Her Italian Millionaire (26 page)

This wasn't the way she'd imagined her tour would be, but something had happened in the last few days. Marco, not Giovanni was the epitome of the man she'd hoped she'd find here. Could she trust him? Maybe not. Did she know him? Not very well. Was she going to Rome with him? Absolutely. She'd be crazy to turn down the opportunity.

She paid him a ridiculously small amount for the sandals and for a leather valise he'd also bought for her. When she protested, he explained that leather was a good buy in Italy.

Soon now she was on her way to Rome with a man any red-blooded woman would give her right arm for, a man who was sometimes hard to understand, always unpredictable, and often downright disturbing. With the wind in her hair, the sun on her bare arms, and the disturbing events of the night before becoming a dim memory in the bright sunshine, she was so happy she laughed out loud.

Marco turned his head in her direction and smiled at her. Her heart raced right along with the Lancia's engine, and when he reached over and put his hand on her thigh, she felt like the wind had sucked the breath right out of her lungs.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” he asked, putting his hand back on the wheel.

“My friend Evie. The one who you talked to that night in San Gervase.”

“You are old friends?”

“We went to high school together, but I didn't really know her then. She was in a different crowd than mine. The popular crowd, from the ritzy side of town. I've just gotten to know her recently.”

“I see. Was she in love with Giovanni too?”

“Too? Did I say I was in love with him?”

“You didn't have to. I could tell by the look on your face.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You're wrong. I had a crush on him in high school, but I'm much too old for that kind of thing now.”

“Too old to fall in love?” He sounded surprised.

“Wait a minute. I thought you didn't believe in love.”

“I don't, but you do.”

“Once was enough. Oh, it's exciting at first. The chills and the thrills. It's what comes afterward that's so hard. I used to believe in forever after. Obviously I don't now; I've learned my lesson. You sounded so surprised. Are you suddenly some kind of romantic?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not me. I could have told you love was an illusion. But you, being a woman, wouldn't have listened. You had to find out for yourself. You've been disappointed, and I'm sorry.” He did look sincerely sorry for her.

“Disappointed?” Her voice rose. She didn't want his pity and she felt compelled to set the record straight. “Yes, you could say I was disappointed. I told you I felt like a failure.”

“Felt,” he repeated. “Does that mean you don't feel like that anymore?”

She hesitated. “I don't know. I do know I thought I had a happy marriage. I thought we would grow old together, watch our grandchildren grow up, learn to play golf together, plant some rose bushes, have time to remodel the house...whatever.”

“And now?”

“Now I'm in Italy. I'm in a beautiful car I've never been in before, passing scenery I've never seen before, wearing clothes that aren't mine.” Sitting next to the sexiest man I've never met, a man I hadn't known existed, never dreamed could exist. She looked down at her snug-fitting jeans pulled tight against her thighs, wondering who she was fooling. Inside she was still the same straight-laced librarian, the same dumped, divorced, disappointed woman she was when she'd left California - wasn't she? Or were those feelings of failure receding with every passing day? With every touch, every look, every kiss from this man she didn't know?

She sneaked another look at Marco's profile, at his high cheekbones, at his hair windblown across his forehead. When he turned and their eyes locked and held for a brief moment, her pulse quickened, and she knew she was not the same woman who'd left California only days ago.

That woman never looked at men. Not the way she was looking at Marco. That woman never felt sexy or wildly feminine, the way Marco made her feel. Somewhere between there and here she'd left that woman behind, standing on a corner somewhere wearing clothes that were practical and sensible, but could never ever be called provocative or glamorous or even stylish.

“Then I was wrong,” he said. “You're not in love with Giovanni.”

“Of course not; we're just friends. At least I hope we are. You read the note he sent me.”

“I'm sorry about not giving it to you.”

“But not about reading it?”

 She wished she didn't sound so prim, but he seemed to bring out that side in her. Except when he was bringing out the other side, the wild, wanton side of her. No wonder she was having an identity crisis. It wasn't just the clothes or the hair; it was him. It was the way he made her feel.

 He slanted a provocative glance in her direction. “Haven't you ever given in to temptation? Or are you too old for that kind of thing too?”

“I don't think we know each other well enough to be having this conversation.”

“Then let's talk about your friend Giovanni.”

“Why are you so interested in him?”

