Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  Though she appeared naive and inexperienced, she was obviously smart. As for her being in love with Giovanni, maybe she'd be surprised to hear that Giovanni had already been married three times and probably still was. Her marriage was over and she was on the rebound. He just hoped she didn't start crying again, at least not in a public place. He was running out of handkerchiefs.

  He paused in the doorway before he let himself out. “Ciao, bella,” he said softly.

  Chapter Four

  The next day Marco went to his office early to report to his superior. Silvestro, a gruff officer who'd known him since he was a boy, had taken Marco off the streets of San Gervase a few years back when he was only a local polizia, and chosen him to work for the Guardia. Silvestro had sent him to London for two years, then to Rome for the past two years where he'd worked on some difficult cases, but none as hard as this one. None that meant as much to him personally.

  The office was on the second floor of a building without any sign on the door, very different from the big, government building in Rome. The Guardia did not care to advertise their presence in a small town like San Gervase. Silvestro was standing in the window, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a suit jacket and a shirt with no tie, waiting for him.

  The place was quiet on Saturday mornings. Street crimes were easily handled by the ufficio di polizia in town. The atmosphere here was so different from the wild, chaotic, fume-laden streets of Rome. Marco was glad to be back in his home town, but for how long? There were times, like last night, when he wished he could return to a more simple life. But right now he didn't have the luxury of worrying about his future. Not until he caught Giovanni.

  “Well, did you find it?” Silvestro Schiavenza asked.

  Marco shook his head. “There's nothing in her room.”

  “Then she's wearing it.”

  “She's not wearing any jewelry.”

  “Not even a wedding ring?”

  “No ring. She's divorced.”

  “That's right. I forgot. What about some cheap costume jewelry, necklace, bracelet? That's the way they often conceal it.”

  “I know. I checked. She's not the type to wear jewelry.”

  “Not the type? Every woman is the type. I thought you knew that. You know so much about women.”

  “Women, yes,” Marco said. “Jewelry, no.”

  “Not even diamonds? Never bought one for one of your girlfriends?”

  “She might get the wrong idea.” Women got the wrong idea from him even without diamonds; he had no wish to contribute to any misunderstandings. “I understand they're making them in a laboratory in Russia now that are almost impossible to tell from the real ones.”

  Silvestro sighed. “As if we needed a new wrinkle to our problems. So what are you telling me? She hasn't got it? Are you sure? Did you strip her? Did you pat her down at least? For you, that should be no problem.”

  “No problem,” Marco assured him. He had no intention of losing his reputation. But he'd had the perfect chance to pat her down during that kiss on the way back to the hotel, and he hadn't. Why not? What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking - that was the problem. He'd gotten involved in that kiss, more than he'd intended, more than he'd wanted to.

  “I checked her luggage. I checked the linings. I checked every place it could possibly be. Whether she's hidden it elsewhere, or someone else hands it off to her to give Giovanni, I'll be there.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. I'm taking her to Paestum this morning to meet him.”

  “If he shows up.”

  “He will, and I'll be ready.”

  Marco knew his boss was remembering the fiasco the last time they thought they'd gotten Giovanni. The lights, the sirens, the backup forces. Marco had turned away for one minute to speak to a woman - one minute too many and Giovanni was gone. Disappeared down a rat hole. Now he'd surfaced and there would never be a better chance to trap him. All Marco needed was a little luck and this blue-eyed woman with an important package for Giovanni.

  “You'll call for help if you need it. I can have a team there in minutes. Remember, he's a desperate man with great resources.”

  “But I have what he wants - the woman.”

  “You're sure about that? Why would Giovanni risk getting caught for an American woman when he can have any woman he wants here in Italy?” Marco knew he was thinking, including your sister.

  “She's... different.”

  The old man sighed loudly. “Nobody's that different. Giovanni is interested in only one thing: money. If our information is correct, what the woman has is enough to set him up for the rest of his life. Don't let her out of your sight and don't get involved with her. If we fail the syndicate again they will lose confidence in us. My job, your job - everything is at stake.”

