Tuscan Heat (12 page)

“Look at me.”

He did.

“I’m going to come first, Marco. Do you want to see how?”

He nodded, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

I put the tips of my fingers on my swollen clit and moved them in a circle. At the same time, I used my other hand to touch my breast.

“Oh. Oh, Marco. This feels so good. No one ever filled me like you do.”

“Good. Glad,” he gasped out. His bound hands were clenched into fists.

“My poor clit is swollen like a grape. I wish I could feel your tongue on it.” His cock jerked in response, and I rocked back and forth. I rubbed harder and faster.

“I would lick you. When it is my turn again, I will lick your clit. I will put my tongue in your tight little cunt and make you come.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I will have my hands on your breasts, and your ass, and everywhere. I want to make up for the torture of not being able to touch you.”

I had my head thrown back, my hand fierce against my clit and riding his cock hard, hard and fast, his words pouring heat directly into my pussy.

“Pinch your nipple, Sara, now.”

I did as he commanded. The shock went straight from my nipple to my groin, and I exploded into orgasm. I screamed his name and ground my clit against his body. As I came down from the peak, he groaned and pumped his hot seed into me. The sensation pushed me back up to another peak, and I rode him until he was still.

I collapsed onto his broad chest and listened to the hammer of his pulse. His hands tenderly stroked my hair and my sweat-slicked back. I was content to float on the sensations until my brain kicked back into gear.

“How’d you get your hands free?”

“Loops are not the same as knots.”

“Oh.”

“You played along with me, I play along with you.”

I smiled. “You are wonderful. So glad you’re here.”

“As are you. As am I.
Mio sole, tu sei qui con me.
”

“That’s from that song, isn’t it.”

“It is. It means you are my sun, you are here with me.”

I hugged him and pulled away before I could slip and say any of the things I was thinking.

I cleaned myself and brought him a towel as well. He propped himself up on the pillows so I could rest against him when I got back into bed.

“I can’t believe it’s only midafternoon,” I said. He laughed. “What’s so funny?”

“Me. I am funny. I used to always work, work, work. After the accident, I said, I do not want to be always working. And if I am to be working, it should be on something beautiful in the city I love, not a shopping mall in the suburbs. But still I am a fool, and work all the time, and run to meetings. Until you came into my life.”

“I was going to say, from my point of view you’re the guy blowing off every meeting on your schedule.”

“It is the same meeting. I reschedule it because it is not going to be a pleasant meeting, and being with you is…pleasant.”

“Likewise.” I turned my head and kissed his throat. “It’s a good thing you’ve changed. The one lesson I’ve managed to learn, and possibly the only one, is that anyone who puts work ahead of a lover isn’t anyone I want in a partner.”

“You deserve better than that.”

His voice was so warm, so compassionate. I wanted to throw myself down and tell him everything, but I held back. What was being dumped compared with death? I couldn’t explain, so I squeezed his arm instead. “It’s no big deal.”

“Ah, Sara. You must not say such things. I wish I could make you see how you have awakened me from the dead. The last few years have been so empty. Only a few projects here and there, whatever I can force my parents to accept. But there has been no joy. Now there is nothing but joy.”

I tried to keep my voice from sounding frustrated. “That makes me feel bad.”

“
Madonna mia,
why?”

“Because I’m leaving. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I want to be hurt.”

He started to answer, but a shrill ring erupted from the corner of the room where his clothes had wound up. I nearly levitated three feet into the air.

“Porca vacca,”
he grumbled. “I am sorry, Serafina, I thought I turned it off.” He got up, and before I did the same, I enjoyed another view of his world-class ass.

“I didn’t realize you even had a cell phone.”

“That is because I turn it off and pay attention to you. Americans think they must leave their phones on all the time. This is not so unless you are a brain surgeon.” He tapped the screen a few times and sighed. “I have put off this meeting for far too long and now I must, how you say, face the music.”

“Speaking of music, you’re eventually going to have to tell me what the song means. You’ve translated exactly one line. That leaves, what, twenty, thirty others?” I handed him his briefs.

“
Grazie.
I will. I promise. But it is so much nicer in Italian.”

“I admit, nearly everything is.”

His smile was glorious. The light of it made me think of the fields of sunflowers stretching into the distance along the highway to Siena. “Sara. I must go to this one last meeting and I must go now, but afterward, I think there are many things you will want to hear. At least, there are many things I think I must tell you.”

