Under the Sicilian Sky Read online

  Praise for Alexia Adams

  Check out these Crimson Romance titles by Alexia Adams:

  An Inconvenient Love

  An Inconvenient Desire

  Her Faux Fiancé

  “A textbook case of what should happen when a heated sexual attraction comes first: stay out of bed until you know the other person better, which they do through brilliantly honest communication.”—InD’tale Magazine

  “ . . . a book for romance lovers and readers looking for damaged heroes and heroines finding their way back to love.”—Long and Short Reviews

  “Strong, captivating characters fill this novel with the type of people that you want to get up close and personal with.”—Pure Jonel

  “One can’t help but feel the fondness the author has for her story, for its places and people. It’s refreshing to feel the bond through her while reading. It’s really quite rare anymore.”—InD’tale Magazine

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  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Her Faux Fiancé’ Excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Cover

  Contents

  Start of content

  Under the Sicilian Sky

  Daring to Love Again

  Book 1

  Alexia Adams

  Avon, Massachusetts

  I dedicate this book to Benedict Cumberbatch. He knows why.

  Chapter One

  Mario bit back the angry words at the tip of his tongue. Venting might make him feel better, but it wouldn’t fix the problem. “This load isn’t secured properly,” he said to the driver in Arabic.

  The driver tugged on one of the ropes as if to prove it was stable, and the load shifted farther to the left.

  “Stop!” Mario yelled. This shipment of sunbaked clay vases was already two days late. If it didn’t get to the port in time to load on the boat to Rotterdam, all their diligent planning in ensuring his company’s perfect supply record would be ruined. More importantly, it would delay construction of the medical facility that would provide much-needed healthcare for the women who made the vases.

  Before Mario could instruct the driver on how to tie down the crates properly, a bell sounded and the village’s newly built school let out. Within seconds, he was surrounded by children of all different sizes. Eighteen months ago, when he’d first come to this Libyan village, the specter of death had hung low over the mud and straw huts. Now the laughter of children competed with the women’s songs as they worked at something that earned them a decent living. If he accomplished nothing else in his life, he could say he’d helped save these precious humans from malnourishment.

  “Super Mario, Super Mario,” the children chanted as he handed out colored pencils. It never ceased to amaze him that kids on the edge of the Sahara, who had little contact with the outside world, had heard of the game after which he was named. Or renamed, as the case was. His last name, Barilla, he’d taken off a package of pasta. He dreamed in Italian, so he figured that must be his native language and nationality. But no male matching his description had been reported missing in Italy. So, really, it was anyone’s guess where he’d come from.

  A loud creak from the crates perched precariously on the truck brought his attention back to the load of precious cargo. He couldn’t allow three months’ worth of the women’s hard work to be destroyed because one man was too lazy or too stupid to do his job properly.

  “Go now,” he told the children. “I’ll come say goodbye in a minute.”

  With the colored pencils clutched in their little hands, they raced off to show their mothers what he’d brought this time. Farrah had a small girl on each of her hips, one barely old enough to walk. The smile on his business partner’s face as she watched the others race off was one of pure delight. She adored children.

  They had the same goals and work ethic and enjoyed each other’s company. More than once he’d considered transitioning their working relationship to include a personal one. Given Farrah’s cultural background, however, he had to do it right. He cared for her too much to bring reproach on her. But the golden shackle on his ring finger told him he was in no position to offer her marriage.

  The driver moved to the other side of the vehicle and tugged on the rope across the top of the cargo. The uppermost crate slid closer to the edge, barely supported now by the one below it. Mario’s heart froze as he calculated the trajectory should it fall—straight on top of Farrah and the baby girls.

  “Farrah! Move!” Mario screamed. As though in slow motion, she looked up, her eyes widening and, mouth open, tried to hurry away. But her foot caught on her long skirt, pitching her forward. He raced to her side, his movements slowed by the loose sand under his feet. Heart in his throat, he managed to catch her and the two toddlers she held.

  A loud snap. The top crate teetered then tumbled. He swiveled, placing himself between the falling cargo and Farrah and the two children. A scream. A sharp burst of intense brightness, like a star going supernova. Then everything went black.

  “Mario, Mario!” A frantic voice came to him through the dark. Something touched his face and he went to move his head but stopped at the searing pain.

  He tried to open his eyes, but a blinding light made him close them again.

  “He’s coming around,” another voice added.

  The sunshine penetrating his eyelids dimmed and he made another attempt to open them.

  “Mario, are you okay?”

  He turned toward the voice and darkness descended again for a second. When he managed to focus, the face of a beautiful woman with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, wearing a white hijab, greeted him. His brain searched for a name. Bella? No. Farrah.

  “I’m okay.” His lips were covered in sand, and as he spoke some fell in his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but he was too dry.

  “Can he sit up?” Farrah asked the UN healthcare worker who knelt on his other side.

