Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  In the small, dusty town near the ruins, Marco pulled up in the middle of a small commercial strip in front of a shop that advertised souvenirs and tourist information and boasted wireless internet service. He got off and removed his sunglasses, then reached out to help her dismount. He made no secret of taking a long look at her legs and her torn skirt that revealed a stretch of her thigh. Her heart kicked into overdrive. She reminded herself not to take it personally, not any more personally than the kisses or the touch of his hands. It was just the Italian way.

  “I have to thank you again,” she said, “for rescuing me.”

  “Even though you didn't need to be rescued?” he said with a touch of irony.

  “Right,” she said.

  “Just be careful. Don't trust anyone.”

  Good advice. It was also Giovanni's advice. But didn't it also apply to Marco? Why should she trust him? Just because he kissed like the expert he was? Just because he kept rescuing her? Just because she'd met his family?

  “Don't worry,” she said. “I've learned my lesson. I'll find myself a hotel room and check my e-mail and get a couple of things, like a toothbrush and a few souvenirs.” Now why did she have to go into mundane details? She was nervous, that was why. She was babbling, afraid to say good-bye again. Afraid to make a be deal of it. Afraid he wouldn't leave. She was getting close to her rendezvous and she was afraid Marco would hang around and then Giovanni wouldn't show up for some reason she didn't understand.

  This had to be good-bye. At last. She raised her hand in a half wave, half salute, grabbed her replacement suitcase and went into the store. Be calm, be casual, she told herself. And whatever you do, don't look back to see if he'd left. That would show that she cared too much.

  First she went to the tourist information desk and asked for a room anywhere in the area. She wanted to be near the ruins, but she realized at this time of day, with so many tourists around, she couldn't afford to be choosy.

  “For how many?” the clerk asked.

  “Just one.”

  “You are alone?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Was it so strange for a woman to travel alone? Did she have to explain about her divorce?

  She nodded.

  He flipped through pages of paper, presumably lists of hotels and rooms. She held her breath.

  “I'll try,” he said. “But there are so many tourists in town tonight for the sound and light spectacle.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, it's very special. A, how do you say, drama, a presentation of a Greek tragedy in the Temple of Neptune. Twice a year only. What about tomorrow? Tomorrow I can put you in a very nice hotel.”

  “No, I have to see the ruins tonight. Please, I'll take anything, a hostel, a bed and breakfast, anything. I've come all the way from California to see the ruins.”

  He nodded. “If you can give me a few more minutes, Signora. Perhaps you would like to buy some souvenirs while waiting...”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “You may leave your suitcase while shopping.”

  “Thank you. Grazie.”

  She would buy some souvenirs. She would do whatever it took, if only the nice man would find her a place to stay. She would also check her e-mail. She went to the Internet cafe where she headed for one of the computer stations in the back of the store.

  There was another message from Tim, but this time the whole thing was there on the screen. She almost fell off her chair when she read what he had to say.

  Chapter Eight

  Dan had been stood up at the altar. No one knew exactly why, but rumors abounded. Maybe his dental hygienist had found someone else - she'd been seen recently with her personal trainer. Or she'd run off with the dentist whose marriage had been rocky for years. Maybe they'd both taken jobs with Dentists Without Borders, that international charitable group that treated poor people’s teeth in foreign lands. Yet, someone else had seen Brandy at the airport on her way to her honeymoon alone.

  Tim reported that Dan was overwhelmed with grief and shame. Anne Marie could imagine how mortifying it would be to be stood up in front of the whole town. Almost as mortifying as being dumped for a younger woman after a twenty-year marriage. Yes, she felt sorry for him, and although she knew it was uncharitable, she also felt he had it coming to him.

  Anne Marie signed off, too overwhelmed by the news to check her messages from Evie and other friends. She sat staring at the screen saver, trying to digest the news. Hoping that Dan hadn't dragged Tim into his personal misery. Tim should be off enjoying a carefree freshman year, not worried about his father's disastrous almost-wedding.