“How mysterious.” I tried to sound casual, but my heart skipped a beat.
Shut up, heart,
I snarled to myself.

He only smiled and put on his bike jacket. “You should go be a tourist. Go to see Santa Maria Novella, and then stop at Santa Trinita. By then I should be done. Wait for me on the Santa Trinita bridge, and we will watch the sunset together.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“It is.” He crossed the room and took my hands. Softly he sang, “
Quando sono solo sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole—”

“You’re doing it again, Marco.”

“Sì, lo so che non c’e luce in una stanza quando manca il sole—”

“Are you ever going to explain what it means?”

“Se non ci sei tu con me, con me…”
He brought my fingers to his lips and kissed them with infinite tenderness. Then he drew me into his embrace and did the same to my forehead. With one last touch to my cheek, he was gone.

Santa Maria Novella was astounding. The frescoes behind the altar were so vivid that they seemed to be like photographs taken in the fifteenth century. A few blocks away I swooned over the perfumes and lotions sold in a pharmacy that had been running since the 1200s. Santa Trinita had more beautiful frescoes, but these I could only see if I put a euro in the slot of the light box. I was more interested in the building. Its facade didn’t match the building’s proportions, and from the inside it looked to me like someone had put a new face on a very old building.

Through all of my artistic explorations, I had to resist the urge to skip. Prancing was not entirely out of the question. I kept singing bits of that mysterious song, much to the annoyance of people who wanted me to know that art appreciation was a serious business.

The plain fact was, I’d fallen in love and I wasn’t going to fight it any more.

I was madly in love with a handsome, masculine man capable of crying over art, and improvising during sex. He had oodles of spontaneity. He was a man of passion, kindness and irreverence. As soon as it was plausibly getting on toward sunset, I headed for the meeting place.

How did the word “rebound” end up with such a bad reputation? In basketball, it’s a good thing. “Marco for the rebound, and the scooooore!” I announced to the startled pigeons sitting on the edge of the Santa Trinita Bridge. Or the
Ponte Trinita
—I might as well practice my Italian.

When I’d be back was anyone’s guess. But I didn’t care. He was right. No one knows what’s going to happen tomorrow and now, right now, the golden Tuscan sun was lighting up the Ponte Vecchio, making the yellows and oranges of the bridge into a blaze of glory. Any minute now, Marco would appear and we would see it together.

Or not. I squinted toward the sun and laughed at myself. I had some time to kill. I tried to read the books I’d picked up at all the gift shops, but I ended up applying a few dabs of rose-scented lotion instead.

I wondered how I was going to explain that I wasn’t going to get pregnant from our happy games. For some reason I wanted him to know that I hadn’t jumped out of one man’s bed into his. I was on birth control pills to ensure a hassle free vacation. Being a woman can be awfully inconvenient.

I’d come to trust him so fast, and I was glad. Going without condoms was fantastic. And hot. And if I was being honest, that little rush of risk was hot too.

As the sun crawled down to kiss the horizon, I realized I still didn’t have his number. Then again, I didn’t have a local cell phone, so all I could do with his number was call it from my hotel. Heck, for the last four days, I wouldn’t have had time to get back to the hotel to call anyway. Wherever I went, he was there. Finding me at the place he’d told me to wait would be a piece of cake for Marco.

A young couple coming over the bridge stopped their Vespa at the midpoint and stood watching the evening sky light up with color, their arms entwined. I tried to smile at them, but my face was numb.

With the sun half-down, I took to pacing the length of the bridge. The Arno had seemed so small to me when we crossed it on the back of a motorcycle, but on foot the bridge was basically endless. He’d said the middle, I was pretty sure, but if he were waiting for me at either end, he wouldn’t be able to see me. It was getting dark, after all.

I went from end to end three times while the sky went from orange to red to purple, until the glow of the sun was replaced by the glow of the city.

His city. Not mine.

The evening traffic picked up. I finally stopped walking when I reached the midpoint again. I sat with my back against the wall in shock. I heard the buzzing of scooters and the puttering of tiny cars, their high-pitched sounds itching in my ears. Farther to the west there were the sounds of heavier vehicles by the standards of Florence, but never the roar of an American motorcycle.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been left somewhere alone. Larry had been great at that. Anything could happen if Larry told me to meet him. A client, a supervisor, a coworker—anyone could call and he’d be too busy to let me know the change in plans. He always had a reason, a perfectly rational reason, why I should have known better and why I was the lowest priority. Why I shouldn’t expect him to think of me when he was at work.

