Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  She'd been naive to think she wouldn't see him again. For some reason, maybe because of his mysterious job, whatever it was, or because of Giovanni, he was following her. She knotted her fingers together in her lap and forced a smile as he smoothly introduced himself to everybody, including her.

  As the only Italian at the table, and the only attractive man, he was instantly the center of attraction. It didn't hurt that he was also the Italian man of every foreign woman's dreams. Or that the four American women were part of a book club from Ohio who had recently read The Odyssey. Anne Marie noticed the looks the women gave him, some blatant, some discreet, but all admiring. She listened to the conversation around her, watched the looks the women sent his way and gritted her teeth.

  What was wrong with her? Surely she wasn't jealous. Surely she didn't begrudge Marco a chance to show off his knowledge of the area. After all, he claimed to be a hot shot tour guide, supposedly here to pick up some business. Since she'd turned his offer down, why shouldn't he look around for other clients? If he wanted to show off, she'd give him a chance. She'd studied the guide book, now she'd see how much he really knew. She too had questions. Would he have the answers?

  “Tell me,” she said pleasantly when there was a break in the conversation. “What's the difference between the Roman sculpture and the Greek?”

  “That's a good question,” he said and turned his gaze on her. “The answer is in the museum. I'll take you tomorrow and show you the examples. Then you'll see the difference for yourself.”

  She nodded. Just as she thought. He'd given a safe, meaningless answer. She had no intention of making any plans with Marco when tomorrow she might be going off with Giovanni.

  He turned and asked the women if they still had cowboys and Indians in their part of America. They laughed merrily and happily filled him in on life in the U.S.A.

  He laughed with them at his own seeming lack of knowledge, and said he was thinking of taking a vacation in the States one day. He asked them where he should go and what he should see, while Anne Marie seethed. When she'd asked him about coming to the States, he'd dismissed her offer summarily. But what really bothered her was watching him flirt with these women, because it made her realize she was nothing special to him. Not that she'd really thought...But still...

  The women chattered and he appeared to listen intently. She recognized the look, the way he leaned his elbows on the table and concentrated on whoever was speaking. He'd done that to her. He'd given her his undivided attention, at the restaurant, at the concert, and on the boat. She knew what it felt like to have a handsome sexy Italian look into your eyes and give you the full force of his personality. Not that she was jealous of the American women, all well-dressed, all younger than she was. It was just interesting to realize this was his modus operandi. And she'd been right to mistrust him. Tour operator? Hardly. A smooth operator? Definitely. It was good to learn the truth, but it hurt.

  “I hope you bought a ticket for the performance,” he said to her.

  “No. If it's in Italian, I wouldn't be able to understand it.”

  “I'll be happy to translate for you,” he said. He turned to the four American women in their cute youthful all-American outfits, more stylish than the kind she used to have in her suitcase. The kind she'd planned to wear tonight. How dowdy she would have looked, not that she cared. “For you too,” he told the women.

  They beamed at him, and said that would be great, and they made plans to meet at the entrance to the temple.

  The memory of his last translation for her of the love song in the square when she'd drunk too much wine came flooding back. Was it only last night? She couldn't repeat a scene like that, soft words in the moonlight, music and too much wine. After the hangover this morning, she knew enough to avoid any further evenings with Marco. Especially this evening when she had more important things to do.

  “I may not make it,” she said with an elaborate yawn. “I've had a long day.”

  “What, miss the performance?” he said.

  “I'll see,” she said vaguely. “I don't feel that well. I think I got too much sun today.”

  “You do look a little sunburned,” he said, regarding her with one of those intent looks that were guaranteed to singe her already exposed skin. “Have some minestrone. Hot soup on the inside cools the warm skin on the outside.”

  “What about the soccer match?” she asked hopefully. “I hear Italy is playing Germany tonight.” If only Marco would be safe in a bar somewhere tonight watching the match, she'd feel better about meeting Giovanni alone.

  “That's right,” he said. “But I'll be at the play.”

  The women looked at her as if she was crazy. What woman in her right mind would decline the offer of a bona fide Italian hunk to accompany them to an event. Well, compared to Giovanni, Marco was nobody, just a page in her travel journal. Not even a page, just a paragraph.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured and left the table when the coffee was served. Her plan was to skip the play altogether, go to the temple early with the yearbook, take a seat on the base of a column and just wait. Thanks to the women, Marco was now obliged to go with them to the performance in the Temple of Neptune and would never suspect she'd be in the Temple of Ceres - the one most likely to be ignored, a bit off the beaten path.

  “Where are you going?” he called just as she reached the doorway.

  She didn't turn around. “To my room,” she said and kept walking as quickly as she could in the much higher heels than she usually wore. He couldn't follow her. It would have been rude and obvious to bolt from the table in the middle of his conversation with the others. She smiled to herself as she reached the door to her room. She'd made it.