  Anne Marie felt someone was standing behind her. The sunburned skin on her shoulders tingled with awareness. Every nerve ending went on alert. She whirled around, remembering Marco's warning...and it was Marco. She should have known she hadn't seen the last of him.

  “You frightened me,” she said.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “You look...disturbed.”

  “I am. I just found out my husband was left at the altar.”

  “Your husband?” He frowned. “I thought you were divorced.”

  “Oh, I am. I keep forgetting.” She paused. “How did you know?”

  He picked up her hand and matched it palm to palm with his slightly callused and sun browned larger hand. There on her ring finger was a pale band of white skin. For some reason she'd left her ring on until the news of Dan's wedding. She knew now she'd been a fool to hope he'd beg her to take him back, that they'd reconcile and then go back to being a normal couple, slightly bored with each other, but familiar and comfortable, destined to spend the rest of their lives in Oakville, living adventures vicariously through Tim who was now out in the world on his own. Waiting for their retirement. Waiting for grandchildren. Waiting...

  Marco wove his fingers with hers. She held her breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. It was fortunate she was sitting down, because her legs were shaking so much she would have fallen down. All he'd done was hold her hand. She licked her dry lips. He stared at her mouth. She'd better learn to deal with Italian men and her runaway hormones or she was going to have a very stressful vacation.

  “You aren't wearing a ring, for one reason, though you recently did,” he said, moving his gaze from her mouth to examine her fingers. “You don't think I would have kissed a married woman, do you?”

  “I think you'd kiss any woman around,” she said dryly, snatching her hand back.

  “That's not true.” He looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  “Your cousin said something.”

  “My cousin always says something. You can't believe him.”

  “Can I believe you?” she asked.

  “Of course. You can believe the fortune teller, too. You had a sea voyage and the man you left behind was deserted.”

  “That's right. I owe you for that.” She reached for her purse. He raised his hands, palms forward. “Not now. I'll collect later. Right now I have good news. The clerk sent me to find you. He's found you a room. In a small hotel quite near here, on the street that borders the ruins. And the price includes breakfast and dinner.”

  “That's exactly what I wanted! That's wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Don't thank me. I'm just the messenger.”

  “But how did you know, how did he know you knew me?”

  He shrugged. She was getting accustomed to Marco's shrugs. He used them whenever he didn't want to answer her questions.

  “Well, that solves all my problems,” she said. “I hope your problems will be solved as well very soon.”

  “Oh, they will,” he said. “Very soon.” He gave her a brief smile and walked away. That was it. For a moment she was shocked by the suddenness of it. One moment he was there, the next minute he was gone. For good. No good-bye, no hand shake and definitely no kiss. This time it was final; she felt it in her bones. She felt relief and something else. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been disappointment. No, of course
not. Yet she couldn't deny there was a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. What did you expect? she asked herself, another soul-searching kiss, a farewell speech?

  When she came out of the tourism shop with the brochure for the small, charming hotel in her hand and a bag of sundries in her tote bag along with her suit case, she almost expected to see Marco there in the street, on his motorcycle. She almost expected to hear him order her to get on and insist on taking her to the hotel.

  There was a motorcycle parked in the street but it wasn't a red Motoguzzi, it was a gray Vespa. Which was fine with her. She was glad he wasn't there. She'd been trying to get away from him all day and all yesterday, too. She'd finally done it. He was gone. There were tourists on the narrow sidewalk, studying their guidebooks and speaking German and British English. But there was no Marco and no transportation.

  No Marco, but there was a man selling jewelry on the street. When he saw her he stepped in front of her and snapped open his black, leather case that was strapped around his neck so she could see his display of silver rings, bracelets and necklaces.

  She meant to walk around him. She meant to turn him down with a few well-chosen words in Italian, but she couldn't think of them. Instead she succumbed and let the persuasive salesman slide a silver ring with a large polished stone onto the third finger of her left hand.