My hands got cold when I realized where my memory was taking me. Larry thought I belonged in my little box, totally separate from work.
Damn it to hell.
I’d managed to fall for another guy who loved his little
compartments.

Marco had poured salve on what I hadn’t even realized were wounds, and now that I was healed, I wasn’t going back. Not even for the one who did the healing.

I picked myself up, along with my packages. The scent of the lotion was cloying and old-fashioned, and suddenly I couldn’t wait to wash it off. I ran down the Via de’ Tornabuoni and cut over onto the tiny medieval alley that would see me to my hotel in relative privacy.

Before I reached the Giglio, the first shock wore off. Now my mind raced. Marco would never stand me up. And the way he lost Isabella—accidents happen. I didn’t want to think about Larry any more tonight, but what was it he’d always called motorcycle riders? Organ donors? Something must have happened.

I smoothed my hair and pushed my way through the revolving door.

The desk clerk saw me and smiled. “Good evening, Signorina Wright.”

I smiled back. “Hello. Any messages for me?”

“Not that I have seen. Vittoria? Did you take any messages for our guest?”

The concierge came over to us. “Not unless we count the fool from the airline calling to ask for a description of the lost luggage.”

I blinked in confusion. “The luggage that was delivered yesterday?”

“Welcome to Italian efficiency,” said the desk clerk, rolling her eyes.

Vittoria sniffed. “I took care of it. Really, what an embarrassment they are.”

“I was the one embarrassed,” I said lightly. “Coming down here for three days in the same clothes.”

Both women nodded in sympathy. “Yes, that must have been hard,” said Vittoria.

“Nah. You all did a good job not staring too much, that must have been harder.”

“We were not staring at your clothes,” blurted out the desk clerk. Vittoria shot the poor woman a glare that could have melted glass. The clerk blushed and turned away.

“Uh, did I miss something?”

“No,” said the women at the same time.

The doorman came in at the end of this exchange and snickered. “These cats, they try to pretend. But I will not pretend. I am very happy for you. And for Signore D’Alessandro, of course.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, trying and failing to get my light tone back into gear.

“What am I talking about, she says.” He threw his hands into the air. “We do not have princes in Florence anymore, but if we did, you have captured one. You are lucky. Women over
the whole city try and try to catch him, but you he wants to catch. I congratulate you. Will you invite me to the wedding? For luck?”

“Taci,”
snarled Vittoria.

“E ‘vero,”
muttered the clerk.

My head felt like it was going to detach from my body. “What are you all talking about?”

Vittoria sighed. “Signore D’Alessandro. He is the second son of the architect D’Alessandros.” She saw my expression and hurried to explain. “Everyone knows them, and they make a lot of money. What they earn goes into buying more land, more buildings, more—”

“Everything,” said the doorman.

I expected the serious concierge to laugh or shush the man. She didn’t. She nodded instead. “Yes. I am trying to decide what the closest American example would be. Maybe John F. Kennedy Jr., but less famous?”

“No,” said the clerk. “Like Paris Hilton but less stupid and much more good-looking.”

They all laughed at that.

I didn’t laugh. I wanted to throw up. At least something was in my stomach, rolling around trying to escape. The something felt like it was as big as Marco’s omission.

Or maybe he hadn’t really omitted anything. The signs had all been there. Everyone knew him, everyone was dying to do him favors. People recognized him, but they deferred to him too. I’d been blind.

Oh, God. What had all these Florentines thought of me? Probably a disgusting American gold digger. Or worse. Oh, God.

I took a single lurching step back. The staff was still trying to figure out the American equivalent of Marco, but they were cut off by the ringing of the phone.

“Pronto,”
said the clerk.
“Sì, un minuto.”

I took advantage of their distraction to try to get to my room. Just as the elevator door opened, Vittoria called my name. I turned back.

The clerk held out a slip of paper. I almost ran back to the counter, waves of relief pouring over me and alternating between heat and cold. He wouldn’t—he hadn’t—he’d remembered me.

