by Carol Grace
“What is it?” Anne Marie said, a little worried herself.
“She says you will have many surprises in your future,” Marco said. “And a sea voyage, of course.”
“What about the tall, dark stranger?”
“Is that what you're looking for?” Marco asked.
“No, I'm not. But I'm sure that's what she's going to say.”
“You're wrong,” Marco said, after listening to the fortune teller speak for a few moments. When the old woman paused, he continued his translation. “She says that the man you left behind has been deserted.”
“That's not true. I didn't desert him, he deserted me. And he got married today. You see, she doesn't know what she's talking about.”
“I'm only repeating what she tells me,” he said. “Do you want to hear it or not?”
“Go ahead, but I don't really want to hear about Dan.”
“This is about you. You will find a greater love where you least expect it.”
“I don't expect it at all.” Anne Marie tugged at her hand, tired of the game, but the woman tightened her grasp. “I didn't come to Italy to find a man or love. I came to see the country and Giovanni. Why don't you ask her when I'll see him and where he is? At least that would be useful information.”
Marco turned to the woman and said something. Anne Marie wondered if he was really translating her questions or the woman's answers correctly; for all she knew he was making the whole thing up.
“She says Giovanni will show up,” he said.
“I know, 'where I least expect him.' Is that what you were going to say?”
“Where do you expect him?” Marco asked.
Tell no one. Trust no one.
“I don't expect him until I see him.”
The fortune teller was still scowling at her hand.
“She says if you follow your heart you will not be lonely anymore.”
“I'm not lonely now. And I intend to follow my head, not my heart this time. I think I've heard enough.”
But the old woman had more to say. She let fly with a torrent of words, all the while her dark eyes focused on Anne Marie's palm.
Anne Marie sighed. In spite of herself, she was curious. She turned her questioning gaze on Marco and raised her eyebrows.
“She says the man you are seeking is in trouble,” he said.
“He is?” Anne Marie frowned. “What kind of trouble?”
“Big trouble.”
“Then I have to find him. Maybe I can help him.”
“Maybe, but you must not go alone. You must take someone.”
“Like you?” she asked dryly.
Marco shrugged. “If you like.”
Anne Marie shook her head. “No,” she said. She might be an innocent abroad for the first time. She might be a woman scorned and vulnerable. But she wasn't stupid. She didn't know Marco, but she knew Giovanni, and he'd told her to beware of strangers.
Why was this Marco so anxious to take her to the ruins. He said it wasn't for the money; did he know Giovanni? Did he know where he was? Did he know Giovanni wanted her to come alone? Giovanni, Marco; Marco, Giovanni. She tried to imagine how Giovanni would look now, twenty-some years later, but all she could see was Marco across the table, his angular, high-cheekboned face impassive, his expression inscrutable.
The fortune teller finally let her hand go and stood, then said something so distinct low in such an intense voice, Anne Marie felt the words were inscribed on her brain. Turning abruptly, she disappeared in the crowd.
“What did she say?” Anne Marie said.
“'Camina chi pantoflui fino a quannu non hai I scarpi'“ Marco said, scribbling the words on a napkin. “It's an old Sicilian saying. It means walk in your...your...how do you say, slippers, until you find your shoes.”
Puzzled, Anne Marie looked down at her shoes. “I don't understand.”
“It's hard to explain.”
“Never mind. For once I want to live in the present, not the past or the future.” She took a drink of wine. It really was very good. She'd have to buy some to take home. When she got home she'd start giving small dinner parties for old friends, serving pasta with homemade sauce and Italian wines. Entertaining was something she hadn't done since Dan walked out, hating the thought of being a single woman surrounded by couples. But by the time she got home she'd be a changed woman, single and proud of it, able to toss off dinner parties after work, able to sprinkle her conversation with Sicilian proverbs. She folded the napkin and tucked it in her pocket. Now she just had to find out what the proverb actually meant.
