Tuscan Heat

Tuscan Heat

By Kathleen Dienne

When Sara Wright's boyfriend dumped her before their planned trip to Italy she decided to mend her shattered ego with an adventure. Going on the trip solo, she set herself two rules: avoid cynicism and say yes to every opportunity…

When opportunity arrived as darkly handsome and seductive Marco D'Alessandro offering to be her personal guide to Florence, Sara found herself saying yes. Yes to days filled with museums and the city's best restaurants, and to nights filled with wild abandon.

What started as a fairy-tale fling turns more serious when Marco begins to mend Sara's heart. But while Marco appears to be the perfect distraction, he's keeping a secret from her and she only has four days to find out who her lover really is…

46,000 words

Dear Reader,

What do you get when you cross summer with lots of beach time, and long hours of traveling? An executive editor who's too busy to write the Dear Reader letter, but has time for reading. I find both the beach and the plane are excellent places to read, and thanks to plenty of time spent on both this summer (I went to Australia! And New Zealand!) I'm able to tell you with confidence: our fall lineup of books is outstanding.

We kick off the fall season with seven romantic suspense titles, during our Romantic Suspense celebration in the first week of September. We're pleased to offer novella
Fatal Destiny
by Marie Force as a free download to get you started with the romantic suspense offerings. Also in September, fans of Eleri Stone's sexy, hot paranormal romance debut novel,
Mercy,
can look forward to her follow-up story,
Redemption,
set in the same world of the Lost City Shifters.

Looking to dive into a new erotic romance? We have a sizzling trilogy for you. In October, look for Christine D'Abo's Long Shot trilogy featuring three siblings who share ownership of a coffee shop, and each of whom discover steamy passion within the walls of a local sex club. Christine's trilogy kicks off with
Double Shot.

In addition to a variety of frontlist titles in historical, paranormal, contemporary, steampunk and erotic romance, we're also pleased to present two authors releasing backlist titles with us. In October, we'll re-release four science fiction romance titles from the backlist of C.J. Barry, and in November four Western romance titles from the backlist of Susan Edwards.

Also in November, we're thrilled to offer our first two chick lit titles from three debut authors,
Liar's Guide to True Love
by Wendy Chen and
Unscripted
by Natalie Aaron and Marla Schwartz. I hope you'll check out these fun, sometimes laugh-out-loud novels.

Whether you're on the beach, on a plane, or sitting in your favorite recliner at home, Carina Press can offer you a diverting read to take you away on your next great adventure this fall!

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

www.carinapress.com

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Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

I had jet lag and a shattered ego. I should not have added wine to the mix.

The concierge at the Hotel del Giglio swore that nothing would get me acclimated to Florence faster than a glass of wine at her favorite
enoteca.
I tried to say I wasn’t up to the local bar scene after the day’s endless round of delayed flights and lost luggage.

I guess I was standing in an ancient brick cellar, half-crocked on a single glass of red wine, in large part because she didn’t roll her eyes at the silly American tourist.

“Your phrase book says an
enoteca
is a wine bar, and it probably is, in—” She had paused discreetly.

“Silver Spring, Maryland.”

“Ah, yes. But here, an
enoteca
is an experience. One samples, one nibbles, one becomes acquainted with new vintages in order to choose a bottle to take on a picnic. You will find it helps you to get into a Tuscan frame of mind.”

I was all for a Tuscan frame of mind. My mind needed to catch up with my body, which was already wearing a locally purchased cocktail dress and heeled sandals. As I took another sip of the wine, it occurred to me that the concierge had directed me to the clothing shop as well as the wine bar. She was probably off duty now and rolling in kicked back euros. Larry would have thought so, anyway.

I thumped my fist on the ancient wood of the bar in frustration. Not even one day on the ground and I’d already failed.

“Scusi, signorina, ma perché è arrabbiata?”

I turned to see who was talking to me. Tall, broad shoulders, thick dark hair with a silky lock flopping over his forehead, and cheekbones carved by Michelangelo. His wide brown eyes were strangely sad, an expression at odds with a flashing smile of white, even teeth. He was exactly what I was looking for. Of course he was the person who caught me being insane.

Then again, maybe he was sent by fate to let me have a do-over on my promise.

“Nohn capeesco,” I said, with a sheepish little wave. “Sohno Americahna.”

He grinned. He had a single dimple that I stared at in fascination. It took me a moment to realize he was still talking, and this time in English. “You must pardon me. With your dress, your olive skin and your hair, I assumed you were a local girl.”

“Nope, I’m afraid not. But now I’ve got to ask, what makes my hair local?”

His smile grew even wider. “It has beauty without artifice, and you have not stuffed it into a limp ponytail.”

“Hey, now. I have to defend my fellow tourists. Anything would be limp in this heat.” I gave him a little wink.

He winked back. “Not everything, surely. Are you sure you are not Italian? Your accent was quite good.”

