Chapter One

It was probably a trick of the light, a stray drop of water catching the afternoon sun at the right angle and giving the illusion of movement, but Claire Lambert could have sworn that cherub had winked.

She braced her hands on the edge of the fountain and leaned closer. The stone was cool beneath her palms, worn smooth by centuries of weather and generations of lovers who might have stood in this very spot to make a wish. Water gurgled from the cherub’s pitcher and splashed into the basin beneath with a sound like distant laughter. The timeless aromas of geraniums, baked bread and garlic filled the secluded courtyard. The scene was exactly as her grandmother had described.

Except for the wink. Grams would have mentioned it if the cherub had been cheeky. Claire squinted through the spray, but of course, there was no life in the granite. Like love, or like any illusion, it had disappeared under the smallest amount of scrutiny. What she’d seen had been a silver coin, that was all. It was wedged into a nook in the carved laurel that wreathed the statue’s forehead.

Evidently someone had been trying to make a wish, had tossed a coin into the fountain and had missed.

Wishes are worthless, Claire. Men will promise love, but don’t believe a word of it. A smart woman takes control of her life.

Her grandmother’s voice was so clear in her head, Claire was on the verge of responding before she caught herself. Little wonder she would imagine the voice now, since she’d searched all day for this spot with the sole purpose of paying her respects to the past. The fountain might seem little different from many of the others that dotted Naples, and the smiling cherub in the center might seem ordinary, but it was part of family legend. It was here, seventy–one years ago, that the faithless Donatello Morcone had broken Ethel Teske’s heart.

Not the most uplifting place to visit while on vacation, was it? But Claire felt she owed it to Grams to locate it. The events in this place had changed the course of Ethel’s life. The lesson she had learned here as a teenager had turned her into the no–nonsense matriarch who had ruled the Lambert family with a will of iron. It was hard to believe that such a vibrant woman had been gone for over a year.

Even harder to believe that she’d ever been young and in love.

The breeze puffed through the falling water, kissing Claire’s cheeks with moisture. She wiped them with the back of her hand, embarrassed to realize that some of the moisture was from tears. She’d never seen Grams cry over anything, especially not her ill–fated love affair. When she’d spoken of it, it had been acceptance, not sadness, that had colored her voice. She’d never hinted that she’d wished things could have been different. No pining or moping for Grams, no siree.

We can’t change our fate, Claire. You’re like me. You’re the most sensible member of this family.

Sensible, responsible Claire, that was her all right. She was well on her way to becoming exactly like her grandmother, except Claire was far too levelheaded to have experienced a grand passion of her own. Her only frivolous act so far was to treat herself to this once–in–a–lifetime cruise of the Mediterranean. Which reminded her, she really should start heading back to the ship; it was due to leave for the next port at sunset.

Yet somehow she couldn’t stop looking at the coin that was caught on the cherub’s wreath.

It was a wish gone astray, like a metaphor of the past. Seventy–one years from now, would the grandchild of some other jilted lover stand in this very spot and wonder what had gone wrong? Would she have been taught not to believe in love? Would she watch her days slipping past in a nice, orderly, sensible, stifling life sentence…?

Afterward, Claire could never explain what possessed her next. She wiped her eyes and climbed onto the edge of the fountain. Before she could think, she stretched her arm across the water and plucked the coin from the cherub’s head.

"Ciao, bella."

The man’s voice made her start. She hadn’t heard anyone approach over the sound of the falling water. Her shoes slipped on the stone rim, and rather than dropping the coin into the fountain’s basin as she’d intended, she grasped it reflexively in her palm.

"Signorina!"

She would have been fine if he hadn’t shouted. The alarm in his tone made her turn her head, which caused her to lose her balance. She windmilled her arms, trying to stay upright. She was sure she would have managed that eventually, but before she had the chance she was grabbed by the hips and yanked her off her feet. She fell backward, bracing for impact with the stones that paved the courtyard. Instead, she collided with a solid male body.

He let go of her hips and wrapped one arm in front of her shoulders. A stream of Italian words stirred the hair over her ear. She also felt the words rumbling through his chest and into her back. She couldn’t understand a thing he was saying, but his tone was very expressive. So was his touch. While he held her firmly with one arm, he ran his free hand along the side of her skirt and over her waist as if checking for injuries.

And like a fool, she stood motionless and allowed the caress. Because that’s what it felt like, a caress. Combined with the impact of the male warmth surrounding her and all that musical Italian speech tickling her ear, she didn’t care what he said. His voice was so romantic, she could listen to it forever….

The thought startled her. Where had that come from? "I’m fine," she said. "Thank you for your concern, but I wasn’t about to fall in. Even if I had, the water was too shallow to drown in, and besides, I can swim, so your gallantry, while appreciated, was quite unnecessary."

He drew a breath. She could feel that, too, since he still hadn’t released her. "You are English."

It sounded as if a smile had crept into his voice. Or maybe anything he uttered with that fabulous accent would convey the warmth of a smile. "I’m American," she said. "Now, if you don’t mind…"

He moved his hands to her shoulders and turned her to face him. "You are a tourist."

For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a response. Not a verbal one, anyway. He could have called her a moonwalking ax murderer and she wouldn’t have contradicted him. How could a mortal man have eyes like that? The color was too exotic to describe as simply brown—it was chocolate streaked with caramel, set off by luxuriously thick sable lashes. His hair was dark and rich and practically screamed an invitation to plunge her fingers through it. And as if that wasn’t enough visual bounty, he had a classic Roman nose, firm cheekbones, a square jaw…and his mouth, oh, it was incredible. His lower lip was lush and his upper one puckered just a little, like the smile in his voice. He was without a doubt the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen…and yet…he was oddly familiar.

Good Lord, he was more than familiar. She recognized that face. She’d seen it before in a dog–eared photograph at the bottom of Grams’s jewelry box.

