The Duke's New Year's Resolution / Quade's Babies: The Duke's New Year's Resolution

Or…

His stomach knotting, Marco echoed the irrational, improbable thought that had leaped into his mind when he’d glimpsed the woman in the road.

She could be his wife.

Gianetta, who had insisted on launching the sailboat despite the weather warnings.

Gianetta, whose frantic radio call for help still haunted his dreams.

Gianetta, whose body had never been recovered from the sea.

With a muttered oath, Marco shook his head. He’d been working too hard. Performing too many difficult surgeries. The long hours and unrelenting pace had gotten to him. How absurd to fantasize for so much as a single second that this American, this Sabrina Russo, could be his dead wife!

He was glad now his surgical team had pleaded with him to take a long-overdue break between Christmas and New Year’s. Obviously, he needed it.

With another impatient shake of his head, he pushed through the double doors and strode down the hall toward X-ray.

Chapter Two

Wincing, Sabina swung her legs off the X-ray table and sat up on the edge. The remains of the boot they’d had to cut off lay discarded beside the table.

“Allow me to assist you, Ms. Russo.”

Rafaela nudged the wheelchair closer. After a somewhat graceless transfer, the nurse got Sabrina settled into the chair.

“I shall take you to an exam room, yes? Dr. Calvetti will review the X-rays and consult with you there.”

“You called him something else when we first came in,” Sabrina commented as she was wheeled into the corridor. “Eccellenza, wasn’t it?”

“Si.”

“What’s with that?”

“He prefers to use his medical title here at the clinic, but I forget myself sometimes. My mother cooks and cleans for him when he’s in residence at his villa, you see.”

“Not really. Who is he?”

“His Excellency Don Marco Antonio Sonestra di Calvetti, twelfth Duke of San Giovanti, fourteenth Marquis of Caprielle, ninth Marquis d’Almalfi, Count Palatine, sixteenth Baron of Ravenna…” She paused. “Or is it the seventeenth Baron Ravenna?”

“You got me.”

“There are more titles. Many more.” Smiling, Rafaela steered her patient into an exam room and set the brake. “Mama can recite the entire list without taking a breath. She has worked for the Calvetti family since she was a young girl.”

Okay, Sabrina was impressed. So the doc was also a duke. Not to mention a world-class hunk. The combination was almost enough to make her forget how close His Excellency had come to flattening her into roadkill.

But not quite enough to keep her from scowling when he delivered the good news/bad news.

“The X-rays show no sign of concussion or fractured bones in your ankle. However, you may have damaged or torn a ligament. We won’t know for sure until we perform a stress test.”

“Where and when do we do that?”

“It’s a simple test. A manipulation of the foot and ankle. I’ll do it now if you can stand the pain.”

Uh-oh! That didn’t sound good.

“Once we are done, I will prescribe painkillers. But you must be alert for the manipulation, so you can tell me when I hurt you.”

When, not if. That sounded even worse.

“Okay, Doc, let’s get this over with. Or should I say duke?”

“Either will suffice.” Those dark eyes held hers. “Given the circumstances, perhaps we should dispense with titles altogether.”

She wasn’t sure exactly what circumstances he referred to but had no problem with a more egalitarian approach. “That’s fine with me.”

“Good. You must call me Marco. And may I call you Sabrina?”

She granted the polite request with a regal nod. “You may.”

“Very well, Sabrina. Rafaela and I will help you onto the exam table.”

She managed it with their assistance and a couple of hops. Once they had her in place, Rafaela rolled up the hem of the wool slacks. The bruised, inflated sausage she revealed made Sabrina grimace.

“Lovely,” she muttered.

“It will get worse before it gets better,” the doc—duke—Marco warned.

He washed his hands at the sink in the exam room. The scent of antibacterial soap came with him as he rolled a stool close to the table, seated himself and cupped her heel. His touch was gentle, lulling Sabrina into a false sense of security. That lasted only until he flattened his other hand against her shin and applied pressure. The pain almost brought her off the table.

“Okay, okay,” she gasped. “You found the not-so-sweet spot.”

He relieved the frontal pressure and applied it sideways. More prepared this time, Sabrina merely gritted her teeth.

“It is not as bad as I feared,” he said when he’d completed the test.

“Easy for you to say!”

“I don’t believe you’ve torn the ligaments, merely strained them. We will wrap the ankle in a compression bandage. Then you must stay off your feet, apply ice and take the painkillers I will prescribe.”

“Stay off my feet for how long?”

“As a minimum, until the swelling goes down and the pain lessens. After that, you may require crutches for a few days to a week.”

“A week!”

Sabrina swallowed a groan. Her tight schedule was disintegrating before her eyes. She’d already rearranged it once to spend Christmas Day in Austria with her two best friends and business partners.

Sabrina, Devon McShay and Caroline Walters had met years ago while spending their junior year studying at the University of Salzburg. Filled with the dreams and enthusiasm of youth, the three coeds had formed a fast friendship. They’d maintained that friendship long distance in the years that followed. Until last May, when they’d met for a minireunion.