“Since that was almost all the Italian I memorized, it was easy to practice.”

“All?”

“Oh, okay, not quite all. Doh-vay eel bahnyo? Mahngeeahtoe oon peh-sheh marchio.”

He threw back his head and laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, rich and deep, and his whole body participated. His shirt fit a little more tightly than an American’s would, and I could see hard stomach muscles rippling with the force of his amusement. “Well,
Americana,
the bathroom is over to your left, and we shall be careful not to serve you any bad fish,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Anything else?”

“Pew veeno, per fahvoray.”

“That is another excellent phrase to memorize. More wine is always appropriate. Giacomo?” He waved to the bartender. Well, the guy wasn’t a bartender, since this “wasn’t a bar.”
Take that, concierge lady.
I snickered into my empty glass. He glanced at me.

“Nothing, internal joke,” I said. He smiled and turned back to Giacomo, his Italian speech luscious and musical.

Out of the corner of my eye, I checked out my new friend’s lower half, since his torso had been so rewarding. Sure enough, the pants were a little more snug than I was used to seeing, hailing as I did from the land of the discreetly full-cut chinos. If anyone had earned the right to display some goods, it was this guy. Tightly packed and smoothly curved.

The not-bartender disappeared. “I hope you do not mind, but I have asked for a special vintage,” said the man with the perfect ass.

I peered up through my lashes. “Are we celebrating?”

“We are now.” He must have noticed my perusal. He returned the favor, admiring my body, only lightly covered in gauzy chiffon. We both pretended not to notice my nipples crinkling up, or my lack of a bra to disguise that response, but there was a new glint in his eyes. The way he looked me over seemed like a compliment. Or so said the red wine in my bloodstream.

“You know, speaking of accents, your English doesn’t really have one,” I said, playing with the stem of my wineglass. “It’s more like your English is flavored with an Italian speech pattern.”

“I have a master’s degree from Virginia Tech. Do you happen to know where that is,
Americana?
”

“Sara.”

“Pardon?”

“Sara. Sara Wright. Though I like the way you say Americahna, so feel free to keep using it. But my name is Sara.”

“And mine is Marco D’Alessandro.” When he rolled the
r
in the middle of his first name, a little shiver went down my spine. He put out his hand and I gave him mine, expecting a handshake. Instead, he raised my fingers to his lips. It wasn’t a perfunctory kind of kiss either. He lingered over it, and kept my hand close enough to his mouth that I could feel the warmth of his breath. I felt more shivers, this time a little farther south of my spine.

“May I say it’s very, very nice to meet you?” I managed to croak out.

“Likewise.” He rubbed my palm with his thumb.

Just then, Giacomo returned with two glasses and a dusty bottle. He pulled the cork with a deft twist and chucked it into a barrel. After he filled the glasses a hair short of halfway, he smiled at me and chattered something at Marco. I watched, bemused, as Marco leaned forward and punched the older man in the shoulder.

“What was that all about?”

“Oh, Giacomo is an old friend. He sees me with a beautiful woman, takes my order for one of the better Super Tuscan wines, and thinks he knows so much.” He held up his glass. “But enough about old friends. Let us drink to new friends and new beginnings.”

We clinked glasses and I took a sip. “Whoa,” I breathed.

“I thought you would like it.”

I don’t know much about wine beyond white with white meat, red with red meat. But whatever was in my glass was something remarkable. Under the grapes I could taste cherries, or
maybe blackberries, and long hot afternoons in bright golden sunlight. The smell was almost as intoxicating as the taste, and a sort of chocolaty flavor lingered long after the liquid was gone.

“But this is much nicer than anything I’d have ordered on my own,” I said with a bit of reluctance. “You shouldn’t have been so extravagant.”

“Serafina, it is my privilege. You made me laugh, a thing which is more valuable than this glass of wine.”

“I don’t know. This is really good wine.”

He laughed again. “You are wonderful.”

“Do you always talk this pretty?”

“Only to pretty women.”

“And do you often chat up pretty women in wine bars?”

“Well, I can’t help but be intrigued when I see someone who had been smiling like a da Vinci angel suddenly turn and punch an innocent countertop,” he said. “So I asked you why you were angry and now here we are. And I am still curious.”

I cringed. “Right. It’s kind of silly though.”

He put his left hand on my arm. His palm was warm and dry, and there was no ring on his third finger. “I would love nothing more but to hear it.”

“Well, when I decided to take this trip alone, I promised that I would do two things. The first was to avoid cynicism. I wanted to meet everything with…with an open heart, if that makes any sense.”

“It makes wonderful sense,” he said. It did seem as though I’d said something that touched him. His eyes were a little bright, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “But why would that make you punch a slab of oak?”