  Inside, she knotted a lavender silk sweater over her shoulders, brushed her hair, applied fresh lipstick, and surveyed herself critically in the small mirror. She had a brief moment of uncertainty. Too late to have plastic surgery, or Botox injections to eliminate the wrinkles. She was what she was. It was now or never. She looked around the room, at the pale gray walls and the cool tiled floor and the king-sized bed and wondered if she'd be alone when she returned. Would Giovanni come back with her? Would they make love in that bed, the way she'd dreamed about it?

  The air wasn't filled with the scent of lemon blossoms here, and there wasn't a sea breeze wafting in through the open window, but maybe fate had meant for her to meet her destiny here. Here, with a full moon shining on their heated bodies, she and Giovanni would finally make love. Not as hormone-driven teenagers, but as mature adults who knew what they were doing. Not as the beginning of an affair, but as the culmination of a long-lasting friendship.

  She chastised herself for getting carried away. This was just a meeting of old friends, nothing more. If she had any other romantic expectations, she was setting herself up to be disappointed. But there was no denying the butterflies in her stomach or her icy fingers. She grabbed her tote bag with the yearbook inside. With a careful look in each direction, she left the hotel and crossed the street to the ruins. She paid the admission and once inside the main entrance, she took a sharp right turn and followed the path that led to the Temple of Ceres.

  Though it was an hour before the performance, already people were headed in the other direction to go to the amphitheater to get a good seat. Fortunately she didn't see Marco or the American tourists. She hoped she'd sounded convincing about going back to her room to rest and recuperate.

  Why would anyone doubt her word? She looked sunburned. If anyone knew the kind of day she'd had, as Marco did, they wouldn't blame her for collapsing in her bed. If she hadn't dozed off in the bathtub, if she weren't looking forward to the most exciting meeting of her life, if the adrenaline wasn't coursing through her veins, she'd probably be comatose by now. The old Anne Marie would have been in bed reading a guidebook, resting and getting ready for tomorrow. But the old Anne Marie was a librarian who read dry journals for fun, wore sensible, thick-soled shoes, and never stayed up past ten-thirty.


  Neither fatigue or sunburn, not even dengue fever or malaria, could keep her from this meeting tonight. She'd been looking forward to it for a weeks, years, maybe forever. Maybe she was making too much of it, but she couldn't stop her heart from racing as she approached the front of the temple. No floodlights for the Temple of Ceres. Just a full moon lit up the temple. It was better that way.

  She tilted her head back, looked up at the temple and let herself drift backward in time. She imagined the pale stone walls decorated with gleaming marble and statues of the gods and goddesses. She imagined she was a Greek woman who believed in the power of Zeus, Hera, Ceres and Neptune.

  If she were, she'd be wearing yards of hand-spun white fabric draped at an angle over her body and criss-crossed between her breasts with hemp. She might ask her favorite goddess for a favor. She might beg her to let her love again. To turn her life around for good. She might offer a sacrifice.

  But that was then. This was now. There was only one person who could turn her life around and that was herself. She'd taken the first step by coming here. Now she had to be bold and take the next step. But where, in which direction?

  She closed her eyes for a moment and thanked whatever gods there were for bringing her there. When she opened her eyes, he was there. Giovanni. Looking like the ultimate gift of the gods, standing only a few feet away, leaning against a pale marble pillar, smiling at her.

  Chapter Nine

  “Giovanni,” she said, her voice unsteady, her hands shaking. She took a step forward. So did he.

  “Ana Maria. It is you, at last. Benvenuto a Italia.” His voice was deeper, so deep it struck a chord in her heart. He put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth. She closed her eyes and wondered why she didn't feel anything. No thrills, no chills, no accelerated heartbeat. Just a vague feeling of disappointment.

  What did she expect? That her knees would buckle, she'd faint dead away and have to be given mouth-to-mouth? He'd always been handsome. He still was. He'd always been charming. He still oozed charm. He'd always been the most charismatic male she'd ever known. So what was the problem?

  He stepped back to look at her and she was afraid he'd be as disappointed as she was. Yes, she thought she'd improved over the years, but maybe he didn't think so. Evie told her she was the epitome of a late bloomer. But had she bloomed enough? She was holding her breath, wondering... Not that it mattered any more.

  For a long moment they stared at each other. He'd changed so much. There were lines in his face, but they only added character. He was wearing an unlined Armani jacket, the kind Don Johnson wore as Nash Bridges, with an expensive T-shirt underneath. His hair was cut stylishly short, almost spiked. In the moonlight he looked smooth and hip at the same time. He had money and confidence. He must have done well, whatever he did.

  “You look beautiful,” Giovanni said.

  “Thank you.” It must be the moonlight. Or Isabella's clothes. The way he said it made her feel beautiful. He could do that. He'd made her feel beautiful when she was a shy, awkward teenager. “So do you. I mean, you look great. How are you?”

  “Fine, now that I see you. I am so sorry about the agriturismo. I didn't know it was closed. I hope you found another place. You came alone, yes?”

  She glanced around. There was no one there. Thank God she'd ditched Marco. “Yes,” she said.

  “And you brought my yearbook?”

  She reached into her tote bag and handed it to him. He thumbed through the pages and nodded to himself.

