“I hope everything’s okay,” I say, concerned.
“Everything is difinitely not okay,” says Leo, pointing to Paolo, who is now dragging the young bartender by his collar to the green room. “Bet the wine’s gone missing. Reckon somebody stole it?” he asks. I suddenly realize what’s happened. I taste the red in my glass. Yep, pretty amazing. My friend Nadya isn’t here, but I’m pretty certain it’s one of her kings or queens of the Italian wine aristocracy.
“We’re drinking it,” I whisper. The gravity of this huge mistake sinks into my brain as Leo laughs.
“Seriously? That’s fantastic, I’m going to get another glass. Maybe two,” he says. I cringe inside. If I’m right, Frantonio is fucked. As the song ends, no new song starts. The DJ is still gone. Murmurs in the room. Leo returns within moments. “No more wine just a crying cocktail waitress serving warm beer. Pretty sad. People are starting to leave.”
“Leo, the host is my friend,” I say. “What can we do?” He thinks.
“Magic-comedy!” says Leo, “I’ll do my one act.”
“We want people to stay,” I say. Suddenly, I have a flash of inspiration. I make my way quickly to the DJ stand and plug in my phone. “Imagine” starts to play, and I race over to the last model standing awkwardly on stage and whisper in her ear. She smiles and takes the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will like to invite all John Lennons to the stage for a lip-synch contest.” Laughter and applause from the crowd, as the various Johns make their way up. I notice Regina smiling at me. My confidence boosted, I stride quickly to the green room with my cloak billowing out behind me. Wonder Woman is here to save the day.
Chapter 34
How Not to Expose Yourself
Green Room, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice: Friday, 10:28 p.m.
Inside the green room my Amazon sandals come to an abrupt halt. A waitress sobs in a chair. An older man pops heart pills. Frantonio roars into his phone in French. Paolo argues with the bartender in Italian. Five scantily clad models in sequins and ridiculously uncomfortable stilettos huddle by their makeup station like frightened gazelles. Uncle Gandhi is seated quietly in the corner, praying? Frantonio hangs up and throws the phone across the room, swearing angrily. He glares at his uncle. “What’s happened?” I ask.
“The fucking wine we are supposed to auction is gone,” Frantonio barks. “They poured it at the bar!” He runs his fingers through his hair over and over again, trying to calm himself. How could a mistake like this happen? I walk up to Frantonio, who is staring into space, trying to figure out what to do. As I put a hand on his shoulder, he just looks at me, shell-shocked.
“How can I help?”
“You have eighty thousand euro, Wonder Woman?”
“If I did, I’d totally give it to you. Talk about brownie points, I wouldn’t have to go to church with my mom for a year.” I smile, but he just puts his head in his hands. He’s sweating, looking sick to his stomach and a little lost. The last time I saw him flailing like this was in the library at Regina’s. My heart tightens in my chest. Despite our ups and downs, I want badly to help him, to see that handsome smile again.
“We’ll think of something,” I say softly. He glances up at me, his big brown eyes full of despair and embarrassment.
“What? We have nothing left to sell.” I pace, thinking. Surely there’s a creative way to get these wealthy people to fork over a measly eighty thousand.
“It’s a charity fundraiser. Can’t we just ask for the money?” I ask. Paolo laughs without amusement.
“Rich people don’t like beggars,” he says bluntly.
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Regina says. All heads turn toward her. “This is Italy my dear. Even worse, it’s Venice. These people expect a show. You have to dazzle them, coax the money out of them.”
“What about a photo with you?”
“Sorry, I’ve been giving them out for free for the past hour,” she laughs. One of the men arguing with Paolo leans over and says something to him quietly in Italian. Paolo smiles.
“We could sell dates with the models,” suggests Paolo. Regina frowns but doesn’t seem surprised. Frantonio looks at the girls quietly, thinking.
“What?” I ask. I am surprised.
“Auction off dates with the models. It will get us at least fifty,” Paolo explains.
“This is not a human trafficking fundraiser,” says Regina indignantly.
“It’s not sex, Regina. Just a date,” says Frantonio. I glance at him, disappointed. “We won’t force them and we’ll pay them.” I look over at the girls who are staring at us, with blank, wide-eyed expressions. They don’t understand English but they can tell we’re talking about them.