“Because I haven’t been here three hours and I already failed.” I gave him a quick rundown of my week thus far, with the delayed flight from D.C on Monday, the missed connection in Frankfurt that couldn’t be rescheduled until Tuesday, and the luggage that was somewhere in Rome as far as the indifferent Alitalia agent could tell. I looked down and traced a circle around the base of my glass. “So I was sitting here thinking cranky thoughts about the concierge and her possible kickbacks, when all she did was tell me a place I could buy a dress and the name of her favorite wine bar. Not exactly a good beginning to my cynicism-free vacation.”

He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. “Begin again tomorrow, Serafina.”

I leaned into his half embrace. He had a warm, spicy smell, more intoxicating than the wine. The way he gave my name an Italian twist was also going to my head. I put my hand on his leg to keep from falling. I swear I didn’t mean to put my hand quite so high up on his thigh.

He was no more immune to me than I was to him, thank goodness. The powerful muscle of his leg shifted beneath my hand, and he had to clear his throat before he spoke. “So, hmm, what was number two?”

“Two?”

“You promised to do two things on this trip. I have heard only one promise.”

“Say yes.”

“Yes,” he said promptly.

“No, silly man, that was my second promise. I decided that on this trip, I would say yes to everything I was offered, answer yes to every question. No holding back. No being sensible or logical. Just yes.”

“And how are you doing with that promise?” he breathed into my ear.

I slid my hand a fraction higher on his thigh. “I just got here. No one’s offered me anything yet,” I said.

“Come with me.”

I blinked. “Pardon?”

“This building can be rented for private parties. There is a rooftop deck, and it is not in use tonight. Come with me.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Would you like to see the Duomo from the roof of this
enoteca?
”

“If you can get us up there.”

“I know the owner.” With that flat statement, he stood and helped me down from the tall bar chair. I wobbled a tiny bit when my heel touched the ground, and he stopped and frowned.

“But perhaps you are tired from the jet lag and the wine?”

Aw. A gentleman.
He thought I was drunk. He was going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me. “The delay in Frankfurt actually helped with the jet lag. I’m not worn out. As for wine, I have now had two half glasses,” I said with dignity.

Marco chuckled. He put one arm around my waist and used his other hand to grab the delightful vintage he’d ordered. Giacomo was nowhere to be seen, but if my friend knew the owner, we probably wouldn’t be arrested for theft. Together, we went behind the bar. Marco opened a narrow door and gestured. “Ladies first.”

I peered into the medieval darkness. “How about I follow you up these unfamiliar, uneven, unlit stairs instead? If I go first, I’ll fall and probably knock you to your death.”

That got another chuckle out of him. He released my waist only to take my hand.

A minute later, I was glad the stairwell had been dark. It made coming onto the roof like emerging into a fantasy. All of Florence was lit with sparkling fairy lights stretching out to the horizon. The dark purple mountains blended into an indigo sky with a few bright stars shining down. Dominating the skyline was the soaring orange-brown dome of the cathedral, and the ethereal glow of the bell tower. My mind caught up to my body and connected with such force that I was surprised Marco didn’t hear the snap.

The June heat lingered, but only enough to make me feel languid, not enough to drench me in sweat.

I turned to smile at the man who brought me to this point, but he was frowning. “What’s the matter, Marco?”

“There are supposed to be wineglasses, napkins and other such things out here in a cabinet. I have to fetch things from the bar,” he grumbled. He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. He buried his face in my hair. “Mmm.”

I leaned back. “Mmm, is right.”

“Do not move. Do not let anything take the smile from your face. Do not straighten your hair or put on lipstick or whatever you do when men are out of sight. You are perfect as you are.” His fingers trailed along my ribs as he let me go.

He vanished back down the stairs. I couldn’t help but move a little. It could have been the warmth, or it could have been the wine, but the tension of the last few days slid away. More than the last few days, maybe. The last few years were draining out of me and falling to earth. I imagined my hurt and anger and the ghost of Logical Larry smashing into a thousand glittering shards onto the cobblestones below.

Michelangelo, da Vinci and Dante marched across those very stones, and I felt the weight of history settle comfortably onto my shoulders. I had never been aware of time before. Instead I’d always felt like I was barely touching the surface of the world, like a flea on a big dog. Here, at last, I felt a connection and a sense of context.

It was all having a good effect on me. I was glad to flirt again, to be desired. I’d hoped to have a wild vacation fling to purge Larry from my system, but finding that fling in the first bar I went to was a miracle. And with what must be the best-looking guy in the city too. I started laughing. I felt like I had come home. I wanted to sing or fly or something. Instead, I threw open my arms to embrace Florence and new beginnings.

Behind me, I heard Marco try to muffle some kind of noise. He had a positive knack for catching me at my goofiest. I turned around to tell him so.

His face caught me completely off guard. He was haggard. His generous mouth twisted in pain and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. He gripped the stems of two wineglasses so tightly I thought they might snap at any moment.

I rescued the goblets and put my hand on his shoulder. “Marco, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“
Sì,
yes, yes, I am fine,” he said, visibly trying to regain control. “For a moment you reminded me of someone.”