This stranger was the spitting image of Donatello Morcone, the man who had broken her grandmother’s heart.

Chapter Two

"Are you all right, signorina?" Claire realized that her jaw had dropped and her mouth was gaping in a rather unattractive manner, but she couldn’t help herself. She was looking at an image from the past, as if her preoccupation with her grandmother’s unhappy love affair had conjured up the man who had jilted Grams almost three–quarters of a century ago.

But that was impossible. The stranger’s resemblance to an old photograph had to be the result of the power of suggestion, a consequence of her day tromping around Naples and dwelling on love gone wrong.

"Yes, I’m fine, thank you." She stepped back, breaking the contact with his hands. As soon as she did, the sun seemed to dim…

Well, of course the sun had dimmed, she thought, glancing around the courtyard. It would set in another few hours. She looked at her watch. "I must be going. I don’t want to be late."

He took her hand and tilted her wrist toward him, as if he were reading her watch, too. "Late? Do not tell me you are meeting a lover, my beautiful golden–haired lady, or I will be devastated."

His looks, his delicious accent and the warmth that flowed from his body might have stunned her momentarily, but the compliment was just too much. It broke the spell. She gave a surprised laugh.

"What’s this?" he asked, lifting her hand higher. "You have a coin. You make a wish at the fountain, yes?"

She focused on her fingers, only then realizing she was still holding the stray coin she’d climbed onto the fountain to retrieve. Completing someone else’s wish gone awry had been a silly idea. She certainly wasn’t about to explain it to a stranger. She slipped her hand from his, took her purse from the edge of the fountain and dropped the coin into the pocket where she kept her loose change. "Wishes are worthless," she said, quoting her grandmother.

"No, bella signorina. Wishes are wealth. Without wishes a rich man is no better than a beggar."

She rolled her eyes, trying to counteract the effect of his marvelous voice. He was preposterously handsome as well as Italian, so flirting, especially with American tourists, was probably in his genes. She shouldn’t take it personally. "Perhaps another time," she said. She hooked her purse strap over her shoulder and turned toward the entrance of the courtyard. "Well, goodbye."

He splayed one hand over his heart and followed her to the street. "I am wounded. It is a lover you go to meet. You have the glow of a woman in love."

"Or a blonde who forgot her sunblock."

"If you were my lover, you would not need to meet me. I would never leave your side."

Oh, he was good, she thought, fighting another laugh. "As it happens, I’m meeting someone named Alexandra, who is very large and very impatient and won’t wait one extra second if I’m not there so—"

"Your lover is named Alexandra?"

"Her full name is Alexandra’s Dream. She’s a cruise ship."

"Ah!" He fell into step beside her. Smoothly, as if he had every right, he took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. "Now I understand. You desire to go to the harbor. I will take you there."

"That’s really not necessary, Mr.…"

He smiled. "I am Antonio Avellino."

Her steps faltered. That smile was deadlier than his voice. It brought out angelic dimples—dimples!—in his cheeks and a devilish sparkle in his eyes. It could make even a sensible woman entertain fantasies of a holiday fling. No wonder her grandmother had fallen so hard…

What on earth was she thinking? Antonio’s resemblance to the faithless Donatello Morcone was only coincidence, but that was no reason for Claire to repeat history. She withdrew her hand from his arm and

increased her pace. The streets in this neighborhood were narrow and winding, a maze dotted with shadowed archways and sudden bursts of slanting light between the buildings. She became more conscious than ever of how late it was getting. "Thank you, Antonio, but I’ll find my own way."

He kept pace with her easily. "I will escort you. Or is your lover waiting on the ship?"

She wished he would stop talking about lovers. "Don’t you have something better to do?"

"What could be better than walking with a beautiful lady?"

"Will you stop calling me that? I’m really not interested in—"

It happened so fast, she had no chance to react. She’d been focusing all her attention on Antonio—what red–blooded woman wouldn’t?—so she hadn’t realized anyone else was nearby until she heard rapid footsteps behind her.

She felt a hard tug on her shoulder. Seconds later, a plump man in a denim jacket was racing away from her with her purse hooked over his arm.

"Hey!" Claire shouted, breaking into a run. "Stop!"

Antonio snagged her elbow and brought her to a skidding halt. Her momentum spun her into his chest. "No. Do not risk yourself. It is only money. Let him go."

"Are you crazy?" she cried, twisting to keep the thief in sight. "He’s got my camera. My phone. My—" She was wasting time. She shook off his grip and resumed her pursuit.

"Bella, wait!"

Claire ignored Antonio’s shout and kept her gaze on the man in the denim jacket. He wasn’t that fast, and the sensible walking shoes she’d put on this morning were proving fine for running. Despite her delayed

start due to Antonio’s interference, she was already closing the gap. Why would such a slow man decide to become a purse snatcher? How could he think he would get away with this? Unless he had an accomplice…

The realization made her stumble into a lamppost. She righted herself quickly, her sudden anger giving her a burst of strength. Right. A solitary female would seem an easy target for a pair of thieves. While one distracted her with his charm, the other could swoop in for the kill. Damn, she should have realized there was a purpose behind Antonio’s flirting. Now it was starting to make sense.

The thief leaped up a short flight of steps to duck into a narrow alley. Before Claire reached the steps, Antonio sprinted past her. "Stay back!" he said. "I will help you."

"Forget the charade," she gasped, following him into the alley. "I figured out your game. You and your partner are welcome to the cash, but leave the rest, okay?"

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, his brows drawn together as if he hadn’t understood what she’d said.

And because he was no longer looking at the man in the denim jacket, Antonio didn’t see him pull out the gun.

Claire screamed a warning just as a bullet ricocheted off the wall beside her head. Crumbs of brick sprinkled her hair. Antonio yelled something that she couldn’t understand, then spun away from the gunman and launched himself at her in a flying tackle. He wrapped his arms around her, carrying them both to the ground.

