Her Italian Millionaire (36 page)

He had no idea what to expect today. He didn't want Ana Maria to witness another fight between his sister and himself.

The nun who answered the bell gave them an angelic smile and told them she had a room for la signora, “
con vista
” - with a view of the surrounding hills. Marco carried Ana Maria's suitcase to the small, white-washed room with the narrow single bed and sink, and then they went up to the terrace. He knew he was postponing the inevitable meeting with his sister, but he wasn't ready. Maybe he'd never be ready. Maybe Giovanni had already been here. Marco could only guess at what mayhem he could have caused.

The terrace was empty. It was high above the chaos that was Rome. There were graceful cypress trees beneath them and the scent of pine in the air. Ana Maria leaned on the railing and smiled at him.

“It's wonderful. I want to see it all.”

“Marco.” He turned. So did Ana Maria. His sister was dressed in a plain gray dress, her hair pulled back behind her ears. She wore sturdy black shoes, but nothing could hide her natural beauty. Her dark curls escaped in tendrils from the scarf on her head, her dark eyes were luminous and shone with pleasure. The cold lump that was his heart softened.

When she smiled at him, he felt a huge surge of relief. Just one look and he could tell everything was fine, unless Giovanni had something to do with that smile. If he did, he'd have to kill him. She ran to him and hugged him tightly. Tears ran down her face.

“You came. Nonna said you would.”

“Of course I did. How are you, Bella?”

She held out her arms and stepped back. “As you see. Marco, you won't believe what has happened.” She peered over his shoulder. “You're not alone.”

“Ana Maria, I want you to meet my sister, Isabella.”

Ana Maria held out her hand, but Isabella ignored it and hugged her too. Then she stood back and looked her over.

“My clothes,” she said and laughed delightedly.

“I'm sorry,” Ana Maria said. “I'm going to return them all, but...”

Isabella shook her head. “Don't think of it,” she said. “Nonna has told me the whole story. You're American. I love everything American - American music and movies. That is, I used to love them before...”

“What about candy?” Ana Maria asked. “Would you like a piece of American candy?”

“I would love it.”

Ana Maria reached for her box of chocolates and held it out to Isabella. After all the trouble with the damned candy, he wished his sister would just polish it off. But after studying the various truffles with their swirls and decorations, she only took one piece.

Ana Maria looked at Isabella and then at Marco. She put the candy box back in her bag and said she would leave them to catch up on family matters while she went down to her room and wrote some post cards.

After she'd left, Isabella motioned to a bench under a tree. “Nonna was right,” she said. “She's beautiful, your American.”

“I'm afraid she's not mine,” he said.

“Since when have you not had any woman you wanted?” she asked with a teasing grin.

“It's not so simple any more,” he said. “She's American and divorced. She has a son in America and an ex-husband who wants her back.”

“Pfahh,” Isabella said. “As if you weren't a match for anyone and anything. She loves you, I can tell. And you...?”

“Me? I don't believe in love. You know that.”

“I know that's what you say. I also know she's the one for you. You're not getting any younger, Marco. If you lose her, you will end up a lonely old man.”

“I may get old, but I've never been lonely. Why should I end up that way?” As he spoke the words he thought of Silvestro, looking forward to his retirement with his wife of fifty years. He thought of Nonna and her rich memories of a lifetime of happiness with her husband, his grandfather. She managed fine on her own now, why shouldn't he? “Enough about me. Don't keep me in suspense. What has happened?”

“Giovanni came to see me.”

He braced one arm agains the back of the bench. “What? When?”

“Yesterday. I didn't know how I would feel after all this time. It's been two years; I have changed. He saw it. Even you see it, don't you? I've learned so much here. So much about life and love. So much about how little material things matter. Giovanni has changed too - not entirely for the best. He is even more materialistic than before. And he's in love.”

“In love? I thought he was married.”

“He was. But he's in love with an American. He told me all about her. Someone he met years ago when he was in school in California. Someone who's in the same business as he is. Import-export. It must be something in the air: Italians falling for Americans. Maybe I should go to America to find someone.”

Sitting in the shade on a warm Roman fall afternoon, Marco felt cold inside and out. He should have known. He did know. He'd known all along they were in it together. He just hadn't wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe she was an innocent tourist, even when all the evidence pointed to the truth. Import-export meant stealing and fencing jewels. It was clear to anyone with half a brain who this American Giovanni was involved with was: the same American who was downstairs in her room writing postcards. The same American Marco had made love to twice in the past two days. And if he had a chance, he'd make love to her again, even knowing who she was. That was how bad it was. Had he learned nothing in all these years?

