Her Italian Millionaire (22 page)

What had happened afterwards had caught him off guard. He'd watched while Giovanni slit open the book's binding, shook the book, and pulled out a scrap of paper. Giovanni had read the message, swore loudly, tossed the paper on the ground and stalked off in obvious disgust.

Marco burst out of the shadows, picked up the crumpled paper and read the note. It said simply, “Gotcha.”

Marco didn't know much American slang, but he got the message. There was nothing of value in the book, and Ana Maria or whoever sent the book had the upper hand. But why? Was it a double-cross?

 As for Marco, he could only congratulate himself for not jumping the gun and arresting the man for receiving a twenty-year-old souvenir. Unless she'd slipped him something else in the dark. He didn't think she had, but she was cagey. She'd lied to him and he couldn't trust her.

What would Giovanni do now, knowing that Anne Marie hadn't delivered the goods and had even rubbed it in his face? Marco assumed it was Giovanni who'd sent the limo driver to pick her up. The idea was to get the diamond which he thought was in her suitcase. When the driver saw it wasn't really her suitcase, he dumped her. Giovanni must be back out there looking for the jewel. Giovanni must be mad as hell. Marco tried to think like him, to plan like him. But he wasn't in the mood to think like anybody, not even himself tonight. He'd done what he could. Now he wanted to let the rest of the evening unroll by itself, to sit back and watch what would happen.

Mostly he wanted to watch her. He wasn't prepared for her. He didn't know she'd affect him like this. He didn't know what she'd do next. She was flushed and windblown. Flushed with triumph or something else? He preferred to think she was just an American tourist with no other agenda than to see the country. Just another American in Italian clothes with her hand in his, so warm, so vulnerable, so ripe and yet so unconscious of her sexuality at the same time.

Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did something to surprise him. But was she working with Giovanni or against him? Was she working for someone else or for herself? He was tired of wondering, of worrying and of thinking.

If he was tired of this game, she was too. She was tired of being rescued. He saw the irritation on her face when he found her on the road, encountered her in the dining room and then on the path tonight. Even on the road, she could have walked back to town if he hadn't shown up. So from now on, he'd no longer be the white knight. He'd be the classic, sweet-talking, seductive Italian lover.

He leaned down to brush his lips against her ear as they walked into the noisy bar and a whiff of flowers and spice hit him where he was most vulnerable.

“There is dancing, but it's not in the street. I'm sorry.”

She nodded and looked around. He couldn't tear his gaze from her face. For a jewel thief, she ought to be able to hide her feelings better. Her eyes were lit up and her lips curved in a smile at the sound of the keyboard and the singer in a white dress shirt with the gold chains around his neck. He was actually singing in English, an Enrique Iglesias song called “I Will Survive.” So much for tradition.

“Do you like it?” he asked. He didn't only mean the song, he meant the whole place, the patrons, the peeling paint on the walls, the blue-collar ambience.

“I love it,” she said. “It's so...so...cheesy.”

“I know that word,” he said. “Rocco told me it means...not good, right?” he asked.

“Usually. But tonight it's good. Very good. Just what I needed.” She smiled at him, her eyes gleaming. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He smiled back and a hard knot in his chest he didn't even know was there dissolved. This was not good. Not good at all. Not when the other part of his body was hard when it shouldn't be. He was not going to make love to this woman or any woman until Giovanni was out of the way.

He stood there in the middle of the bar, music blaring, patrons laughing and talking, and he didn't hear a sound. His gaze held hers for a long, long minute while he forgot about the past and the future. Live for the moment. Eat the fruit when it's ripe. Make love, not war.

Everything she was thinking was mirrored in her eyes. There was longing there, indecision, and fear of the unknown. There was sexual awareness, too. She knew he wanted her. But he knew she'd been let down tonight and was looking for something she'd missed. Something she'd been awaiting for a long time. She looked incredibly sexy tonight, and he knew why. She had dressed for Giovanni. And he'd never played second best to Giovanni.

 He was marginally aware that the song had ended and an old man with an accordion was playing a tarantella. He'd been around women all his life. He'd had numerous affairs. He recognized the look in Ana Maria's luminous blue eyes. She wanted to make love tonight. But his job description said nothing about taking her to bed, even though he wanted her so badly at this moment that he ached. She eased herself onto a bar stool and swung her long, lovely legs back and forth restlessly.

“You said you wanted to dance,” he said gruffly.

She looked down at her high heels and made a face. He reached down and took her shoes off, running his hand under her bare arch, lightly caressing her toes. If they were alone, he'd do more than that. He'd run his hands up the inside of her legs, behind her knees, and all the way along her thighs. Then he'd slide his hands under her shirt and cup her breasts. He could not keep his eyes from her form-hugging shirt, from her nipples that teased and tantalized him. When he touched them, he wanted to watch her face. He wanted to hear her sigh and moan. He wanted to be the one to show her what it was all about. Maybe she knew. Maybe she didn't. She had an innocent look about her that told him there were things she didn't know.