“Pay them? What, a hundred euro to be auctioned off like a cow?” Regina asks. She turns to the gazelles and translates. A ripple of surprise and shock flashes through them, but none of them say anything. They’re too scared to object.
“They’re not going to say no to you,” I say. “There are rich, powerful people here and these girls work as baristas, cleaners, and shop clerks,” I say.
“I’m leaving. I’m won’t watch rich old men bid on the dignity of young girls,” says Regina hotly.
“You’re overreacting, Regina,” Frantonio objects. She flashes him a glare of disapproval and walks out. His sudden confidence fizzles. He seems worse than before.
“We have to sell them something,” Paolo grumbles. My mind races as I nervously play with the tassels on my lasso. I look down at the golden tassels in my fingers, run my hand along the lasso. That’s it!
“We can sell them their own dignity!” I announce boldly. And then, having already practiced it thirty-nine times in the hotel room, I sweep my cape up in a flourish as I turn on my heel and stride purposefully through the doors.
Ballroom, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice: Friday, 10:39 p.m.
On stage: the worst possible scenario. Leo has the microphone and is now performing his magic-comedy tricks.
“Knock knock!?” he says with a smile. The audience looks unsure.
“Who is there?” various people answer from the crowd.
“Wiser,” chirps Leo.
“Wiser who?” shouts an American man in the middle of the crowd.
“Why’s her wallet in my ear?” he laughs as he reaches behind his “ear” and pulls out a billfold. He points to a lady in the crowd. “Madam, I believe you lost this!” he says triumphantly. She opens her handbag and holds up her wallet.
“No, mine is here,” she says.
“Bugger. Whose is this, then?” Leo rifles the billfold in his hand. “Olivier Thomas? Terrible photo on your license, hey?” He shows it to the crowd. “But everyone takes bad photos on their licenses.” A man walks up to reclaim his wallet. “Oh, that’s what you actually look like. Bad luck, mate. And your condoms are expired I think. Little wonder.”
My heart racing, I grab my sword and shield and stride up the steps to the stage. I try to take the mic from Leo. “But I still have the big finish where I release all the doves from their cages.”
“Do that when we hit two hundred,” I suggest.
“Fantastic! Yes!” He relinquishes the mic and hurries off stage to prepare. Suddenly I find myself alone, holding a microphone, facing a ballroom full of important people from numerous countries, all staring at me. I realize my hand is shaking. My idea, which seemed brilliant moments ago, now seems less shiny. In fact, potentially humiliating.
“Hello,” I say nervously. “You’re probably wondering about my Wonder Woman warrior costume, since our theme is world peace.” People murmur, some laugh. “But, superheroes do fight the bad guys for peace.”
“Typical American,” snipes someone from the crowd. People laugh. I’m losing ground as Frantonio emerges from the green room.
“Tonight, I’m not an American. I’m Wonder Woman, an international symbol of feminine strength and power. Most people don’t know this but, Wonder Woman was created by a man living with two w
omen.” This gets a whistle of appreciation. “Two very strong women: his wife and the niece of one of the most important feminists of the twentieth century. I did my research.” I see Frantonio moving toward the stage. “The man, Dr. Marston, was a psychologist, fascinated by feminine power, but it was his wife who insisted his new comic book hero should be female. The character Marston created was his ideal for a new type of role model. Super strong, intelligent, and loving. Marston believed the world of man was one of war. But a world controlled by strong women—this would be a world of peace.” The women in the room applaud. I get a few shouts of “Sì!” Frantonio, now at the foot of the stage, stops. He doesn’t climb the stairs. He just watches me. My confidence is bolstered.
I struggle to unsheathe my slightly bent sword. “My sword shows my strength. And my shield protects the things I love.” I lay both of these down. “But neither is my most important tool. Dr. Marston AND his wife Elizabeth helped invent the lie detector. They were obsessed with truth. So, Wonder Woman was given a golden lasso of truth.” I hold up my lasso. “Truth is our most valuable asset.” I pause for effect. “Shall we see if it works?” People clap and cheer. “Allora,” I smile.