And that was when she realized that Antonio couldn’t have been the purse snatcher’s accomplice.

Because while he sheltered her with his body, the next bullet didn’t hit the wall, it hit him.

Chapter Three

Claire couldn’t move. Antonio was lying on top of her, his large body a motionless deadweight….

No, he wasn’t dead. She could feel the rhythmic pressure of his chest against her breasts. He was still breathing. Thank God!

The echoes of the gunshots faded, along with the sound of retreating footsteps. The purse snatcher must have run away. Claire tried to raise her head to look past Antonio’s shoulder, but her hair was caught beneath his arm and was pinning her down. She strained to free her hands, but they were crushed against his chest. She had to get help. He needed a doctor.

"Bella? Are you hurt?"

She turned her head as far as her hair would allow. Antonio’s eyes were open, his face scant inches from hers. In the sepia shadows that cloaked the alley, his resemblance to the man in Grams’s old photograph was more striking than ever. "No, I’m fine," she said. She strained again, trying to slide out from underneath him, but it was no use. He didn’t budge. "We need to call the police. You have to get to a hospital."

"It’s nothing. I do not need a doctor."

"Antonio, you were shot. I felt you jerk when the bullet hit you." She grunted and finally managed to slide one arm free. She ran her palm along his side and over his shoulder. "I’m sorry. This is all my fault. You were hurt because of me. You were right, I shouldn’t have chased him. I can buy another phone. I don’t need my camera, I can get postcards instead."

"Shh." He pressed his mouth to her cheek. "Do not cry. You are safe. That’s all that matters."

The sensation of his lips against her skin stole her breath. Her pulse, already pounding from her mad dash through the streets of Naples, thudded even faster. "You have to try to let me up. You could be bleeding to death."

"One more moment." He licked a tear away from the corner of her eye and kissed her temple. He murmured something in Italian.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said you taste good. Like the rain in springtime."

Was he delirious? She moved her hand to his head and sifted her fingers through his hair. "You must have hit your head when you fell. You could have a brain injury. Please, Antonio, if you could just roll over…"

He sighed loudly, then shifted his weight to his side and sat up. There was blood on the sleeve of his white shirt.

She was on her knees in an instant. They were alone in the alley—the purse snatcher was indeed gone, along with Claire’s purse. The windows in the buildings on either side were shuttered, but she glimpsed movement on the street at the other end.

"Wait here," she said. "I’ll get help."

"No, do not leave." He clamped his fingers around her wrist before she could rise. His grip was remarkably strong. "We will go together."

"This isn’t the time to get all macho and Italian. You need—"

"Bella, look at me," he ordered.

The note of command in his voice startled her. Until now, his words had been coated by a thick layer of charm. She sat back on her heels and did as he asked, not from obedience but from curiosity.

He didn’t appear to be in pain. In fact, the way he sat with his long legs bent and one forearm draped across his knees, he looked completely at ease, as if getting shot was nothing unusual. There was a small tear on his left sleeve, and the fabric around it was darkened with blood, but she could see no sign of blood anywhere else.

"The thief was not a good shot, and his weapon was small," Antonio said. He let go of her wrist and reached for the buttons of his shirt. "It does not feel as if he did much damage." He peeled his shirt off his shoulder to his elbow, baring his upper arm. "There, you can see. It is a mere scratch. It needs only to be cleaned."

The wound wasn’t nearly as bad as Claire had feared. It consisted of a long, shallow line, not a hole. The bullet appeared to have merely grazed his biceps. Relief made her sway. She breathed deeply a few times to steady her nerves, then placed her fingertips below the scratch. "Does it hurt?"

"It is like the sting of a bee," he said. "Not worth even one of your tears, beautiful lady." Some of the charm had returned to his voice, but not all. He sounded more…real than he had before. She shifted her attention from the drying blood on his skin to the curve of muscle where her fingers rested. His arm was shaped as perfectly as one on a classic sculpture, yet it was warm and vibrant beneath her touch. "I had thought your injury was much worse."

"You are strong as well as beautiful. Many women scream at the sight of blood."

"I’m far too sensible to do that," she said, dipping her fingers into the tempting angle beneath his biceps. "Sensible, responsible Claire, that’s me."

"Claire," he repeated, drawing out the word as if he were savoring the sound. "It is a lovely name."

She’d always thought her name was as plain and ordinary as the rest of her, but spoken in Antonio’s rich accent it sounded almost sensual. She stroked the crease of his elbow with her thumb. "I was so worried when you weren’t able to move…" She paused. "Antonio, if this scratch is your only injury, why didn’t you get up right away?"

He smiled, treating her to a glimpse of his dimples. "Forgive me, Claire. I was selfish. I wished to enjoy the feel of your body beneath mine as long as I could."

"Why you—"

He covered her hand with his, holding it in place as he flexed his arm. "As you also enjoy touching me, yes?"

With her hand caught in midcaress, she couldn’t very well deny what he’d said. Besides, the man had risked his life for her. He’d literally swept her off her feet. Twice. They were no longer strangers. She returned his smile. "Yes, but these are exceptional circumstances."

"Exceptional," he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue the same way he’d savored her name. He caught a lock of her hair between his fingers and leaned forward to rub it against his cheek. "This is true. When I saw you at the fountain I was struck by a thunderbolt from a blue sky. Never have I felt this way before."

He sounded so sincere, Claire found it difficult not to be affected. His touch, his voice, the look in his eyes short–circuited her reason. Perhaps this was how the faithless Donatello Morcone had charmed her grandmother…

At the reminder, Claire’s smile faded. She withdrew her hand and stood. "I’m glad you’re all right, Antonio, but I should report this robbery to the police before my ship sails."

His expression sobered. He shrugged his shirt back on his shoulder and rose to his feet.

"There is a station on the way to the harbor. I will take you."

"Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly impose—"

"Many things are possible, Claire." He cupped her shoulders and looked at her. "Why do you wish to hurry our parting?"

The intensity in his gaze should have alerted her. So should have the way he was leaning toward her. She could have stepped back, turned around and run for the street.

Instead, she stared, spellbound, as he brought his lips to hers.

Chapter Four

If Antonio’s eyes were the color of chocolate and caramel, then his kiss had a flavor better than both. It was incredible, intoxicating. Claire parted her lips, no longer wanting to go anywhere.

She was thirty years old, she’d kissed men before, men she’d known for years and trusted. The experiences had been pleasant, like eating a cream puff during a Sunday picnic, or nibbling a sugared orange slice at the Lambert family Christmas party. She’d always had a weakness for sweets.

But this, this…oh, it was something else entirely. It was like quenching her thirst by lifting her face to a thunderstorm, or sinking her teeth into a steak when she was starving.

She put her hands on Antonio’s chest, delighted to find that he hadn’t refastened his shirt. The fact he’d undone his buttons to see where a bullet had grazed him seemed irrelevant. So did the shadowed alley around them and the ship that was waiting in the harbor. She didn’t care where they were or when it was. She didn’t want this feeling to end.

She flattened her palm over his heart, absorbing the feel of the beat against her skin. He was a flesh–and–blood man, not a figment of the past or a fantasy conjured up from an old photograph. She wasn’t going to repeat history.

Or was she?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the thought. Her grandmother’s holiday fling had resulted in heartbreak. Claire knew better than to make the same mistake, didn’t she?

Antonio cupped her face in his hands and moved his lips over her cheeks. He kissed her nose, each eyelid and her forehead, murmuring things in Italian. But the words didn’t sound like endearments, they sounded like curses.

She blinked to bring his face into focus. He was frowning. "Antonio?"

"I’m sorry. You make me forget who I am." He grasped her wrists and pulled her hands off his chest. "This has never happened to me before. People talk of it, but I did not understand."

"What do you mean?"

He released her and stepped backward, colliding with the building behind him. "We have never met. I have never seen you before today. But I know your taste." He touched his fingers to the moisture on his lips. "How can this be?"

There was no vestige of charm left in his voice. His tone was as confused as the look that he gave her.

Claire backed away until her shoulders came up against cool brick. She stared at Antonio across the width of the alley. She hadn’t been the only one to be affected by that kiss—he’d felt the power between them, too. This had to be more than just a casual flirtation.

He was a charmer, Claire, I’ll give him that. The most beautiful man I have ever seen, and I’ll wager he knew it. He played me like a pro. I was only nineteen and on vacation with my parents for the summer…

Grams’s voice stole into her mind. This time, Claire didn’t try to shut it out; she couldn’t. She’d heard the story so many times the words were engraved on her memory. That was good, because if there ever was a time she should be remembering Edith Teske’s lesson, this was it.

His name was Donatello Morcone. I met him one morning at a fountain near the hotel where we were staying. I was throwing coins into the water and wishing for love, like any teenager on her first trip away from home, and he was delivering geraniums on his bicycle. He was quite ingenious—he had fastened flat baskets to the front and the back so he looked like a moving flower bed. He saw me watching him and stopped to tuck a bloom behind my ear. We met there every day after that, and he always brought me a different flower. My parents never knew of our rendezvous or they would have stopped me, but I fancied myself in love. Donatello gave me my first kiss by that fountain. Then he took me to his home above the flower shop and taught me the passion between a man and a woman. I was caught up in the magic of the holiday. The mere sight of him made me feel as if lightning had struck me from a clear sky.

Claire realized that Antonio had said almost the same thing about her. A thunderbolt from a blue sky. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her fingers were shaking.

I didn’t want to go home with my parents at the end of the summer. Donatello and I planned to elope and live in that tiny apartment above the flower shop for the rest of our lives. The day before my ship was to sail, we were to meet at the fountain at dawn so I packed my suitcase and waited for him. I stayed there all day. I didn’t dare leave to eat or drink for fear he would think I had changed my mind, but he never came. When it got dark I finally went to look for him but the flower shop was locked and his apartment was empty. He was gone. My parents found me the next day on his doorstep where I had fainted. They took me to the ship, we went home and that was that. I never heard from him again.

Claire felt tears fall on her fingertips. Grams had never cried when she’d related her story, but Claire always did.

Love isn’t real, Claire, it’s a fantasy. Your grandfather and I had no illusions when we married. It was a partnership, and it worked well. You’re a sensible girl. Don’t believe a man when he talks of love.

Antonio shoved himself away from the wall and crossed the alley to wipe away her tears. "Please, do not weep, Claire. I was…overcome. We must talk. There are things about myself I must tell you."

At his touch, her knees buckled. She grasped his forearms to stay upright and the scent of his body curled around her like an embrace. Was this the same kind of passion her grandmother had felt? Was it happening to Claire seventy–one years later?

But Antonio’s resemblance to Donatello had to be coincidence. So was meeting him at the same fountain…

Or was it?

What if fate was trying to even things up? What if the coin Claire had taken from the fountain was completing a seventy–one–year–old wish? Why else would Antonio have been there? Why would he have followed her?

The thought was crazy, and yet what other explanation could there be…?

"I’m sorry, Claire."

"No, don’t apologize, Antonio," she said. "The kiss was wonderful."

He shook his head. "It is not the kiss I’m sorry for."

All at once, Claire became aware of a commotion at the end of the alley. She turned her head in time to see a police car screech to a halt. Two uniformed policemen strode toward them. The one in the lead nodded crisply to Antonio. "Commissario Avellino."

Commissario Avellino? Claire looked at Antonio and waited for him to correct the man.

He didn’t. Instead, he issued what sounded like a series of orders to the officers, then fastened his hand around Claire’s wrist, led her from the alley and locked her in the back of the police car.

