Her Italian Millionaire (25 page)

“Cheap? No, it's fine.” He stared at it, as if by concentrating he could see if there was a diamond hidden under the amber stone. He imagined its fiery brilliance. He pictured the many facets, the smoldering fire of its intense yellow color. He stared at it so long his vision blurred.

“It doesn't matter,” she said a little too casually. “I liked it so I bought it. It covers that white ring around my finger that you noticed. I prefer not to announce to the world that I'm divorced.”

“That bothers you, doesn't it?” he said.

“Yes, it bothers me. It means that I failed at the most important thing I've ever done.”

“I don't believe that,” he said.

“I don't expect you to. You've never been married. If you had...”

“If I'd been married to you -”

“Then you would have left me for a younger, prettier, more exciting woman.”

“Not every man is looking for a younger woman.”

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“I'm not looking.”

“But if you were.”

“An honest woman,” he said. “Someone with integrity. Someone I can trust. Someone who doesn't play games or carry a lot of baggage.”

“Baggage?” she said, and she laughed. It was the sound of a bubbling brook, and it struck him like a fresh breeze on a warm late summer morning.

“With you, I don't see how any woman could carry much baggage. Since I met you, my baggage has been smashed and dumped until I'm reduced to a pile of clothing which, while beautiful, isn't my own. As for honesty, I think you get what you deserve. If you're honest with a woman, she'll be honest with you, and if you don't play games...”

“Yes, I understand. But, fortunately I am not looking for a woman at all.”

“Well, good,” she said. She drained her coffee cup, reached into her bag and pulled out the letter from Giovanni. “Speaking of honesty, where did this letter come from and why didn't you tell about it?” she said.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot. The night clerk gave it to me. I meant to give it to you, but when we found your room had been ransacked...I forgot.”

“You opened it,” she said.

“Just to see if it was urgent, after you fell asleep.” Damn, why had he forgotten to tell her? Or simply disposed of it?

“It's important to me. If I want to see Giovanni again.”

“Again?” he asked.

“I saw him last night.”

“I see.”

“He's an old friend. We only had a few minutes together last night, which you probably guessed. It would be good to see him again.”

Marco sighed. What was it with Giovanni and women? They didn't seem able to resist him. But in this case it was Giovanni who had obviously not gotten what he wanted from Ana Maria. Unless he really just wanted to see her again. Marco could understand that. She was a special woman. She might not be honest, she might have baggage of the emotional kind, she might not be as young as her husband wanted, but she was different from any woman he'd ever known. She was warm and open and so incredibly desirable that he forgot everything he was supposed to remember about her when he touched her or when she looked at him with those incredibly expressive blue eyes. Maybe Giovanni felt the same way. Though why would he contact Isabella, then?

“Then I suppose you will be going to Rome,” he said.

“I was always going to Rome.”

“What a coincidence. I'm going there, too. I'm going to rent a car and drive there. Since I didn't get a chance to show you around the ruins here, let me do it there. I want to prove to you that I'm a good guide and I can even get my dates right. The coliseum, two-thousand years old. The church of San Pietro, fifth century, the forum...”

“I know how old the monuments are,” she said, “and what I want to see. I have a guide book.”

“A book is no substitute for a real guide,” he said flatly in a tone that brooked no dispute. “I'm going to rent a car and we'll buy you some new baggage for your clothes so you can pack up.”

“And some shoes. I can't walk in these another day,” she said, removing his sister's high heels. “Maybe that's what the fortune teller meant about walking in my slippers. If I only had a pair of slippers, I'd wear them.”

 “I'm going to get the car. Don't talk to strangers and don't get into any cars, no matter what the driver says. Is that clear?” he said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand for emphasis.

Without waiting for an answer, he left her at the table and went to return his borrowed motorcycle and exchange it for a rental car. He also had to call his office and give them an update on Giovanni and the missing stone. Maybe Silvestro would have some news for him.

Barefoot, with shoes in hand, Anne Marie went to find a quiet table in the corner of the glassed-in part of the café to call her best friend. She had to tell Evie about Giovanni, what little there was to tell, and find out more about Dan's aborted wedding.

Glad she’d opted for the overseas cell-phone option, she punched in Evie's number with the country code.

“Anne Marie, how are you, what's happened? Did you call my cousin yet?”

“I haven't had a chance.”

“Why, what are you doing?”

“Just...traveling around, seeing things. I'm visiting a very interesting archeological site right now.”

