by Carol Grace
“Sit down,” he invited Ana Maria, and poured her a cup of coffee from the pot on the table. He pushed a plate of pastries toward her and was pleased to see her take one and bite into it hungrily. He was afraid the events of the night before might have affected her appetite. Though she'd slept well, better than he had. Why shouldn't she? She had the bed, he had the chair.
The fragrance of the coffee mingled with the faint scent of her skin and hair. The sun picked up red highlights in her short hair, and a feeling of well-being washed over him. It was purely irrational. Everything possible was going wrong. If Giovanni hadn't ransacked her room, then someone else had - either one of his men or a rival. Had they found what they were looking for? He doubted it. If they'd found something he hadn't, he'd better give up undercover work. Marco shoved those thoughts aside, leaned back in his chair, put his sunglasses on, and watched her while she ate.
If only life could be this simple. Having breakfast in the company of an attractive, intelligent woman, warm sunshine, birds twittering in the trees above, and a good cup of coffee. What more could a person want?
Suddenly he realized she was wearing a ring. Not her wedding ring, but a ring with a large stone. The kind of ring that could be used to conceal a diamond, if one wanted to. He felt like he'd been hit over the head with a piece of granite from the quarry behind San Gervase. Where had the ring come from? Why hadn't he noticed it before? He bit his tongue to keep from exclaiming or accusing her.
After a long moment, when she realized he was staring at her behind his glasses, Ana Maria stopped chewing and set her cup down.
“What?”
“Nothing. I'm just trying to follow my own advice and live for the moment, eat the fruit when it's ripe and not worry about tomorrow.” But he had to ask. “By the way, where did you get that ring?”
She brushed the crumbs from her mouth. “On the street,” she said.
“On the street? You found it lying on the street?” he asked.
“No, I bought it yesterday from a street seller in Paestum. Do you like it?”
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. He rubbed her palm with his thumb. Then he studied the large amber stone. “How much did you pay for it?”
“I don't remember. Not much. Why, does it look cheap?”
She sounded so innocent. Too innocent. Though he'd seen many photos of concealed stones, he couldn't be sure this was one of them. Maybe she had “bought” it from a street seller, or maybe it had been handed off to her by someone.
“Cheap? No, it's fine.” He stared at it, as if by concentrating he could see if there was a diamond hidden under the amber stone. He imagined its fiery brilliance. He pictured the many facets, the smoldering fire of its intense yellow color. He stared at it so long his vision blurred.
“It doesn't matter,” she said a little too casually. “I liked it so I bought it. It covers that white ring around my finger that you noticed. I prefer not to announce to the world that I'm divorced.”
“That bothers you, doesn't it?” he said.
“Yes, it bothers me. It means that I failed at the most important thing I've ever done.”
“I don't believe that,” he said.
“I don't expect you to. You've never been married. If you had...”
“If I'd been married to you -”
“Then you would have left me for a younger, prettier, more exciting woman.”
“Not every man is looking for a younger woman.”
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“I'm not looking.”
“But if you were.”
“An honest woman,” he said. “Someone with integrity. Someone I can trust. Someone who doesn't play games or carry a lot of baggage.”
“Baggage?” she said, and she laughed. It was the sound of a bubbling brook, and it struck him like a fresh breeze on a warm late summer morning.
“With you, I don't see how any woman could carry much baggage. Since I met you, my baggage has been smashed and dumped until I'm reduced to a pile of clothing which, while beautiful, isn't my own. As for honesty, I think you get what you deserve. If you're honest with a woman, she'll be honest with you, and if you don't play games...”
“Yes, I understand. But, fortunately I am not looking for a woman at all.”
“Well, good,” she said. She drained her coffee cup, reached into her bag and pulled out the letter from Giovanni. “Speaking of honesty, where did this letter come from and why didn't you tell about it?” she said.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot. The night clerk gave it to me. I meant to give it to you, but when we found your room had been ransacked...I forgot.”
“You opened it,” she said.
“Just to see if it was urgent, after you fell asleep.” Damn, why had he forgotten to tell her? Or simply disposed of it?
“It's important to me. If I want to see Giovanni again.”
“Again?” he asked.
“I saw him last night.”
“I see.”
“He's an old friend. We only had a few minutes together last night, which you probably guessed. It would be good to see him again.”
Marco sighed. What was it with Giovanni and women? They didn't seem able to resist him. But in this case it was Giovanni who had obviously not gotten what he wanted from Ana Maria. Unless he really just wanted to see her again. Marco could understand that. She was a special woman. She might not be honest, she might have baggage of the emotional kind, she might not be as young as her husband wanted, but she was different from any woman he'd ever known. She was warm and open and so incredibly desirable that he forgot everything he was supposed to remember about her when he touched her or when she looked at him with those incredibly expressive blue eyes. Maybe Giovanni felt the same way. Though why would he contact Isabella, then?
