it was her impossibly arrogant would-be seducer, the man she’d spent the last few weeks loathing. Here he was. In the flesh. The gorgeous flesh.

What had taken him so long?

“You!” Oh God, such originality! And such a stupid thought. Bree stood straighter. “What are you doing here, Firelli?”

“I have to see you.”

He wasn’t much on originality, either…and why should such a hackneyed phrase make her pulse beat zoom? Definitely, the heat was frying her brain.

“A charming line,” she said brightly, “but wasted on me. I am absolutely not interested in—”

“Briana. This is important. Let me in.”

Like the big, bad wolf, he made the simple words sound tempting. That was the bad news. The good news was that she wasn’t some silly little creature in a nursery rhyme.

“Not in a million years.”

“We have to talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about. And if, by some miracle we did, have you ever heard of that new invention called the telephone?”

“Damn it, this isn’t a game. Let me in.”

“You’re right. It isn’t a game.” Bree started to close the door. “Go on home, Firelli. Give us both a break and just—”

“Briana.” Gianni moved forward and wedged his shoulder in the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. “Please.”

The word, as much as that shoulder, stopped her cold. Please? She wouldn’t have thought the term was in his vocabulary. At least, not when it came to women. She started to tell him what he could do with his plea but something in his eyes made her reconsider.

“Something’s wrong,” she said slowly.

He didn’t answer. “Open the door, Bree.”

“What is it?” A coldness began stealing over her. “Gianni? What’s the matter?”

“I’ve come to tell you something,” he said quietly, “but not like this. Let me in.”

Her heart gave an unsteady thump. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Gianni ran his hand through his hair. It was already standing up in little curls, as if he’d repeated the same action several times. Now she noticed he was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and running shoes, and there was a shadowy bristle on his jaw.

Gianni Firelli, unshaven and casually dressed at this hour on a weekday morning?

“Stefano,” she whispered. “And my sister…”

Her knees buckled. Gianni cursed and caught her by the shoulders.

“No,” he said sharply. “Listen to me, Bree. Your sister and brother-in-law are fine. Your family is fine. This has nothing to do with them.”

“Then what…It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

She was staring at him, her eyes enormous in her suddenly pale face, and the anger he’d been riding since the last time he saw her drained away. He had bad news for her. Terrible news, the worst imaginable.

He had to tell her that her best friend was dead.

Gianni drew a long breath. “Bree—”

“Briana? Is it the Martians?”

He looked over his shoulder. An old woman was standing in the doorway opposite, hands clutched to her breasts.

“Have the aliens demanded our surrender?”

Any other time, he would have laughed. The woman was staring at him as if he were the devil himself, which pretty much described how he felt at the moment.

“I’m a friend of Briana’s,” he said gently. “Everything’s fine.”

The old woman looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”

“The president says we’ll never surrender,” he said firmly, and forced a smile to his lips.

That seemed to do it. She stepped back inside her apartment; Gianni moved forward, still holding Briana by the shoulders, and kicked the door shut.

Heat and humidity curled around him like the breath of a swamp. The room reminded him of a closet. He felt too big for it and for the emotions churning in his belly.

“Tell me,” Bree said.

“Sit down first.”

He knew the second she figured it out. What little color had returned to her face drained away.

“It’s Karen,” she whispered.

Gianni swung her into his arms. Two steps, and he was beside a tattered sofa. Carefully he lowered her to it. She scooted into the corner, watching him as if he held the secrets of the universe.

“Please. Tell me what happened. It is Karen, isn’t it?”

A muscle tightened in Gianni’s cheek. “Yes.”

Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh God,” she said brokenly. “Oh God!”

“And Tomasso,” he said, rushing the words, knowing she had to hear it all and hear it quickly before the sledgehammer blow of pain struck him again.

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

Her head fell back, as if she’d been hit. Gianni moved closer and clasped her hands.

“I’m sorry, Briana.”

“It can’t be.” She made a choked sound that was almost a laugh and was, he knew, the first sign of hysteria. “It isn’t possible.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“But how? How could—”

“They were in Sicily, visiting Tomasso’s grandmother. They were driving. The roads there are narrow. Twisting. Another car—the driver was drunk. He—he—” Gianni couldn’t get the words out. His throat felt as if someone were gripping it, trying to choke the air from his lungs. “It was quick,” he finally said. “They didn’t suffer.”

Bree’s eyes had become dull. Suddenly they flashed to life. “The baby?”

He nodded. At least there was some good news. “The baby is fine.”

Briana began to weep, silently at first, then in great, gasping sobs that tore at his heart.

“Cara,” he said thickly, and drew her into his arms.

She cried uncontrollably. He felt his eyes grow damp. He wanted to weep with her but he hadn’t cried since he was five and he’d realized that if he did, his father would only beat him harder.

Instead he buried his face in her hair as he tried to figure out how to tell her the next part. Surely it would seem as impossible to her as it had to him when Tomasso’s attorney phoned early this morning, first with the brutal news of Tommy’s and Karen’s deaths, and then with the details of their will.

“Are you sure?” he’d kept asking the man, which was incredibly stupid because he was a lawyer, too; he knew the Massini attorney couldn’t have misunderstood. But the other man was patient. He read the pertinent clauses aloud. Even after that, Gianni kept saying, yes, but are you sure? because what he was hearing couldn’t be right.

“Give me your fax number,” the exasperated attorney finally said. Minutes later, Gianni had been staring at a document that would change his life.

His, and Briana’s.