Chapter Five

Commissario Antonio Avellino. It was written right there on his office door. Even reading it backward through the frosted glass, she could tell what it said.

No wonder he’d looked so puzzled when she’d accused him of being in league with the man who had snatched her purse. And now she understood why getting nicked by a stray bullet hadn’t bothered Antonio. But she still couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t immediately told her he was a policeman.

"I apologize for the delay, Claire," Antonio said, stepping into his office and closing the door behind him. "It could not be helped."

He had bandaged his wound and changed his shirt; instead of the blood–streaked white cotton, he was wearing a black one. It brought out the caramel swirls in his dark eyes, making his gaze more compelling than ever. For a heartbeat, she was adrift, remembering his kiss, his taste, the feel of his skin beneath her palms…

"My ship sails in less than half an hour," she said. "I don’t care about reporting the purse snatching anymore. Why did you keep me here this long?"

"I needed to contact the captain of Alexandra’s Dream. He confirmed you are a passenger with them. I also contacted Interpol. They reported you have no criminal record in America."

"I don’t understand this, Antonio. I’m the one who was robbed. Why am I being treated like a criminal?"

"Do not be angry with me, Claire. It’s my job to confirm that you are who you said you are." He moved past the wooden armchair where she sat and leaned on the edge of his desk. "But I did not bring you here because your purse was stolen. It’s because of what you did at the fountain."

"The fountain? But I didn’t do…" She trailed off and regarded him in disbelief. "You can’t be serious. Is this because of the coin I took?"

"Yes."

"Good Lord, I didn’t know Naples had fountain police. The brochures don’t warn about that, but I imagine it must be vital to public safety to protect all that loose change from marauding tourists like me. You’re very dedicated to your work, Commissario Avellino. Unfortunately I can’t return the coin I stole from that cherub’s head since it is still in my purse, which as you know, was also stolen."

"Claire…"

"Couldn’t you just write me a ticket?" she snapped. "I don’t have any funds with me to pay the fine, but I promise I will wire the money as soon as I can."

"Claire, let me explain." He slid off the desk and squatted in front of her chair. "I am not the fountain police."

"Then what do you want with me?"

He reached for her hand, but she crossed her arms over her chest before he could touch her. He closed his fingers and dropped his hand to his side. "I am part of a team that is investigating the smuggling of Mediterranean antiquities."

After everything else that had happened since she’d met him, this last detail was almost too much to take in. "What?"

"A ring of smugglers has been using the fountain as what you call a drop point." He rose to retrieve a folder from his desk and pulled out a photograph. "This is the man we were tracking."

She didn’t recognize the face in the photograph. "What does he have to do with me?"

"He is the man who stole your purse."

She took the photo from his hand, noting the gray hair. The purse snatcher had been gray–haired. She remembered at the time wondering how a man as slow as he was could make a living stealing purses. "If he’s a smuggler, why would he bother with my money? I didn’t have much. Most of it was in traveler’s checks. I wasn’t even carrying a credit card."

"He did not want your money. He wanted the coin you took."

"What? Why?"

Antonio slid another photograph from the folder and placed it in her hands. "It’s Roman silver, minted in Campania more than two thousand years ago. It belongs to a collection that was stolen from the National Museum last month."

She studied the object in the photograph. It was small and round, yet it obviously wasn’t a modern, mass–produced coin. She should have noticed something was strange about it the moment she’d picked it up, but she hadn’t because Antonio had appeared at the same time. He had…distracted her. Bewitched her. Enthralled her. Turned her into an idiot. "Are you sure this is the same coin?"

"There is no mistake. His accomplice left the stolen collection in a recess inside the head of the cherub. The coin you saw had been caught in the piece of stone that conceals it. We had been observing the location since the morning. I had planned to arrest the smuggler as soon as the goods were in his possession."

She dropped the photographs on her lap and covered her mouth. "Oh, my God," she mumbled. "I ruined your stakeout."

"Your appearance was unexpected. Forgive me for not telling you the truth sooner, Claire. I needed to be certain."

"Certain of what? That I wasn’t a smuggler? Surely that must have been obvious."

"I felt that you had no weapon and you seemed innocent, but smugglers often use tourists as go–betweens, so I wanted to see whom you met."

The pieces started falling into place. Antonio was a policeman on a case. His attention to her had been in the line of duty. What a fool she’d been to think he could have been interested in her. "So that was why you were so friendly. And why you kept asking me if I had a lover. That’s why you insisted on escorting me to the harbor. You—" She stopped. "What do you mean, you felt that I had no weapon?"

"When I caught you after you fell from the fountain, I ensured you were not armed."

She blushed as she remembered the way he’d moved his hand over her body. She’d thought it had been a caress. He’d been frisking her.

She should have known better. Of course, there was a logical reason for everything that had happened. To think that for one moment they had been brought together by destiny was absurd. Pathetic. Who would have dreamed the sensible Claire Lambert was a closet romantic? Grams would have been ashamed of her.

She shoved the photographs at him and got to her feet. Her eyes stung. "Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"Then I’m leaving," she said, turning toward the door. "I have a ship to catch."

He hooked his arm around her waist and drew her back against his chest. "Cara, wait."

"You can drop the act, Antonio. I understand completely. You flirted with me and pretended to be overcome by desire so that you wouldn’t blow your cover." She grasped his forearm and tried to pry it loose. As she’d already discovered, though, he didn’t budge unless he wanted to. "And after you were shot, you were probably stalling me in that alley deliberately so your colleagues could catch up with us."

He enclosed her hands with one of his and curled them under her breasts. "That is only one part of the truth. Let me tell you the rest."

"Don’t bother. It was all very effective. You performed above and beyond the call of duty, but you don’t need to pretend anymore."

"It may have begun as an act, Claire, but I swear the kiss was real." He put his mouth beside her ear. "Stay and I will show you."

