One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  A little too excitedly.

  Before I turn around to look at the door, I already know who it is.

  I turn and see none other than Lorenzo Ducati step inside, Carla practically drooling on him.

  “Who is that?” Grace whispers, her eyes expressively wide.

  My heart seizes with jealousy. It’s always been possessive.

  “That,” I say, gesturing to the giant man in a charcoal shirt who’s walking toward us, “is Lorenzo Ducati.”

  “He’s … big.”

  She’s not wrong. Lorenzo is taller and more muscular than I am, and covered in tattoos, so he intimidates most people. I’ve known him since I was young, so he’s always been Lorenzo to me, and despite his appearance, and his quiet nature, he’s actually a man with a heart of gold. Just takes a bit of digging to see it.

  “Claudio,” Lorenzo says in his deep voice, giving my hand a strong shake. We quickly embrace and I slap him affectionately on the back.

  He glances appreciatively at Grace. “Who is this?”

  His eyes linger on her chest for longer than I would like. My jaw tightens for a moment, but I manage to say, “Lorenzo, this is Grace.”

  I should add that she’s a guest of my ex wife’s, but I don’t. What I want to add is that she’s the woman I nearly fucked in the storeroom. My muse. Somehow I manage to rein it in. He may be bigger than me, but I have no problems in asserting my territory.

  If I need to.

  “Nice to meet you,” Grace says, then adds, “Piacere.”

  It’s a pleasure. Her Italian is coming along nicely.

  “Grace is an author,” I tell Lorenzo. “She’s extremely talented.”

  “Is that so?” he asks in English. “What kind of books?”

  “Murder mysteries. So far.”

  “Any translations in Italian?”

  She nods and gestures to me. “Claudio has read them all.”

  Lorenzo studies me for a moment and then nods. “Ah.”

  Yes. He understands now.

  “Do you live in Lucca?” he asks her.

  She shakes her head, looking forlorn. “I wish. It’s lovely here. I’m just visiting for a wee bit.”

  Lorenzo looks at me. “You know, you need to come see me play. You have been saying for years you would.”

  “Play what?” Grace asks.

  “It’s called Calcio Storico,” he explains. “We have our final match in Florence on our feast day for St. John the Baptist.”

  “It’s like rugby combined with soccer and wrestling,” I add. “With some boxing thrown in. It’s dangerous and it’s crazy. And so, of course, it’s very popular among the locals. Not many tourists know about it or watch it. But all of Florence comes together.”

  “It can get pretty violent,” Lorenzo says with a wicked grin. “Everyone is covered in blood by the end.”

  “Lorenzo is one of the best,” I tell her, patting him proudly on the shoulder. “He is a monster when he plays. They have no equipment either. They play in historical costume—nothing but an elaborate pair of pants.”

  Her eyes go even wider, no doubt picturing Lorenzo shirtless.

  “It’s not for a few weeks,” Lorenzo says to her. “So if you’re here, it would be great to see you. It’s sold out but I have extra tickets.”

  I would love nothing more than to bring Grace to see Florence. Seeing the game would make it even more interesting. But Grace might be back home by then.

  Plus, do you want to spend your last days with her there?

  My heart sinks at the thought.

  I can’t even say what our last days will be like when I don’t even know what tomorrow will bring.

  Was that kiss we shared the beginning of something?

  Or was it the end?

  Thirteen

  Grace

  It stopped raining.

  After gallery night came to an end, leaving me exhausted from meeting so many of Claudio’s friends and potential buyers (not to mention all the Prosecco I had), Claudio and I walked through the shiny wet streets of Lucca, back to the car.

  We talked about Lorenzo and some of the friends he had in the gallery, as well as Florence and other places in Italy. Claudio was upright, sober, and I was stumbling. Occasionally his arm wrapped around my shoulder, holding me tight, and other times I was left on my own.

  But I didn’t remember much of the walk.

  My mind was locked in the past.

