Buch lesen: «Her Italian Soldier»

“Lucca,” she called softly to him. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Come on.”

Using a gentle rolling motion, she managed to get him on his back. More unintelligible words flew out of his mouth.

His tear-washed face was her undoing. She bent over him and started kissing his eyelids and cheeks. “Lucca?” she whispered. “The war is over. You’re home and safe.” She ran her lips over every rugged line and angle of the face haunting her dreams. Her hands massaged his shoulders, willing him to relax and let go of the powerful flashback.

“Hush, now,” she murmured against his lips, both of theirs salty from his tears. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Just when she thought she wasn’t getting through to him he muttered, “Annabelle?”

“Yes!” she cried, so relieved he’d come back to reality she didn’t care what he thought of her unorthodox methods. Her sorrow for what he’d suffered went too deep for tears. He’d been injured and had lost his best friend. She rocked him in her arms. With a swift strength she could scarcely credit, he pulled her body toward him.

Dear Reader,

Up to the time I was fifteen, going on sixteen, our eight -member family got along with the Buick my father drove.(He looked exactly like Charles Boyer in his younger days.) Then something incredible happened. In 1955 he came home from work one day driving a convertible that was so adorable I thought I was seeing things. He’d bought a Porsche 356 Carrera Cabriolet. It was gleaming white, with red leather seats, and looked like a toy. I’d never heard of a Porsche, but if you could fall in love with a car, I did.

A month later it was time for me to take my driving test, and Daddy taught me how to drive in the Porsche with its stick shift. The day after I got my licence, he let me drive it to my high school. Needless to say I was the most popular girl at the school that day, and never got over my love of foreign sports cars. When you read this novel, Her Italian Soldier, you’ll see I still have a mad passion for them.

I dedicate this book to the most saintly, brilliant, wonderful, generous father in the world.

Enjoy!

Rebecca Winters

About the Author

REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now swelled to include three beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wild flowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon^® romance novels, because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.

Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at: www.rebeccawinters-author.com.

Her Italian
Soldier

Rebecca Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ANNABELLE Marsh stood at the bathroom sink while she began removing her makeup. She didn’t recognize the blond woman in the mirror staring back at her. There was an unnatural gleam to her shoulder-length hair she could never have achieved on her own. Her eyes really weren’t that violet. Nor were her brows and lashes quite as dark.

Artificially flawless skin highlighted by a subtle bloom brought out her high cheekbones. The makeup artist had defined her mouth to make it look more voluptuous. Her fingernails and toenails possessed their own polished sheen.

She’d had a bevy of fairy godmothers doing what they did best as they’d transformed her. Marcella of Marcella’s Italian haute couture salon in Rome chose all the designer clothes that Annabelle would wear throughout her photo shoots in Italy. She’d added jewels as the final touch for the shoot that had started four days ago at an air force base outside Rome in front of an MB-Viper fighter jet.

It had been a lark so far—loads of fun.

“Three weeks of being the Amalfi Girl,” Guilio told her. “My wife and I will see to your every comfort. Then—since you insist—you can go back to being Ms. Marsh.”

“You mean the forgettable Ms. Marsh.” She’d had long enough to stop grieving over a failed marriage and divorce two years earlier, and had taken back her maiden name. But a lack of self confidence, remained as one of its by-products.

His brown brows lifted. “If you were forgettable, I wouldn’t have picked you for the most important project of my life.”

Annabelle shook her head in disbelief. “I still don’t know what you see in me.”

“My brothers and I, the whole Cavezzali family, have been in the business of designing cars since World War Two. But I was the one who dreamed up the Amalfi sports car. It’s been my life’s work. I saw the lines of it in my sleep years ago and lines, Annabelle, are like the bones of a beautiful woman. What lies beneath determines what will eventually become a masterpiece.”

She flashed him a teasing smile. “You saw my bones?”

“Right away. They spoke to me. They said, ‘Guilio? At last you have found what you’ve been looking for.’” The charm and exuberance of the attractive sixtysomething Italian couldn’t be denied. “I am going to form a marriage that will show a whole new face of the elegant world of the Italian sports car.”

