Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey (6 page)

"No, Delilah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—" he backed up, realizing where I was looking and interpreting, correctly in some ways, where my fear was concentrated. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

I grabbed his hand, not wanting him to think I was afraid of him, or upset with him. "Brad, listen...I'm sorry. I hope—I mean, I hope I didn't lead you to assume where this night was going...when it's not, or...it can't." I was flustered, stuttering; I ran my hands through my hair, surprised again at how short it was.

"You don't need to explain," Brad said. "I wasn't assuming anything. I mean, I hoped, in a way yes. But knowing how recent all this is for you...I wouldn't push it."

"I'm really sorry, Brad. I didn't mean to lead you on, or...or get you excited and leave you...uncomfortable. I'm just not ready." I was suddenly exhausted beyond comprehension. "I'm not even divorced yet. Shoot, I haven't even filed the papers."

"Don't apologize any more, Delilah. I understand. You don't need to explain." He kissed me, a gentle goodbye. "You're a beautiful, wonderful woman, Delilah, and your ex is an idiot."

He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to me. "If you ever want some company—no expectations—call me."

He backed away, and I, under a wild impulse, darted forward and kissed him again, quick but hot.

"Thank you for understanding." I said.

He smiled, waved, and was gone, pushing through the crash bar to the stairs.

I pulled out my keycard and went into my room, collapsed on my bed and tried to figure out if I'd just made a mistake in letting Brad go, or if it had been the smart thing to do. My brain argued one way, my heart another, and my body a third.

I fell asleep, still arguing with myself, cross-wise on the bed.

The last several days have been a whirlwind. I went through the process to get my passport, and I met with Julia's divorce attorney cousin, who drew up papers and sent them by overnight to Harry. I'd been honest about clearing out the savings account. The lawyer suggested giving Harry everything else, the cars, the house, the stocks and investments, everything. I agreed. I just wanted to be done.

Harry signed and sent the papers back in an overnight priority mail. A weight lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again. Or maybe, breathe for the first time. I was a single woman again. I spent a day at a spa to celebrate, getting a facial and a mani-pedi, a massage and all sorts of other indulgent pleasures.

I went to a travel agency and looked at travel packages, but they all came in groups, with hour-by-hour itineraries and all sorts of premade sight-seeing tours. I wanted something loose and personal and free. No plans, no groups, no tours. No itinerary, just me, out there.

I donated all my old clothes, packed my new wardrobe in a new set of overpriced luggage and bought a one-way ticket to Rome, Italy. I don't know a word of Italian. I've never been out of the country. I don't have a hotel booked, and I don't know anyone.

I'm terrified and exhilarated.

The plane is about to land at the Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino International Airport. I have my purse with a bundle of cash, and the rest split between my carry-on bag and the suitcase. I didn't want it all in one place, and I don't know a better way. Traveler's checks? I don't know. I'll learn, I guess.

Today was crazy. I spent an hour just trying to get out of the airport. I bought an Italian-English dictionary, and then realized the Google Translate app on my iPhone is much more effective. I can just plug in the phrase I want in English, have the app translate it into Italian and show it to the person I'm trying to communicate with. That's how I got a security guard to show me the way to the taxi line, and then found a mid-grade hotel in what I take to be the center of the city.

OHMYGOD. Rome is incredible. Age and history oozes from every brick, every cobblestone. Even the more modern buildings are older than pretty much everything in the US.

I stowed my purse in the suitcase and left it in my hotel room, putting what I need to travel in my backpack and my pockets. I wandered around in an awed daze, taking in the many famous sights of one of Earth's oldest and most storied cities. It's dirty in places, tumbledown, ramshackle, haphazard. It's rough, and difficult. It's beautiful.

I walked until my feet hurt and then showed my hotel's business card to a taxi driver, who answered in clear but heavily accented English, "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am. You need to eat some food, maybe? You are hungry, no? Too much walking? I take you to a great place. My cousin, he cooks the best pasta in all of Roma. You will die of loving the food, I swear you this. Wine and good food, you will be like new, no?"

