Her Italian Millionaire (21 page)

He stepped back to look at her and she was afraid he'd be as disappointed as she was. Yes, she thought she'd improved over the years, but maybe he didn't think so. Evie told her she was the epitome of a late bloomer. But had she bloomed enough? She was holding her breath, wondering... Not that it mattered any more.

For a long moment they stared at each other. He'd changed so much. There were lines in his face, but they only added character. He was wearing an unlined Armani jacket, the kind Don Johnson wore as Nash Bridges, with an expensive T-shirt underneath. His hair was cut stylishly short, almost spiked. In the moonlight he looked smooth and hip at the same time. He had money and confidence. He must have done well, whatever he did.

“You look beautiful,” Giovanni said.

“Thank you.” It must be the moonlight. Or Isabella's clothes. The way he said it made her feel beautiful. He could do that. He'd made her feel beautiful when she was a shy, awkward teenager. “So do you. I mean, you look great. How are you?”

“Fine, now that I see you. I am so sorry about the agriturismo. I didn't know it was closed. I hope you found another place. You came alone, yes?”

She glanced around. There was no one there. Thank God she'd ditched Marco. “Yes,” she said.

“And you brought my yearbook?”

She reached into her tote bag and handed it to him. He thumbed through the pages and nodded to himself.

“So many memories,” he said. “Of the happiest time of my life.”

“Really? High school was the happiest time in your life?” It certainly hadn't been for her. She'd suffered from not being in the “in” crowd, from not being popular with boys, from being tall and gawky and a nerd.

“I was away from home, from all the problems that one has in one's own country,” he said. “It was a chance for me to be not my father's son, but a person in my own right.”

“You were quite a person in your own right. Everyone admired you. You were the only Italian we'd ever known.”

Giovanni caressed her cheek with his warm hand. Out of the corner of her eye she saw he was wearing a Rolex watch. “And now,” he said. “Am I still the only Italian you know?”

“Well...” He couldn't know about Marco. He couldn't have any idea that she'd had only the mildest of flirtations with him, could he? Even if he did, so what?

“Never mind,” he said, dismissively. “Tell me where else will you go in Italy?”

Here it was. He was going to offer to show her around.

“I...I'm not sure. I want to see it all, but of course I don't have time to do that. I thought Rome, of course, and Venice and Florence...”

“Yes, you must not miss Rome or Venice or Florence.”

She waited, but he didn't say anything about accompanying her. Of course not. He had better things to do than to play guide to someone he barely knew anymore. It was only her runaway fantasies that made her think he'd jump at the chance. That he'd be overjoyed to see her.

“I cannot tell you how often I have thought of you and now that I see you looking so
molto bellisima
I am even sorrier I must leave you.” He certainly looked sorry, but if he was, then why did he have to leave after such a brief visit?

“Now?” she asked, teetering backward on Isabella's high heels.

“Yes, I must go. My life is not my own anymore.”

“Are you... you must be married,” she said. It was none of her business, but she had to know.

“Yes.” His lips curved at one corner in what she imagined was a sad smile. Of course he was married. No one who looked like that and who had money to dress like he did would have remained single.

“I...I don't know what to say,” Anne Marie said. There was a hard lump in her throat. She shouldn't have, but she'd expected more than a five-minute meeting.

“Say
ciao
, and
buona fortuna
,” he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it. “Good-bye and good luck.”

Before she could say anything, he was gone. He'd disappeared into the shadow of the temple with his yearbook under his arm, as fast as he'd appeared.

Anne Marie stood staring into the darkness, hearing no footsteps, nothing but the faraway sound of the audience applauding in the distance. She shivered and thrust her arms into the sleeves of Isabella's sweater, unable to believe it was over.

She'd come thousands of miles across the ocean, spent thousands of dollars to see Giovanni and now it was over. She'd given him his yearbook and now she might as well go home. She felt empty, cold on the inside but feverish on the outside. Partly due to the sunburn, partly due to the disappointment. The adrenaline that had kept her going during this long day was gone; she felt like a deflated balloon.

She turned and walked slowly back down the path to the exit, her head down, fighting off tears of disappointment and fatigue. She was an idiot for expecting more from a man she really didn't know.

She literally ran into Marco, her head hitting his chest. He grabbed her by the arms and she met his gaze. Even in the moonlight, she could see he was angry. He obviously didn't like being ditched.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where were you?”

“I went to see one of the temples. I told you I wasn't going to the play.”

“You told me you were going to your room.”

“I changed my mind. Is that a crime?”

“I was worried about you.”

“There was no need to worry. Now if you'll let me go...”

He dropped his hands. They walked side by side in silence. Her feet hurt. Her shoulders ached.

“How was the performance?” she asked.

“Excellent. You still have time to see the second act.”

“No thanks. I'm tired.”

“I'll see you back to the hotel.”