Annabelle would never forget that day two months ago when the dynamic car designer had come to the Amalfi dealership in Los Angeles, California. He and her boss, Mel Jardine, the owner of the complex who sold the most Amalfi cars in the States, had business to talk over. Guilio was launching a spectacular new sports car.

Being Mel’s personal assistant, Annabelle had taken care of all the arrangements to make Guilio comfortable, including catering their meals. He’d insisted she remain for the day-long meetings and he was so attentive, she feared the married man might be interested in her in a nonprofessional way. But he soon dispelled that worry by bringing on another one. He told her in front of Mel he wanted Annabelle to be the model to advertise his new car.

She laughed at the absurd notion, but he kept right on talking while Mel shot her a glance that said she should listen to this Italian genius.

“I’m perfectly serious. For the last year I’ve been searching for the right woman. I had no exact face or figure in mind. I only knew one day she would come along and I would know her.” He stared at her. “And here you are. You have that Amalfi Girl look. You’re unique, just like the car. Mel will tell you I’ve never used a female model before.”

Annabelle knew he spoke the truth. She was familiar with the brochures around the shop. They only featured prosperous Italian men in ads with his cars, like a businessman from Milan, or a socialite from Florence.

“I’m so flattered I don’t know what to say, Mr. Cavezzali.”

“Guilio. Please.”

“Guilio, then. But why bring in a woman now?” She was filled with curiosity. “Out of the whole car industry, your ads are the most appealing just as they are,” she assured him and meant it.

He tapped his fingertips together. “That’s gratifying to hear, but I want this campaign to be sensational. It’s in honor of my brilliant boy.” The hushed quality in his tone told Annabelle how very deeply he loved his son.

“Lucca went to military school at eighteen and has distinguished himself as a fighter pilot with many decorations to his credit.” His eyes moistened. “He’s my pride and joy. I’ve named my latest creation the Amalfi MB-Viper to let him know how much I admire what he has accomplished.”

Ah … Now she understood. He’d named his new sports car after the fighter jet his son flew.

He gazed at her for a long time. “I want your picture to adorn the brochures, the media ads, the video and the calendar I’m having made up to commemorate the launch. Every Amalfi dealership around the world will be sent posters and calendars ahead of shipment to create excitement about a whole new market of future Amalfi sports-car owners. Be assured I’ll have security with you at every shoot for your safety.”

When Annabelle got over being speechless, she said, “I’d be honored to play a part in its launch.”

Someone else, like her ex-husband Ryan, would be speechless, too, when he saw her picture on the calendar. He’d dreamed about owning a flashy sports car when he’d finished his medical residency. One look at the new Amalfi MB-Viper and he would covet it. That is until he saw his boring, predictable ex-wife draped over it, swathed in silk and diamonds.

After their marriage, his affair with another nurse at the hospital where Annabelle had been finishing up her nursing degree had left her feeling like her soul had been murdered.

A chance meeting with Mel, who’d been one of the heart patients on her floor at the time, had resulted in her going to work for him. His job offer had spirited her away from a world of pain she’d wanted to put behind her and hopefully forget.

Now Guilio’s faith in her being attractive enough to grace his ads gave her another shot of confidence her damaged self-esteem had been needing.

“You will stay at my home with my wife, Maria, and me. I’m eager to introduce you to my brothers and my two married stepsons, who work for me. They and their families live nearby.”

“I’d love to meet all of them, but I couldn’t impose on you and your wife that way.”

“Hmm. I can see you’re stubborn like my son. All right. I’ll put you up in Ravello’s finest hotel.”

“No hotel. If I’m going to be in Italy, I want to stay in some quaint, modest bed-and-breakfast where it’s quiet, away from people and I can soak in the atmosphere. Here in Los Angeles we’re constantly hemmed in by each other.”

He turned to Mel. “You won’t mind loaning her to me? This is business.”

Mel smiled. “Not if you send her back soon. I couldn’t get along without her. She’s the reason I haven’t had another heart attack.”