“Minister Luca Mancini,” I read aloud from the fishbowl as Frantonio watches with curiosity. “Please come to the stage for This or That.” More cheers as a rather drunk politician makes his way through the crowd and up the stairs. There are hoots and hollers as I wrap my lasso of truth around his chest. “Minister Mancini, you will be asked two questions and get to choose which to answer truthfully. My first question is simple. Minister, how much will you be donating tonight to help us meet our goal?” People clap. Luca snorts a laugh. “The second question will be from the audience,” I announce. Luca’s smile drops. “Any question they want to ask you.” People cheer.
Someone immediately shouts out: “Who did you vote for in the election?” There is a ripple of delight and laughter. Then, everyone falls silent. All eyes on Luca. Phones come out. People are filming, ready to post on social media. “Well minister, this question or that one?” He stares at me, not amused. I hold my ground. He looks at the phones pointed at him.
“I’ll be donating five thousand euro.” Everyone cheers. Some people boo. Frantonio leaps onto the stage and lights up another five grand on the screen. He is beaming. I remove the lasso and hold it up. “This young lady will escort you to the green room to make your donation.” I turn back to the crowd and hold the lasso over my head. “It works!” People laugh. “Shall we see who’s next?” The crowd cheers. Frantonio walks over to me, puts his hand in the fishbowl, and gives me the smile I’ve been waiting to see. A warm feeling radiates through me. For once, I didn’t screw things up. I fixed things. I feel Wonderful.
“Grazie, bella,” he whispers.
“Who needs wine when you have Wonder Woman?” I wink.
THINGS YOU DON’T WANT TO BE ASKED IN FRONT OF A CROWD:
1. Have you ever done any hard drugs?
2. Where were you last Tuesday night?
3. Did you ever cheat on your taxes?
4. Do you love me?
5. Did you sleep with my sister? (Or brother?)
6. Have you ever used Viagra?
7. Are those real?
8. Have you ever been arrested?
9. How old are you really?
10. Who is the better kisser, Bruce Willis or Al Pacino? (This was for Regina, who has starred opposite both and chose to make a donation instead of kiss and tell.)
Portego, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice: Friday, 11:59 p.m.
I unbuckle my leather Amazon sandals one strap at a time as I sit in a cushioned chair, waiting in the portego. Leo is out front, getting us a water taxi. He’s invited me three times to visit New Zealand when he goes home. I’ve taken him up on his offer to drop me at my hotel, knowing he’s hoping for at least a kiss. He’s very charming, but I’m very drunk, my feet hurt, and I’ve decided to enjoy my king-sized bed and fancy hotel room solo. I wiggle my toes on the carpet that’s probably over a hundred years old and rub my new blisters. That’s what I get for dancing like a fool. Regina had slipped out much earlier in classic “leave-them-wanting-more” fashion.
“You were a true Wonder Woman tonight, chèrie. We surpassed our goal.” Frantonio smiles as he squats beside my chair, sets a bottle of Brunello down, and picks up my right foot. “This was the last bottle of the donated wine. I saved it for us to share at my hotel,” he winks as he rubs my foot with his soft, warm hands. Wow, that feels amazing. Frantonio looks spent, but somehow still very sexy in his Bono costume. He’s lost the leather jacket and just wears the T-shirt, leather cuffs, and fake tattoos. The scruff on his face seems to have grown in the last few hours. At least, grown on me. But . . .
“I’ll have to pass,” I say with great difficulty.
“It’s eight hundred euro a bottle, Marina. We’ll have it for breakfast.”
“I meant, your hotel. I’m exhausted.” I can’t believe I’m saying this and neither can he, but the truth is, I’m still a bit stung by his behavior tonight. His smile melts. The best foot rub I’ve ever had stops abruptly. A moment ago he was tired but elated, now he looks confused. He puts my foot down and runs his hand through his hair.
“Really?” he asks softly.
“You were going to auction off helpless models. It was kind of a libido killer,” I say.
“We were desperate. It was a bad idea. You saved us from ourselves.”
“Wonder Woman!” calls Leo from the front door. “Our water chariot awaits.” Frantonio looks from Leo to me with shock.
“Marina, you’re not going home with him?” Frantonio asks, incredulous. I know I should tell him I’m “difinitely” not going home with Tolstoy but truthfully, I’m enjoying his jealousy.
“He’s the world’s greatest Russian author, and Santa beards are sexy.” I pick up my sandals and stand. Frantonio reaches out and gently but firmly grabs my elbow. Suddenly I find myself in a nearby alcove standing in the shadow of a marble statue. Frantonio’s face is inches from mine. He pulls off his glasses.
