Midnight in Venice (14 page)

“Don't apologize,” he said. “That's a beautiful story, and you've taught me so much about grieving. I'm sure your father wants you to be happy.”

“And I'm sure Katarina wants you to be happy too.”

“I know. And I can honestly say I am—thanks to you. Because there's no other place I'd rather be than here right now with you.”

This was real. This was happening.
Girlfriend.
Boyfriend.
The fact he was a famous billionaire was completely incidental.

Incidental, that was, until ten minutes later, when they were standing in the sort of boutique she'd never have had the nerve to enter on her own. With the clerk's help, she selected three dresses.

“
Bellisima
,” Alessandro said when she finished modeling them. “We'll take all three.”

The dresses didn't have anything as uncool as a price tag on them, but she knew from the discreet price list in the store window that everything was followed by three zeros.

“I couldn't,” she said hastily. “I feel guilty enough at the idea of one. Make a donation to charity in my name instead . . .” She broke off, suddenly embarrassed. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't tell you how to spend your money.”

“I didn't take offense. How about we compromise? You take all three dresses, and I'll make a donation for the equivalent amount to Doctors Without Borders. Agreed?”

“I meant
instead
of all three dresses. I only need one for tonight.”

“And this is the compromise I'm proposing. Relationships are all about compromises.”

Olivia laughed. “I don't think that's much of a compromise on my side. But since you're going to insist, it's a deal.”

Alessandro pulled out his phone and rapidly sent a text. “There, done. I've instructed my accountant to make a donation of six thousand euros in your name. Can you enjoy a guilt-free dinner now?”

“I'll never get used to this.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to. It's part of the package.”

She didn't know how to respond to this, and so she did another turn in the mirror, eliciting a low whistle.

“God, you're beautiful in that dress.”

“Anyone would look beautiful in this dress,” she said modestly.

“No—it was made for you,” he said approvingly. “Though right now, I just want to take you out of it. If I weren't afraid of the clerk returning, that's exactly what I'd do.”

As if on cue, the clerk came back with a pair of evening shoes. “All three of those dresses look fabulous on you, but that one was made for you,” she said, echoing Alessandro's words as Olivia slipped her feet into the shoes. They were a perfect fit, and once again she thought of Cinderella. “That dress brings out the color of your eyes. You should wear it with amethysts.”

“I have something better,” Alessandro said, and much to Olivia's surprise, he pulled out her violet Murano glass beads.

“Where did you get them? When the police took my suitcase at the airport yesterday, I thought I'd never see them again.”

“I rescued them from the evidence room,” he said as he fastened the clasp, and she closed her eyes involuntarily at the brush of his fingers against her skin.

“Perfect,” the clerk said. “Better than amethysts. Let me know if there's anything else I can bring you.”

As the curtain closed behind her, Olivia laughed. “I can't imagine what she made of all that talk about police and evidence rooms.”

“She must think we're pretty kinky,” he said as his fingers crept up under the hem of the dress. “Think you can wait until we get back to the hotel?”

“If we hurry.”

As the cab raced them back to the hotel, he whispered in her ear all the things he had in mind for her. When the elevator reached their floor, they ran to their penthouse suite and were tearing off each other's clothes before the door had a chance to close behind them.

 

She didn't know how they came to be on the floor in a tangle of sheets, but then she'd been very caught up in the moment. Had the ceiling crashed on top of them, she wouldn't have noticed.

“I hope no one heard me,” she said.

“If they did, I'm sure you inspired them.”

“What if it's some couple in their eighties?”

“You think we're going to stop doing this when we're eighty?”

“If we keep this up much longer, we will be eighty and we'll miss our dinner reservation and have to eat at McDonald's.”

He looked at his watch. “We can do it one more time if we skip a shower.”

“Not on your life. We must reek of sex as it is.”

“I don't know if
reek
is the right word. It's too negative. You smell better than any French perfume. But okay, if you insist.” He disentangled himself, and she admired the view of him as he tossed the sheets and pillows back onto the bed.

She showered first and was drying off when Alessandro's cell rang in the bedroom.

“Can you get that for me?” he called from the shower.

She ran and picked it up. The display read
Pamela
. “
Pronto
,” she said when she answered.

There was a pause on the other end, then nothing.

“Who was it?” Alessandro asked, coming into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Who's Pamela?”

“My partner. What did she want?”

“I don't know. She hung up before saying anything.”

“You must've been disconnected. She'll call back if she needs to.”

“I didn't know your partner was a woman. Is she beautiful?”

“Very.”

“Single?”

“Married. Are you interrogating me?”

“Yes, I am. Just answer the questions, Mr. Rossi,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. “Or I'll have to get the handcuffs out.”

“Sounds good. And it shouldn't be too hard to frisk me in this towel,” he said with a laugh.

When they arrived at Le Train Bleu half an hour late, hair still damp, the maître d' assured them their table was still available. Olivia was aware of dozens of eyes on them, and she couldn't help but think everyone knew what they'd just been up to.