Guilio smacked his own head. “Cielo! We don’t want that.”

All three of them had laughed.

Eight weeks ago she’d agreed to model for him and now, having completed her first four days of work in Rome, she found herself transported to Ravello, home to the Cavezzali family and the Amalfi car, a design as spectacular as the Amalfi coast itself.

Perched high above the water, Ravello was more like a giant garden than a town. Guilio, who had his own villas here, called it the crown jewel of the Sorrentine Peninsula. Princes, movies stars and sheikhs, among others, were drawn to the cluster of colorful cliff side villages and sparkling harbors dotting the world-famous stretch of Italian coastline.

This was her first vacation since her honeymoon to Mexico four years ago. After telling Guilio she wanted to stay in one of those charming little Italian farmhouses like she’d seen in films and on television, the kind that made you dream about the countryside, he’d installed her here.

She’d learned this house sat on the little farm his first wife had left to his son Lucca. It had stood vacant for fifteen years. She was welcome to stay here.

The exterior was orangy-pink with jade shutters. The only door to the house was on the side and led into the kitchen. Pure enchantment. Since leaving the bustle of Rome earlier in the day, nothing could have delighted her more.

While its terrace overlooked the brilliant blue Tyrrhenian Sea, an explosion of white daisies reached for the sky and pushed their way through the bars of the railing. It was as if the house had been planted inside a basket of blossoms. She couldn’t wait to go exploring the area in the morning, before her driver came by for her at eleven.

After taking off her clothes, she stepped in the shower. It felt good to wash her hair and emerge later feeling fresh and clean after traveling most of the day. She threw on her well-worn navy robe and plugged in the adaptor before turning on the blow dryer. When the strands weren’t quite as damp, she pinned them to the top of her head. Tomorrow the hairdresser would decide what he wanted to do with her shoulder-length hair for the photo shoot.

Another glance in the mirror proved that the Amalfi Girl was gone for the night.

Was twenty-six still young enough for her to be called a girl? Did her daily makeover at the hands of experts hide the traces of the betrayed widow? The camera would tell the truth, but Guilio believed in what he was doing. He believed in her. She already cared for him so much, she wanted this campaign to be a huge success and was determined to cooperate every way she could.

When Lucca learned what his father had done in his honor, he’d be touched beyond belief. It was very sweet really. Guilio was about as excited as a father who’d put his child’s most wanted gift under the Christmas tree and couldn’t wait for him to open it.

Unfortunately it was only June. Annabelle wondered how he was going to be able to wait until August when the car was finally out in the showrooms. The timing would coincide with his son’s next leave and the grand unveiling would take place in Milan.

Guilio intended to fly her back over for the special event, which would be covered by Italian television and other media sources. “We’ll do a blitz!” Guilio proclaimed with excitement. “Nothing’s too good for my Lucca.”

Annabelle imagined his bachelor son had the same Cavezzali drive and charm. She admitted to a growing curiosity about him. Guilio had told her the den at his villa was full of pictures showing his son at every stage of his life. The latest ones showed Lucca receiving commendations and ribbons. She was eager to see them along with everything else.

After stretching her arms, she smiled wryly to herself, still unable to believe that she was in the most glorious place on earth, enjoying a free vacation while she modeled, and having the time of her life. In a few weeks she would have to go home, but she refused to think about that right now.

Once she’d brushed her teeth, she turned out the light and padded down the beamed hall to the larger of the two bedrooms made ready for her. The cozy feel of the old house, which was filled with old family pictures and furnishings, enveloped her. So many stories these fieldstone walls would tell if they could speak.

Annabelle climbed under the covers of the double bed. With a sigh she sank back against the pillow and closed her eyes, more tired than she realized. On such a beautiful June night, she wished she could leave the windows open, but Guilio had warned her against it.

“You can’t ever be too careful.”

Annabelle knew he was right.

“Tomorrow after the shoot, I’ll give you a car so you can come and go as you please.”

“Thank you for everything, Guilio. I guess you know you’ve brought me to heaven.”