I let him take me to his cousin's place, which turned out to be a few blocks from my hotel, and the food was divine. I'm sitting outside, sipping red wine, clacking into my netbook, watching crowds go by, tourists and locals. Soccer, or I guess I should call it football, is on a TV and the locals clamor as goals are scored, groan as the opposing team scores back.

I'm free. I'm happy. Anything can happen. I promise myself, as I write this, that I will not let opportunity pass me by. Fear cannot stop me, not anymore. I will let life sweep me away. I have a good head on my shoulders, a sense of right and wrong.

Today I met Luca. Oh Lord. Luca. How do I describe him? Just saying his name is like music, like poetry. Luca.

Tall, dark, and handsome doesn't even begin to cut it. A physical description won't do him justice, because he's male beauty personified, but I'll try.

Six foot three or four, lean and hard with broad shoulders and a slim waist, long, thick legs. Inky, glossy black hair, a little too long, a little messy, drifting in front of his eyes, and oh, his eyes. Good gravy. Luca's eyes are the brown of...what? Cinnamon and melted milk chocolate. Rich, dark earth, lit by the sun. His hands are powerful, but gentle. Long fingers, musician's fingers, nimble and sure.

Every word from his mouth is lyric, lovely music.

He says my name like it's a song: "Dee-LYE-lah."

Let me go back and tell the story from the beginning, get it right. Luca is best understood in the context of how I met him.

* * *

I was sitting on the ledge of fountain, digging through my backpack for sunscreen. I spread the sunscreen on, tossed it back in the open bag and leaned back, enjoying the heat of the sun on my face, the sound of splashing water and laughing conversations. It was late afternoon, not quite time for dinner, but well past lunch. The sun was lowering, shedding soft but bright golden light on everything, illuminating the aged marble of the millennia-old buildings.

I let my mind wander, imagining Roman senators crossing this very spot. Cicero, maybe. Or Pliny. Or was Pliny Greek? I couldn't remember at the moment and didn't care.

Then I heard slapping feet and a sound as of something heavy being snatched, and the breeze of someone running past me. I opened my eyes to see a young boy scrambling through the crowded piazza, my backpack in hand, open, spilling things out as he ran.

My backpack. Shit! That bag had several thousand dollars in it, and my passport, and my netbook...

I cursed and took off after him, thankful that I'd worn sensible sneakers. He was fast, the little shit. I followed him through alleys and narrow side streets, nearly catching him, only to lose him as he leapt over a crate of oranges that I tripped over, scattering fruit and earning an earful of Italian curses.

I scrambled to my feet, yelling an out of breath "Mi scusi, mi dispiace!"

Yeah, I've learned a little Italian.

I caught sight of the little thief rounding a corner, pulling away from me, and I heard sobs scrape out of my throat.

"No, please," I gasped, stretching out my arm as he began to move out of sight.

Then, a miracle. The boy turned back to look at me, almost apologetically. He didn't slow, but he seemed to realize how distraught I was. He turned back around, poured on more speed....and then a body shot out from a doorway, knocking the boy against a wall and held him there with one hand.

Hello, tall dark and handsome. He was holding a cell phone to his ear, talking into it in lilting, rapid Italian, holding the runaway thief against the wall with the other hand. His grip on the boy's shoulder was obviously crushing, as the boy was squirming and shrieking, scrabbling at the man's hand with both of his, my backpack dropped at his feet.

(I've since learned enough Italian to be able to guess what they were saying. For the sake of storytelling, I'll transcribe their words in Italian, as I heard them, in other words, un-translated and confusing.)

"Lasciatemi andare! Mi dispiace! Non farmi del male! Lo darò indietro!" The boy's voice was high-pitched, panicked.

"Dovrò richiamare," The man said into the phone, then hung up and stuck into the pocket of his tight jeans. "Zitto, ragazzo," he said in a harsh voice, shaking the thief.

I hurried to them, snatched up my bag and made sure the important things were all there, which they were. The boy was looking as if the man was really hurting him, and I felt bad for him. He was skinny and dirty and hungry-looking, desperate.

"Let him go," I said, in English. "I have my bag back. Don't hurt him."

"Tell the American lady you're sorry," the man said, in accented English.

"Sorry! I'm sorry, American! I only am hungry. Mi dispiace! Please, let go!"