  As in, a few hours ago when he told me he wanted to sculpt me, cupped my face, and kissed me.

  The kiss that broke my world open.

  It was better than I could have imagined, better than any kiss I’ve had before. A kiss that usually only lives in fiction, a kiss that’s born of art. Obviously, I could write about it for days.

  His velvety soft lips felt sinful, awakening something inside me I never knew was there. He was right in some ways about unearthing something that already existed. When we came together, it felt as natural as breathing, and I needed it like I needed oxygen.

  But it was terribly fleeting.

  One moment his tongue was sliding against mine, his fingers trailing delicately over a bare breast, his erection pressed against my hip, and I was feeling the full extent of his desire.

  In the next, it was over. Carla, none the wiser, was dragging me off to help her pour the sparkling wine for the guests.

  I had to spend the rest of the evening trying to focus on meeting new people and smiling and not feeling awkward, but all I could focus on was the kiss that we shared. How much I wanted it again.

  And what it meant.

  We were silent as the car sliced through the puddles on the rain-soaked road, the reflection of the streetlights bouncing off the windshield. Claudio seemed tense, and not in a good way. Borderline moody, the way he gets sometimes.

  It feels like forever before we finally pull up to the house and I’m practically scrambling to get out of the car just to escape the tension.

  This is so awkward.

  The kiss was a mistake.

  Are we just going to pretend it didn’t happen?

  All of these thoughts are flying into my brain—ping, ping, ping—and I feel like screaming as we enter the house through the bottom door, like I can’t possibly go to my room after this, I can’t possibly sleep. I can barely breathe.

  So we stand there in the middle of the lounge, staring at each other.

  And then Claudio says, “I’m feeling inspired. I’m going to go work for a bit.”

  He nods toward his studio.

  My eyes fly to the old clock on the wall and back to him. It’s past midnight. Is he asking me to come in the studio with him? Was that a hint?

  I stare at him, but I can’t read anything. And I don’t trust myself to see the right thing either, not after a few drinks, not when it feels like nothing is certain and everything between us is on the line.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m going to go to bed.”

  I say it despite the voice inside me that’s screaming noooo, tell him you want to see his studio. Invite him to your room!

  But the words were said.

  I have to stick with them.

  Claudio nods, and I swear I see a flash of disappointment on his brow. He walks closer to me, stops, reaches out for my hand, grabs it.

  He raises my hand to his mouth, flipping it over, and as his eyes hold mine, he places a long, hot kiss on my palm.

  “Goodnight, Grace,” he says huskily.

  I swallow, trying to respond but it comes out as a squeak instead, and his hand reluctantly lets go.

  I pull my hand to my chest, staring dumbly at him for a moment. Then I run up the stairs as fast as I can.

  I get to my room, close the door, and climb right onto the bed, knees brought to my chest, trying to breathe through it all.

  There will be no sleep tonight.

  The next day it feels like everything is back to normal.

  Vanni is lounging around, reading some scien
ce books.

  Claudio is busy in his studio.

  And I? Well, I’m doing what I can to write, though it’s next to impossible when every time I close my eyes, I can still feel his lips against mine, the hard, feverish need he unearthed when he kissed me. How can he just go back to work like that? How can he just move on?

  Didn’t he tell me I was his muse?

  Or was that just a line?

  It’s hard to know with these Italian smooth talkers.

  It’s also hard to know when my experience with the opposite sex is minimal and my brain tends to run away on me, always jumping to the most negative scenario.

  The result? I wander around the house like a ghost, unmoored from routine, wanting to latch on to something, anything.

  Finally, my wanderings bring me out to the rose garden.

  Where I find Claudio with his back to me, holding a pair of clippers, his arm bundled with peachy roses.

  The Grace rose.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him, standing at the edge of the garden. My voice is quiet, barely audible above the hum of the afternoon crickets.

  He straightens up and turns to me, eyes locking with mine.

