Her Italian Millionaire (3 page)

“Marco,” the man said. “Marco Moretti.” He glanced down at the book in her hand. “Are you interested in archeology?”

“Yes.”

“Don't miss the Greek temples at Paestum.”

“I won't.” She said briskly. She didn't know quite how to end this awkward conversation. Thank you didn't seem quite appropriate. He might say, for what? How about good-bye?
Arrivederci
? She understood
Ciao
was too familiar unless an Italian said it first.

So she turned without saying anything and went to the desk to collect her key. The clerk handed it to her, along with a large square white envelope. Where had it come from? No one had come through the lobby since she'd been there. She shot the clerk an inquisitive glance, but he gave her a blank look. She felt Marco Moretti's eyes on her back and slipped the envelope between the pages of her guide book.

“Ana Maria?” Marco said.

She turned. The way he said her name sent shivers up her spine, reminding her of Italian lessons and the romantic sound of the overture to La Boheme she used to play over and over after Giovanni left and went back to Italy. But how did he know her name? Maybe from the hotel clerk?

“When you visit the ruins,” he said, “you will surely need a guide. Someone who speaks English.”

“I have a book,” she said, and held it up. The envelope slipped out onto the polished marble floor. Before she could bend down, Marco had retrieved it and handed it to her with narrowed eyes. His fingers brushed hers, and she felt an electric shock zing through her body. She bit her lip to keep from gasping. He was so close she could see that his  eyes were a light brown flecked with green. She stepped back. She'd read somewhere that southern Europeans had a different concept of personal space, and this man surely did. He was too close. Much too close. Even in this cool lobby, she could feel the heat from his body. She stepped back again until she bumped into the front desk.

Marco was observing her as intently as she was him, and she felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. His gaze dropped to the letter with her name scrawled on the outside of the envelope, and she held it tightly, half afraid he might try to take it from her. But why? Why would he care?

“The book is not enough,” he said. “If you decide to go to Paestum, and you must go if you have come this far, you will need someone to explain it all to you. The story behind the history, the art and the architecture. I know things that are not in the book.”

I'll bet you do.
There was no getting around it; he was definitely the kind of Italian man mothers warned their daughters about. How many women had he given personal tour to and lived to tell the tale?

She had an uncontrollable desire to test him. To see how far he’d go. “Such as?” she said.

He stared at her.

“You said you know things that are not in the book.” She held up the book. “What are they?”

He hesitated only a moment, his eyes gleaming. “Such as which are the real Greek paintings in the museum and which are the Roman copies. Unless one is an expert, one can't tell.”

“And you are an expert?”

“In some things. I am Italian,” he said with a shrug. As if that explained everything.

She didn't want this very attractive Italian shadowing her around the museum, leaning over her shoulder, his sexy voice in her ear, explaining the paintings. That's what Giovanni was going to do. That's what he'd promised to do so long ago back in California.

She gave Marco a brief, polite smile. “I'm sure you're a wonderful guide,” she said.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Are you?” he asked.

She blushed. She was just trying to be polite.

“If I decide to hire a guide, I'll keep you in mind.” Keep him in mind? How was she going to get him out of her mind? He was attractive in a rugged way, with a warm, deep voice that made her skin tingle all over. He had an air of mystery about him that was partly bothersome and partly intriguing and all-Italian. If only Giovanni would walk in now, that would solve all her problems. This guy could very well be some kind of jewel thief who hit on American tourists. Not that she had any jewels worth stealing, but  still. Giovanni would say a few choice words in Italian, the kind in the chapter on Elementary Put-Downs and Swear Words, and the man would disappear as fast as he'd appeared.

“I'm not talking about money,” he said, looking offended. “I would take you because I love the temples. I want to share what I know and you and I have much in common.”

“What is that?” she asked skeptically.

“A love of the ancient world. An interest in antiquity.”

“Yes, well, my friend Giovanni loves them too, and I can't make any plans until I see him. He's the one who told me about the temples and the statues and...and...” And the music and the paintings and so much more.

“A shame he hasn't shown up. Do you know him well?”

“Yes, but it was a long time ago. He was an exchange student at my high school, the star of our soccer team,” Anne Marie said. “And he made the honor roll. Everyone admired him.” Now what made her go on about Giovanni? What business was it of his what her connection to Giovanni was?

“And the girls, did they all fall in love with him there?” he asked with a slight smile.

Anne Marie felt the heat rush to her face again. Really, she had half a mind to refuse to answer. But for some reason, she did. “I suppose some did. He made the other boys seem so young and so immature.”

“Did he,” Marco said, his voice flat.

She nodded, then she realized she'd said more than she intended. Much more. It was time to put a stop to this inappropirate conversation. Maybe it was because she'd been traveling alone with no one to talk to; suddenly her brain and her mouth were working overtime. “Well thanks,” she said and turned and headed for the stairs.

 Instead of fading away out the door, Marco was right behind her, his footsteps practically on her heels. Her heart pounded. What did he want with her? The letter? Her money? Her forty-something-year-old body? Not likely. Whatever it was, she was not giving it to him. Not without a struggle.

At the top of the landing she whirled around and faced him head-on. Her face was flushed and she was gasping for air.

“What do you want?” she demanded.