  “I understand. I have no intention of getting involved; I've learned my lesson,” Marco said grimly.

  “If we don't catch him actually receiving the jewel, the case won't stand up in court. There's pressure from every side. From the South Africans who control the diamond market, the insurance company in America, the Roman family who claims it belongs to them. This diamond has been stolen not just once, but many times. The Bianchi Diamond is nearly as valuable as the Hope Diamond. Be careful, Marco - people will kill for a diamond, lie or die or even cheat their best friend.”

  Marco nodded and went to the door. “Any word from the FBI?” he asked.

  “They too are feeling the pressure from the family the diamond was stolen from. But they have no more information for us, if that's what you mean. The Jackson woman has no record, no prior convictions which doesn't mean much when it comes to a chance to make some big money.”

  “What about her family and friends - her son, her ex-husband and a friend called Evie? Could they do some checking on them? Discreetly, of course,” Marco suggested.”

  “I'll call and ask, if you think it would help.”

  “It won't hurt.” He paused. “Not her son. He's just a kid. He wouldn't know anything. But check out her friend Evie and her ex-husband.”

  Silvestro scribbled a note on a piece of paper, then he looked up.

  “When are you getting married, Marco?” he asked.

  Startled, Marco turned, the doorknob in his hand. Where had that come from? Was there a conspiracy against the unmarried? “Not you, too. Never, why should I?”

  “Because one day you'll be old, too old to chase women or thieves. My advice is to find someone now, before it's too late. Someone to spend your golden years with. Give her a diamond and settle down. Then when you're sixty-three, like me, you'll have someone to sit in the square with in the evening, someone to share a grappa and watch the sunsets with.”

  I don't need company in the square. I can drink alone and watch the sunsets on my own. But thanks for the advice. I'll think about it.”

  “Do that, and when you think about it, think about me. Because I want to retire and plant roses and enjoy the sunsets with my wife, but if we don't get that diamond back...”

  “We will. I promise you on the grave of my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother is alive and well, I saw her yesterday. She's worried about you. She prays for you.”

  “I'm glad someone does.” Before Silvestro could nag him further, Marco was in his car and on his way to the hotel.

  He stopped only to buy coffee and rolls, which he thought might impress Ana Maria as a thoughtful gesture. But when he knocked, there was no answer.

  The cleaning woman called to him from the end of the hall. “Troppo tardi,” she said. “E andata.” She gestured with her hand. You're too late. She's gone.

  “Que cosa?” he said, his teeth clenched. She was out cold when he'd left her. How could she be awake, on her unsteady feet, and out of the hotel so soon? He cursed her. He cursed himself. He cursed his superior for calling him in this morning and the whole agency he worked for.

  He raced down the stairs and jumped into his car, spilling the coffee from the cardboard cup on
to the leather seats and speeding down the hill, taking the curves much too fast on the way to the bus station. If she was going to Paestum, she'd have to go by bus, unless she'd hired a taxi to take her. But why so early? Why go alone?

  He parked his car across from the beach. The sun, still low in the sky, slanted its rays on the calm blue water. The beach umbrellas were still packed away, the paddle boats were beached, and workers were sweeping the sand of debris. The air smelled of salt water and fish.

  He saw her right away at the first cafe along the strip. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, her tote bag over her arm and her suitcase at her feet. She was wearing sunglasses, and absolutely no jewelry he could see. She was writing something on the small, round table in front of her. He parked his car and ambled casually to the café.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.

  She looked up. If he thought she'd be pleased by his asking permission this time, he was wrong. There was a long silence. All he could see was his own face reflected in her sunglasses. “There are other tables,” she said at last.

  He straddled a wrought iron chair and lighted a cigarette. “I prefer this one.”

  “Do you mind not smoking?” she said wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke. “In California it's illegal to smoke in a cafe.”

  “Even outside?” he asked incredulously.