  To my relief, they are warm and familiar.

  He’s never a stranger.

  “Ah, la mia musa,” he says, the words coming out in a lyrical rush. I never tire of him speaking his native language, and I’ll certainly never tire of him calling me his muse.

  Whatever that means.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” he finishes.

  “How so?” I ask.

  Because you wanted to continue that kiss?

  Because you wanted to talk to me about that kiss?

  “Stay there.” He holds out the bunch of roses, framing me in with them, his eyes scrutinizing the scene. “Yes. This is what I want.”

  Want. The word sounds honey-soaked coming from those lips.

  I inhale the smell of the roses, feeling shaky. “What?”

  “You. Remember last night?”

  I stare at him incredulously. Like, which part is he talking about here?

  I manage to nod. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember when I kissed you?”

  I gulp, my stomach erupting in butterflies. “Y-yes.”

  “Do you remember before I kissed you, when I asked you for a favor? If you could be my muse, if you would let me sculpt you?” He pauses, his eyes gleaming. “You never gave me your answer.”

  “You didn’t give me much time.”

  He grins. “Very true. So perhaps it is my fault. But you can answer me now. May I sculpt you?”

  “You may do a lot more than sculpt me.”

  I can hardly believe the words that leave my mouth.

  And from the way Claudio’s eyes widen, I don’t think he can believe it either.

  He blinks. “You should be careful what you ask for. I might just give it to you.” He swallows, a flash of pink tongue wetting his lips. I remember what that tongue felt like against my own, and my body stiffens at the thought of it everywhere else.

  “But I need no distractions with my art,” he adds huskily. “Having you as a muse is complicated enough. Please, tell me you’ll consider.”

  “I’ve already considered it. Yes. You can … sculpt me.”

  He gives me a wicked smile that makes my skin feel hot. “Perfetto. Tell me, do you have a dress with thin straps, something not so stiff, but loose, with lots of movement, something that drapes nice? Any color will do.”

  I nod. “I know just the one.”

  “I thought you would. Good. Now, perhaps after dinner you could put it on and meet me in the studio. I thought I would give you warning so that you can get your work in for the day.”

  I almost laugh. Work? There will be no work today, especially not now when I know I’m going to be a model for his art.

  “Oh, and if you can go without a bra, that would be great.”

  I cock my head. “You pervert.”

  He shrugs, the roses bobbing. “Yes, it’s true I am. But in terms of the art, it is much better.”

  “Right,” I say slowly.

  Then he turns around and starts snipping away at more of the roses, the bundle in his arms growing. Something tells me that I’ll be seeing those roses later.

  Of course, now that there’s something I’m anxious about, time flies. Before long it’s dinnertime, and the three of us enjoy a caprese salad and bruschetta. I drink more wine than I normally do, trying to drown my nerves which are growing tighter by the minute.

  Finally, when it’s over, I exchange a knowing glance with Claudio and head up to my room. With shaking fingers, I flick through the dresses hanging in the small wardrobe, looking for the right one.

  I find it. I pull it out and hold it up to myself. It’s a Zimmerman that I splurged on last year but never had the chance to wear, though it’s absolutely perfect for Italy. It’s linen, hits mid-calf, with white and yellow stripes, and ruffles across it. There’s a tie that goes around the waist, or you can let it fall freely. I think this is exactly what Claudio is asking for.

  You know he’s also asking for you?

  I get undressed, glance at my body in the mirror, and refuse to dwell on the imperfections. Besides, I don’t have to get naked for the sculpture. Since I’m not supposed to wear a bra, I forgo my knickers as well. Then I slip the dress on, tying it loosely around the waist to give it some shape. If he wants to untie it, he can.

  I practically squirm at the thought of him untying me like a ribbon on a present. This isn’t going to be easy, is it?

  I head down the stairs, my pulse beating against my wrist, passing Vanni in the living room, listening to something on his iPad with his headphones on. He doesn’t even look at me.