“Everyone's looking at you. I don't think there's a man here who doesn't want you right now,” Alessandro whispered.

“I'm sure it's
you
everyone's looking at,” she returned. “And in your case, I think the men want you as much as the women.”

He laughed. “Well, I'll disappoint them all. Because I'm yours, and no one else's.”

“And don't you forget it,” she said, feigning a menacing look. “Or you won't be having your way with me when I'm eighty.”

“I wouldn't risk that for the world,” he said. “Now let's order. I need you to keep your strength up.”

She picked up her menu, suddenly aware just how hungry she was. It all sounded so delicious. Farmhouse chicken, tournedos Rossini with wine sauce and artichoke purée, roast leg of lamb and potatoes au gratin with Fourme d'Ambert cheese, lightly roasted blue lobster served cold with avocado tartare, home-smoked Scottish salmon with market vegetables in Sicilian olive oil, zucchini-flower tempura, oven-crisp Poilâne bread . . . “I think I want the farmhouse chicken,” she said at last.

“Must've been a special chicken if they let it live in the farmhouse,” Alessandro said with a grin. “Surprised they had the heart to serve it for dinner. It probably had a name. But don't let that stop you from eating it.”

“You're terrible,” she said with a laugh.

“I'll have it too. We can share the guilt.”

With the food and wine ordered and the champagne uncorked, Olivia finally had time to admire her surroundings. The restaurant was at the Gare de Lyon and dated from the days when train travel was glamorous. Walls and ceiling alike were adorned with paintings, and the light from great chandeliers made the gold-leaf moldings gleam. Enormous arched windows revealed a night sky. Olivia noticed Alessandro sizing up the Steinway grand piano in the corner.

“I told you about my family, I think it only fair you tell me about yours,” Olivia said as their salads arrived. “I saw your father at the concert, but what about your mother? Any brothers or sisters?”

“I'm an only child, so I envy you a sister, even an obnoxious one. When I was five or six, I invented an imaginary older brother. He was a pirate, and he used to take me on his ship, which was the rowboat on the pond. We were constantly finding treasure and rescuing damsels in distress. I saved him a few times from rival bands of pirates. It was humiliating being forced to wear a life jacket. I told my mother the other pirates would make fun of me, so she had Helga sew a skull and crossbones on the back. It lessened the humiliation a great deal.”

Olivia laughed as she speared an elusive wisp of arugula with her fork. Rich or poor, everyone had a family, complete with the joys and problems that went with them. “I think you had more fun with your imaginary brother than I had with my real sister. Let's just say she was always challenged in the imagination department. And your mother?”

“Real people are a little more work, aren't they? My mother is younger than my father by ten years. It's not a lot, but my mother seemed of a different generation. Much closer to my own than my father's, who she came to think of as stuffy. She was a pop singer, a blond bombshell, as they used to say, with a joie de vivre that was, and still is, insatiable. My father just couldn't keep up with her.

“When I was eighteen and she was forty, she fell in love with a race-car driver who was twenty. He didn't drive for our company but for Ferrari. I think that annoyed my father more than anything. The whole thing was very embarrassing to him. I think he did his best to accept it for my sake, but while they remain on polite social terms, I don't think he's ever forgiven her. I must say it is a little strange having a stepfather who's only two years older.”

“Do you like him?”

He laughed. “I do! I introduced them, something my father still doesn't know, so don't tell him. We were friends at the University of Padua. My mother took me out to dinner, and I invited Lionel to come along. He'd been moping for days over a girl, and I thought the change of scenery would do him good. Of course I never imagined he'd fall in love with my mother! She left my father for him almost immediately.”

“Would you have introduced them if you'd known they were going to fall in love?”

He laughed again. “I think it's a good thing we can't see into the future—we might not do anything at all. If it had been anyone other than Lionel, I'd have suspected he was marrying her for her money. But Lionel is from a very wealthy family. Italian actress mother, British banker father with a house in London and a villa in Tuscany. In the beginning, he felt every bit as weird about it as I did. He assured me he hadn't planned on falling in love with her. It was completely unexpected. I believe Lionel. Love comes like that—unexpectedly. You can't search for it. It comes when it pleases, whether you're ready or not.”

“You make it sound like an unwelcome guest,” she said.

“Not at all. But it's like the guest you've given up on. You've just decided they aren't coming when there's a knock on the door. Only it isn't who you expected.”

Before she could think of a reply, their waiter asked if they'd like to see the dessert menu.

She looked down at her plate, almost surprised to see it empty. She'd been so intent on the conversation, she feared some of the spectacular fare had gone unappreciated. “Do you want to share one?” she asked Alessandro.

“No. I'm not sharing with you,” he said. “When it comes to dessert, I do not share. Is that a Canadian trait? Thinking it selfish to eat a whole dessert?”