“Very wise,” Marco said approvingly. “Italians say to live in the present is to eat the fruit when it is ripe.”
“And the tomatoes,” Anne Marie murmured. “I like that.”
When the musicians returned to the stage after a break, the tenor's voice rose in the night air and filled her heart with such emotion Anne Marie forgot about Giovanni and her quest. She forgot to worry about tomorrow. After all, hadn't she just promised herself she'd live in the present? But she didn't forget about Marco. How could she when he was sitting in the shadows across from her, his white shirt against his sun-darkened skin, looking so relaxed, so much at ease, like every woman's dream of an Italian lover.
“What does it mean?” she asked softly with a nod toward the singer.
“It's a love song,” he said..
“But it sounds so sad,” she whispered.
“Because it is sad. He is singing of his lost love. It is spring, the saddest time of the year when a wind has blown the blossoms from the trees just as his love has flown away. He remembers her hair, like dark clouds...” Marco leaned across the table and took a strand of Anne Marie's hair between his fingers. “Like yours.”
She swallowed hard. It was just a song. Just a translation of a song. But Marco was real. The heat from his body, the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand, they were real. She should stop him now, before he went on, before she was lost in those dark eyes or got hypnotized by the sound of his voice, before she forgot she was following her head and not her heart. She sat there, lost in his gaze, good intentions all forgotten while the music washed over her and filled her soul with its beauty.
“Her skin was as pale as marble,” Marco said so softly she had to lean forward to catch the words. He traced a line on the inside of her bare arm to her wrist. She shivered in the warm night air and her heart thudded wildly. “As soft as velvet, and her lips were kissed by the morning dew.”
She knew it was pure sentiment, pure schlock, probably invented on the spot for her benefit, probably used one hundred times or more on women more gullible than her, but she was helpless to stop reacting to it. Helpless to stop the tremors deep down inside and the chills that went up and down her skin. She knew what was coming next, and her lips trembled in anticipation.
But he didn't kiss her. He merely traced the outline of her cheek with his hand. She ached with longing for the kiss that didn't come. His knees were pressed against hers under the table. She held completely still, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell. The song continued but Marco stopped translating. Maybe the song had gotten even sadder, and he was afraid she might cry again.
“How does it end?” she asked in a whisper when the last notes had faded and the listeners burst into applause.
“I don't know,” he said, staring into her eyes. Then he shifted in his chair. “Oh, the song. It has a happy ending. She comes back and they ride off into the sunset on his motorcycle. It's summer and the hot sun shines on them.”
“Really?” Her eyes filled with tears again. For someone who hadn't cried in months, not even when Dan told her he was leaving, not even when she heard about Dan's wedding, she was turning into an emotional basket case.
He looked alarmed and stood up. “What's wrong now? I told you it was a happy ending. Come, I'll take you back to your hotel.”
When she stood up, the whole square spun around. She clutched the back of the wrought iron
chair for support and looked at the empty wine bottle on the table. She must have drunk at least half of it, along with the wine at dinner, and she wasn't used to drinking so much. Marco's face was out of focus, but she could tell he was worried by the lines on his face. He took her hand and drew her to his side.
“Don't worry,” she said, feeling his hip press into hers. “I'm not going to cry. I'm fine.” She was filled with love for everything Italian - the food, the weather, the wine and especially the men - the singer, the waiter and Marco.
“Wait,” she said, watching the crowd disperse and the musicians pack up their instruments. “I want to tell the tenor...” She leafed through her phrase book and headed unsteadily for the small stage with Marco following behind her.
The portly, dark-haired singer with the huge mustache was rolling his sheet music up.
“Mi scusi, signor,” she said. “Lei canta molto bene.”
He smiled and bent over to kiss her hand. His mustache tickled her sensitive skin and she thought how romantic it all was, the song and the perfumed air and the full moon that hung over the square. If only Evie could see her now.
