Freefall (2 page)

Florence, Italy

Something was very, very wrong. Sabrina Swann should have felt on top of the world.

Well, perhaps not exactly the
world
.

But certainly her little corner of it.

After graduating high school at sixteen, then racing through college in two and a half years, she'd scaled the hospitality corporate ladder and now, two months before her twenty-seventh birthday, she'd been appointed manager of the Paradiso Angeli Hotel in one of the most beautiful, romantic cities on the planet.

It was a dream come true. No, better than a dream. It was a shining fantasy that had dwelt in both her heart and her mind for years.

Although the hotel was part of the worldwide Wingate Palace hotel chain, there was nothing "chain" about it. On the contrary, it combined all the conveniences of a five-star American hotel with the refinements and idiosyncrasies that had once made the City of Flowers the center of the artistic world.

Rather than having to endure the overwrought gilt, crystal, and heavy satin that made so many luxury European hotels appear to have been decorated by Marie Antoinette, visitors to Paradiso Angeli came away with a deepened appreciation of everything the Renaissance taught about perspective and harmony. The hotel was a former monastery built atop the ruins of a first-century Roman temple, and Sabrina suspected its past residents, would have appreciated the fact that every room had been named for a saint and was under his or her protection. She also wondered if the lush sensuality of the rooms might have more than a few monks spinning in their tombs.

But as much as she valued Florence's splendorous history, Sabrina had never been one to dwell on the past. She'd always prided herself on looking forward to the future. And her future was looking downright rosy.

"So, what the hell's the matter with you?"

Oddly, and uncharacteristically depressed, she poured a self-congratulatory glass of champagne from the bottle that had been sent up—along with a single crystal flute, which looked a bit lonely—on a silver tray from room service. In contrast to her strangely subdued mood, the wine sparkled like sunshine on water.

Sure, she was tired. Okay, perhaps, if she were to be perfectly honest, she was exhausted. For the past six months, she'd been averaging four hours' sleep a night in order to keep the hotel running like a Swiss watch. The pampered, jet-setter guests at Paradiso Angeli had come to Italy to bask in La Dolce Vita, and they were accustomed to receiving exactly what they wanted. When they wanted it.

Those sleepless nights had paid off, as her promotion proved.

Surely it would get a little easier now that her probationary period was over and she no longer had the chain's New Orleans-based home office second-guessing every decision she made—from the color of the damask napkins in the newly redecorated banquet hall, to the uniforms of the bellmen, to the hiring of a tennis pro to go along with the new red clay courts that had been built behind the formal gardens.

She swiveled her hips across a tile floor that was the rich earthen hue of a Tuscan vineyard. Then, although no one was around to witness her sorry attempt at a happy dance, she still felt unreasonably foolish.

"So, you're dancing on the inside." Wasn't that what her grandmother Lucie had always said about her?

The thought of her grandmother put a touch of tarnish on her day.

Sabrina sighed as she took her champagne out the French doors to the wrought-iron balcony, where the view spread out beneath her like a Renaissance painting.

In the distance, ancient stone hills the color of flax were touched with gold by the setting sun. The vineyards and olive groves reminded her of the Swann family's tea plantation, which, in turn, caused a little pang of homesickness.

She'd only spent summers on Swann Island, yet since she had grown up in boarding schools and hotel rooms, her grandmother's house was the closest thing to a home she'd ever known.

"I should've gone back. Before it was too late."

You didn't know she was sick
, a pragmatic voice of reason in the back of her mind assured her, just as it had when she'd first learned of Lucie Somersett Swann's fatal heart attack.

It hadn't eased her guilt then.

It didn't now.

Sabrina blew out a breath. Took another sip. Directly below, the fabulous Neptune Fountain harked back to a time when Cosimo de' Medici was building his fleet of galleys, determined to make his city a world naval power. It was here that the strict social critic Savonarola had convinced Florentines to light the bonfire of the vanities and burn their ornate clothing, jewelry, and tragically, even much of the city's most exquisite art.

Those same citizens, chafing beneath laws banning gambling, vice, and frivolity, subsequently burned Savonarola in another, final bonfire.

Shoppers thronged the Ponte Vecchio. Back in the fourteenth century, the shops on the bridge had sold fruits and vegetables to locals, but these days they sold silver and gold jewelry to tourists, who remained blissfully unaware of any ancient edicts against adornments.

Across the cobblestone Piazza della Signoria, on a balcony where a lazy cat lay curled among crowded clay pots of flowers, a young Sophia Loren look-alike braided the hair of a small girl whose perfectly oval face belonged on a cameo, while a blind man sat on the stone steps of the Palazzo Vecchio, at the feet of a copy of Michelangelo's
David
, singing plaintively about a lost love. The liquid, weeping sound of an unseen violin picked up the melody from some open window.