“Ravello is the closest thing to it. Call me if you need anything. Sleep well, Annabelle. Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

She didn’t know why, but as she nestled into a more comfortable position, she had a feeling that love and laughter had filled this house years ago. Some marriages lasted. Her eyes misted. How nice for those lucky people…

At the base of the tiny farm bordering the serpentine road, Lucca Cavezzali got an urge to go on foot from here and told the driver he’d hired to stop the car. After paying the man, he got out of the backseat with some difficulty and reached for his duffel bag.

There was a full moon overhead. Anyone up at two in the morning would see him and wonder who was trespassing on private property. He took a long look around. In the next instant the perfumed breeze brought back memories from the past. The scent of orange blossoms hung heavily in the air, recalling his childhood, which had been idyllic when his mother had been alive.

After her death, everything changed. Lucca had watched his father turn into a different man, who soon after her death married a widow with two sons. At fourteen years of age Lucca couldn’t forgive him for that and pretty well closed up on him.

Uninterested in going into the family car business like his stepbrothers and cousins, he’d left to join the military at eighteen. His grandfather Lorenzo had served in the Second World War. Lucca had made the old farmer out to be a hero and had romanticized about going off to war himself.

That decision had caused a serious rift between him and Guilio, who raged that Lucca might not be as lucky as his grandfather and not make it back at all. Still, nothing had dissuaded Lucca from leaving. But as he grew into a man and had firsthand knowledge of what war was really like, understanding of a lot of things caught up to him, like his father’s fears for his only son’s safety, and Guilio’s need for love and companionship after losing Lucca’s mother.

Lucca had long since let go of his teenage hang-ups. Over the years he’d mended the breech between them and had come to like his stepmother. She’d been good for his father, who was married to his work building up the Amalfi car industry.

If there was anything left over from the past, it was his guilt for not having been around the last fifteen years for his father. But the hospital psychiatrist had worked through those issues with him as well as his survivor’s guilt. The doctor had told him most career servicemen and women suffered the same problems. Guilt went with the territory.

The only issue that Lucca didn’t want to see turn into a problem had arisen on his last leave. He’d found out his father was considering selling off the two remaining farm properties from his mother’s side of the family that were in sore need of care. Lucca had immediately made an offer for them.

His father looked at him as if he were crazy. If Lucca wanted to build up some investments, it would be a better use of his money to buy a prime piece of business real estate in town. Guilio was a shrewd businessman and considered his opinion to be the final word on the subject.

Rather than get into a full-blown argument as they’d done too often in those early years, Lucca decided to leave it alone for the time being. All he asked was that his father not do anything about the properties until he came home on his next leave in August, when they had more time for a business discussion.

But since their last meeting, he’d undergone a life-changing experience that had altered his timetable.

Four months ago Lucca had been shot down and it had ended his military career. Guilio didn’t know about the crash that had left Lucca permanently injured, or that he’d been in the hospital all this time.

Aware how his father would have suffered for him had he known about the operation on his leg and the long rehabilitation, not to mention his post-traumatic stress disorder, Lucca made certain no news had leaked out from his superiors or doctors. It was a time he preferred to forget.

Tomorrow he would show up at his father’s house after a good night’s sleep. That’s when he had less pain. He wanted to feel rested when he told Guilio about his future plans to be a full-time farmer. It was possible he’d meet with the same negative reaction of years ago, but Lucca had to try.

Before turning eighteen, Lucca had talked to his father and told him that he wanted to be a farmer, but Guilio had thrown up his hands. “For your mother’s family, farming was fine. But no son of mine is going to do that kind of work! You’re a Cavezzali with a superior brain!

“Our family has been designing and manufacturing cars since World War Two. There’s no distinction in being a farmer who’s always subject to the elements and works all hours of the day and night with little to show for it. No, Lucca. You listen to your father!”

After Guilio’s tirade, Lucca kept the dream to himself. Instead of joining the Amalfi car business after graduation, he went into the military. Not to spite his father, but because he had plans to be a farmer one day and that ambition meant he would have to make some real money at a job that appealed to him first. Being a fighter pilot satisfied that need.

