Falling for Italy (3 page)

“You can talk to me anytime, you know that. Now, I’m going to change before Linda nags us both to death for not being ready in time for dinner,” Giovanni said and got to his feet, then climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, where he resided at the moment.

The room was nice, a bit girly for him—understandably so, since the house was Linda’s. It was furnished simply with a large bed, a closet, and a few other things, all done in light blue and honey brown.

He changed into sweat pants and a T-shirt before going back downstairs. They usually had dinner in the kitchen, at the triangular counter also serving as a table.

Linda had made pasta, with a rich, spicy tomato sauce. It was delicious, especially when followed by freshly baked cookies and milk.

They chatted about nothing in particular throughout dinner. Afterward, they watched a movie, but Giovanni excused himself before the ending. It was boring anyway and he preferred scanning the news on his laptop, so he retired into his bedroom.

But when he laid on the bed, he put the laptop aside, staring at the ceiling. He caught himself thinking of Sonia again, of their next meeting. He recalled her brushing past him in the parking lot, trailing a vague elegant fragrance. It was exotic, just like her. He remembered her full lips, soft and pink, without any lipstick applied, and regretted not kissing her. Tomorrow he was going to ask her out.

Chapter Two

Sonia woke up before the alarm clock’s ring, as she did nearly every day. She had always been an early riser. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was a quarter to seven. She got up lazily and looked through the oversized window of her bedroom. It wasn’t as big as the glass wall in the living room, but bigger than the average. Though her flat was small, the windows were large. She felt claustrophobic in rooms with stingy windows.

It was still dark and the snow kept falling. A good four inches of it lay on the pavement, where the snow blowers hadn’t gotten yet. It looked like a fairytale setting—one of the few reasons she loved winter. Another reason were the holidays, although she often became blue because of spending them alone almost every year. Her friends had families, children, husbands. She didn’t fit in their tidy little worlds, but she didn’t want to. That kind of monotony would kill her in two months.

She shimmied into a thick robe and went to make coffee. She turned on the big flat screen TV in the living room. Then she sat in the dim light nursing her hot mug of coffee, watching the city come to life beyond her glass wall. It took her a while to really wake up in the mornings, and coffee was the magic elixir that did the job every time.

After watching the morning news, she hauled herself to the bathroom to take a routine scalding shower, which made her feel more cheerful. She didn’t usually use much makeup, but remembering she had a date—no, damn it,
lesson
—with the gorgeous Giovanni Coriola that afternoon, she took her time. She shadowed her eyes subtly, put some color in her cheeks and applied pink lip-gloss, which contrasted nicely with her fair skin. Her uneven bangs emphasized her round dark eyes and well-shaped eyebrows. She’d paid a fortune to have them properly shaped, so now she only had to maintain their elegant arch herself.

She stood in front of the closet for a long time, contemplating her seemingly endless supply of clothes. She really should learn to control this weakness. She discovered a tight red shirt she didn’t remember ever wearing. It had a beautiful belt made from wooden beads and lovely dark red buttons. Even without the help of her push-up bra, it created an excellent cleavage. She decided against the bra. It made her uncomfortable and she rarely wore anything under shirts anyway. She pulled on black stretchy jeans, knee-length leather boots, and the same leather coat she’d worn the day before.

Grabbing her handbag and keys, she walked out, only to return again to spray some perfume on her neck. She’d forgotten that detail.

Geez, it looks like I’m fixing up for seduction, not for work. Get a grip, Sonia! The guy is a filthy rich Italian, for God’s sake! He’s only here on vacation and probably part of the mob. Computer firm, my ass!
She smirked as she descended the stairs.

However, Giovanni seemed very sincere. In fact, he had no reason to lie. But she’d dealt with a lot of lying bastards in her life, enough to make her mega-cautious.

Her car’s interior was freezing. As the heater did its thing, she trembled in the thin shirt and coat, swearing—as she did every single morning—that she’d start wearing practical clothes and stop dressing just for the sake of fashion. She drove with her teeth chattering until the heat started to seep into her bones.

