Two Can Play (5 page)

I'm kinda protective about my friends after my experience. Male on female aggression of any kind gets a red light in my mind.

“Thanks, K. I will. Luv ya lots.” She makes a kissing noise.

“
Text when you get in. The spare bed is made up. Oh, make sure you leave my wine stock alone.”

“
Oh ha ha.” She clicks off with a giggle.

I swallow my daily contraceptive pill which keeps me regular. I like to have control over something in my life, even if it's only my monthly “girl” event. I swill it down with my third cup of coffee and I'm beginning to feel human again. I sit cross-legged on the sofa with my laptop open and gaze out of the balcony door. Sounds rise from the street below, along with the vaguely unpleasant damp smell that hovers all around Venice. I hear someone swearing in Italian and someone replying with a few choice words of their own. I don't know a lot of Italian; it's another language I may learn one day. It'll probably be a lot easier to learn than Russian as well. At least it has the same alphabet as we do.

I smile to myself as the swearing escalates to a full-on heated fight. A door slams shut loudly and all is calm and peaceful again. They can be very hot blooded, the Italians. I smile to myself thinking of Marco. He's hot blooded all right. I think he's got red steam running through his veins.

Latino fights and hurtful, harsh words aside, I really do love it here.

I'm going to have a couple of hours writing, then head out to the cafe for lunch to eat some humble Marco pie. A big slice.

The words begin to fly out of my head and onto the screen.

I've caused you pain, hurt you again

How much hurt is in your heart

When we're together I want you baby

But I don't feel love when we part

I look in your eyes and see your feelings

Written in the brightest of light

I can't love you, the way you want me to

My soul is dead and dark as the night

Chorus

Love is a test, an unholy trial

It's the best way to ruin your mind

You swear you'll love me for ever and ever

But I'm not the loving kind

I title it, “No Love.” It's dead moody, but I kinda like it, especially the start. It could be a good ballad. Maybe Leona Lewis could do something sexy with it. I can hear her wonderful high notes hanging in there.

I add some more angst-y verses to it and start to tweak it here and there. I'm finally done with my latest Leona special, and I print it out and file it in a thick folder that I have labeled, Dreams Can Come True—If You Write Them Down.

I take a look at my emails.

I'm disappointed to see a rejection of my poems from a publisher.

I'm running out of publishers to send them to.

I need to find another way in somehow.

God knows how— maybe he could send me a sign—a heavenly pointer—or better still, someone to help me get started.

I answer two questions my accountant has emailed me.

I stretch my arms above my head and put my laptop down on the seat next to me. I ache. A stiff kind of ache. All over. I need to do some exercise.

I go into my bedroom and put on a pair of exercise shorts and a tank top. Then I find my workout best friend, Jillian, in the pile of DVDs and get her going. I use this DVD a lot. I'm quite toned. The little there is to tone. I'm still waiting to see the killer buns and thighs she promised to give me, but I'm happy with the overall results.

A half hour later I ache even more. But at least it's in a good way. I head for the shower and strip off.

The soapy water cascades down me like a silken gown as I wash my hair. I set the shower to massage and turn slowly, letting the water jet pummel hard on my shoulders, chest, and back. Then I switch it back to a normal spray and turn the heat up a little, relishing the stinging steamy heat.

I run my hands over myself, with a generous handful of shower gel, cleaning the grime zones thoroughly and rinsing well. Then, taking a small body brush and loading it with some more shower gel, I attack my legs and feet. I love doing this. I scrub them with vigor, getting the blood circulating, and making sure I banish dead skin and keep cellulite at bay. I work my way up, brushing firmly, over my stomach and breasts, my shoulders, up and down my arms, back and forth and round and round everywhere.

I tingle with buffed cleanliness. It's a wonderful, arousing sensation. It gets me going suddenly.

I drop the brush.

My fingers probe myself slowly. A shudder of enjoyment rushes through me, swamping my mind.

And then I slip them deep inside my soft heat. I groan with the memory of that kind of pleasure. One day maybe it'll happen. When the right guy comes along. But I won't hold my breath on that being soon.

I put my hands on the wall and lean against the hot wet tiles with my eyes closed, getting myself in check.

I'm physically and mentally frustrated with my situation and the lack of intimacy in my life, but at a loss at what to do about it.

Sighing heavily, I turn off the shower, stepping out.

After wrapping myself with a large towel, I enter the relative cool of the bedroom, ready to get myself dolled up for Marco. 

The plaza and cafe are buzzing as I arrive after my three-minute walk.

It's a few minutes after midday.

I grab the last table at the front of the ever-popular Lorenzo's cafe, and bask in the warm noon sun, taking a quick look around for Marco.