  “Yes, I don’t think anything is broken,” the man replied. “But he should get to a city and have that head wound checked out. He probably has a concussion.”

  Farrah handed him a bottle of water while she propped him up against her. He closed his eyes as the world spun.

  “What happened?”

  “The top crate fell off the truck and hit you on the head,” she answered.

  “Is Bella okay?” he asked.

  “Bella?” Farrah’s brows drew together, and she exchanged a worried look with the doctor.

  A flood of pictures swamped his mind. His wife. His father. Sicily. The farm. Smiling down at a dark-haired woman as they exchanged vows on the beach. Her gorgeous hazel eyes were lit with happiness, her small
, delicate hand holding his, trusting him, loving him, as he slid a wedding ring on her finger.

  “I remember.” He wanted to shout for joy but his head objected. Instead he grabbed Farrah’s hand and squeezed it tight. “My name is Matteo Vanni. I lived on a farm in Sicily with my father and wife Bella.” He tried to sit up but slumped back as a wave of pain overwhelmed him.

  “Mario?” A tear glistened in the corner of her eye.

  He softened his tone and attempted a reassuring smile. “Don’t you see, Farrah, this is the break I need. I remember who I am, where I’ve come from. Knowing my past, I can fix the things that have stopped me from claiming a future.”

  A spark of optimism warmed her gaze as it roved over his features. “You mean, after four long years, we may finally be able to do more than make other people’s dreams come true?” She brushed a lock of his hair off his forehead, her fingers lingering in the touch.

  “That’s my hope. I just need a few weeks to sort out whatever is left of my life in Sicily.”

  He could find out why his wife hadn’t bothered to file a missing persons report when he disappeared. Then he could get rid of this band that bound him to a woman who obviously didn’t care enough to even look for him.

  Dio, what if she’d been involved in the accident that claimed his memory and left him near dead, washed up on a Tunisian beach in only his underpants?

  • • •

  Bella tugged her gray knee-length shift dress over her head. Here I go again. Attempt to have a personal life, take ten. A small glass of wine right now held real appeal. Or maybe a large glass and she could call a taxi. This was completely ridiculous. Why should this date be any different from the previous nine? They’d all ended in disappointment, and this one didn’t even have the ‘friend of a friend’ criteria.

  Her first Internet date. Maybe an impartial algorithm would have more luck finding a suitable man for her. Problem was, they were all technically suitable, except those who were only after her land. They just weren’t Matteo. After six months of finally getting back into the dating scene, she still compared every man to her husband. Missing husband. Dead husband.

  She’d spent the first two years of his disappearance in denial, expecting him to come through the door any second while worrying that the rumors about him were true. Then another year had passed while she’d attempted to remove all trace of him from her life, shredding the clothes of the bastard who had abandoned her with his sick father and failing farm. Bargaining with the universe for Matteo’s safe return had been a waste of time, but, still, she’d done that for six months. Depression swallowed up another year. According to the grief cycle, she should now be in acceptance mode. She was doing her damnedest to move on. But sometimes, like today, she was back at square one. Hopefully, if she had to go through the process again, anger wouldn’t be too long in coming.

  She got a lot done when she was mad.

  Emptiness threatened to consume her again and she rushed from the bedroom. She was tired of being alone. Tired of having no one to share her life with, to laugh with, to snuggle with on a cold winter night. Tired of fighting all the battles by herself. She was twenty-eight and felt eighty-two.

  Dutch courage would have to wait. She grabbed her handbag and keys and headed out to a new-to-her Fiat 500. At least she was fairly certain it would get her to her destination. Her old farm truck was more cantankerous than the ram she brought in to service her ewes. God, even her sheep had sex more regularly than she did.

  Her phone pinged with an incoming message. Maybe her date was canceling and she could stay home and get friendly with a bottle of wine.

  Sorry, Bella. Urgent meeting has come up. I may not make it to Sicily after all.

  Not her date, just a text from her ex-fiancé, the man she’d left so she could marry Matteo. Despite their broken engagement, they’d remained friends. A consultant to Doctors Without Borders, Kai was in Europe and had said he’d stop by to see her before returning to New York. Now she didn’t even have his visit to look forward to.

  Butterflies swarmed in her stomach as she parked near the restaurant where she was to meet her Internet date. In the small Sicilian village, where everyone knew everyone, it was hard to find someone who was willing to take a chance on the crazy American girl who drove her husband to disappear and then buried her father-in-law three years later. But at least she’d progressed from being called “Matteo’s wife” to “Matteo’s widow” to “Signora Bella Vanni, owner of Vanni Farms.” Her date came from three towns away. Sufficient distance that, if tonight didn’t go well, she wouldn’t constantly run into him.

