Her Italian Soldier Page 2

  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 th
e 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?”

  “Invisibility for the rest of the night. One word from you could ruin everything.”

  “I guess if you were being hunted by the police you wouldn’t tell me, or maybe you would and don’t care.”

  He made a strange sound in his throat. “I’m not on anyone’s suspect list. More to the point, how long have you been staying here?”

  She could feel the pounding of his heart against her back. It was too fast. His pain would have spiked from the sudden exertion. “I only arrived in Ravello this evening.” In her own way, she’d wanted invisibility after a full day.

  “How soon will you be seeing him again?”

  “He’ll be sending a car for me tomorrow at eleven. I’ll probably see him later in the day.”

  “What exactly do you do?”

  This man who’d broken into the house seemed to know more than she’d given him credit for, but she wasn’t about to reveal information about Guilio. Seeing as this stranger had her locked in his grip, he had the upper hand. What choice was there except to answer with as much truth as she dared and still protect Guilio. His name was synonymous with Amalfi and prominent throughout Italy. “I’m working for him temporarily.”

  “Why aren’t you living in a pensione or an apartment?” The man was full of questions.

  “I asked him to find me a farmhouse that rented out rooms. That’s when he told me I could stay here. There’s no place more beautiful than the Italian countryside. Living here is like walking right into the picture on a calendar of Italy and never wanting to come back out.”

  “That’s very interesting.” He’d said the words, but he didn’t sound as if he believed her.

  She breathed in sharply. “Now that that I’ve answered all of your questions, it’s only fair you answer one for me. Who are you?”

  “Lucca Cavezzali,” he groaned.

  “Oh, no—” she cried. This was Guilio’s only son, the adored child he’d had with his first wife, the eighteen-year-old who’d gone into the military and had trained to be a fighter pilot for the Italian air force—his father’s pride and joy!

  If she told him the specific nature of her job, it would ruin the surprise his father had been planning for over a year.

  Now that she thought about it, the two men had similar builds, though Guilio was shorter. She saw a vague resemblance in some of their facial features, but Lucca must have inherited his black hair from his mother. Guilio hadn’t mentioned anything about his son being injured.

  She tried to get away from him, but he held her firmly against him. “Because of you, signorina, my best laid plans have been shot to hell for tonight, as you Americans like to say.”

  “You’re right! We do like to say,” she spluttered back. “Allow me to thank you very much, signore. Your unexpected, unforetold nocturnal invasion has changed my plans, too. If you’ll let me go, I’ll phone for a taxi and be gone from here inside of a half hour.”

  To her dismay she would have to explain to Guilio why she’d suddenly decided to go to a hotel after all. She would have to think up a good excuse for leaving, but she’d worry about that later.

  “Now who’s licking wounds,” he muttered with uncanny perception.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’m afraid it is. But uprooting you tonight won’t be necessary, provided you’re willing to cooperate with me and keep my presence here a secret until tomorrow.”

  Cooperate? For the second time that night she was suffering fresh shock after learning his identity. “You ask a lot of your prisoners.” She’d been trying to wiggle free from his viselike grip, but it was no use. He might be injured, but he was incredibly strong and fit.

  “I’m a desperate man.”

  Annabelle moaned. “So I’ve noticed. Why don’t you want your father to know you’re back?”

  “Back from where, signorina?”

  His condescending tone told her that no matter what she said, he wasn’t going to like it. “He mentioned that you’re in the military.” She moistened her lips nervously. “Did you arrange for a special leave or something?”

  “That’s not your affair, either.”

  She supposed it wasn’t. “You’re right, but I can tell you’re in pain. You should be in bed.”

  “I was on my way there.” He’d come from the other part of the house, probably the kitchen. His speech had slowed, leading her to believe he’d drugged himself with something strong.

  “Your bed isn’t made up. You’ll have to use mine.”

  “As long as you don’t leave my sight. For the rest of the night we’ll lie on the same bed to ensure you
don’t play the informer before morning.”

  Annabelle had no illusions. That was a command, not an invitation. She refused to react. “Fine. If you’ll let me stand, I’ll help you get up, then you can lean on me. My bedroom isn’t far.”

  He let her go with one hand, using it to brace himself against the wall while he clung to her arm with the other. She sensed he would have cried out if he’d been alone. Together they moved to her bedroom with him leaning on her. Undoubtedly she would have collapsed from his weight if they’d had to go much farther.

  By some miracle they made it to the bed. He fell on his side, taking her with him. She ended up on her back and felt his hand curl around her wrist, making certain she wouldn’t get away. As he settled against the pillows, his sigh of relief echoed off the walls of the room.

  When she’d helped him up moments ago, the dark stubble on his jaw had brushed against her cheek by accident, reminding her of his undeniable masculinity. No doubt he’d been traveling a long time without stopping to freshen up. Between fatigue and the medication he’d taken for his pain, she assumed he’d be asleep before long.

  She, on the other hand, lay next to him, wide-awake. There’d been no man since she’d divorced Ryan. With Guilio’s son facing her inches away, her senses were in chaos. The situation was so surreal she wondered if she were dreaming.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Lucca murmured, thinking he’d read her mind. “I couldn’t take advantage of you if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

  His words might have pricked her if she hadn’t already been through a hell she never wanted to repeat. “Then we’re both in luck because I can assure you that a rude, brooding, unshaven male slithering home under cover of darkness is no woman’s idea of joy beyond measure.” His earlier remarks still smarted.

  He made a sound that bordered on angry laughter, but none of it mattered. In another few minutes he’d be dead to the world. Once his hand released her, she would find some clean bedding in the hall closet and make up the other bed.

  “Your pillow smells of strawberries.”