  “So many memories,” he said. “Of the happiest time of my life.”

  “Really? High school was the happiest time in your life?” It certainly hadn't been for her. She'd suffered from not being in the “in” crowd, from not being popular with boys, from being tall and gawky and a nerd.

  “I was away from home, from all the problems that one has in one's own country,” he said. “It was a chance for me to be not my father's son, but a person in my own right.”

  “You were quite a person in your own right. Everyone admired you. You were the only Italian we'd ever known.”

  Giovanni caressed her cheek with his warm hand. Out of the corner of her eye she saw he was wearing a Rolex watch. “And now,” he said. “Am I still the only Italian you know?”

  “Well...” He couldn't know about Marco. He couldn't have any idea that she'd had only the mildest of flirtations with him, could he? Even if he did, so what?

  “Never mind,” he said, dismissively. “Tell me where else will you go in Italy?”

  Here it was. He was going to offer to show her around.

  “I...I'm not sure. I want to see it all, but of course I don't have time to do that. I thought Rome, of course, and Venice and Florence...”

  “Yes, you must not miss Rome or Venice or Florence.”

  She waited, but he didn't say anything about accompanying her. Of course not. He had better things to do than to play guide to someone he barely knew anymore. It was only her runaway fantasies that made her think he'd jump at the chance. That he'd be overjoyed to see her.

  “I cannot tell you how often I have thought of you and now that I see you looking so molto bellisima I am even sorrier I must leave you.” He certainly looked sorry, but if he was, then why did he have to leave after such a brief visit?

  “Now?” she asked, teetering backward on Isabella's high heels.

  “Yes, I must go. My life is not my own anymore.”

  “Are you... you must be married,” she said. It was none of her business, but she had to know.

  “Yes.” His lips curved at one corner in what she imagined was a sad smile. Of course he was married. No one who looked like that and who had money to dress like he did would have remained single.

  “I...I don't know what to say,” Anne Marie said. There was a hard lump in her throat. She shouldn't have, but she'd expected more than a five-minute meeting.

  “Say ciao, and buona fortuna,” he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it. “Good-bye and good luck.”

  Before she could say anything, he was gone. He'd disappeared into the shadow of the temple with his yearbook under his arm, as fast as he'd appeared.

  Anne Marie stood staring into the darkness, hearing no footsteps, nothing but the faraway sound of the audience applauding in the distance. She shivered and thrust her arms into the sleeves of Isabella's sweater, unable to believe it was over.

  She'd come thousands of miles across the ocean, spent thousands of dollars to see Giovanni and now it was over. She'd given him his yearbook and now she might as well go home. She felt empty, cold on the inside but feverish on the outside. Partly due to the sunburn, partly due to the disappointment. The adrenaline that had kept her going during this long day was gone; she felt like a deflated balloon.

  She turned and walked slowly back down the path to the exit, her head down, fighting off tears of disappointment and fatigue. She was an idiot for expecting more from a man she really didn't know.

  She literally ran into Marco, her head hitting his chest. He grabbed her by the arms and she met his gaze. Even in the moonlight, she could see he was angry. He obviously didn't like being ditched.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “Where were you?”

  “I went to see one of the temples. I told you I wasn't going to the play.”

  “You told me you were going to your room.”

  “I changed my mind. Is that a crime?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “There was no need to worry. Now if you'll let me go...”

  He dropped his hands. They walked side by side in silence. Her feet hurt. Her shoulders ached.

  “How was the performance?” she asked.

  “Excellent. You still have time to see the second act.”

  “No thanks. I'm tired.”

  “I'll see you back to the hotel.”

  Before she could protest, Marco had taken her elbow and was guiding her down the path. She was too tired to make any more
conversation; all she could think of was Giovanni. How suave he was, how different from twenty years ago, and yet how much the same. He was always sure of himself, now he was even more so. He always said the right thing at the right time, now his charm had been polished to a fine patina just like his physical appearance. There were no more rough edges, or if there were, they weren't visible to the naked eye.

  She tripped on a stone in the dark and Marco grabbed her arm. She'd never admit it, but she was grateful he'd come along. The shoes were tight and uncomfortable and made walking painfully slow. She was even more grateful he hadn't come along sooner and interrupted her brief and precious meeting with Giovanni. If she never saw him again, she wanted to keep the memory of how he looked, and how he'd kissed her hand and told her she was beautiful. She'd have to remember everything to tell Evie.

  “How did you like the play?” she asked to break the silence.

  “You already asked me that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your mind is elsewhere.”

  “Yes. It must be the magic of the temples in the moonlight. It's very atmospheric, very romantic. I'm glad I came out.”

  “Yes, it must be the temples,” he said. She slanted a glance in his direction, but it was too dark to see if he looked sincere or as caustic as he sounded.

  “You should have been there.”

  “I'm on vacation. 'Should have' no longer applies to me. I've been doing what I 'should have' for too long. From now on, I'm going to do what I want to do.”

  “All right,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “What do you want to do?”