Now that he was out of the service, he planned to work with the soil and revive the farm. Since he intended to be successful and make a substantial profit, he needed more parcels of land. Along with this farm and those two properties to which he’d always been sentimentally attached, he could make a good start and go from there.

He’d had a lot of time to think in the hospital and hoped that when he talked to his father, Guilio’s opinions would have softened enough to really listen to Lucca. But he doubted his father would ever approve of what he intended to do. Already Lucca was bracing for the same kind of lecture his father had given him all that time ago.

However, this time Lucca wouldn’t be dissuaded and he wasn’t going away. And if his father chose not to sell the properties, then Lucca was prepared to buy others. After his inactivity these last four months, he ached to get busy using his hands.

Once he’d checked his watch, he started for the house, struggling to reach it with every step. Before the injury that could have taken off his leg, he would have ambled up the steep incline between the orange and lemon trees faster than any goat.

As he made his way over uneven ground, he noted with disgust that everything growing required attention and pruning. The whole place needed an overhaul. Weeds fought to displace the flowers growing in wild profusion around the base of the deserted house, particularly in front of the terrace, where the railing was almost invisible. So much work needed to be done.

If his mother were alive, she would weep to see the neglect. Maybe it was just as well he’d lost her in his early teens. That way she wasn’t here to see him come home a wreck of a man. Thirty-three years old and he wasn’t a pretty sight. Neither was the farm, but he was about to change all that, with or without his father’s blessing.

Working his way around the side to the only door leading into the house, he pulled out a set of keys and let himself in. Usually when he had a furlough, he met his father in Rome or Milan, where Guilio often did business at the major showrooms. But those days were over.

He was back on the farm, his own small piece of heaven, and he planned to work it.

From what Lucca could tell, there didn’t appear to be any dust. He’d been paying a local woman to make sure the place was cleaned on a periodic basis and was pleased to see she’d followed through. He put the duffel bag down on the tiles in the kitchen with relief. It weighed a ton.

No longer encumbered, he limped past the small table and chairs to the hallway, taking in the living room on the other side. He didn’t need lights turned on to find his old bedroom. Everything was still in place, like a time capsule that had just been opened.

He moved over to the window and undid the shutters, letting in the sound of the cicadas. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the double bed minus any bedding. Unlatching the glass, he pushed it all the way open to allow the scented breeze to dance on through. There was no other air like it anywhere on earth. He knew, because he’d been everywhere.

While he stood there filling his lungs with the sweet essence of the fruits and flowers, the pain in his leg grew worse. The plate the surgeon had put in his thigh to support the broken bone caused it to ache when he was tired. He needed another painkiller followed by sleep. A long one.

Diavolo! It meant going back to the kitchen, but he didn’t know if he could make it without help. Walking the distance from the car had exhausted him.

Somewhere in his closet among his favorite treasures he remembered his grandfather’s cane. His mother’s father had lost the lower half of his leg in the war and had eventually been fitted with a prosthesis.

He rummaged around inside until he spotted it, never dreaming the day would come when he would find use for it. Grazie a Dio Lucca hadn’t lost a limb.

Armed with the precious heirloom, he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen, where he’d put the duffel bag. He’d packed the pill bottle in his shaving kit on top. Once he’d swallowed painkillers, he ran the tap water, then lowered his head and drank his fill. It tasted good.

He eventually shut off the tap. One more stop to the bathroom before sinking into oblivion.

By now he was leaning heavily on the cane. The short climb to the house had done its damage. Only a few more feet … Come on. You can do it! But even as he said the words, the cane slid on the tiles from his weight and he went crashing.

A loud thump resounded in the hallway followed by a yelp and a volley of unintelligible cursing in Italian. Annabelle shot up in bed. Someone—a man—was in the house, thrashing about after some kind of fall. It couldn’t be Guilio. He would have phoned if he’d intended to come over for some reason. Maybe it was the caretaker Guilio had forgotten to tell her about.