The man shook the boy once more, then let go, shoving him away, growling in accented but fluent English, "Get out of here, boy. If I catch you stealing again, I'll turn you over to the police."

The boy nodded, pale and shaking, and vanished around a corner. I zipped my bag and shrugged it on, then looked up and found myself pinned to the wall by the most arresting pair of dark brown eyes I'd ever seen. He didn't just look at me, he seemed to be looking
into
me. Seeing all of me, as if I were naked before him, vulnerable and soft.

My breath caught, and I couldn't look away. I felt strong fingers touch my palms, scraped from my fall.

"You are bleeding," he said, his voice and accent turning even those mundane words into music.

"I'm...fine," I said. My hand was still in his, his touch like fire, sending thrills through my body. "Just a scrape..."

"No, you need care. Your knees are a mess as well. Come, please come." He tugged me by the hand, gentle but insistent. "My flat is just there. I can have you cleaned up in only a moment."

I looked down and realized my knees were oozing blood too. And now, suddenly, they stung. And I was sweating...

I let him show me up a narrow flight of steep stairs to an airy one-room apartment. It was clean and neat, a galley kitchen, a small balcony overlooking the street, a small table covered by a white linen cloth and an empty wine bottle turned into a candle.

"Sit, please," he said, pushing me into a chair.

He wet the corner of a towel and dabbed at my hands, kneeling between my knees. His presence was a hot, electric fire in my veins, his inky hair drifting across his eyes, his brow furrowed as he
oh so gently
dabbed at my palms, then each knee.

"There, you are clean now. You want a bandage or no?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," I said.

What I wanted was for him to keep touching me. Just his hands on mine, or on my knees would be fine. A littler higher up my legs, maybe?

He pulled the other chair next to me, sitting astride it, resting his hands on the back. "So, mia bella, what is your name?"

Mia bella? I knew enough Italian to know that was a compliment, and to blush.

"Delilah," I said, holding out my hand to shake his.

He took my proffered hand and kissed the back of it, never taking his eyes off mine. His lips on my hand burned like fire, sending shivers of delight up my arm to coil hot and heavy in my belly. He'd actually kissed my hand. I could barely think, for a moment.

"I am Luca," he said, after I failed to ask.

"Oh, sorry, yes, I was going to ask but I...you..." I stopped, took a deep breath and gathered my composure. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Luca. Thank you so much for getting my bag back, and taking care of me."

Luca smiled, his straight white teeth brilliant against his dark olive skin. "The pleasure is all mine, Delilah."

"I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost my bag. It has everything in it."

"Roma can be most dangerous, at times. You are here alone?"

I nodded. "It's a beautiful city. I've always wanted to see Rome."

"Is it what you thought it would be?" Luca asked, resting his chin on his hands along the back of the chair.

"Yes and no. In some ways it's so much more than I'd ever dreamed, but in others..."

"It is not so lovely in some ways, too, no? I know this. I am from...you call it Florence, I think...and I too am often surprised at the state of things here in Roma. It is a complex place. You should see Firenze. Mio Dios. So lovely." He gave me a quirky smile, roguish and cunning. "So lovely, like you, Delilah. The only thing Firenze needs to be perfect is you, walking her streets."

I think I melted, right then. All I could do was blush redder and look away, down at the cracked and faded tiles beneath my feet. Was he trying to give me a heart attack? Was he really talking about me?

"I'd like to see Florence...what'd you call it? Firenz?"

He laughed, a flash of white teeth and kind mirth. "No no no. Firenz-EH. with the 'eh' on the end. Firenze. Florence is the English word. We call it Firenze."

I tried the Italian pronunciation, giving it the lilting accent he did. "Firenze...it's much lovelier that way. But yes, I think maybe I'll see Flore—Firenze next."

"For how long are you in Roma?" He grinned again. "That's how we say 'Rome' by the way. 'Roma'."

"I suppose I should have learned some Italian before I came, huh?" I laughed somewhat sheepishly. "I don't have any definite plans."

"Well, you are learning now, no? I am a good teacher, I think. I will teach you more. For example, 'thank you' is 'grazie'."