  “Le sta benissimo!” he said.

  “Quanto costa?” she asked.

  He mumbled some numbers. If she understood correctly, it wasn't expensive.

  She held her hand up. It looked better with a ring. Not so naked. Not so deserted. It wasn't a wedding ring, nor an engagement ring; it didn't announce to the world: I'm attached to someone. I belong. It was simply a ring. A souvenir. And a cheap one. Maybe too cheap.

  Anne Marie decided she didn't want it. She'd buy a nice ring somewhere else, in a shop. This one might very well turn her finger green, or this street seller might be selling contraband goods. She noticed he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was afraid of being caught doing something wrong. She took the ring off and held it out.

  “No, grazie,” she said. “Me dispiace. No me piace. E troppo caro.”

  “Signora,” he said, backing away, refusing to take the ring. “Che buon'affare!”

  “But I don't want it,” she protested. “Please take it.”

  He shook his head. She realized they were blocking the sidewalk and other tourists had stopped to watch and listen to their exchange. She felt her face turning red. She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of euros. It was worth it to get away from this man and stop making a scene.

  The peddler smiled so broadly she knew she should have bargained. Or insisted he take the ring back. Next time she'd do a better job of it. If there was a next time. Why was it so hard for Americans to bargain?.

  She turned and headed for the hotel, supposedly only an eight-minute walk.

  As she trudged slowly past the ruins, she was able to appreciate the Temple of Neptune with its graceful Doric columns standing in the late afternoon sunlight as it had been standing since four-fifty BC. A car slowed and a man stuck his head out the window and said something in Italian, which she interpreted as offering her a ride. As much as she longed to drag herself and her battered suitcase into the car, firmly shook her head. He drove on. Italian men weren't so bad, she mused. You just had to be firm. Let them know what you want or what you don't want. As long as you knew what you wanted, that worked fine.

  When she finally reached the hotel, footsore and out of breath, she was happy to see it was just the way she'd imagined, small and unpretentious with eight rooms at most, with the restaurant attached at one end. The man at the desk told her the room wasn't ready. With a glance at her torn and dusty clothes, he suggested she take a seat in the courtyard around the pool and he would have a cool drink sent to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I wonder, do you have a refrigerator here?”

  “Un frigo? Si, signora. Perche? Why do you ask?”

  “I have a box of candy that's melting in this heat. I wonder if I might leave it in your frigo just until tomorrow.”

  “Certamente,” he said with a small bow and took the box from her hand. “It is my pleasure.

  She smiled gratefully and left her luggage there in the lobby, went to the courtyard, collapsed in a deck chair and sipped a lemon granita.

  Nothing had ever tasted quite so good as the sweet-sour tang of lemon mixed with ice. She stretched her legs out ahead of her, pulled out her guide book to read about the Greeks and the Romans at Paestum, and let herself relax for the first time in two days. She was there. Really there. She was alone. Not lonely - oh, no. Just alone.

  The church across the ocean where her ex-husband had been stood up seemed far away. The image of it was fading as fast as the pale ring around her finger. Would there be a time when she'd scarcely remember she'd ever been married? No, Dan would always be a part of her life in some way. The memory of his betrayal was still a part of her, and it would be a long time before she'd trust any man.

  Her room was on the second floor and from her small balcony she could see the Greek temples of Ceres and Hera and Neptune rising from the red-brown earth in the dusk. It would be beautiful tonight when it was flood-lighted. But she wouldn't be on the balcony tonight, she'd be at the Temple of Ceres at ten o'clock. It was too bad she couldn't also see the Greek tragedy in the amphitheatre. But she'd see the major attractions of Italy later. With or without Giovanni.

  She stripped off her dirty, torn skirt and the rest of her clothes and ran the water in the large bathtub. She sank into the water, rested her head against the curved surface of the tub and closed her eyes. The cool porcelain eased the pain of her sunburned skin and the warm water soothed her aching muscles. The soap had almonds in it and the shampoo smelled like crushed petals. She wiggled her toes and stretched her legs. What bliss, to be dust-free and clean from head to toe.