She felt Marco tug at her arm. She tried to shake him off, but quickly realized she needed his support. She had no idea where the hotel was. She didn't remember any of the narrow dark streets they walked through. It occurred to her Marco might be taking her somewhere else, like maybe putting her aboard a ship and selling her into white slavery. After she'd passed out from all that wine, Marco would sling her over his shoulder and head for the docks where he'd hustle her aboard a freighter bound for the West Indies. He'd get a few dollars for her from a stevedore, then he'd go to another fancy hotel where he'd repeat the whole scenario. But surely they were looking for younger women for the slave trade? Anyway, she was too woozy to do anything about it.
Occasionally she stumbled on a cobblestone and she had to admit it was a good thing Marco was there to prop her up and steady her with his strong arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and put her arm around his waist so she wouldn't fall.
A cat darted across their path and she let out a shriek. Marco pressed her back against the cool limestone facade of a darkened apartment building and put his hand over her mouth.
“Silenza,” he said. “You'll wake the neighbors.”
Her eyes widened. Her heart was pounding. She was afraid. Not of waking the neighbors, not of being kissed by a stranger, but afraid he wouldn't kiss her. Afraid her heart would burst it was so full, full of the night and the music and a dream come true. Somewhere a part of her brain told her the truth. She was a living, breathing stereotype. The innocent American so hungry for love she fell for the first Italian who crossed her path. But for once in her life her heart overruled her head and she stopped thinking.
When Marco took his hand away from her mouth her lips felt cold. He braced his hands against the building, trapping her between his arms. Trusting her not to fall in a heap at his feet. Trusting her to want the kiss she knew was coming. The kiss she'd somehow known was coming since she first saw him that afternoon.
He took his time about it. First he said something like in boca al lupo and though she wanted to know what it meant, this was not the time to take out her phrase book or ask for a translation. She didn't need a dictionary to know what the kiss would mean. It would mean nothing. Nothing to him. Nothing but hello and good-bye. Buona serra, Mrs. Jackson. Arrivederci, Mrs. Jackson.
To her it would mean more. Kissing a stranger on a dark Italian street would mean she was ready to take a chance, to live again and to love again. Not him, of course. She might be a little drunk, she might be feeling jet lag and culture shock, but she wasn't crazy. Still, tonight...tonight she wanted him to kiss her.
When he did, she wasn't prepared for the shock waves that hit her like the waves on the Pacific shore she’d come from. She wasn't prepared to feel like the fires of Mt. Etna were getting ready to explode inside her.
She kissed Marco back as if she'd been waiting for this kiss for years instead of minutes. He groaned in the back of his throat and pressed his hard, hot body against hers. The fire raging inside her became a roaring bonfire, impossible to contain. She kissed him with passion that had been building for weeks, months, maybe years. And she blamed it all on Italy.
No one had ever told her she was any good at kissing, but she knew by the way Marco held her, by the words he muttered in her ear, that she was doing something right. So right, she didn't want to stop. Somewhere, somehow, she was kissing and being kissed like she'd never been before. When she caught her breath, the whole world was spinning and her past and the present were blending into one delirious dream.
“Giovanni,” she murmured.
Marco pulled back feeling as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on him from the balcony above. Ana Maria swayed against the facade of the building, her eyes closed, her swollen lips tilted in a dreamy smile. She was so beautiful in the pale moonlight, it hurt to look at her. She'd just kissed him as if he was the man she'd been waiting for all her life, and then she'd called him Giovanni.
“Andiamo,” he said brusquely. “Let's go.”
Her eyes flew open. She looked surprised to see him. Of course she was; she thought he was Giovanni. That scum. That swine. When Marco found him, he'd drag her to the prison or to the gallows where Giovanni belonged and he'd show her what Giovanni was, what he'd always been. A rat, as if she didn't know. And he, he was the fox who had devoted much of his life to chasing the rat. Was that what he wanted her to know?
