Her Italian Millionaire (7 page)

“Of course not.” The streets were full of people, strolling arm in arm. The “
passegiata
” was the ritual evening stroll she could get used to. It was a time for Italians to see and be seen. Certainly Marco was seen. Many people greeted him enthusiastically, hugging him, stopping to talk and eyeing her with curiosity. But Marco didn't linger or introduce her to any of them. She didn't blame him. After all, she was nobody - just a tourist who'd be gone tomorrow. But she wondered about the several women who stopped to kiss him on the cheek and smile flirtatiously.

“We're going to the square, along with everyone else in San Gervase,” he said, his hand on Anne Marie's elbow as he guided her down the narrow streets. “There's a concert tonight. You'll like it.”

She liked it before they even got there. The sounds of a violin, an accordion, and the rich voice of an Italian tenor wafted through the warm night air. Anne Marie inhaled deeply, wishing she could capture the moment on film or at least in her memory forever. It was just the way she'd imagined it. The only flaw in the picture was that Giovanni wasn't there to share it with her. Would he be upset when he learned a stranger was showing her his town instead of him or would he be grateful someone else had relieved him of the obligation?

They went to a cafe that faced the small raised platform in the middle of the cobblestone square. Marco ordered a bottle of wine though Anne Marie was sure she'd had plenty at dinner. He said this one was made from local grapes and she must taste it. When it came, he filled their glasses and lifted his glass to hers.

“To your journey,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “Wherever it may lead.”

She searched her mind for the appropriate response. “
Alla Salute
,” she said. “To your health. And to your country.” She tapped her glass against his and drank some wine.

“You like it?” he asked.

“I love it. The flowers, the smells, the sights, the food, the wine...”

Obligingly he refilled her glass. “What about the men?”

“The men? Well, they're fine, just a little...uh, over the top.”

 His forehead creased in a frown. “What does that mean? Is it a compliment?”

“It's just an expression,” she said. “It means, oh, it means that the men are very friendly, very friendly. But then, I don't know any but you and Giovanni, and of course I haven't seen him in a very long time. “

“You keep in touch, you and your friend, yes?”

“Not really. Not until now. I wrote to say I was coming to Italy and he....we arranged a meeting.”

A small, dark-skinned woman in a long skirt with a braid down the middle of her back came to their table selling candy in a basket. Marco fished for some change in his pocket and gave it to her. She stood at the table, looking down at Anne Marie with her steady, black-eyed gaze, then took her hand in hers and spread her palm out flat. The woman frowned and said something in rapid Italian to Marco.

“She wants to tell your fortune,” he said.

“All right, but I know what she's going to say. There's an ocean voyage in my future, I'll have a long life, and meet a tall dark stranger.”

“What a cynic, you are, Ana Maria,” Marco, shaking his head sadly. “Shall I tell her to go away?”

“No, tell her to go ahead. Maybe Italian fortune tellers are more original than the ones in my country.” Besides the woman didn't look like she had any intention of going away, no matter what anyone said. She sat down and rubbed Anne Marie's palm with her finger, muttering to herself.

“What is it?” Anne Marie said, a little worried herself.

“She says you will have many surprises in your future,” Marco said. “And a sea voyage, of course.”

“What about the tall, dark stranger?”

“Is that what you're looking for?” Marco asked.

“No, I'm not. But I'm sure that's what she's going to say.”

“You're wrong,” Marco said, after listening to the fortune teller speak for a few moments. When the old woman paused, he continued his translation. “She says that the man you left behind has been deserted.”

“That's not true. I didn't desert him, he deserted me. And he got married today. You see, she doesn't know what she's talking about.”

“I'm only repeating what she tells me,” he said. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Go ahead, but I don't really want to hear about Dan.”

“This is about you. You will find a greater love where you least expect it.”

“I don't expect it at all.” Anne Marie tugged at her hand, tired of the game, but the woman tightened her grasp. “I didn't come to Italy to find a man or love. I came to see the country and Giovanni. Why don't you ask her when I'll see him and where he is? At least that would be useful information.”

Marco turned to the woman and said something. Anne Marie wondered if he was really translating her questions or the woman's answers correctly; for all she knew he was making the whole thing up.

“She says Giovanni will show up,” he said.

“I know, 'where I least expect him.' Is that what you were going to say?”

“Where do you expect him?” Marco asked.

Tell no one. Trust no one.

“I don't expect him until I see him.”

The fortune teller was still scowling at her hand.

“She says if you follow your heart you will not be lonely anymore.”

“I'm not lonely now. And I intend to follow my head, not my heart this time. I think I've heard enough.”

But the old woman had more to say. She let fly with a torrent of words, all the while her dark eyes focused on Anne Marie's palm.