  She nodded.

  “You're in Italy now,” he reminded her.

  “You're at my table,” she reminded him.

  He stubbed out his cigarette on the cement floor.

  “What happened last night?” she asked.

  “We had dinner and I took you to a concert. There was a fortune teller…”

  “I mean later, at the hotel. I must have had too much wine, because my head hurts like hell this morning. And I can't remember how I got home.”

  He was relieved to learn she had no memory of their kiss. He wished he could forget as easily.

  “You walked. Not very well, not very steadily, but you walked all the way back to the hotel.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you went to bed.”

  She nodded slowly. “How do you know?”

  “Because I carried you up the stairs and dumped you on your bed. When I left, you were sound asleep.”

  Her sunglasses slid down her nose and she stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “I don't know what to say,” she said.

  “What about 'grazie, molto gentile?'“

  “Molto gentile?” she asked, “or molto suspicioso?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, smothering a smile. At least she tried to speak Italian. Most tourists didn't. But then, she wasn't most tourists.

  “What I mean is that I don't know you. You follow me everywhere and I don't know why. You say you're a tour guide, but why aren't you out guiding someone, then? What do you want with me?”

  “Just to help you.” He gave her a long, steady look. Last night I wanted to make love to you. Today I want to catch you with one of the world's most spectacular diamonds and send you back to America in the custody of international agents.

  But a stab of guilt hit him between the ribs as he looked into her bleary eyes. What if she really was an innocent tourist? What if all the intelligence they'd gathered was incorrect? The agency had made mistakes before.

  If she never met Giovanni, if she never handed over any stolen goods, he'd almost be sorry. This case was getting even more interesting. Marco loved his job and he loved a challenge. It was his personal life that was less than exciting. Women had left him feeling numb. Ever since he'd met Ana Maria yesterday, he'd felt anything but numb. His senses had come alive along with his libido. This woman, this case - they were both one hell of a challenge. He wouldn't jump to any conclusions, not yet.

  “I might remind you,” he continued, “that you don't speak Italian and you don't understand our customs. You are a stranger in a strange land. You cried three times, you drank a little too much wine, and you got lost on the way home. It has been my pleasure to help rescue you from these incidents, from embarrassment. And yet...and yet, I have not asked you for one lira, nor have I heard one word of thanks from you even after I took you to a concert, had your fortune told, and got you safely back to your hotel. What more do you want?” he demanded with an edge to his voice. It was time to put her on the defensive, and see how tough she was.

  “I don't want anything, except to be left alone,” she said, standing tall and reaching for the handle of her suitcase. “I know you meant well, but I came to Italy to be on my own. Yes, maybe I caused a scene, and I got lost, and had a little too much to drink, but I didn't break any laws and I didn't need to be rescued. And I plan to return your handkerchiefs to you as soon as I wash them. No, I don't speak Italian yet, but I'm learning. The only way I can learn is to practice. And I will find my way around by myself. So, molto grazie, Marco, and arrivederci.”

  With her chin in the air, Anne Marie stalked off without a backward glance. She didn't dare look back or it would spoil the effect altogether. She didn't hear footsteps behind her as she dragged her suitcase behind her out of the empty cafe and down the quiet street, so probably he'd gotten the message. Probably he was still sitting at the cafe, watching her walk away, surprised and pissed off by her angry words and her ungrateful attitude. And wondering how on earth she planned to return his handkerchiefs if she was never going to see him again.

  Probably he thought he was irresistible and he’d never been turned down before. Probably he thought of her as some helpless tourist eager to hop into bed and have an affair with an Italian man. If not Giovanni, then Marco. Or both. Well, she wasn't. Yes, he made shivers go up her spine when he touched her and he made her knees buckle and her head spin when he kissed her. Or had she dreamed that kiss? All that could be due to the wine she'd drunk last night. Yes, she had responded in ways that scared her half out of her wits, making her feel shaky all over, empty and unfulfilled, like a sex-starved cat in heat, instead of a forty-something librarian whose recent sexual experiences had been all vicarious.

