Her Italian Millionaire (24 page)

Of course, she was in her room at the hotel. But it wasn't her room. This was his room. Through her narrowed gaze she saw Marco was sprawled in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking miserably uncomfortable. His hair was angled across his forehead, his wrinkled shirt hung loose and unbuttoned. She spent a long moment contemplating his bare chest lined with dark hair.

 His bare feet made him look vulnerable for the first time since she'd first laid eyes on him. She swallowed hard, sat up in bed and stared at him as it all came back. The meeting with Giovanni, the motorcycle ride through the dark streets, the dancing, the music. And last, the ransacked room. And now she was in Marco's room, in his bed, while he slept on a chair. And she was half naked. She found her shirt stuffed under the pillow and tugged it on over her head.

The last thing she remembered was his smoothing lotion on her back. It was all a blur except for the sensations that lingered. The way her whole body had thrummed like a guitar he'd stroked until his strokes became so gentle she'd fallen asleep and slept as if she'd been drugged - soundly, deeply, profoundly.

Another less pleasant memory that nagged at her was her ransacked room and the knowledge that someone was looking for her or something she had, and they weren't doing it in a very nice way.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She had to get out of there, away from whoever it was who'd done this to her. She had to find a safe haven.

“Are you all right?”

Anne Marie's pulse jumped. A second ago he'd been asleep, now Marco was sitting up in his chair, wide awake, his dark eyes alert.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, trying to avoid staring at his chest again, at the expanse of muscle and bronzed skin visible. “I. . .I'm sorry about taking over your bed. You should have made me sleep in the chair. This is your room.”

“I didn't mind,” he said.

“If it's all right with you, I'll use your shower.”

“Be my guest,” he said with a generous wave of his hand.

“Then I'll be on my way.”

“On your way,” he repeated. “To where?”

“I don't know. Somewhere else. Somewhere where I won't stand out, where I can disappear into the crowd, where I feel safe and maybe check into a Hilton. There's got to be a hotel somewhere where this doesn't happen.” She gestured toward her former room next door.

“You wouldn't leave on an empty stomach, would you?” he asked. “Breakfast is included, you know.”

“That's right.” Once she got some coffee she'd be able to think more clearly, be able to make plans calmly and rationally. She'd be able to put the events of yesterday in proportion, if not out of her mind and concentrate on the future. At least her future travel plans. No use in planning too far ahead. No, she wouldn't leave before breakfast.

“And we'll buy you a new bag for your clothes before you go.”

Her gaze fell on the stack of clothes on the table. Instead of the tangle they were in last night, they were now neatly piled. Instead of thanking him once again, over and over, she wrapped her arms around her waist and headed for the bathroom.

“Ana Maria?”

She turned. Marco was standing at the door, so impossibly sexy in a rumpled way, it hurt her eyes to look at him. “I'll go out for a while, to give you a chance to get ready.”

She nodded. What more was there to say except thank you, again and again?

“Lock the door behind me,” he said.

After she'd dutifully locked the door, she noticed his leather jacket on the back of the chair he'd slept in. She picked it up to inhale the intoxicating smell of the leather and the smell of Marco, and an envelope fell out of the pocket.

It was addressed to her and had been slit open. Where it had come from, and why it was in Marco's pocket? She read the brief message written in Giovanni's fine handwriting. Memories of his post cards written in that same slanted script that arrived after he'd left town before graduation came rushing back. How excited she'd been. How she'd saved them all in her scrapbook.

“It was so good to see you, my dear Ana Maria. I am sorry I could not spend more time with you. You mentioned going to Rome. Please call me when you arrive at the number below.
Ciao and Buon Viaggio.”

Another chance to see him; to wrap up a chapter in her life with a little more satisfaction than she had last night. But should she go? Should she call him? Did he really want to see her or was he just being polite, trying to make up for last night when he'd effectively blown her off?

Marco sat at a small table on the patio with a cup of strong black coffee in front of him, smoking a cigarette. He was going to quit, but not now, not today. He reached for his cell phone and the minute he switched it on, it rang.

“Where are you?” his grandmother asked. “Rocco said you went on the boat with the American girl.”

“That's right,” he said. “We're in Paestum.”

“'We,”  she said. He could hear the surprise and almost glee in her voice.

He decided to ignore it. What good would it do to deny any personal interest in Ana Maria? To proclaim that this was all in the line of duty, or that he'd accidentally been prevented from getting off the boat in time? His grandmother would believe what she wanted to believe. And she wanted to believe there was something romantic going on between him and Ana Maria. He could picture Nonna now, sitting in her kitchen, something simmering on the stove, a
torta
in the oven and a smile on her face, her eyes bright and hopeful. But she didn't start in on her usual harangue; she had other matters on her mind.