By the time she reached the shooting range, she was feeling quite cheerful. Her morning training was with her girls’ team. She had two of them—one team of three boys and one of three girls. The teenagers were all very talented and motivated. Like her, they adored target shooting and considered it a high-class sport. Unfortunately, financially speaking, target shooting wasn’t nearly as well supported as other sports. The ridiculous amounts of money people invested in football, basketball and other such sports were only fairytales here. For those who didn’t know shit about it, target shooting wasn’t a spectacular sport, not something to watch anxiously in hopes of scoring with a kick, such as was a football game for most.

She wouldn’t have changed it for anything. This was a mind sport, a sport where the shooter competed mostly with himself—with his fears, lack of concentration, or flawed technique. That’s what she repeated to her pupils, especially before any competition. They were their only challenge. On the range, it was only them and their guns. They had to be one.

“This is your mantra,” she told the three girls twenty minutes later, as they stood aligned at their desks, guns in hand at the ready. “Revise your body scheme, your posture, your balance. And when you feel those are perfect, gather your inner attack attitude,” she said, while she walked behind them, from one side of the shooting area to the other, making sure each one was listening.

“Control your breathing, Adele. Don’t breathe like an asthmatic old lady, leading with your clavicles! Move only your diaphragm muscle. Ready? Fire!”

She pressed the button on the machine that controlled the targets. The wooden silhouettes turned on their sides, only their edges facing the shooters. The girls stood motionless, guns down at the ready, in a waiting position for seven seconds. After that, the targets turned automatically to face them. They had three seconds to raise the gun, aim and fire before the targets turned again on their sides. This was called
the speed test.
A perfect execution was hard to achieve, but that was the goal of a professional marksman. And they were turning into professionals, she noticed proudly, as the routine repeated five times. After the five rounds, she said in her loud, authoritarian voice, “Discharge, weapons down, relax. Now let’s see what we have here.”

She looked through her telescope at their targets, giving indications to each of them, passing out observations, critiques and praises.

The training went well. The National Championship was getting close, so they all worked harder these days, even during weekends. She dismissed the girls, who said their goodbyes exhausted. Consulting her watch, she noted it was twelve o’clock. Her boys were scheduled for one so she had time to go and eat something. She pulled on her coat and left, locking the doors behind her. It was Saturday, so no one else was around—thank God for that.

She blinked several times to adjust to the crappy light outside. Though it was cloudy, the snow reflections made her squint and made her eyes sting. She decided to walk instead of drive, maybe do some window-shopping for some real clothes. She ate a hamburger and fries at a close-by McDonalds, and then browsed through some shops. After some debate, she bought a thick gray turtleneck wool sweater, which had the characteristics she needed, being practical and trendy at the same time. She flirted a bit with the idea of buying a pair of slacks to fit her new sweater, but her outraged economy sense reminded her of the full closet she already owned, so she headed reluctantly back to work.

The boys were already waiting for her, listening to rap music on their phones. As they greeted her respectfully, she took a closer look at one of them.

“Simon, is that a piercing spearing your eyebrow?”

“Yeah, Miss Galsworthy,” the boy said proudly. “What d’ you think?”

“I think you must be nuts to drill more holes in you than you’re supposed to have.” She inclined her head to study their saggy jeans, full of rips and holes.

“What happened to you today?” she asked them. “Is this what you call fashion these days?”

“These are cool, Miss. Everybody wears ’em like this,” another boy said.

“Cool, huh? I must be getting really old,” she muttered, to the boys’ amusement. “Come on, let’s get to work. Start warming up,” she ordered as she unlocked the door to the training area.

They worked out more enthusiastically than the girls, while she supervised them. They were still at the age when they thought handling a gun was—first of all—awesome, and a reason to boast to their friends.

She led them through the same routine, starting with precision, and continuing with speed training. She paced slowly, as the noise of synchronized shots echoed in the large space.

“Peter, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, as the culprit straightened his shoulders and adjusted his grip, staring at the target, while he waited for it to turn and face him. “Don’t panic when the blasted target turns and looks you in the eye! Be ready. Start lifting the gun as soon as the silhouette moves. And squeeze the trigger slowly, progressively, don’t brusque it.”

As the rounds ended and she went to her telescope, she noticed Giovanni was watching from the doorway. She signaled him to come in before starting to calculate the boys’ scores.