Anne Marie sighed. In spite of herself, she was curious. She turned her questioning gaze on Marco and raised her eyebrows.

“She says the man you are seeking is in trouble,” he said.

“He is?” Anne Marie frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

“Big trouble.”

“Then I have to find him. Maybe I can help him.”

“Maybe, but you must not go alone. You must take someone.”

“Like you?” she asked dryly.

Marco shrugged. “If you like.”

Anne Marie shook her head. “No,” she said. She might be an innocent abroad for the first time. She might be a woman scorned and vulnerable. But she wasn't stupid. She didn't know Marco, but she knew Giovanni, and he'd told her to beware of strangers.

Why was this Marco so anxious to take her to the ruins. He said it wasn't for the money; did he know Giovanni? Did he know where he was? Did he know Giovanni wanted her to come alone? Giovanni, Marco; Marco, Giovanni. She tried to imagine how Giovanni would look now, twenty-some years later, but all she could see was Marco across the table, his angular, high-cheekboned face impassive, his expression inscrutable.

The fortune teller finally let her hand go and stood, then said something so distinct low in such an intense voice, Anne Marie felt the words were inscribed on her brain. Turning abruptly, she disappeared in the crowd.

“What did she say?” Anne Marie said.

“
'Camina chi pantoflui fino a quannu non hai I scarpi'
“ Marco said, scribbling the words on a napkin. “It's an old Sicilian saying. It means walk in your...your...how do you say, slippers, until you find your shoes.”

Puzzled, Anne Marie looked down at her shoes. “I don't understand.”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Never mind. For once I want to live in the present, not the past or the future.” She took a drink of wine. It really was very good. She'd have to buy some to take home. When she got home she'd start giving small dinner parties for old friends, serving pasta with homemade sauce and Italian wines. Entertaining was something she hadn't done since Dan walked out, hating the thought of being a single woman surrounded by couples. But by the time she got home she'd be a changed woman, single and proud of it, able to toss off dinner parties after work, able to sprinkle her conversation with Sicilian proverbs. She folded the napkin and tucked it in her pocket. Now she just had to find out what the proverb actually meant.

“Very wise,” Marco said approvingly. “Italians say to live in the present is to eat the fruit when it is ripe.”

“And the tomatoes,” Anne Marie murmured. “I like that.”

When the musicians returned to the stage after a break, the tenor's voice rose in the night air and filled her heart with such emotion Anne Marie forgot about Giovanni and her quest. She forgot to worry about tomorrow. After all, hadn't she just promised herself she'd live in the present? But she didn't forget about Marco. How could she when he was sitting in the shadows across from her, his white shirt against his sun-darkened skin, looking so relaxed, so much at ease, like every woman's dream of an Italian lover.

“What does it mean?” she asked softly with a nod toward the singer.

“It's a love song,” he said..

“But it sounds so sad,” she whispered.

“Because it is sad. He is singing of his lost love. It is spring, the saddest time of the year when a wind has blown the blossoms from the trees just as his love has flown away. He remembers her hair, like dark clouds...” Marco leaned across the table and took a strand of Anne Marie's hair between his fingers. “Like yours.”

She swallowed hard. It was just a song. Just a translation of a song. But Marco was real. The heat from his body, the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand, they were real. She should stop him now, before he went on, before she was lost in those dark eyes or got hypnotized by the sound of his voice, before she forgot she was following her head and not her heart. She sat there, lost in his gaze, good intentions all forgotten while the music washed over her and filled her soul with its beauty.

“Her skin was as pale as marble,” Marco said so softly she had to lean forward to catch the words. He traced a line on the inside of her bare arm to her wrist. She shivered in the warm night air and her heart thudded wildly. “As soft as velvet, and her lips were kissed by the morning dew.”

She knew it was pure sentiment, pure schlock, probably invented on the spot for her benefit, probably used one hundred times or more on women more gullible than her, but she was helpless to stop reacting to it. Helpless to stop the tremors deep down inside and the chills that went up and down her skin. She knew what was coming next, and her lips trembled in anticipation.

But he didn't kiss her. He merely traced the outline of her cheek with his hand. She ached with longing for the kiss that didn't come. His knees were pressed against hers under the table. She held completely still, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell. The song continued but Marco stopped translating. Maybe the song had gotten even sadder, and he was afraid she might cry again.

“How does it end?” she asked in a whisper when the last notes had faded and the listeners burst into applause.

“I don't know,” he said, staring into her eyes. Then he shifted in his chair. “Oh, the song. It has a happy ending. She comes back and they ride off into the sunset on his motorcycle. It's summer and the hot sun shines on them.”

“Really?” Her eyes filled with tears again. For someone who hadn't cried in months, not even when Dan told her he was leaving, not even when she heard about Dan's wedding, she was turning into an emotional basket case.