Chapter Six

Donatello begged me stay, Claire. He vowed he had fallen in love with me the day we had met, and I believed I had loved him at first sight, too. In hindsight, I suspect it was a case of overactive hormones. After all, he was my first lover and he was exceptionally skilled. His bedroom always smelled like a garden because of the flower shop below it. I remember once he surprised me with rose petals on the sheets. Crimson petals for passion. He didn’t have any trouble convincing me not to go home. What a fool I was.

Claire shuddered at the warm tickle of Anthony’s breath on her ear. Regardless of his deception, and despite the time that was slipping away, there was a part of her that wanted to stay where she was. Perhaps she’d inherited her grandmother’s weakness for Italian men.

There was a sharp rap on the office door just before it swung open. One of the policemen who had met them in the alley stepped inside, a sheaf of paper in his hands. "Commissario Avellino—" He stopped abruptly, his gaze flicking over both her and Antonio.

Without loosening his hold on her, Antonio lifted his head and nodded toward a file cabinet beside the door. He waited in silence as the policeman put the forms on the cabinet and backed out of the office. As soon as the door clicked shut, Antonio turned Claire in his arms so that she faced him. "My men suspect I have gone mad," he said.

"Then insanity’s contagious," she muttered. "I think I have a touch of it myself."

He smiled. His lean cheeks creased into dimples, his eyes sparkled and the pucker in his upper lip became more pronounced. "It is my job to deal with evidence. I believe only what I see, but I cannot explain what is unfolding between you and me."

"I can. It was all part of your cover act."

He drew her closer. "The way your body fits against mine is not a pretense, Claire. The way the taste of your mouth haunts me is no act. I did not lie to you. Something happened when we kissed. Tell me you felt it."

"What do you expect me to say, Antonio? That you’re a good kisser? Fine, you are. That I’m attracted to you? Okay, I’m guilty of that, too. But don’t insult my intelligence by pretending this is more than an ordinary physical attraction. It can’t be. I hardly know you."

"That can be remedied. What would you like to know? Ask me anything."

"All I want is for you to take me to my ship."

The sparkle faded from his eyes. His cheek twitched. Rather than arguing, he dropped his arms to his sides and led her out of the station. He bypassed the police cars that were parked at the curb and opened the door of a plain blue sedan. He didn’t speak again until they had joined the line of traffic. "Claire, do you have a lover waiting for you on Alexandra’s Dream?"

"Didn’t you learn the answer to that in the background check you did on me?"

"I am not asking as a policeman, I’m asking as a man." His tone was low and laced with urgency. "Is there someone special on the ship? Or at home in America?"

"There’s no one."

"I am single as well. I have never married or looked for a wife. All my life, I wanted only to be a policeman. I fill my days with my work."

"I know how that is."

"What do you do in America, Claire?"

"I’m a travel agent."

"You must travel often."

"Ironically enough, this is my first vacation." Her first fling, she added silently. And her last one. She lowered the window to watch the passing street. The fishy tang of the sea drifted in with the shadows. They were closer to the harbor than she’d realized. "I haven’t been able to take time off."

"Your job keeps you as busy as mine."

"Not exactly. Until a year ago, I worked part–time so I could take care of my grandmother. It was her bequest to me that enabled me to afford this cruise."

"You must have loved her deeply. I hear it in your voice."

"Yes, I loved her. I admired her, too. We were two of a kind." Claire turned to look at Antonio. "Grams visited Naples only once, but often spoke about her trip. It was because of her stories that I decided to become a travel agent."

He glanced at her. "Then you are like me. It is because of my family that I became a policeman."

"Why is that?"

"Many years ago, my grandfather was victimized by the local camorra—organized crime. I wished to avenge the injustice." He gave her a half smile. "Perhaps I watched too many American Westerns as a child. I envisioned myself as a lawman."

"I hope I didn’t ruin your investigation of those smugglers."

"There will always be more smugglers. There is only one woman like you."

"Antonio…"

He held up his palm. "Do not scold me, cara. I am taking you to the harbor as you asked, but I feel in here—" he pointed to his chest "—that I should not let you leave. I wish I knew the words to convince you…" He slowed the car and began to speak in Italian.

His voice flowed over her as easily as a caress. Claire tilted her head to listen, enjoying the rhythm of his words and the emotion in his tone.

I didn’t speak Donatello’s language, and he knew only a little English, but that didn’t stop us from communicating, Claire. I felt our souls had recognized each other, so I could sense what he meant.

Antonio brought the car to a stop in front of the cruise terminal. Claire could see the dark blue hull of Alexandra’s Dream looming above the pier. They’d arrived in time. That was a relief, wasn’t it?

Yes, of course.

Antonio opened Claire’s door and took her hand to help her out. For once, he appeared to have run out of things to say. He lifted her hand and solemnly kissed her palm.

She struggled to catch her breath. The breeze was heavy with the smell of diesel fuel and seaweed, yet she could have sworn that she caught a whiff of geraniums. Like the ones Donatello had been delivering when he’d met Grams.

Afterward, Claire couldn’t explain what she did next any more than she could explain what had made her climb onto the fountain to retrieve that coin. She’d meant to step back and walk into the cruise terminal. Instead, she grasped Antonio’s face between her hands, stretched up and kissed him.

The contact stunned her. He’d been right. Something happened when they kissed. Time lost its meaning. The same power she’d felt before flowed from every place where they touched. And his taste…oh, it was familiar, just as he had said. She knew this flavor. It was dark like his eyes, and playful like his smile and intimate like the scent that wrapped around her senses. He smelled of male skin, sandalwood, sunshine and…love.

Love? No, she knew better than that. She would enjoy the kiss for what it was—an exceptional physical attraction. A pleasant memory of a once–in–a–lifetime trip. A romance that wouldn’t end badly because it would never have the chance to start. This was safe. She was leaving.