  Then I’m at the bottom floor.

  The door to Claudio’s studio is open, music softly blaring.

  “Mystify” by INXS. No surprise there.

  I step through the doorway, overtaken by how hot it is, and the sweet tea scent of the roses, which are bundled in a beautiful pile on the table.

  Claudio is in the corner, trying to set up a fan.

  When he sees me, he stops what he’s doing and stares.

  Doesn’t say anything.

  I feel like I’m on display, being judged. I hold out my arms, jutting out my hip as if to say, Ta-da.

  “Does this work?” I ask, feeling more anxious by the minute.

  He nods quickly. I can’t tell if it’s desire in his eyes or awe. Maybe it’s both. Either way, he doesn’t look disappointed.

  He straightens up and walks toward me, stopping close. His eyes flit from my face, down to my shoulders, to my breasts, then the rest of the dress. “Mmmm,” he says, pressing his lips together. “Sì, sì. This will do.”

  His gaze comes up to meet mine, eyes holding me in place. “You are too much for this world, I think.”

  I look away, feeling embarrassed.

  “Once again,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers under my chin, raising it so I meet his eyes, “you must learn to take the compliments. I won’t stop giving them to you. I’ll do it until you believe me, and then I’ll do it some more. Capisci?”

  I nod against his hand.

  He slips it behind my neck, expression serious. Wraps my hair around his fingers and holds it up. “I can’t tell if I want your hair down or not. I’m afraid I’ll lose the lines of your neck if I don’t. You have an incredibly sexy neck. Have I ever told you that?”

  I’m silent. Manage to shake my head.

  “I’m surprised I didn’t have a taste last night,” he says roughly, leaning in close until his lips hover just above my skin. “Very surprised,” he whispers, his breath hot.

  Then he pauses.

  Pulls away, his eyes at the door behind me.

  He walks toward it, and I let out a harsh breath. I’m already feeling dizzy and this hasn’t even started. The heat of the room is mingling with the heat between us.

&
nbsp; I turn to see him close it.

  Then he locks it.

  “Models must have privacy,” he says to me, walking over to the table. It’s now that I notice a bottle of white wine half-hidden behind the roses, perspiration running down the side. It looks so deliciously cold.

  He grabs the bottle and a glass. “I apologize for the temperature in here,” he says. “It gets so hot during the day, even with the curtains drawn and the sliding doors open.”

  He hands me the glass of wine, the stem cool between my fingers, then pulls the stool over to me.

  “Here. Sit.”

  I perch on the end of the stool, wine glass in hand.

  He studies me from head to toe, brow furrowed, lips pursed.

  “Are you planning on sculpting me with the wine?’

  He meets my eyes and smiles. “It would be fitting, no? I could call it Portrait of an Author.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No,” he says, leaning back against the table, running his fingers over his jaw. “The wine is for your nerves. So you relax.” He tightens his shoulders, raising them up to his ears. “We don’t want you like this.” He lowers them. “We want you like this. Drink up.”

  At least he’s honest about wanting to get me drunk.

  After he’s finished studying every inch of my body, my skin burning where his eyes have been, he straightens up and goes around what I’m guessing are a bunch of statues covered in sheets.

  When he comes back out, he’s pushing a slab on wheels. In the middle of it is a large mound of clay, about waist-high, propped up by a rod which attaches to a base on the slab. Two more rods come out of the sides of the clay.

  “This will be you,” he says, placing it between us. He reaches over and takes one of the rods between his fingers, bending it. “These are wires, so that the clay has something to support it. I can move them to any pose. I will only work on your head and bust today. Eventually the whole thing will be encased in clay.”

  “So what should I do?” I ask.

  “How about you move to the edge of the stool a little more. Is that okay? Are you comfortable? Perhaps hook this foot behind the stool leg. Yes, that’s it. Now straighten up. Put your hands in your lap. No, you can hold on to the glass. Hold on.”