Her Italian Soldier. Rebecca Winters

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      CHAPTER ONE

      ANNABELLE Marsh stood at the bathroom sink while she began removing her makeup. She didn’t recognize the blond woman in the mirror staring back at her. There was an unnatural gleam to her shoulder-length hair she could never have achieved on her own. Her eyes really weren’t that violet. Nor were her brows and lashes quite as dark.

      Artificially flawless skin highlighted by a subtle bloom brought out her high cheekbones. The makeup artist had defined her mouth to make it look more voluptuous. Her fingernails and toenails possessed their own polished sheen.

      She’d had a bevy of fairy godmothers doing what they did best as they’d transformed her. Marcella of Marcella’s Italian haute couture salon in Rome chose all the designer clothes that Annabelle would wear throughout her photo shoots in Italy. She’d added jewels as the final touch for the shoot that had started four days ago at an air force base outside Rome in front of an MB-Viper fighter jet.

      It had been a lark so far—loads of fun.

      “Three weeks of being the Amalfi Girl,” Guilio told her. “My wife and I will see to your every comfort. Then—since you insist—you can go back to being Ms. Marsh.”

      “You mean the forgettable Ms. Marsh.” She’d had long enough to stop grieving over a failed marriage and divorce two years earlier, and had taken back her maiden name. But a lack of self confidence, remained as one of its by-products.

      His brown brows lifted. “If you were forgettable, I wouldn’t have picked you for the most important project of my life.”

      Annabelle shook her head in disbelief. “I still don’t know what you see in me.”

      “My brothers and I, the whole Cavezzali family, have been in the business of designing cars since World War Two. But I was the one who dreamed up the Amalfi sports car. It’s been my life’s work. I saw the lines of it in my sleep years ago and lines, Annabelle, are like the bones of a beautiful woman. What lies beneath determines what will eventually become a masterpiece.”

      She flashed him a teasing smile. “You saw my bones?”

      “Right away. They spoke to me. They said, ‘Guilio? At last you have found what you’ve been looking for.’” The charm and exuberance of the attractive sixtysomething Italian couldn’t be denied. “I am going to form a marriage that will show a whole new face of the elegant world of the Italian sports car.”

      Annabelle would never forget that day two months ago when the dynamic car designer had come to the Amalfi dealership in Los Angeles, California. He and her boss, Mel Jardine, the owner of the complex who sold the most Amalfi cars in the States, had business to talk over. Guilio was launching a spectacular new sports car.

      Being Mel’s personal assistant, Annabelle had taken care of all the arrangements to make Guilio comfortable, including catering their meals. He’d insisted she remain for the day-long meetings and he was so attentive, she feared the married man might be interested in her in a nonprofessional way. But he soon dispelled that worry by bringing on another one. He told her in front of Mel he wanted Annabelle to be the model to advertise his new car.

      She laughed at the absurd notion, but he kept right on talking while Mel shot her a glance that said she should listen to this Italian genius.

      “I’m perfectly serious. For the last year I’ve been searching for the right woman. I had no exact face or figure in mind. I only knew one day she would come along and I would know her.” He stared at her. “And here you are. You have that Amalfi Girl look. You’re unique, just like the car. Mel will tell you I’ve never used a female model before.”

      Annabelle knew he spoke the truth. She was familiar with the brochures around the shop. They only featured prosperous Italian men in ads with his cars, like a businessman from Milan, or a socialite from Florence.

      “I’m so flattered I don’t know what to say, Mr. Cavezzali.”

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