  It took two tries before she could force her hand to the door pull. Man up, Bella. You can do this. The hostess showed her to a table for two, and Bella deliberately chose the chair facing away from the front so she wouldn’t stare at it and talk herself out of this stupid idea.

  A short, stocky man slid into the chair opposite and held out his hand. “Signora Bella, you are even more beautiful than your photo.” First mistake, reminding her she was married. Her thumb automatically rubbed the spot where her ring used to sit—the long-gone symbol of a love she should have stopped clinging to years ago.

  Bella forced a smile and took the man’s meaty hand in hers. It was a limp shake, like holding a dead fish. Her date had small, beady eyes and had already licked his lips three times in the two seconds since he’d sat down. Too bad she couldn’t say the same about his photo versus reality. There should be a private hell for people who Photoshopped their online dating profile picture. She held back the deep sigh that threatened to escape. This was such a mistake.

  The creepy feeling of being watched crawled up her back as she walked from the restaurant to the car two hours later. Yet despite looking around, she couldn’t spot anyone. Come on, don’t get paranoid. This is village life. By dawn everyone will know I’ve had yet another unsuccessful date.

  She pulled up in front of her tiny house and slumped in her seat. Gino or Gianni, whatever his name was, had been okay in the end. He’d been intelligent, interested in her businesses and plans for expansion, even offered a few helpful suggestions. But there’d been no spark. The plump, slightly damp lips he’d pressed against her cheek as they’d said goodnight had made her shudder. She’d tried to disguise it as a shiver of cold, but as it was nearly seventy-five degrees, even at ten p.m., that hadn’t cut it. They’d left with an, “I’ll call you,” promise, which meant that neither would. And she wasn’t disappointed.

  Matteo, you left a hell of a legacy. Even six years later, she clenched her pelvic muscles when she remembered his loving. God, he’d been a fantastic kisser, and that had nothing on the magic his hands created, caressing her skin, sliding his strong fingers into her heat . . .

  Damn, it was going to be one of those nights. She pulled the keys from the ignition and was about to get out of the car when headlights blinded her through her rearview mirror. She had locked the gate after she’d come through, hadn’t she? Living alone, so far from any neighbors, she was aware of how vulnerable she was. Should she run to the house and get the shotgun, or stay within the protection of her car so she could drive away if need be? Her muscles coiled and the heat of her earlier thoughts was replaced by cold, hard fear.

  The vehicle rolled closer, finally parking next to hers. Glancing over, her breath whooshed out. It was Cristoforo. Of course, he had a key to the gate. Her husband’s best friend had been a rock since her father-in-law’s death.

  She slipped from her car and met him at the front door.

  “I wanted to make sure you got home okay,” he said. “And find out how it went.” He shrugged as if slightly embarrassed.

  “It was fine. But I won’t be seeing him again. Come in for a glass of wine. How was your trip to Milan?” She unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. Her stone-walled cottage was tiny but cool in summer and warm in winter.

  “Boring. Banking is not as exciting as it may appear,” he said with a laugh. “You s
it, I’ll get the wine. Then I want all the juicy details, girlfriend.” He put on a mock American accent, and Bella laughed again.

  Cristo was . . . comfortable. He’d seen her at her worst, so there was no need to pretend she was anything special. He’d recently turned down an amazing promotion opportunity at the bank because he needed to take care of his aging parents. In America, he’d have been called a menopause baby, conceived when his mother had given up any hope of having a child. Here in Sicily, it was called a miracle.

  He strode into the living room with two glasses and a bottle of red under his arm. She’d already kicked off her heels and snuggled into the overstuffed white sofa, another present from Cristo. He’d insisted she take the furniture when he’d sold his apartment and moved back in with his parents. It’d been one of only a few breaks she’d caught in the past six years. The pre-World War II vintage seating her father-in-law had claimed was still good had ceased to be comfortable sometime before she was born.

  “So . . . ” Cristo said after pouring the wine and relaxing into the other corner of the sofa.

  “He came, we ate, we talked, he kissed me on the cheek. That’s all.”

  Cristo ran a hand through his short, dark hair. “But he’s no Matteo.”

  The sigh escaped. “No.”

  “You’ve got to stop comparing every man you meet to him.”

  “I know, but when you’ve had prosecco, it’s hard to go back to drinking beer.”

  He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “Don’t deify him, Bella. You’re a beautiful young woman. You need to let go and love again. Maybe switch to a wine with depth rather than fizz.” He released her hand and retreated to the corner again, staring at his glass as he swirled the rich merlot he’d brought during his last visit.

  She took a sip of hers. Maybe she did need to move to a different aisle in the man-market. “I’m no good on dates. Never have been. I should just ask your mother to match me with someone. She’ll probably have more luck than a computer.” Cristo’s mother was the epitome of an interfering matron, always suggesting she meet some cousin, friend, distant relation, the green-grocer’s godson . . .