  As she soaked she wondered where Marco had gone. If he really was a guide, he'd be out hustling tourists to make some money. Or maybe he'd gone back to San Gervase on his motorcycle. By this time maybe he too had found a big bathtub, and he was soaking the dust off his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped body. She imagined the water sloshing over his shoulders, down his chest... Marco would have a glass of Chianti in one hand. He'd step out of the tub to reach for a towel, but before he did, his cell phone would ring. He'd stand there dripping wet, completely naked, talking to someone. She could picture it so clearly she forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths to calm down.

  She slid further into the water and closed her eyes. The next time she opened them the water had cooled. Her neck was stiff and her skin was as wrinkled as a prune. She'd never fallen asleep in a bathtub before but then she'd never kissed a stranger before either. Or gotten drunk on the local wine or had her luggage smashed or indulged in erotic fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. She could make a long list of the firsts in her life and she'd only been in Italy for a few days. What next?

  The hotel manager told her dinner was served between eight and ten, family style. She opened the canvas bag to find something to wear to dinner and to meet Giovanni.

  Isabella had beautiful clothes. Anne Marie couldn't believe a girl who'd wear silk bikini panties and a lacy half bra would give them up for whatever nun's wore under their habits. All the clothes were snug, but wearable. Isabella must be a little smaller than Anne Marie. After all, she was fifteen years younger and hadn't had children. Unfortunately, the half bra was so tight that the straps rubbed against her sunburned shoulders and the hooks dug into her sensitive skin. She took it off.

  She tried on a short skirt and a bright purple hand-dyed silk T-shirt with an orange flower hand-painted in the middle. She never went without a bra, she never wore purple, so with her sunburned skin and short reddish hair, and her nipples pressed against the silk fabric, she scarcely recognized the reflection in the bathroom mirror. She didn't look like herself. If
anyone from Oakville saw her tonight they'd faint dead away at the sight of their very proper librarian dressed like a...a...

  She'd lost her identity. Though it wasn't much of a loss, after all. Maybe she was in the market for a new one. At least for tonight. The only person she would see who mattered was Giovanni. In the pale moonlight, it was doubtful he'd notice she wasn't wearing a bra. And if he did? She gave a little shiver of apprehension. If he did, and he was as sophisticated as she imagined he would be, then he wouldn't be shocked.

  She stood in the bathroom staring at herself, wondering if she'd gone off the deep end. She never wore clothes this tight. She might not be able to eat a bite of food, for fear of bursting the seams. Never mind. She had no choice.

  Isabella's shoes were the kind Anne Marie had been admiring on all the Italian women she saw. They were a little tight like the skirt and the shirt, but she was determined to wear them until she had a chance to buy some of her own.

  When she entered the small dining room, teetering just slightly in those beautiful strappy high-heeled Italian shoes, she slipped into a seat at the long table with a dozen or so other guests. Some were English and one couple was German, and there were four American women and everyone was speaking English. Italian food and English conversation. What could be better? She helped herself to marinated eggplant and roasted green beans from a tray of assorted anti-pasta and was having a fine time talking about where to go and what to see in Italy, when Marco walked in and took a seat across the table from her.

  Suddenly the antipasti platter she was holding was too heavy and she set it down with a thump. Suddenly her throat closed and she couldn't speak or eat another bite. Suddenly she was aware of his eyes on her, on her breasts and her nipples that puckered and pressed against her shirt in reaction to his unexpected presence. She thought about tucking her napkin into her shirt and covering herself. She thought about jumping up and leaving the table, but that wouldn't do. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd chased her away. She shouldn't be ashamed of her body. For a forty-year-old, her breasts were firm and even tilted upward. Why shouldn't she be proud of her body? Why shouldn't she stay there, eat her food and even look him straight in the eye? She had a date tonight. An assignation. It had nothing to do with Marco Moretti.