Yet when the kiss finally ended and she opened her eyes, Alexandra’s Dream was on its way out of the harbor.

Chapter Seven

Claire rubbed her eyes hard, then looked at the harbor. Against the streaks of sunset that colored the sky, the lights of Alexandra’s Dream glittered like tiny stars. The sound of the cruise ship’s engines was a distant throb. Already it was halfway out to the sea.

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "It was here a minute ago. How could I have missed it?"

Antonio lifted her hair aside with his index finger and kissed the side of her neck. He murmured something in Italian.

She shuddered. "You did this deliberately!"

He kissed his way along her jaw. She could feel a smile on his lips. "What did I do, cara?"

"You distracted me." She broke away from him and stumbled backward, bumping into the hood of his car. "You kissed me so I would miss my ship!"

"You were the one who kissed me, Claire." He placed his hands on either side of her. "You made your choice. You wanted to stay."

"I didn’t mean to. I’ve paid for the cruise. My luggage is onboard. The ship has my passport and my travel papers. I don’t have a dime on me. I couldn’t stay here even if I wanted to."

"I am a policeman. I know people who will help you obtain a visa so you can remain as long as you like. But you will need no money if you come home with me."

The heat from his body was surrounding her, tempting her, making it difficult to think. She looked at the ship. She knew the captain wasn’t going to turn around a vessel that size for one person. The only way she would get onboard would be to catch up to it at its next port. "How long would it take to drive to Rome? No, I mean the port. Civitavecchia. Could we get there by morning?"

He grasped her waist and lifted her from the car to bring her face level with his. "You have nothing to fear from me, Claire. I will never hurt you. I want only to love you."

Antonio’s declaration should have sounded absurd, like a clumsy pickup line. It was crazy to mention love; they’d known each other less than a day. He had to be talking about sex. But how had he managed to sound so sincere?

"Someone has broken your heart," he said softly. "That is why you’re afraid."

She shook her head. "I’m not a coward. I’m trying to be sensible."

He folded her into his arms. "My wonderful Claire. You had the courage to travel halfway around the world and tour a strange city by yourself. You did not hesitate to chase the man who stole your purse. You were shot at and did not panic. You were brave when you believed I was injured." He pressed his cheek to her hair. "I know you are not a coward, yet you want to run away when a man speaks of love."

Men will promise love, but don’t believe a word of it.

Love isn’t real, Claire, it’s a fantasy.

You’re a sensible girl. Don’t believe a man when he talks of love.

She clapped her hands over her ears to shut out Grams’s voice. Hadn’t she listened to it enough already? It wasn’t Claire’s heart that had been broken, it had been her grandmother’s. Edith Teske Lambert had made sure that her granddaughter wouldn’t repeat her mistake. She’d lectured her over and over on the hopelessness of following her heart. She’d meant well. She’d wanted to protect her.

"Stay in Naples tonight," Antonio murmured, tugging Claire’s hands away from her ears. "We will do whatever you want. If you still wish to leave tomorrow, I promise I will drive you to Rome in the morning."

Claire looked at the ship again. If she’d made it onboard, she would be spending the evening in the library or the movie theater, or maybe standing at the railing alone, endeavoring to ignore the couples who strolled the deck or kissed beneath the stars. This was supposed to have been the vacation of a lifetime for her.

"Tell me what you want, Claire."

She put her fingertips on Antonio’s cheek and forced herself to be honest. She realized there had been no destiny involved in their meeting, just an ordinary police investigation and her overactive imagination. It made no difference. He was the most fascinating, outrageously charming man she had ever known.

Besides, this was only one night, not forever. There would be time enough to be sensible once she went home. "Would you take me back to the fountain?" she asked. "I’d like to see it one last time."

They drove to the tiny courtyard where they had met. It looked smaller in the darkness. Moonlight flowed in streaks of silver across the buildings that surrounded the square, making the air shimmer. And just as it had for centuries, the stone cherub stood on its pedestal and poured water from its never–emptying pitcher.

Claire glanced at the shadows. She could see no movement or sign of anyone lurking. Antonio had called the police station on the way here and had assured her there would be no risk of encountering any smugglers this time. Apparently they had realized this drop point had been discovered; they wouldn’t be using it again.

Antonio slipped his arm around her shoulders as they reached the edge of the stone basin. "Claire, something puzzles me. You are an honest woman, so why did you take the coin the smugglers had left here?"

She looked at the cherub’s wreath. She’d been too embarrassed to admit the truth before, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell him now. "I had thought the coin was someone’s wish gone astray. I wanted to drop it into the water so the wish of whomever had put it there would come true."

He laughed. "Then it’s lucky I interrupted you. I would not want you to help the criminals." He thrust his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins. "Take these," he said, piling them in her palms. "Make wishes of your own."

She picked up a coin and turned it over in her fingers. "This feels silly. I was raised not to believe in nonsense like wishes."

"I am the opposite. My family are romantics. They all believe in…" He spoke a few words in Italian and squeezed her shoulders. "Love at first sight. Is that how you say it? They had begun to despair that I would never find my special woman."

She leaned back to smile at him. "When I first met you, I thought you were a hopeless flirt. Obviously I was right."

"When I first saw you, Claire, I thought you were my destiny." He nuzzled her hair. "The men in my family have a weakness for blond Americans."

"Really?"

He pointed to the edge of the fountain. "My grandfather met his true love in this spot. He said she had hair the color of sunshine."

Her pulse leaped. Grams had been blond once… No, it had to be a coincidence. Claire wasn’t going to indulge in that foolishness again. "Your grandfather? Do you mean the one who tangled with the camorra?"

"Yes." He kissed her ear. "Perhaps I should not have mentioned him. It was an unhappy story. His lover went home to America and married another. He married my grandmother at the urging of his parents, and they had a good life, but he never forgot his true love."