Despite having nearly half a million citizens crammed together in a small area, Florence, known as the jewel in the Renaissance crown of Italy, lacked the hustle and bustle of Rome, partly because it was such a pedestrian city, with many of the streets and squares closed to cars. The slower-paced life reminded Sabrina of the American South. Of Swann Island, in particular.

She'd promised her grandmother she would be home for Christmas, But then the assistant manager's wife had given birth to twins, and the concierge had eloped to Venice with the sous-chef, and, well, Sabrina couldn't leave the hotel without a guiding hand over the holidays.

Right on the heels of New Year's came a Fiera del Cioccolato Artigianale. The annual chocolate festival always brought in tourists.

February was out of the question. While Carnival might not be quite the spectacle it was in Venice or Rome, the hotel was filled to capacity and the staff, encouraged to dress in costume, could, if not carefully managed, get caught up in carnival fever and allow the Paradiso Angeli's standards to slip.

Lent was usually a slow time, the only festival being the popular Festa della Donna celebrating women, which was why the home office had chosen that month to re-paint both inside and out and replace the lobby carpeting before the hoard of summer tourists arrived. It had, needless to say, fallen to Sabrina to oversee the work.

And hadn't her grandmother claimed to totally understand the impossibility of coming home for Easter? Not only was this a hugely important time in such a Catholic country, but people came from all over the world to attend the first major folk festival of the year: the Scoppio del Carro, or Explosion of the Cart.

Every Easter morning, going back centuries, a cart loaded with fireworks, drawn by two white oxen and accompanied by costumed revelers and various city officials, entered the Piazza del Duomo and stopped in front of the cathedral.

With much fanfare, a mechanical white dove flew down a wire and ignited the cart, setting off a well-choreographed sequence of flashes and explosions. According to legend, if all went according to plan, the people of Florence would be guaranteed good harvests and a prosperous year.

So, one thing had led to another, and now it was June, her grandmother was dead, buried in the family cemetery without fanfare, as her will had instructed. But that hadn't stopped the flood of legal papers from Lucie's attorney regarding her inheritance. Also, the mayor kept e-mailing her about a planned memorial service to celebrate Lucie Swann's incredible life.

And still Sabrina hadn't returned.

"Soon. Maybe for the service," she murmured, knowing it was a lie.

No way was she going to be able to get away now that she had achieved her goal.

Lucie would've hated everyone making a fuss
, that little voice piped up again.
You're only respecting her wishes by not having any part of the public circus
.

Sabrina wished she could believe that.

A newly married couple, the woman dressed in a beaded white fairytale gown, riding in one of the carriages so popular with tourists, passed beneath her balcony, the horse's hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones. The groom's arm was wrapped around his bride's shoulder; their faces were close together. Obviously enraptured with each other, neither was paying any attention to the scenery.

When the bride closed the distance, lifting her smiling lips to her husband's, Sabrina experienced an odd little twinge of envy.

How long had it been since she'd had a man's arms around her? A man's lips on hers? A lover whispering sexy words in her ear as the groom in the carriage was openly doing.

Much too long to remember.

Well, that was another thing that was going to change. Now that she'd won her promotion, it was time for a new goal. How hard could it be to find herself a lover? Florence was, after all, a city overflowing with gorgeous men who tossed out seductive compliments like confetti on New Year's Eve.

And while she lacked the smoldering dark looks and voluptuous curves so popular in this country, males seemed to find her long blond hair and green eyes an intriguing change from the women they'd grown up with.

Of course, those very same males, from what she'd been able to tell, were not the most monogamous of creatures. Which would prove a problem only if she were looking for happily-ever-afters.

Which she definitely wasn't.

After all, as much as she loved the country, the city, and the people, as beautiful as the Paradiso Angeli was, Sabrina figured she had two years, maybe three, before she was transferred again. The worldwide hotel business did not lend itself to long-term relationships.

Determined to enjoy this moment, she was thinking how little had changed since Michelangelo had passed through Florence, when a fish vendor's truck appeared on the street below.

"That's odd," she murmured.

Deliveries always occurred early in the morning. Usually before dawn. And certainly never now, when hotel guests were enjoying the end of the day in the courtyard garden with bottles of local Chianti.

Damn
. Wasn't this all she needed on her first day? A fishmonger wheeling his crates of smelly iced mullet between the umbrella-topped tables?

She might no longer be on probation, but the trio who'd arrived from Louisiana to announce her promotion wasn't due to leave until morning. In fact, leaning over the railing, Sabrina could see them seated at one of the tables, dipping chunks of crusty Tuscan bread into the olive oil she bought from a local orchard.

She turned to run back downstairs to forestall the problem when a blinding fireball exploded. Her eyes burned, as if she'd looked directly into the sun.

The balcony beneath her feet swayed. The world shook.

Screams filled air that only moments before had been floating with violin and song.

Sabrina felt herself falling.

Then mercifully, everything went black.