Her Italian Millionaire (5 page)

“You said that,” Adrianna said. “You promised dinner tonight. I'll meet you, where?”

He shook his head. She reminded him of one of those lampreys that clung to the rocks at the sea, impossible to pry off. “All right, the Vista dei Mare at eight o'clock,” he said.

“Vista dei Mare? That's so far. Can't you come to town?”

“No.” He wished she'd decline. It would make his life easier. He had no time for women now. Maybe after he'd brought Giovanni in, maybe not. Women had messed up his life more than once. Women had distracted him and he was prone to distractions anyway. This time he would concentrate. This time he would win.

“All right,” she said. “I'll be there.” If she could have slammed the phone down, she would have, but of course she was using her tiny, jeweled cell phone.

Marco went back into the hotel and spoke to the clerk again. This time he gave him some money along with his instructions. He was barely out the front door to the patio when his phone rang again.

“Nonna, what is it? I told you not to call me on my cell phone.” Why had he ever given anyone this number?

“I tried your number, but you are never home, if you call your empty house a home. The shutters are closed and the tomatoes in your garden are withering on the vine. Now, don't forget dinner tonight,” his grandmother said. “I am cooking the
puttanesca
sauce right now, your favorite. With tomatoes from my garden.”

“
Ai dio mio
,” he said under his breath. “Sorry, Nonna, I can't make it tonight.”

“ But it's my birthday,” she said.

“It is? No, it isn't. That's what you always say. Your birthday is in April.”

“What kind of a grandson doesn't call his grandmother to wish her happy birthday?” she said as if he hadn't spoken.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Antonio Ponti gave his grandmother a new flat screen TV for her birthday with a remote control.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want my grandson to call me once in a while. Now that you're back in town I want you to come for dinner when I make your favorite dish. Is that asking too much?”

“No, Nonna. I'll come. But I can't come tonight.”

“You have a date, yes? You can bring her to meet me.”

“You wouldn't like her.”

“How do you know? Did you hear Antonio is getting married next year to Bianca Camerata.”

“In bocca al lupo
,” he muttered
. Into the mouth of the wolf.

“What?”

“I wish him the best.”

“Better hurry or all the good women will be taken,” she said. “You're not getting any younger.”

He leaned against the brick wall of the patio and closed his eyes. She didn't need to remind him he was getting too old to play games. To chase thieves or women. After he caught Giovanni, he'd retire from this kind of work and take a desk job with the agency.

“I'm not getting married,” he said. “It's too late. I'm too old. And all the good women are taken.”

“
Non fa niente
,” she said, dismissing this excuse. “I'll find you someone and you can settle down here in town where you belong. Since when is forty too old for a man? Think about me, do I die before I become a great-grandmother?”

Neither mentioned his sister Isabella and the reason she wouldn't be able to give Nonna the much-wished-for great-grandchildren.

“I'll think about it,” he said wearily.

“Don't think,” she said. “Do.”

He hung up with a wry half smile. If she knew he was after Giovanni, she would have understood and wished him Godspeed. But he wasn't going to tell her or anyone until it was over. Until the bastard was behind bars and the diamond was back where it belonged.

Anne Marie woke up from her nap groggy and confused. Her inner clock said it was morning but the sun was setting here on the Amalfi Coast, casting a golden glow over the cliffs and turning the sea to the color of lapis lazuli. She splashed cold water on her face and got dressed in the same outfit she'd worn to meet Giovanni. She wasn't going to see anyone she knew tonight.

When she went downstairs to ask the night desk clerk if she'd had any messages, he said no. Of course not. She had her message from Giovanni; she had her instructions. Then she consulted her phrase book and took a deep breath.

“
Conosce un buon ristorante
?” she asked even though the man probably spoke perfect English. How was she going to get better if she didn’t practice She wished she could add, “near here,” in Italian but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to take any more taxis, trains or buses until she had to. She wanted to walk. She’d had enough diesel fumes and cliff-hangers on mountain roads.

“There is the Vista dei Mare, Signorina,” he said with an amused look. “Very good, very nice, very popular, very close. I will make a reservation. For eight.”

She looked at her watch. It was only six. Of course Italians didn't eat until eight. “Yes. All right. Thank you.”

He nodded and picked up the phone. She understood a few words like
ristorante, Signorina
. Why hadn't she studied more, studied harder? Because she never really thought she'd get here. Never thought she'd ever get divorced, and she knew Dan would never bring her here. Never thought she'd have the nerve to come by herself.

 But she had. She was here. The clerk caught her smiling to herself and gave her an odd look. As her smile faded, he brought out a map.

“You are here,” he said, putting one tapered finger on the map. “Restaurant is here.”

 It wasn't far. Only about a half an inch away. She folded the map and put it in her shoulder bag, thanked him and started for the front door.

“Signorina, where are you going?” he called.