Coincidence. There was no point pursuing this further.

But dear God, her heart was pounding so hard she had to ask. "Antonio, what was your grandfather’s name?"

"His name was Donatello Morcone."

Chapter Eight

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Donatello Morcone.

"He was my mother’s father," Antonio explained.

The coin slipped from Claire’s fingers, bounced on the rim of the fountain and fell into the basin with an echoing splash. The others she’d been clasping in her palm struck the paving stones. Some bounced over her shoes and rolled across the courtyard. A few spun in wild blurs of silver, then tinkled to a stop. Throughout it all, water continued to chuckle from the cherub’s pitcher.

Claire swayed on her feet.

Antonio grasped her arms. "Claire! What’s wrong?"

She parted her lips, but she couldn’t catch her breath. In the moonlight, his face looked exactly like the one in the photograph from Grams’s jewelry box.

God God! The resemblance wasn’t coincidence, it was inherited.

"Cara?"

She staggered, then sat heavily on the edge of the fountain. The stone was cool, worn smooth by generations of lovers who had met here to make wishes….

I met him one morning at a fountain near the hotel where we were staying. I was throwing coins into the water and wishing for love.

"Are you cold? I will take you inside. My apartment is not far."

She grabbed his hand. "Tell me about him, Antonio."

"Who? My grandfather? It is not a good story, Claire. Let’s talk of more pleasant things."

"No, I have to know. Please!" She tugged him down to sit beside her. "It’s important. You said he loved an American woman. What happened? What went wrong?"

He clasped her hands in his. "They had planned to marry. The night before they were to meet here at this fountain, thugs from the camorra came to Donatello’s flower shop. They tried to extort money from him, but my grandfather refused to pay. They beat him into unconsciousness. When he awoke in the hospital two days later, he learned his lover had gone home to America."

I packed my suitcase and waited for him. I stayed there all day. I didn’t dare leave to eat or drink for fear he would think I had changed my mind, but he never came….

Claire blinked at a sudden rush of tears. "Didn’t he try to follow her? Why didn’t he explain what had happened?"

"Both his legs had been broken—he could not travel for months. He wrote her many letters but they were returned unopened."

My parents never knew of our rendezvous or they would have stopped me…. They took me to the ship, we went home and that was that. I never heard from him again.

Claire’s head was reeling. Grams’s parents must have intercepted those letters. They would have meant well; they would have wanted to protect her. "What happened then?"

Antonio wiped her cheeks with his thumb. "When my grandfather was well enough to go to America, he learned he was too late. Her parents told him she had married another man. They said she was happy and had refused to see him, so Donatello came home."

Everything Claire had been told, the picture of the past she’d been raised with, was transforming into something entirely different. Claire sobbed and pressed her face to Antonio’s shoulder. Poor Grams. She’d never known her love had been true. She had died believing that Donatello had jilted her. "This is all wrong! It’s not fair!"

"Come, cara." He laced his fingers with hers and eased her to her feet. "It has been a long day for you. Let me take you home."

Dazed, she pressed close to Antonio’s side as he led her out of the courtyard. He left his car where he had parked it and guided her through a series of narrow alleys and short staircases to an old two–story building. A row of shops, their doors closed and windows dark, were tucked beneath broad arches along the ground floor. Antonio unlocked a door at the corner of the building and took her up a flight of stairs. The moment they stepped through the doorway of his apartment, Claire was surrounded by the scent of roses.

He switched on a lamp, revealing low, black–leather furniture, a wide–screen TV and the typical male clutter of newspapers and empty dinner plates. There wasn’t a flower in sight. Where was the smell coming from?

"You’re trembling." Antonio snatched a knitted blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around her. "Rest. I will fix us something to eat."

She clutched the front of his shirt before he could move away. "Antonio, what’s downstairs?"

"Beneath us? It’s my sister’s flower shop. She took over the business when our grandfather retired."

A fresh surge of tears spilled down Claire’s cheeks. "Of course. This was Donatello’s home. It would have to be."

"I’m sorry the story upset you, Claire." He tucked the blanket more firmly around her shoulders. "Don’t cry for what happened so long ago. The past has nothing to do with us."

She dried her eyes on his shirt. "You’re wrong, Antonio. The past has everything to do with us. It made us who we are. You said your family are romantics. They believe in love at first sight. That’s because of Donatello, isn’t it?"

"Yes. He taught his children that love is too precious to lose. Our souls recognize the one we are meant for. My mother did not hesitate when she met my father. They married after only one week. My sisters did the same."

Ethel had done the opposite. Her unhappy affair had turned her into a cynical, no–nonsense woman. She had taught her children—and her granddaughter—not to trust their hearts. Yet her story had always haunted Claire. That was why Claire had felt compelled to find that fountain in the first place….

The picture of the past continued to expand. "You became a policeman because of what happened to your grandfather. And it’s because you’re a policeman that you were at the fountain on a stakeout."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "I captured far more than I had expected."

She drew in a breath that was part sob and part laugh. "Don’t you see? Everything has led us to this moment. I think fate was trying to make up for the past. We were meant to meet, Antonio."

"Of course we were, cara. You are my destiny."

It was no longer absurd; it was the only logical explanation. In truth, her heart had recognized this man the instant they had kissed.

She’d been worried that she was going to repeat history. She wouldn’t. She was being given the chance to correct it.

Claire grinned and shrugged off the blanket. "Ethel shouldn’t have given up. She should have waited longer. She should have had faith in Donatello. Falling in love wasn’t her mistake. Not believing it was possible…that’s where she went wrong."

Antonio tilted his head to study her. "Claire, how did you know the name of Donatello’s lover?"

Laughing, she plunged her fingers into his hair and pulled his face down to hers. "It’s a long story, Antonio. Someday we’ll tell it to our grandchildren."

The End