Before she could protest, Marco had taken her elbow and was guiding her down the path. She was too tired to make any more conversation; all she could think of was Giovanni. How suave he was, how different from twenty years ago, and yet how much the same. He was always sure of himself, now he was even more so. He always said the right thing at the right time, now his charm had been polished to a fine patina just like his physical appearance. There were no more rough edges, or if there were, they weren't visible to the naked eye.

She tripped on a stone in the dark and Marco grabbed her arm. She'd never admit it, but she was grateful he'd come along. The shoes were tight and uncomfortable and made walking painfully slow. She was even more grateful he hadn't come along sooner and interrupted her brief and precious meeting with Giovanni. If she never saw him again, she wanted to keep the memory of how he looked, and how he'd kissed her hand and told her she was beautiful. She'd have to remember everything to tell Evie.

“How did you like the play?” she asked to break the silence.

“You already asked me that.”

“Oh.”

“Your mind is elsewhere.”

“Yes. It must be the magic of the temples in the moonlight. It's very atmospheric, very romantic. I'm glad I came out.”

“Yes, it must be the temples,” he said. She slanted a glance in his direction, but it was too dark to see if he looked sincere or as caustic as he sounded.

“You should have been there.”

“I'm on vacation. 'Should have' no longer applies to me. I've been doing what I 'should have' for too long. From now on, I'm going to do what I want to do.”

“All right,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “What do you want to do?”

“I don't know,” she said airily. “Maybe dance barefoot in the streets.” It was a safe thing to say. It sounded wild and daring but there was no chance of it happening. The streets were deserted, her feet hurt, and she'd never been much of a dancer. Dan said she had no sense of rhythm. “Isn't that what Italians do?”

“Some do,” he admitted. “My grandmother did. She thinks our generation doesn't dance enough. But then she has no idea what kind of dancing is done these days. I'm sure she'd be shocked to see the gyrations and hear the music. There is a place I know where there's dancing. The traditional kind. The kind even grandmother would like. It's just a short ride away.”

“On your Motoguzzi?” she asked.

“What else?” he said. “If you really want to go.”

Before she knew it, before she’d said yes or no, they were in the parking lot of the ruins. He was holding his leather jacket for her to put on. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as if it was the most natural thing in the world to go for a motorcycle ride in the moonlight with a man who wasn't the man she'd come to Italy to see. Who wasn't the man she'd been dreaming about for twenty years.

If it weren't for the fact that she'd just seen Giovanni and he'd blown her off, as Tim would say, then she might have thought twice about taking off on a motorcycle in the middle of the night. Maybe that was why she was behaving like a woman who'd just escaped from prison, who was taking her first breath of fresh air, who was tasting freedom for the first time. She'd met Giovanni, he'd kissed her and the highlight of her trip to Italy was over. She might embellish it a little when she told Evie. But in her heart she knew that Giovanni had a life, and no room or time for her in his life. It was time she got a life too. As for her vacation, anything else that happened was gravy.

So she threw caution to the winds and jumped on the motorcycle for the second time that day. She knew why she was behaving like an irresponsible, bra-less twenty-something, taking off with a man who was definitely not her type and who she hardly knew, to a place that probably wasn't in the guidebooks. She was rebounding from Giovanni's cavalier treatment of her. Once she'd admitted it to herself, she felt better. She felt liberated. Why shouldn't she dance in the streets or whatever it was that had popped into her mind?

Once again she buried her face in Marco's back as the machine sped forward into the dark night. This time, though her arms were thrust into the sleeves of his jacket, there was only his cotton shirt between her cheek and his back. With the jacket flung wide open, only her thin, body-hugging shirt was between her breasts and his back. This time he wore the helmet and the wind tore through her hair. Her skirt was scrunched up high on her thighs and her silk panties exposed.

 Who cared? It was dark. The road stretched ahead like a ribbon in the moonlight. She could have gone on forever, clinging to a man she scarcely knew, inhaling the wildly masculine scent of his body and trusting him to take her away and bring her back, going with her emotions and not her brain.

Was it wrong? She didn't know or care. All she knew was that the ride was over too soon. The lights of a small town ahead drew close. Marco cut the motor and she could hear the music wafting through the summer air. He pulled up behind a brightly lighted bar, got off and held out a hand to help her get down. Her whole body was trembling from the ride, the vibrations and the smell and the feel of Marco's warm body. She wrapped her arms around her waist and shivered. Despite the leather jacket, without Marco's body welded to hers, she felt cold and alone.

Marco gave Ana Maria a brief glance, but not too brief to notice her breasts outlined against the fabric of her thin shirt. He smoothed her windblown hair with his hand when he really wanted to cover her breasts with his palms and stroke her taut nipples. His whole body was hard. He shouldn't be here. He should be chasing Giovanni. But what for? He'd been behind the temple when Ana Maria gave him the yearbook. He'd hoped to see them exchange money or a famous, historic, valuable diamond or something more valuable than an old book he'd already examined in her room, but it hadn't happened.