The clerk had an unreadable expression as she handed over the message. Too quickly, she turned away. I unfolded the note.

There was no signature. I stumbled to the elevator without looking at anyone.

I’m not proud of what I did next, but after experiencing every emotion possible in under an hour, I was exhausted. At the same time, my head was so full of garbage that I was never going to sleep.

The hotel’s welcome basket featured a bottle of red wine and a box of chocolate biscotti, and I’d meant to take them home. After my shower, I consumed them both.

It didn’t help. Instead, it made things worse. While I didn’t lie awake thinking of him as I might have done without the wine, I ended up dreaming of his smile, his touch and his lovemaking in full garish color from the moment I closed my eyes until the second I woke up.

Marco was right about one thing. Italian wine sold in Italy was either magical or free of some sort of headache agent. “Look, ma, no hangover,” I snarled to my reflection in the
bathroom mirror. My nasty expression didn’t help a bad scene. Among multiple sins in the puffy and bloated categories, I didn’t look rested. I did the best I could with concealer and a brightly colored blouse, but in the end I fell back on the best friend of drunken socialites everywhere—a pair of oversized sunglasses.

I wanted to curl up somewhere dark and lick my wounds, but since I was never in a million years coming back to Tuscany, I wanted to do the side trip to Fiesole, the tiny town a few minutes north. Etruscans, Romans, a great view and no Mr. Prince of All Florence to accidently wander by and fool me into thinking we had anything in common.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking furiously. I must have slept through the ringing. For a moment I froze, wondering what I would hear. The dying pink rose in its vase beside the phone nearly brought me to tears. Then I remembered that frozen little note, and I slammed the door on my way out.

The lobby was mostly empty, so the concierge saw me right away. “Ah, Miss Wright. I have a message for you.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Signore D’Aless—”

“Then I’m not interested.”

“Please, Miss Wright, I think—”

“Vittoria?”

“But if—”

“Vittoria, I know Florence is a very small town and everyone knows Mr. D’Alessandro and lord knows I’ve given you people enough gossip fodder to last through the off-season, but that does not give anyone the right to get into my business.”

The poor girl took a step back. I felt guilty. “Look, I’m sorry. The entire universe practically falls over their feet to do that guy a favor, and I’m on my own here.”

“He is important, yes, but it was you I was trying to help,” she snapped. “If you did not want to take his message, I was going to suggest you go out the back door because he is waiting for you outside.”

“What?”

She pointed. Marco was by the curb standing next to his motorcycle. He looked up at that moment and started for the revolving door.

I jumped into it at the same time he did and emerged next to the doorman. I stomped the little locking button that kept the door from turning. “Taxi. Now,” I barked at the doorman.

It was my second to last day, and thanks to the big spender I hadn’t used most of my food budget or my admission ticket budget. Might as well live large instead of waiting for the bus. Besides, the heat of the day was already so oppressive that my shirt stuck to my back.

He tried not to focus on Marco, trapped in the door and swearing in a ceaseless stream of Italian. “
Signorina
, I—”

“Does he know the goddamned owner here too, or does a paying guest get any say whatsoever?”

“I have to go inside and order a taxi from the queue at the Piazza della Repubblica,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Our streets are too narrow to allow taxis to simply wait near all of the hotels.”

I sighed. “I don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be an asshole. I keep failing at it.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry. Let Mr. D. loose and I’ll put up with his raving while you make the call.”

The doorman tapped the button and jumped out of the way. Marco flew out like a wasp from a shaken soda can.

“What was that for?” he said at the top of his lungs.

“I’m sorry, did I need a reason? I didn’t want to talk to you, what do you think?” I yelled back.

“Sara, you need to listen. I have been trying to apologize since two o’clock this morning, but you did not answer.”

“Wow, what woman wouldn’t just about faint with happiness to get a call in the middle of the night after being stood up. Sleep deprivation and rudeness. It’s the peanut butter and chocolate of romance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Excuse me, I’m busy.”

“Now, listen,” he said in a self-assured tone. “I apologize, but the meeting was important. I put it off too long and the family wanted everything settled on the spot in case I ‘ran off again’ as my mother put it.”

“Marco, here’s a tip. ‘Mama wouldn’t let me’ is not a plausible excuse for a grown man to do anything, let alone blow off a woman you’ve been sleeping with and pretending to want more.”