Anne Marie looked at him for a long moment before she stepped forward and pointedly ignored his arm to walk by herself, though slowly and unsteadily. He kept his arms at his sides. Let her stumble, let her fall. It served her right. What was she thinking to kiss a stranger on her first night in San Gervase? She was lucky he wasn't out to rob her or seduce her. Though she might think what he was really doing with her was worse, when she learned she was just a pawn to lure Giovanni out of hiding.
She made it to the front door of the hotel, staggering occasionally as he watched out of the corner of his eye. When she reached the open door to the lobby, her eyes closed and she leaned toward him and fell into his arms like a stack of bricks. The night clerk barely blinked an eye when Marco walked into the lobby with Anne Marie in his arms and asked for her key. For the third time that day he climbed the stairs to her room.
He set her on the huge bed with its smooth, turned-down sheets. He took off her flat-soled shoes and put them on the floor. He admired her shapely bare feet and felt only a slight pang of guilt when she moaned softly.
“You shouldn't have drunk so much, cara mia,” he muttered, gazing down at her body, one arm flung over the pillow, a strip of pale skin showing between her shirt and her skirt. “The next man you run into might not be as immune to your charms as I am.” Or less determined to let nothing interfere with his goal, even a very sexy woman.
When the phone rang, Anne Marie didn't stir. Marco hesitated only a moment before picking it up and dragging the cord with him outside to the balcony.
“Pronto,” he said automatically.
“I'm calling for Anne Marie Jackson. Do I have the right room?” a woman asked.
“Yes, but she's....not available to come to the telephone.” She wasn't available to do much of anything.
“Is this... Is that you, Giovanni?” she asked.
“No,” he said flatly. “It isn't.”
“Oh. Well, I'll call back another time. What time is it there?”
“It's sometime after midnight,” he said, wishing he'd never answered the phone.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Could you tell her to call her friend Evie? Thank you.”
He'd barely hung up when the phone rang again. Again he answered it. This time he was glad he did.
“Ana Maria?” a male voice said.
Giovanni! Marco gripped the receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Si,” he said in a barely audible whisper.
“Did you get my message?” Giovanni asked.
“Si,” he repeated softly. He couldn't believe his luck. He was actually talking to the bastard.
“At last we will meet again,” Giovanni said. “Tomorrow. I am so happy you have come to Italy.”
I'll bet you are, Marco thought. I'll bet you can hardly wait to get your “package.”
Giovanni said, “Bonna notte,” and hung up.
A stroke of good luck, at last. Now he knew the meeting was on and the end was in sight. He was so close to his goal he could taste it. What would happen to Ana Maria when he caught her and Giovanni in the act of giving and receiving stolen goods, in particular the spectacular yellow Bianchi diamond, missing for three months from a private collection in California? She'd be turned over to the American authorities, he imagined. It was up to them to determine how whether she'd been the one to steal the gem or merely the conduit. He couldn't imagine her breaking into a mansion in San Francisco from the roof like a cat burglar, but anything was possible when so much money was at stake.
All Marco wanted was to see Giovanni behind bars, to make him pay for what he'd done. To have his sister's betrayal avenged. Then and only then could he relax.
He went back to the bedroom and took one last look at the woman who was now lying on her side, her face pressed into the pillow, her short hair feathered against her cheek. Her skirt was twisted around her hips, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her long bare legs.
No wonder Giovanni had fallen for her. The combination of innocence, vulnerability, intelligence and those long legs was irresistible. And greed. No one would do what she'd done if she weren't greedy. Or in love with Giovanni. Or both. Maybe she needed the money to open that bookstore she wanted. He couldn't believe how clever she was, how adept at concealing her true nature. Not to mention concealing the stolen property. Where in hell was it? The most obvious place was on a piece of costume jewelry, but she didn't wear any. It wasn't in her suitcase or her cosmetic bag. Maybe she hadn't brought it with her? Maybe someone else was going to give it to her to give to Giovanni.