“Marco, I'm worried,” she said. “I have had a call from your sister in Rome.”

“With good news, I hope,” he said. They kept expecting her to say she'd had enough of convent life, that she was returning home to take up a job and find a husband.

“Some good news. She has put off indefinitely taking her vows.”

“Good.”

“But here is the bad news. She says she has heard from Giovanni. He's going to Rome to see her next week.”

“What?” Marco gripped his cup so tightly he was afraid it might break.

“I don't know what it means,” Nonna said. He could tell she was worried. “If she's putting off the vows because of Giovanni or...”

“It doesn't mean anything good,” Marco muttered.

“I thought perhaps you -”

“She doesn't want me interfering in her life. She made that very clear. Does she know that you were going to tell me?” Marco asked.

“Well...”

“In fact, she told you not to tell me, didn't she?”

“Marco, I can't let her ruin her life. Hasn't that man done enough to her already?” Nonna said.

He couldn't agree more, but the last time he'd tried to save her from Giovanni had been a disaster.

“What can I do, really? What can anyone do? She's an adult. She makes her own decisions,” he said.

“You can go there. You don't need to make a scene or make any demands. Just a friendly visit from brother to sister.”

“She doesn't want to see me.” They'd parted on acrimonious terms, arguing and yelling, just as they'd done over trivial things over the years.

“Of course she does. She's just too stubborn to admit it. Don't tell me you're too stubborn to try?”

“Call it what you will, I won't go to the convent and play the role of the big brother any more. I gave her my advice once. She didn't take it then. She won't take it now.”

“Please. Just think about it.”

“Nonna. I'm working. I know I don't appear to be, but I am.”

“Working? With a
molto bella
woman and the wildflowers and the temples and...”

“How does Isabella sound?” he interrupted. “Do you think she really plans to see him, after all he's done to her?”

“She sounded unsure. She sounded happy and sad at the same time. I'm worried. I don't want her to become a nun, but on the other hand, there are worse things.”

 And the worst of the worse things - was Giovanni. He caught sight of Ana Maria just then, walking gracefully toward him in Isabella's shoes and a pair of tight-fitting designer blue jeans and a black shirt that was stretched tightly over her breasts. The enticing mixture of her American body in Italian clothes caused him to lose his train of thought.

“I must go now, Nonna. I'll call you later.” He stuffed the phone in his pocket and smashed his cigarette into the ground with his heel.

“Sit down,” he invited Ana Maria, and poured her a cup of coffee from the pot on the table. He pushed a plate of pastries toward her and was pleased to see her take one and bite into it hungrily. He was afraid the events of the night before might have affected her appetite. Though she'd slept well, better than he had. Why shouldn't she? She had the bed, he had the chair.

The fragrance of the coffee mingled with the faint scent of her skin and hair. The sun picked up red highlights in her short hair, and a feeling of well-being washed over him. It was purely irrational. Everything possible was going wrong. If Giovanni hadn't ransacked her room, then someone else had - either one of his men or a rival. Had they found what they were looking for? He doubted it. If they'd found something he hadn't, he'd better give up undercover work. Marco shoved those thoughts aside, leaned back in his chair, put his sunglasses on, and watched her while she ate.

 If only life could be this simple. Having breakfast in the company of an attractive, intelligent woman, warm sunshine, birds twittering in the trees above, and a good cup of coffee. What more could a person want?

Suddenly he realized she was wearing a ring. Not her wedding ring, but a ring with a large stone. The kind of ring that could be used to conceal a diamond, if one wanted to. He felt like he'd been hit over the head with a piece of granite from the quarry behind San Gervase. Where had the ring come from? Why hadn't he noticed it before? He bit his tongue to keep from exclaiming or accusing her.

After a long moment, when she realized he was staring at her behind his glasses, Ana Maria stopped chewing and set her cup down.

“What?”

“Nothing. I'm just trying to follow my own advice and live for the moment, eat the fruit when it's ripe and not worry about tomorrow.” But he had to ask. “By the way, where did you get that ring?”

She brushed the crumbs from her mouth. “On the street,” she said.

“On the street? You found it lying on the street?” he asked.

“No, I bought it yesterday from a street seller in Paestum. Do you like it?”

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. He rubbed her palm with his thumb. Then he studied the large amber stone. “How much did you pay for it?”

“I don't remember. Not much. Why, does it look cheap?”

She sounded so innocent. Too innocent. Though he'd seen many photos of concealed stones, he couldn't be sure this was one of them. Maybe she had “bought” it from a street seller, or maybe it had been handed off to her by someone.