She turned. “Out...just to look around,” she said. “Why, is it dangerous?” It looked like a nice neighborhood, filled with villas on quiet streets. She'd taken all the precautions recommended by the guide books, like wearing her money belt filled with traveler's checks, and her passport hung around her neck under her shirt. This was hardly the slums of Naples – still, she was a stranger here; maybe he knew something she didn’t.

“No, no, of course not. I was merely inquiring.”

People were certainly not shy about inquiring. What were some of the questions Marco had asked?
What do you want? What will you do now? What if he doesn’t come?

“I’m going for a walk until dinner,” she said.

He nodded as if that were the right answer. As she left, he was reaching for the phone again.

Her gaze swept the patio for signs of Marco. He wasn't there. She didn't know why she felt a twinge of disappointment. She certainly didn't want him harassing her anymore with offers to show her around. He'd probably found some other American to hustle. Whatever the reason, he was gone. Hopefully for good.

There were plenty of people on the streets, none of whom looked like petty thieves or tried to pick her up or pick her pocket. They were sauntering, just as she was, in the early evening dusk. At home everyone rushed home at six o'clock. Nobody took time to sit at a cafe with friends or strolled around admiring marzipan candies in the sweet shops or bought a gelato cone and walked down the street eating it when they should be home making dinner.

She stood in front of a furniture store, wishing she could dump everything in her house, every memento of her previous life - from the Oriental carpet that had faded along with her marriage to the gold-plated mantle clock, a wedding present she'd always hated from his parents. When she got home she'd do the whole house over Italian style, with bright Mediterranean colored cushions, light wood and ceramics, and lots of blue and yellow tile.

Anne Marie left the shopping district and suddenly she was in a different neighborhood of older, smaller houses, of gardens filled with flowers and rows of beans and eggplant. She paused at a small stone house where tomatoes grew on vines supported by wire stands.

She could so easily imagine herself living in a house like this. She'd be Italian, of course, and she'd can these tomatoes for the winter ahead, along with basil and garlic. When her husband, who might look like that stranger at the hotel this morning, came home from work, he'd call out, “Honey, I'm home,” which would be something like “
Cara, sono a casa
,” in Italian. Then he'd come into the kitchen, kiss her passionately, untie her apron and peel off the rest of her clothes. They'd make love right there in the kitchen, on the warm tiled floor, with the smell of red, ripe tomatoes in the air. He'd confess he couldn't concentrate on his work, that all he could think of was coming home to her. When she mentioned the simmering sauce on the stove, he'd whisper in her ear she should live for the moment.

But she wasn't Italian, she had no husband, and this wasn't her house.

After making sure no one was watching, she reached over the fence to pluck a tiny red tomato still warm from the sun. The taste of summer itself burst onto her taste buds. So this was what tomatoes were supposed to taste like. She stood for a long moment, licking her lips and savoring the taste that lingered in her mouth. That alone was worth the price of the plane ticket. She reached for another.

Before she could pull her hand back, the front door opened and an old woman in a black dress stepped out on the porch. She had bright black eyes and round, apple-red cheeks. She said something in Italian. She didn't sound angry. She sounded curious.

“I...I'm sorry,” Anne Marie said. “I just...your tomatoes are delicious...
delizioso
.” She had no idea if that was really a word. It must have been, because the old lady clapped her hands together and repeated it.

“
Delizioso
!” she said. Then she waved her hand in a sweeping gesture as if she was royalty and Anne Marie was a peasant caught poaching. “
Prego
,” she said. Anne Marie thought she meant help yourself.

So she did. She smiled and put another tomato in her mouth. It was wonderful. It was tart and sweet at the same time. Along with her new Italian style house back home, she would have an Italian style garden filled with tomatoes and eggplant and basil and lemons and olive trees. She could still can tomatoes and make savory sauces.

“
Grazie
,” Anne Marie said to the woman who continued to watch her with a kind of wide-eyed amazement on her lined face.

The old woman inclined her head that meant you're welcome and it's my pleasure all at once. Anne Marie left with a warm feeling around her heart. That would never have happened at home. It would never have happened if she'd come to Italy with Dan. He would never have approved of her stealing tomatoes from someone's garden.

She still had an hour before dinner. She heard church bells and decided to follow the sound. When she found the small church made of cream-colored travertine, with its twin spires and its old bell tower, there was a crowd out in front, the men in dark suits, the women in dresses and the kind of high heels Anne Marie had never worn in her life - butter-soft leather with lots of straps and impossibly high heels.

 She looked down at her canvas espadrilles and vowed she'd buy herself a pair of real leather sexy Italian shoes while she was here. Even if she never wore them anywhere but in her own living room, she'd take them home, remove them from the box and walk back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the way they looked, and she'd remember Italy. While she watched from across the street, a bridal couple came out the double doors of the church and everyone clapped and oohed and ahhed and threw rice at them.