But it wasn't going to happen, unless, of course, it brought him closer to catching Giovanni. Unless it caused her to tell him something he didn't know. Like what was Giovanni there for? What did she really have for him? When would she give it to him and where was it? He couldn't let her out of his sight again. When he did, disaster struck. A stranger took her for a ride and dumped her on the road. Even when Marco was a few yards away, Giovanni showed up and took his yearbook and there wasn't a damn thing he could do.

He shoved these thoughts to the side, then he stood and held out his hand.

She slid off the stool into his arms and electricity crackled as he pulled her close. Every curve, every bone, every muscle in her body seemed a perfect match. Her head fit between his shoulder and his chin. Her hair brushed his cheek and sent waves of her elusive fragrance to blanket his senses. Despite the accordion music, the clapping in time to the syncopation, he could hear her heart beating. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it so badly, he thought he did. It took him a few minutes to realize this wasn't a slow song. Everyone else was dancing in a circle.

She hooked her arm in his and they got pulled into the circle of dancers. A lone dancer went into the circle and danced by himself. Not professionally, not even very gracefully, but with verve and enthusiasm, egged on by the shouts and applause of the others. Marco found himself smiling and shouting encouragement. He'd always avoided this type of place, but tonight, with Ana Maria's hand in his, her face beaming, her eyes glowing, he fell into it as if he'd been going to bars like this all his life, when in truth he felt as much an outsider as she must.

On the sidelines there were people eating a late dinner, drinking wine and eating plates of pasta. Now and then they would leave their tables and join the dancing, then go back to their food and wine.

Two old men went to the center of the circle and did a kind of a Russian dance, facing each other and kicking their legs out straight ahead of them, trying to see who could outlast the other. Ana Maria was clapping and laughing, and he smiled. He wanted to think it was partly his own effect on her, but maybe he had no effect on her. Or not enough.

When it was over, the dancers dispersed and he found a small table for them. She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“I'm having such a good time,” she said.

“I know.”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“My pleasure,” he said. Too much pleasure. He shouldn't be enjoying himself so much; this was work.

“How did you know about this place?”

“It's well known among the locals, but I haven't been here for years.”

“Did you bring her here, your girlfriend?”

“Adrianna? Oh, no. It's not her kind of place. She prefers something more...how do you say...”

“Classy, sophisticated?”

“Yes. Less cheesy, as you say. This is not a place to bring your girlfriend unless...”

She waited, her eyes wide, her gaze unwavering, for him to finish the sentence and say.... Unless you're planning to seduce her. Unless she's American and you hope the music and the atmosphere will put her in the mood for the kind of sex you've been thinking about, fantasizing about, part earthy, part sublime. Sex with an Italian man she's never going to see again. Was she already halfway there? Three-quarters?

Whatever was in her past, a bad marriage, bad sex, or no sex, he wanted to give her something to remember about Italy. Though when she found out who he was and who he worked for, she'd want to forget him as quickly as possible, whether she was guilty or not. For him, it would just be another brief affair. For as soon as she learned he was after her old boyfriend, she'd never want to see him again.

“Unless...” she prompted.

“Unless she is like you.”

“Like me? What am I like?” she asked, her gaze a little anxious.

“Ah, Ana Maria,” he said. “You are like no one I've ever known.”

“Is that good?”

“No, it's very bad.” He stood and held out his hands and pulled her to her feet. Someone was playing a slow song on an electronic keyboard, and he seized the excuse to take her again in his arms and hold her tight against him. This time the musicians cooperated.

They swayed to the music which happened to be, for some reason, the Italian wedding song. The thin fabric of her shirt teased and tantalized him, leaving just enough to his imagination to drive him crazy. As if he needed any more reason to lose his mind and his cool. He couldn't get enough of the scent of her hair and her skin and he wondered how long he could hold out. How long before he could suggest they get back on the motorcycle and go to the hotel and up the stairs to her room.

He stopped asking himself what was wrong with him, and just gave in to the sensations. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe it had been so long since something was right, he didn't recognize it.

He kissed the tender spot behind her ear and he felt her shudder. She tilted her head to one side and he kissed her temple; then his tongue traced the outline of her lips. She closed her eyes and parted her lips, inviting him to join with her in yet another dance. When her tongue met his, everything, the music, the bar, the patrons were all forgotten. It was just the two of them, alone, locked in space. He let one hand drift down to the small of her back and he pressed her closer against his erection. If there'd been any doubt before, there was no way she couldn't know how much he wanted her. He could feel her heart thudding wildly against his chest. She pulled back and caught her breath.

“Have you had enough?” he murmured in her ear.

She shook her head. Her eyes were still closed. She rested her chin on his shoulder and murmured in his ear. “Not yet.”

“I mean enough of the bar.”

She opened her eyes and he saw the answer he was looking for in her heated gaze.

The ride back in the moonlight took twice as long as it should have. Her bare legs were wrapped around him, her skirt riding up so high it was as if she wasn't wearing one, her breasts pasted against his back, her face pressed into his shirt. He thought the ride would never end. His jaw was clenched in frustration as he pushed the engine to its limit until he saw the lights of Paestum. The hotel was quiet. There was a light in the office, and the night clerk waved to them. He was holding an envelope in his hand. Marco opened the door and took it. It was addressed to Ana Maria and his gut wrenched when he recognized the handwriting. With his back to her, he stuffed it in his pocket.