“When?” Bree said.

Her tears had stopped but she was still in his arms, her face hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Two days ago. Their lawyer called me this morning.”

“Two days ago.”

Bree shuddered against him. The room was hot, almost airless, but she was probably in shock. And she was wearing nothing but a towel.

A towel.

Gradually he became aware of the feel of her against him. The softness of her skin. The warmth of her breath. The silky strands of damp hair, tickling his nose.

“Bree.”

He clasped her shoulders, tried to ease her from him, but she shook her head and burrowed closer.

“Bree,” he said again, and stroked her back. Her skin was as silken as her hair, and bore the fragrance of flowers.

She was an oasis of life in a sea of death.

He understood that. Still, he despised himself as he felt his body beginning to quicken.

“Karen was my best friend,” she whispered.

“As Tomasso was mine.”

“We met in college, but it was as if we’d always known each other.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Tommy and I were friends since we were ten.”

“I just—I can’t believe—”

“Neither can I.”

She gave a soft sob that tore at his heart. He drew her closer and began to rock her in his arms.

“To think of them both gone…”

“Shh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Briana looked up at him.

“What about—what about the funeral?”

“It’s over,” he said gruffly. “Tommy’s grandmother made the arrangements. She’s an old woman. I don’t think it occurred to her that Tomasso and Karen had friends in the States who’d want to attend.”

“So we—we can’t even say a proper goodbye.”

The pragmatist in him wanted to tell her that the Massinis wouldn’t know the difference but the pain he felt, the pain he knew she felt, made him offer a different answer.

“They knew we loved them,” he said quietly. “Perhaps they know it still.”

Briana began to weep again. Gianni whispered to her, stroked her cheek, her hair, and suddenly she tilted her face up to his. Her eyes were enormous, as bright as stars; her mouth trembled.

“At least they had each other.”

“Yes. They were lucky.”

“It’s terrible, to be alone.”

“Terrible,” he whispered back, and he would never know which of them moved first, he or Briana, but a heartbeat later his mouth was drinking from hers, her arms were wound tightly around his neck, and his mind was emptied of everything but her taste, her scent, the soft reality of her in his embrace.

He lay her back on the couch and kissed her throat, felt the leap of her pulse against his lips. Her hands were in his hair; her sighs were sweet affirmations of the power of life.

“Bree…”

She drew his head down and silenced him with another kiss. Her lips were soft; her body was warm and alive under his hands and when she moved against him, whispered his name, Gianni was lost.

With a groan, he tore open the knotted towel. Her breasts were beautiful, rounded and small with delicate nipples the color of roses.

“How lovely you are,” he whispered.

“Touch me, Gianni. Please. Please…”

Her breasts. They fit his palms as if they’d been fashioned to do exactly that. She whimpered with pleasure as he cupped them. He bent his head to her and sucked first one beaded tip and then the other into his mouth.

She sobbed his name, raised her hips in age-old invitation, asking a wordless question that could only have one answer and he gave it, spreading the towel fully so he could see all of her: the narrow waist, the rounded hips, the golden triangle between her legs.

He kissed her there, seeking the perfect pink bud nestled between her thighs with the tip of his tongue. She tasted sweeter than honey and when she arched toward him and cried out her passion, the blood roared in his ears.

“Gianni,” she sobbed, “Gianni, please, please, please…”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, and in a single, swift movement he unzipped his jeans, came down to her, lifted her to him and entered her, sinking deep, deeper than he ever had before, and then she tightened around him and he stopped thinking of anything but this, this, this…

Her wild cry of fulfillment triggered his own release.

For an instant, for an eternity, the world hung suspended.

And then it was over.

Gianni’s body sang while his brain recoiled at what he’d done. He rolled away, searching for the right words. Briana scrambled up against the back of the sofa, grabbed for the towel and clutched it to her.

“Oh God,” she said brokenly. “Oh God…”

“Briana. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t say anything. Just—just go away.”

Her mane of golden hair was a wild tangle that obscured her features. He wanted to pull her into his arms, smooth it back, lift her face to his and tell her he hadn’t meant to take her like this, that what had happened in the elevator wasn’t what he’d wanted, either.

What he wanted was to make slow, tender love with her. To kiss her mouth, then trail kisses down her throat to the hollow between her breasts until she was trembling with desire. He wanted to enter her slowly, watch her face as he did, take her with him to the heavens and hold her close as she came back to earth.

But she was glaring at him, disgust and hatred bright in her eyes. He knew that reaching for her would be a mistake. Hell, everything he’d done since they’d met had turned out to be a mistake.

“Damn it, are you deaf? Get out!”

She sounded as if he were a monster who’d attacked her. Gianni felt the first stirrings of an emotion far safer than regret.

“Look,” he said carefully, “these things happen.”

“These things?” she said, and the coldness in her voice was the final touch he needed.

“Sex,” he said bluntly. “It’s an affirmation of life. It’s what people often turn to, in the face of death.”

He was right. Briana knew that. She’d read books, seen films; she wasn’t stupid. People had sex for reasons that had nothing to do with desire.

And that was the worst of it. That she’d done this for all the wrong reasons. Dreamed of being with this man, ugly as that was to admit, dreamed of it since the night in that elevator, and now that it had happened, it had nothing to do with Gianni wanting her or her wanting him; it had to do with the loss of someone who’d been like another sister.

“Briana.”

She looked up. Gianni’s tone was cool. He sounded like a man about to make a speech instead of a man who’d just—who’d just—

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