“I have a few questions I'd like to ask him.”

“Write them down. I'll ask him for you when I see him.”

“I have an idea. I'll go with you. We'll have a get-together, the three of us.”

“He might not like that.”

“I'm sure he wouldn't.” He paused. “So Giovanni was a big hit in America?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone at my high school was in love with him.”

“Even your friend Evie?”

“Evie? Oh, no!”

“What's the matter?”

“The candy. Evie's cousin's candy! I left it at the hotel.”

“We'll buy her some along the way.”

“No, it's a special kind. It's Nob Hill candy, made by hand on Nob Hill in San Francisco. They've been making it there for over one hundred years. We have to go back.”

He put his foot on the brake and the car screeched to a stop. He turned around and headed back to Paestum.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

He didn't speak for a long time. She felt terrible making him turn around, and she tried to think of something to say to break the silence.

“Don't you know anyone who's happily married?” she asked at last.

He shook his head.

“I do. I have several friends who are.”

“How do you know?” he asked curiously.

“I guess...I guess no one really does know. Why do you ask?”

“I ran into an old friend on the boat who's gotten engaged. He said he was dreading marriage. He was feeling trapped.”

“Then why marry?”

“I don't know. Maybe he thinks he's in love.”

“What about your grandparents? I thought you said...”

“I said they were married for fifty years. For them it worked. For Antonio and Bianca it might work. But you have to believe. I don't. For me it wouldn't work. I know myself.”

“I admit I don't know you very well, Marco, but I saw you with your grandmother at her house, in her kitchen, and I know that you love her very much. So don't tell me love doesn't exist.”

“That's different,” he said shortly.

She shook her head. It wasn't different. He was a tough man, but he was capable of love, whether he believed in it or not. “Tell me,” she said. “Don't you ever get lonely?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly, keeping his eyes on the road.

She studied his face once again, knowing he wasn't likely to acknowledge love or being lonely, not to her.

“Do you?” he asked.

“Yes. Ever since Dan left, I've been the odd man out. I liked being part of a couple, I liked being married. I liked knowing someone was waiting for me to come home, that someone thought about me and brought me little presents, flowers or candy sometimes. That I came first in his life. Of course, I was wrong.” Her lower lip quivered for a moment as she thought of just how wrong she'd been. How duped, how betrayed, how stupid.

“You're not going to cry again, are you?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“No.” She clamped her back teeth together.

“Let's change the subject,” he said. “What else did you like about marriage? Did you like sex?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her tears forgotten. He had a way of shocking her, of making her see things from a different perspective. A male perspective. A very macho male perspective.

“I'm not going to answer that,” she said, her lips stiff.

“By not answering it, you are answering it,” he said.

“All right, then,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm, staring at the road ahead. “We didn't have sex that often. In retrospect, maybe that's something I should have done something about. Only I didn't know what to do. I thought that's the way it was after twenty years of marriage. No surprises, just...just comfortable sex. Predictable sex. Once-a-week or maybe once-a-month sex.” When he didn't say anything, she swiveled her head in his direction. “Is there something wrong with that?” She shook her head. “Never mind, I know the answer. There was something wrong or I'd still be married.”

“Maybe you didn't want to still be married.”

“Of course I did. I told you I loved being married.”

“Maybe you didn't want to be married to him.”

“We'd been together for over twenty years. You don't just throw over something like that because your sex life is predictable or boring.”

“So you found it boring.”

“I found it comfortable. That's different.”

“If you say so,” he said.

“I do say so.” She looked out the window. She'd never discussed her lackluster sex life with anyone, not Evie, not any of her other girlfriends, and she had no intention of discussing it with some Italian man who probably had sex every day and twice on Sunday, with a woman like his girlfriend from the restaurant or one of the women who supposedly paid him to show them the sights of his country. So why had she let him drag her into that discussion?

“What about you?” she asked boldly. Why should she be the only one put on the spot? “How do you like sex?”

He flicked an amused glance in her direction. If he was shocked by her frankness, he didn't let it show.

“Of course,” she continued, “You're an Italian male. I don't know why I should even ask.”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “That's right, we're all alike, amoral, sexually obsessed, shallow, and after only one thing - the conquest.” He sounded annoyed and disappointed. “I thought you were too smart to put people into niches.”