“Have you seen Giovanni yet?”

“Yes, last night.”

“Did you give him the yearbook?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He just said thank you.”

“How did he look?”

“He looks great, almost like a movie star, suave and well-dressed. He's obviously doing very well.”

“Uh huh. When will you be in Rome?”

“We're heading there today.”

“We? Who's we?”

“Just someone who's giving me a ride.”

“Anne Marie, don't accept rides from strangers. Especially Italian strangers. It's not safe.”

Good lord, she was as bad as Marco. But it was easier to agree with Evie than to argue with her, because she always won. “Okay, so tell me more about Dan. Did Brandy really stand him up?”

“Not only that...”

While Evie was in the middle of the details of the break-up, there was a loud banging on the glass from the other side of the terrace. Anne Marie jumped up, clutched the phone in her hand and whirled around.

Marco's face was inches away from her. He was holding a pair of women's sandals in his hand at eye level. His mouth was moving but she couldn't hear what he was saying with Evie talking in her ear.

“Got to go, Evie,” she interrupted. “I'll call you later.”

“Wait. Where are you staying in Rome? I want to get your number. I'm going to call my cousin and tell her you're on your way. She'll help you find a place to stay, introduce you to her friends, and…”

Anne Marie hung up as Marco's knocking became louder and his expression more intense. She didn't really want to hear any more about Dan, and she didn't want Evie's cousin to take her under her wing.

The contrast between her old life and her new life, however temporary, was never clearer. Here she was, standing barefoot in a sidewalk café in a remote corner of a foreign country with the sexiest man she'd ever known waiting for her with a pair of leather sandals in his hand. While thousands of miles away, life continued as it had for the past decades. It was getting harder and harder to remember who she was back there.

She wished Evie could see her in her Italian jeans and snug-fitting shirt, clothes a forty-something librarian would never be caught dead in in that other world. She'd probably be fired for wearing Isabella's clothes to work in Oakville. Or at least cause a few stares at the Friends of the Library book sale.

She held up her hand to indicate she’d seen and heard Marco and wished even more that Evie could see Marco. If she'd thought Giovanni was handsome, and everyone in Oakville had, what would she think of Marco, his narrow hips in black jeans, broad shoulders in a dark blue shirt and his soulful eyes regarding her intently? No one had ever looked at her that way before. No one had ever given her a sensual massage like he did last night. No one had ever danced with her the way he had or kissed like he did. He was so good at it. Maybe too good. She hadn't known a man could be so tender and so tough at the same time. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. What was she doing, reliving every minute of last night like that?

She walked outside where he was waiting for her and suddenly there was no glass between them. Nothing between them but the sweet warm air, charged with positive ions. She wanted to throw her arms around him and breathe in the clean, male scent of him. She didn't. Instead, she sat on the edge of a low stone wall, slipped the new sandals on, and told him they fit perfectly.

“Where did you get them?”

“At a shop in town,” Marco said.

“How did you know what size I was?” She asked.

“I observed your feet last night,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

She wondered what else he'd observed when he'd been applying lotion to her bare back, and loosening her clothes for her the night back in San Gervase, when she drank too much wine.

“Did you find a car?” she asked, trying to wipe away the erotic images.

He pointed to an ivory-colored touring car at the curb with the top down. “It was all they had.”

“It's beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”

“An old Lancia. A classic. They didn't want to rent it, but I said I'd take good care of it and return it in good condition. It should get us to Rome, even taking the scenic route.”

“Are we taking the scenic route?”

“It's the only way to see Italy. Of course it will take longer, but I strongly recommend it. If that's what you want.”

“Of course I do, that's why I'm here. To see the country and meet the people.” On the other hand, touring the country in a gorgeous classic car with a man she scarcely knew was not very cautious. He could pull off the road and rob her blind and dump her body in an old catacomb, and no one would ever find her. There'd be enough air for her to last a few days during which she'd draw on the walls with a sharp stone - beautiful, primitive images of animals. When tourists visited the site years from now they'd be told the etchings were from prehistoric times. Her bones would be piled in a corner for the tourists to gawk at and archeologists would use them to carbon date her life. How surprised they'd be if they knew she was a literate, educated woman who just had a talent for crude, simple art work and a weakness for mysterious, sexy Italian men.

On the other hand, why would Marco rob her when she had nothing left to take? If he was going to do it, he'd had many opportunities already, yet he was still taking care of her. Still bothering her, still mystifying her...