“Then I suppose you will be going to Rome,” he said.
“I was always going to Rome.”
“What a coincidence. I'm going there, too. I'm going to rent a car and drive there. Since I didn't get a chance to show you around the ruins here, let me do it there. I want to prove to you that I'm a good guide and I can even get my dates right. The coliseum, two-thousand years old. The church of San Pietro, fifth century, the forum...”
“I know how old the monuments are,” she said, “and what I want to see. I have a guide book.”
“A book is no substitute for a real guide,” he said flatly in a tone that brooked no dispute. “I'm going to rent a car and we'll buy you some new baggage for your clothes so you can pack up.”
“And some shoes. I can't walk in these another day,” she said, removing his sister's high heels. “Maybe that's what the fortune teller meant about walking in my slippers. If I only had a pair of slippers, I'd wear them.”
“I'm going to get the car. Don't talk to strangers and don't get into any cars, no matter what the driver says. Is that clear?” he said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand for emphasis.
Without waiting for an answer, he left her at the table and went to return his borrowed motorcycle and exchange it for a rental car. He also had to call his office and give them an update on Giovanni and the missing stone. Maybe Silvestro would have some news for him.
Barefoot, with shoes in hand, Anne Marie went to find a quiet table in the corner of the glassed-in part of the café to call her best friend. She had to tell Evie about Giovanni, what little there was to tell, and find out more about Dan's aborted wedding.
Glad she’d opted for the overseas cell-phone option, she punched in Evie's number with the country code.
“Anne Marie, how are you, what's happened? Did you call my cousin yet?”
“I haven't had a chance.”
“Why, what are you doing?”
“Just...traveling around, seeing things. I'm visiting a very interesting archeological site right now.”
“Have you seen Giovanni yet?”
“Yes, last night.”
“Did you g
ive him the yearbook?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He just said thank you.”
“How did he look?”
“He looks great, almost like a movie star, suave and well-dressed. He's obviously doing very well.”
“Uh huh. When will you be in Rome?”
“We're heading there today.”
“We? Who's we?”
“Just someone who's giving me a ride.”
“Anne Marie, don't accept rides from strangers. Especially Italian strangers. It's not safe.”
Good lord, she was as bad as Marco. But it was easier to agree with Evie than to argue with her, because she always won. “Okay, so tell me more about Dan. Did Brandy really stand him up?”
“Not only that...”
While Evie was in the middle of the details of the break-up, there was a loud banging on the glass from the other side of the terrace. Anne Marie jumped up, clutched the phone in her hand and whirled around.
Chapter Eleven
Marco's face was inches away from her. He was holding a pair of women's sandals in his hand at eye level. His mouth was moving but she couldn't hear what he was saying with Evie talking in her ear.
“Got to go, Evie,” she interrupted. “I'll call you later.”
“Wait. Where are you staying in Rome? I want to get your number. I'm going to call my cousin and tell her you're on your way. She'll help you find a place to stay, introduce you to her friends, and…”
Anne Marie hung up as Marco's knocking became louder and his expression more intense. She didn't really want to hear any more about Dan, and she didn't want Evie's cousin to take her under her wing.
The contrast between her old life and her new life, however temporary, was never clearer. Here she was, standing barefoot in a sidewalk café in a remote corner of a foreign country with the sexiest man she'd ever known waiting for her with a pair of leather sandals in his hand. While thousands of miles away, life continued as it had for the past decades. It was getting harder and harder to remember who she was back there.
She wished Evie could see her in her Italian jeans and snug-fitting shirt, clothes a forty-something librarian would never be caught dead in in that other world. She'd probably be fired for wearing Isabella's clothes to work in Oakville. Or at least cause a few stares at the Friends of the Library book sale.
She held up her hand to indicate she’d seen and heard Marco and wished even more that Evie could see Marco. If she'd thought Giovanni was handsome, and everyone in Oakville had, what would she think of Marco, his narrow hips in black jeans, broad shoulders in a dark blue shirt and his soulful eyes regarding her intently? No one had ever looked at her that way before. No one had ever given her a sensual massage like he did last night. No one had ever danced with her the way he had or kissed like he did. He was so good at it. Maybe too good. She hadn't known a man could be so tender and so tough at the same time. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. What was she doing, reliving every minute of last night like that?