With her heart in her throat, she slid out of bed. After throwing on her robe, she hurried over to the door. When she opened it, enough moonlight spilled from the doorway of the other bedroom to outline a figure crawling on his hands and knees.

Knowing the intruder was hurt in some way, she felt braver as she found the switch in the hall and turned on the light. His dark head reared back in complete surprise, revealing a striking face riddled with lines of pain. She grabbed for the cane she could see lying a few feet from him and lifted it in the air.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said through clenched teeth. “You probably don’t speak English, but I’m warning you I’ll use this if you make another move.” With a threatening gesture, she took a step toward him.

“You have me at a disadvantage, signorina.”

His deep voice spoke beautiful English with the kind of Italian accent that resonated to her insides. He was probably in his mid-thirties. The dangerous-looking male didn’t have the decency to flinch. Even on the floor twisting in agony, he exuded an air of authority. She doubted he was anyone’s caretaker. This kindled her fear of his lean, hard-muscled body on a level she didn’t wish to examine.

“You’re trespassing on private property, signore.”

He strained to brace his back against the wall. A black T-shirt covered his well-defined chest. With his legs stretched out full length in jeans molding powerful thighs, she could see he would be six-two or six-three if he were standing. He put her in mind of someone, but she couldn’t think who.

“You took the words out of my mouth, signorina. A man has the right to come home to his own house and be alone.”

She drew in a fortifying breath. “I happen to know that no one has lived in this house for years.”

His lids drooped over his eyes. He was exhausted. Perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip. She saw the signs of his pain and felt unwanted sympathy for his distress, but it only lasted until he said, “Nevertheless it’s mine, so what are you doing here?”

“You’re the intruder,” she snapped. “I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind. First of all, I want to see your ID.”

“I don’t have it on me.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“It’s in the kitchen.”

“Of course it is,” she mocked again. “And if I ask for your name, you’ll lie to me, so there’s no point. We’ll let the police get the truth out of you.”

That made him open his eyes enough to gaze up at her through inky black lashes. “How sad your cynicism is already showing.”

Heat made its way into her cheeks. “Already?”

“Well, for one thing you’re not married.” He stared at her ringless fingers. “Disillusionment doesn’t usually happen to a woman until she’s approaching forty. At least that’s been my assessment.”

He’d pressed the wrong button. “It would take a broken-down, forty-year-old cynic of a man to know, wouldn’t it? Your vast knowledge on the subject doesn’t seem to have done you a whole lot of good. No wedding ring on your finger, either. Not even the paler ring of skin to give proof you’d once worn one. What you need is a walker that won’t slip, signore, not a cane.”

The lines around his mouth tightened. She didn’t know if she’d hit her target, or if he was reacting to his pain.

He slanted her an impatient glance. “Why don’t you admit you’re a down-and-out tourist who doesn’t have enough money for a hotel room, so you cased the area and settled on this empty house.”

Smarting from the accusation she said, “What if I were? You’ve done the same thing by waiting until the middle of the night to find a vacant spot to lick your wounds.”

“Like a stray dog, you mean?”

Behind his snarl-like question she heard a bleakness that matched the whitish color around his lips. They’d traded insults long enough. His pain caused her to relent. “I’m a guest here for a time. My name is Annabelle Marsh. What’s yours?”

He rested his head of unruly black hair against the wall. “None of your business” was the off-putting response.

His eyes had closed, giving her enough time to hurry into the bedroom and grab her cell phone off the side table. When she returned seconds later, his lids fluttered open. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded curtly.

“I’m calling Guilio Cavezzali, my employer. He’ll know how to deal with you.”

“No, don’t—” He lunged forward and pulled her down, cradling her between his legs with great strength.

The gesture sent the cane flying down the hall. His hands tore the cell phone from her other hand. It slid even farther away. She felt his warm breath on her nape. “I can’t let you call him at this hour.”

Did he know Guilio? The name seemed to mean something to him. Annabelle had been a fool to feel any pity for him. Now she was at his mercy. She schooled her voice to remain steady. “What is it you want?”