“Put those back on,” I say weakly.
“I just want to talk to you,” he says. I didn’t want to talk to him. He was too good at talking and . . . he’s been working all night, how does he smell like warm butter and leather? Okay, he’s been wearing a leather jacket, but come on! He leans in closer so I try not to breathe through my nose. Now I look like I’m panting. Perfetto.
“Chèrie, please. I said stupid things when you arrived, but I was already a nervous wreck. And then, I saw you, dressed like this!” He looks down. My panting is causing my breasts to heave up and down in my corset like I’m in a Jane Austen film. I hold my breath. They stop moving. He looks deep into my eyes. “When I saw you, I was thrilled, embarrassed, totally turned on, but angry. And, the truth is, I was terrified.” He was terrified by his feelings for me? By my strength and beauty? “I was terrified that you’d turn the whole event into one of your little catastrophes.” Oh. Right. That’s not quite the same. Somehow, I’m still holding my breath. “But, instead, you saved it from catastrophe. You were brilliant and brave and beautiful, and I was a complete ass. I needed you tonight. I need you now.” His face is tortured and utterly sincere. I stare at him. “Please forgive me,” he whispers. This last is my undoing. The Bryan Adams song I texted him earlier. All the air goes out of me.
“Basta. Enough talk,” I say. “Tienimi stretto,” I whisper. He pulls me to him, and I melt into his arms as his lips close around mine.
Chapter 35
How Not to Talk
Frantonio’s Suite, Belmond Hotel Cipriani, Venice: Saturday, 1:13 a.m.
FIRST: Everything is a hot, fantastic blur
His jeans pressed against me. My fingers in his hair. His tongue in my mouth. I can’t get enough of that sweet, soft mouth—sucking me in, drinking me. The shield on my back clangs against the door as he presses against me. I tear it off and toss it wildly, hearing something
break, but neither of us stop. He unties my cloak and it drops to the floor at my feet. He slips his fingers into my hair and pulls my head back, gently biting my earlobe, my neck. My tiara stays on. It’s not going anywhere.
The scruff of his beard sends tingles through my body. My fingers slip under his T-shirt, my hand grabbing his taut abs. So fucking sexy! His palm on my breasts. His fingers frantically prying into my corset from the top. I gasp for air as his lips slide down my neck to the tops of my moving breasts. His hair smells like coconut oil. I inhale deeply.
My hand slides down his chest to his belt. My fingers fumble desperately at the buckle. He grasps my ass, his fingers spread, holding me tightly against him. I feel his hardening cock through his jeans but cannot get his belt undone. I whimper in frustration. He presses his cock against me. Harder and harder. My heart pounds in my chest. Faster and faster. His hand still struggles with the corset, and now he moans in frustration. My breath catches as his other hand finally finds the strings on my leather panties and tugs at them desperately. My wet figa aches for the touch of those fingers I remember from Amalfi. But he can’t undo the knot. Fucking leather panties, I think.
“Fucking leather pants!” he cries. I laugh.
“Wait, I’ll do it,” I say, but suddenly his hands are on my hips and he quickly twists me around, bending me over the desk. I grab it for support as he spreads my legs. He flips my skirt up. His fingers pull the laces from the panties and he yanks them off. Free! The muscles in my throbbing figa contract with anticipation and I brace myself on the desk. I wait for the jingle of his belt. I long for the thrust of his cock inside me. But, instead, with a flash of surprise I feel the stubble of his beard on my bare ass. I turn my head. He’s on his knees behind me. His thumbs tickle the outside edge of my figa as his hands pry my inner thighs further apart.
My head spins as his face slides underneath my ass. Then, lightning flashes through my body as his whiskers graze my soft, wet insides and he plunges his tongue deep into me. As my knees buckle, I grab the back of the desk, sliding the lamp over, resting my forehead against the cool wood. Stuff falls to the floor as the desk shakes, and I moan loudly. My body trembles with pleasure as his lips and tongue move against my figa. There is no tender tickling. There’s only hungry passion as he presses his face further into me, his tongue deeper, sucking and demanding. The lamp crashes to the floor. Darkness as my back arches and I climax, inhaling deeply. Every muscle in my body is frozen; I cannot feel my legs. I cannot breathe. I only pulse. I cry out.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 23