He doesn't seem to be here on first sight; perhaps he's not working today.

Disappointing.

The sun is actually baking hot and I soak it up, tipping my face skyward.

I remove my sunglasses and shut my eyes for a perfect minute in time.

“
Ciao, Signorina. How are you?” Marco's cool and polite voice brings me out of my blissful daydream.

I focus on his familiar features with pleasure flooding through my veins.

“Ciao, Marco, sto bene,” I reply with a small smile.

I don't get a returning smile, just a dark scowl.

Obviously, he’s still pissed off.

That's understandable, I suppose.

I did tell him to get his filthy grease-ball hands off me the last time we spoke. I think I called him a dirty “Iti” wop as well. I'm not usually into racial slurs. I guess I got a little carried away.

But, then again, he did say I was a prick-teasing Yankee whore.

Not too nice, either. His knowledge of swear words seems to be far better than the rest of his English vocabulary.

“
What can I get you?” His dark eyes probe mine, and then his gaze drops. His eyes skim over my low-cut black tank top, and faded out, very brief denim shorts, which are exposing every inch of my legs. He looks slowly and appraisingly, finally finding his way upward, back to my face. I let him look without interruption and enjoy his eyes on me. A lot.

“
A glass of red, your very best, and a large portion of Gisella's wonderful lasagna please,” I order in a very sweet voice.

“
Is that all?” he replies coolly.

“
Hmm, maybe some of your lovely black olives to nibble while I wait, thank you,” I murmur, even more sweetly. I'm going for saccharine overkill here, trying to sweeten him up by drowning him in it. Not that it seems to be working so far.

He starts to leave the table, walking past me, and I grab his arm.

“Marco, don't go yet...I'm so very sorry, you know, about that night. I was so rude, please forgive me,” I appeal, looking up at him sincerely.

“
Hmm, me too, very sorry for things I say,” he replies quietly, with a small smile breaking out on his handsome mouth.

He rakes his fingers through his thick, dark, wavy hair, as his smile widens.

He's way too beautiful...and no man should be blessed with hair and long eyelashes like that.

“
Friends again?” I hold out my hand, swooning as he takes it in his grasp.

“
Spero di si, Katie.” He bends his head and kisses it, much to my surprise.

The touch of his soft lips and his stubbly chin make me melt.

I experience the gorgeous waft of his manly scent, and his heady cologne.

I feel like I'm glowing all over and about to faint.

My toes curl under with a wave of pleasure, my toenails digging into my flip-flops.

I seem to be getting stirred up a lot lately.

Two men have got my heart pumping and my juices flowing in two days.

It's either complete and utter desperation, or the recovery process has finally started to kick in properly. Either way, there's something going on inside me and I'm so grateful.
I so want to feel normal again.

For months and months I've been dead from the waist down, actually make that from the brain down, as far as men were concerned. I couldn't even look at them at one stage.

“I finish at six. If you want to take walk with me?” He smiles at me suggestively.

“
You know something? I'd love that.” I smile at him, my stomach rolling with pleasurable anticipation.

Wandering along hand in hand with Marco is something I really don't want to miss. I don't think many women would. I'd forgotten just how incredibly gorgeous he is. Italian men are so damn good looking it stuns me at times. It's in their genes. There's dark and handsome everywhere I look.

Maybe that's why I like Italy so much. So many hot sights to see.
I smirk to myself.

But Marco Bellini, he's way hotter than most...I'm pretty sure with his exceptional looks he could be a Hollywood A-lister.

He's a real flaming hottie, a potential box office panties-soaker.

And he's doing a real good job on me today.

~ * ~

I sit and eat my meal in the blazing heat, the wine going pleasantly to my head.

I'm chilled. Seriously, wonderfully chilled. I've made up with my Marco and all is well.

I order another wine and sit gazing blindly at passers-by.

Couples, families, old people, buggies, bikes, stray cats, and pigeons pass through my wider field of vision. I'm daydreaming as I gaze, my mind wandering off in his direction, as he appears and disappears between the tables. I'm thinking about that kiss we had, before it all went wrong. I know he likes me a lot, and I'm definitely into him. My eyes attach themselves to his ass, his lean slim hips. Hot isn't the word for all that's going on in my poor little sex-starved brain.

I watch him go inside and sigh.

Suddenly I feel two hands on my shoulders. Male hands. And I tense.

“
Well, well, it's only my new friend, Kate,” he says, close against my ear.

The deep voice and accent's a dead giveaway.

I swing around and smile my hello.

It's my other dark and handsome hottie.

“Hey, how's the new millionaire doing today?” I joke with him.

“
What?” he says, giving me a strangely dark look.

Uh-oh...obviously not a millionaire or anything like it.