 She was in her room, unless she'd taken this opportunity to sneak off to see Giovanni. To give him the diamond. Unless she'd double-crossed him and was going to give it to someone else. He forced himself to remain seated, to listen to his sister, though he wanted to race down the stairs to be sure she was still there. Because if she wasn't, if she'd left, he would never find her again. Not in Rome. Not if she didn't want to be found. There was a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“The important thing is,” Isabella continued, unaware of the effect her words were having on him, “that I am no long in love with Giovanni. I see him for what he is. A philanderer, a materialist, and someone who plays by his own rules.”

“You're not angry with him?” Marco asked, feeling like he'd just run into a glass wall. All these years he'd despised Giovanni for betraying his sister, and she'd forgiven him.

“Not anymore. It's not his fault, Marco, it's how he was raised. It's how he's always been. In fact, I have to say I am grateful to him. It was because of him I came to the convent. I was a young, immature girl, disappointed in love. The sisters took me in, didn't ask anything of me, didn't pressure me to join the order. They just accepted me. That was what I needed. I've worked hard here, physical work. I scrub the floors, I wash the dishes, peel potatoes. While working, I was thinking and learning, and now...well, I have much more to learn, but I think I can learn on the outside as well as here.” She took a deep breath. “That's what Giovanni thinks too. That's what he told me, anyway. He advised me to return to life. He pointed out that I can do good anywhere I am. He believes, or he said he does, that I am a good person.”

“Anyone can see that,” Marco said tightly. “And compared to Giovanni, anyone is.”

“Don't be bitter,” she admonished, and took his hands in hers.

“Does that mean you are actually leaving, then?” He was amazed and impressed at how mature his sister had become. Did Giovanni really deserve any credit for that?

She nodded. “In a few months, after I do what I need to do here. Then I'm going back to San Gervase. I'll stay with Nonna until I decide more about my future.”

“Does she know?”

“Yes. She's very happy about it. She would like it if you, too, would come back to your house there. She walked by the other day and she didn't like what she saw. The garden has been neglected. The roof is rotten. The paint is peeling. What are your plans?”

“I have no plans,” he said. “I'm here on business. After that, who knows?” But the little house on the cliff in San Gervase with its overgrown plants and bushes and its leaky roof, called to him. If he didn't want it, it was time to go back there, fix it up, and sell it. If he did want it...he had to ask himself why.

“So we have Giovanni to thank for your change of heart?” Marco said, half disbelieving that Giovanni could accomplish anything remotely good.

“I was already thinking about leaving, but he gave me the push I needed. I know you and he have always been rivals and people say he's a crook. But he's not in jail, so how can he really be that bad?”

Marco just smiled enigmatically, but didn’t answer. He spent that afternoon with Ana Maria showing her some of his favorite places, little-known spots not in any guidebook. While on their way to the Campidoglio, she wanted to see the Mammertine Prison. He warned her it was dark and depressing, and she said she didn't care. But once inside, once she saw the hole through which the prisoners were lowered, she shivered and he instinctively put his arm around her shoulders.

 Never before had the thought of the prisoners awaiting their deaths bothered him so much. Never before could he almost smell the rotting corpses, though it had been centuries since the prison had been used. On the wall were lists of prisoners and how they were executed -
“Strangolati, decapitato, morto de fame.
Strangled, decapitated, starved to death. Donation requested.”

Ana Maria's face turned pale, and her eyebrows were drawn together as she read the list. What was bothering her so much? Was she afraid she'd wind up in a prison in America? He'd heard white-collar criminals there were treated to country-club prisons with green grass and volley-ball. Maybe she'd get a light sentence. She could plead nolo contendre or insanity. Somehow the thought was not as comforting as it should have been.

Once outside, the color had returned to her cheeks, and they sat down at a small cafe, ate gelato and drank tiny cups of coffee. She stirred her coffee but didn't speak.

“Shall we go?” she asked finally. “I want to see as much as possible.”

“There's always tomorrow,” he said. Or was there? Wouldn't Giovanni find her as soon as possible and demand the diamond? Or was it destined for someone else?

“I wish I didn't have to go to that party. I want to see the floodlighted monuments at night.”

“Where is this party? Maybe we'll pass a monument or two on the way.”

She pulled out a piece of paper from her purse and showed him the address.

He whistled softly. “That's a nice neighborhood. What does your friend do?”

“I don't know. You can ask her when you meet her. She's not my friend, anyway, she's my friend's cousin.” She looked at her watch. “I'd better call Evie and tell her I'm finally going to see Misty.”

He handed her his phone.

“I'm calling America.”

He shrugged as if money was no object. Maybe he'd write it off as a business expense.

“Do you always let your clients use your phone?” she asked. What she really wanted to know was, do you always sleep with your clients?

“Never,” he said. “But you're not a client. You're a...”

She waited. The words that came to mind were not complimentary.

“Friend,” he said at last. “I'd like to think we're friends.”

“Is it possible for men and women to be friends?” she asked. She really didn't know.