Finally, she announced the end of training and waited for them to pick up their guns and put them in their destined places. She locked the gear as the boys said goodbye, heading to the door. Then she turned to Giovanni. He’d followed her advice, and was dressed in jeans and a black sweater under a thick jacket.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m very impressed.”

“By what?”

“By you. How did you know that boy, Peter, had made a mistake, when you weren’t even looking at him?”

Sonia smiled, stuffing her hands in her jeans pockets.

“Oh, that. It’s something acquired over the years. It’s about the sound, the rhythm. I couldn’t quite explain it.”

She caught him looking at her décolletage, then lifting that dark bold gaze to her face.

“Ready for training?” she asked self-consciously, going to a desk from which she produced earplugs and glasses.

“Of course.”

He took off his jacket, placing it on a bench. She noticed her first assessment regarding his body had been accurate. His black sweater fit like a second skin, displaying muscled arms and broad, rounded shoulders. He pulled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with black hairs. Sonia swallowed as a wave of heat formed in her stomach, heading south at full speed. He took the Glock from her, and then positioned himself at the desk she indicated. As she went to get a new paper target, she stole a glance at his back. Perfect—wide and muscular, yet graceful as a feline’s. Though no feline she’d ever seen had such a sexy ass.

She cleared her throat before she began reminding him the basic and most important rules. There was no need for that. He already moved better than yesterday. She assumed he could be among the best if he set his mind to it.

He emptied a few magazines, each execution better than the previous one. At the end, she looked through her telescope and whistled admiringly.

“Wow! You are a natural, Giovanni! You could really become a pro if you’d be interested in this. It’s lousy pay, lots of sweat and long hours, but we do it for passion,” she mocked philosophically.

He came up behind her, so close she could smell his aftershave—an exotic, spicy scent that could madden the senses of the most un-reckless woman, which she surely wasn’t.

“Can I take a look?” he asked, and she felt his breath next to her ear, breezing stirringly on her bare skin. She turned her head and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Be my guest. It’s your target.”

She stepped aside, her clothes brushing against him with an almost sensuous rustle. Giovanni glanced through the telescope at his handiwork and smiled, flashing white teeth framed by that pair of unbelievably soft-looking lips.

“Did I do that?”

“Yep. I told you, you’re really good.”

“Am I?” he teased, the smile still in place. “Why don’t we go out for coffee and talk more about it?”

“I already had one earlier,” she said, tongue in cheek. After a beat, she added impulsively, “But I wouldn’t refuse a doughnut.”

They decided on taking her car, since Giovanni had told her he couldn’t find anything without a GPS. Sonia drove to a nearby mall, where they could have their pick regarding food and activities. Giovanni suggested they watch a movie, but nothing on the display list appealed to her. The place was extremely crowded—what a wonder on a Saturday evening—so apparently he felt compelled to place his hand on her waist and hold it there lightly. She liked it far too much. His warm palm seemed to spread heat throughout her entire body, making her want to nestle closer against him, to press her back against his chest and let him hold her tight. The temptation was so strong it became reality for a short moment, when a couple carrying what looked like a ton of bags bumped into them. Her side collided with his chest and he tightened his arm around her, talking close to her ear to make himself heard over the loud music.

“Make sure you stick close to me. You wouldn’t want me to get lost without a car and my GPS. I’d probably spend the night outside in the snow, looking for my sister’s house.”

She turned her head in time to see his mouth quirk into a wicked grin, causing her heart to skip a beat. She recovered her wits just enough to sound casual as she said, “Stay close to me, Poster Boy. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for losing Italy’s computer king.”

He laughed softly.

“Poster Boy? Computer king? I’ll make you explain later when we can talk without shouting.”

“What’s with the holiday music anyway? It’s barely the beginning of December, for Heaven’s sake! Almost a month ‘til Christmas and people are already getting the holiday madness. Look at this.”

She indicated a mother with four children, who was carrying so many bags and packages she was nearly buried under them. The kids were dragging behind her, duckling-like, holding each other’s hands. The last one—a little girl who looked as though she’d barely learned to walk—sucked her thumb as if it was a nicotine lollypop.