  Of course there were logical explanations for these strange sensations. Jet lag, culture shock and sensory overload. If only she could remember what really happened last night. Some parts were dream-like, like the kiss, and some were a blank. She resolved to stop drinking wine in the company of strange men. Now, Giovanni was a different story. He was not a stranger, he was an old friend she could drink wine with and feel safe. She knew he was not a gigolo. She knew he wouldn't take advantage of her.

  But it wasn't Giovanni whose body had been pressed against hers outside that apartment building last night. It was Marco's. What if someone had seen them? Maybe someone did. Her dreams had been filled with erotic longings, disturbing sensations, and lust and passion right out of an X-rated movie.

  She'd been up at dawn planning her escape to Paestum without Marco. Unfortunately, nothing was open at dawn. She'd sat here at the beach on her suitcase for an hour waiting for a cafe to open. Then she'd barely gotten her coffee when he'd arrived.

  Why? What did he want with her? This was the third time he'd shown up like this - in the hotel lobby, in the restaurant and now here in the cafe. He never asked her for money, so that wasn't it. He hadn't ravished her last night, so it wasn't that. He was after something or someone, but what or who?

  She had her coffee and now she wanted to find an Internet cafe so she could check her messages. Despite her brave words back there at the cafe, she was experiencing a wave of homesickness that made her long for something familiar, a familiar voice or a kind word. She knew it was silly to be nostalgic when she'd only been away for a few days, but she was. She found a small shop with Internet access on a side street, paid the small fee for fifteen minutes and settled herself and her suitcase in front of a computer.

  Her pulse raced when she saw she had an e-mail message from her son. What if Tim was sick? What if he needed her? Yes, he was eighteen and a freshman in college and fiercely independen
t, but still...

  “Mom. Hope you're having a great trip. It is so cool you are getting a chance to do all those things you always wanted but never could. Live it up, mom. La vida loca and all that. You won't believe what happened here. Or have you already heard? You know the wedding was yesterday. Or it was supposed to be yesterday. There we were in the church. I was standing next to Dad at the altar. You remember he asked me to be his best man, which I didn't want to do, but you said it was okay, you understood. I was nervous, it being my first wedding and wearing my first tux and feeling weird about my own dad getting married to someone who, well you know, and then the music started and she...”

  That was all there was. Anne Marie sat staring at the screen. Where was the rest of the message? She clicked the mouse. She restarted the computer. Nothing happened. She went back to the counter and spoke to the woman in charge, who shrugged. It wasn't her fault if the American had only gotten half a message, was it?

  “Why don't you ask the sender to repeat the message?” the clerk suggested in English.

  Anne Marie went back to the computer and wrote Tim a message, asking, him to re-send the message trying not to sound desperate for news of her ex-husband. Still she wondered, what could have happened at the wedding? She scrolled down to a message from Evie. Maybe she'd tell her what happened.

  “Hi Anne Marie.

  I tried to call you last night at your hotel. What happened in Rome? My cousin went to meet you at the airport but she couldn't find you.”

  Anne Marie felt a stab of guilt. They'd changed her flight at the last minute in San Francisco and she'd forgotten to call Evie and tell her. She'd been in such a rush to see Giovanni, she'd forgotten everything, the cousin, the chocolates, everything but Giovanni.

  “Misty can hardly wait to see you. I've told her all about you and she wants to meet you when you get to Rome. I'll give you her number and you can call her. Of course she's dying to get her hands on the candy too, but anyway WHO was the man who answered the phone in your room last night? It wasn't Giovanni, at least he said he wasn't. I can't believe you had a strange man in your room after midnight and where were you, by the way? I want to tell you about the wedding, but I haven't got time to do it justice. Believe me, the whole town is talking. It's a good thing you weren't here. Call me. I have so much to tell you. Have you seen Giovanni? Have you met someone else?