“Maybe,” she said with a smile. “And it's not like I don't want everything on this menu. I'll make you a deal. I'll take a whole dessert, but we have to order different things so we can taste each other's.”

“Deal.” He flipped the menu over to the drink list. “Cognac? I know an opera singer who said dessert without cognac is like a night sky without stars. Apt, if a little over the top. Would you like one?”

“After all that wine?”

“I think it's safe so long as you aren't going to fly us home. Maybe I should get your keys now.” He held out his hand.

His expression was so serious, Olivia giggled. Suddenly embarrassed, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What's wrong?” he asked, mock seriousness turning to genuine concern.

“I heard myself giggle like some infatuated schoolgirl.”

“You sound mortified. I'm flattered. You certainly have that effect on me.”

“I make you feel like a schoolgirl?”

“Okay, an infatuated schoolboy.”

Alessandro's phone vibrated on the table. “Paris police,” he said, looking at the display. “They said they'd call me when they had an update on our Albanian driver friend. One moment.”

He took the call and, after hanging up, filled Olivia in.

“I think we can safely assume there's no connection. The driver was a former cop. He was recently given early retirement after receiving a gunshot wound. Post-traumatic stress. I guess he wasn't doing too badly until his wife decided to leave him. He went off the deep end, and we were in his path. The captain was just saying he heard from the man's precinct that his behavior was surprising, to say the least.”

“Post-traumatic stress can make people do surprising things. I want to feel sorry for him, but someone could have been hurt or killed.”

“It's something cops struggle with all the time.”

“I think I'll have that cognac after all,” she said with a smile. What else could she do? “I just hope you don't have to carry me out over your shoulder. We thought people stared when we came in!”

The waiter returned, and Alessandro ordered two cognacs, two coffees, and two of the most decadent desserts on the menu.

“Another guest asked if he could speak to you,” the waiter said to Alessandro as he took back the dessert menus. “I told him we respect the privacy of our patrons . . .”

“Tell him it would be a pleasure,” Alessandro said, and a few moments later they were approached by a man Olivia guessed to be in his early sixties, with the slightly rumpled air of an academic.

“I hope you don't mind me intruding, Monsieur Rossi,” he said.

“Not at all. I'm pleased to meet you,” Alessandro said, taking his hand and introducing Olivia as his girlfriend. She was quickly getting used to that term.

“Arnaud Boucher,” he said, shaking both Alessandro's and Olivia's hands. “My wife, Daniela, and I are fans of yours—me of your driving, she of your piano playing. Although I must say I admire your playing too. We saw you in concert some years ago in Venice. I know this is probably too much to ask . . .” He looked ready to flee, and Olivia was sure it had taken a lot of courage for him to approach Alessandro.

“Not at all,” Alessandro said graciously. “Where's your wife? I'd like to meet her too.”

“She's in the ladies' room. I know she'd love to meet you. It's our anniversary, and we've had some sadness of late. My wife's sister passed away, and I was wondering if you'd mind playing something for her. It would make me a bit of a hero . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Of course. If it's okay with the maître d'.”

“I've already asked,” he said, his face turning deep red. “We're in a bit of luck, as the regular pianist is ill today.”

“Then fine. You return to your table and consider yourself a hero. I see she's back from the ladies' room.”

“I hope you don't mind,” Arnaud said apologetically to Olivia.

“No,” she said. “I love his playing too.”

Alessandro went to the piano and the room fell silent. “This is for Arnaud and Daniela Boucher,” he said with a smile. “Happy anniversary. I wish you many more happy years together.” He played “Clair de lune,” one of the pieces he'd played for his father's birthday, and no one moved until the last dreamy notes floated away.

Between taking pictures with their smartphones everyone applauded, and Alessandro gave a slight bow before going over and kissing Daniela on both cheeks. Daniela wiped her eyes with her napkin, while Arnaud thanked him. It was obvious Alessandro had made their evening.

Dessert arrived at the same time as Alessandro. He plunged his fork into his chocolate and caramel concoction and held it out to Olivia. “One bite,” he said with mock sternness. “No more.”

“That was really sweet of you,” she said, giving him a taste of her dessert, a white chocolate and raspberry affair. “You really made that couple's evening. But do you realize how many people took your picture? What are the odds someone here has an Albanian mobster as a Facebook friend?”

“That's okay. We'll be leaving Paris shortly, and I can assure you I won't be letting you out of my sight. Even if it means quitting my job and becoming your personal bodyguard.”

“That sounds a bit extreme. But would you consider retiring from the Guardia di Finanza to become a concert pianist again?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I want you to do what makes you happy,” she said, marveling at how quickly their relationship was developing. He was asking her opinion on a major life decision!

“It's possible. The reason for joining the Guardia di Finanza is behind me. Thanks to you, that part of my life's been put to rest.” He took a sip of cognac. “What do you say to returning here next year at the same time?”

“How do you know I'm not just interested in you for your money?”

He looked at her over his glass. “So you're only pretending to like me?”