She walked outside where he was waiting for her and suddenly there was no glass between them. Nothing between them but the sweet warm air, charged with positive ions. She wanted to throw her arms around him and breathe in the clean, male scent of him. She didn't. Instead, she sat on the edge of a low stone wall, slipped the new sandals on, and told him they fit perfectly.
“Where did you get them?”
“At a shop in town,” Marco said.
“How did you know what size I was?” She asked.
“I observed your feet last night,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
She wondered what else he'd observed when he'd been applying lotion to her bare back, and loosening her clothes for her the night back in San Gervase, when she drank too much wine.
“Did you find a car?” she asked, trying to wipe away the erotic images.
He pointed to an ivory-colored touring car at the curb with the top down. “It was all they had.”
“It's beautiful,” she said. “What is it?”
“An old Lancia. A classic. They didn't want to rent it, but I said I'd take good care of it and return it in good condition. It should get us to Rome, even taking the scenic route.”
“Are we taking the scenic route?”
“It's the only way to see Italy. Of course it will take longer, but I strongly recommend it. If that's what you want.”
“Of course I do, that's why I'm here. To see the country and meet the people.” On the other hand, touring the country in a gorgeous classic car with a man she scarcely knew was not very cautious. He could pull off the road and rob her blind and dump her body in an old catacomb, and no one would ever find her. There'd be enough air for her to last a few days during which she'd draw on the walls with a sharp stone - beautiful, primitive images of animals. When tourists visited the site years from now they'd be told the etchings were from prehistoric times. Her bones would be piled in a corner for the tourists to gawk at and archeologists would use them to carbon date her life. How surprised they'd be if they knew she was a literate, educated woman who just had a talent for crude, simple art work and a weakness for mysterious, sexy Italian men.
On the other hand, why would Marco rob her when she had nothing left to take? If he was going to do it, he'd had many opportunities already, yet he was still taking care of her. Still bothering her, still mystifying her...
This wasn't the way she'd imagined her tour would be, but something had happened in the last few days. Marco, not Giovanni was the epitome of the man she'd hoped she'd find here. Could she trust him? Maybe not. Did she know him? Not very well. Was she going to Rome with him? Absolutely. She'd be crazy to turn down the opportunity.
She paid him a ridiculously small amount for the sandals and for a leather valise he'd also bought for her. When she protested, he explained that leather was a good buy in Italy.
Soon now she was on her way to Rome with a man any red-blooded woman would give her right arm for, a man who was sometimes hard to understand, always unpredictable, and often downright disturbing. With the wind in her hair, the sun on her bare arms, and the disturbing events of the night before becoming a dim memory in the bright sunshine, she was so happy she laughed out loud.
Marco turned his head in her direction and smiled at her. Her heart raced right along with the Lancia's engine, and when he reached over and put his hand on her thigh, she felt like the wind had sucked the breath right out of her lungs.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?” he asked, putting his hand back on the wheel.
“My friend Evie. The one who you talked to that night in San Gervase.”
“You are old friends?”
“We went to high school together, but I didn't really know her then. She was in a different crowd than mine. The popular crowd, from the ritzy side of town. I've just gotten to know her recently.”
“I see. Was she in love with Giovanni too?”
“Too? Did I say I was in love with him?”
“You didn't have to. I could tell by the look on your face.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You're wrong. I had a crush on him in high school, but I'm much too old for that kind of thing now.”
“Too old to fall in love?” He sounded surprised.
“Wait a minute. I thought you didn't believe in love.”
“I don't, but you do.”
“Once was enough. Oh, it's exciting at first. The chills and the thrills. It's what comes afterward that's so hard. I used to believe in forever after. Obviously I don't now; I've learned my lesson. You sounded so surprised. Are you suddenly some kind of romantic?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not me. I could have told you love was an illusion. But you, being a woman, wouldn't have listened. You had to find out for yourself. You've been disappointed, and I'm sorry.” He did look sincerely sorry for her.
“Disappointed?” Her voice rose. She didn't want his pity and she felt compelled to set the reco
rd straight. “Yes, you could say I was disappointed. I told you I felt like a failure.”
“Felt,” he repeated. “Does that mean you don't feel like that anymore?”
She hesitated. “I don't know. I do know I thought I had a happy marriage. I thought we would grow old together, watch our grandchildren grow up, learn to play golf together, plant some rose bushes, have time to remodel the house...whatever.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm in Italy. I'm in a beautiful car I've never been in before, passing scenery I've never seen before, wearing clothes that aren't mine.” Sitting next to the sexiest man I've never met, a man I hadn't known existed, never dreamed could exist. She looked down at her snug-fitting jeans pulled tight against her thighs, wondering who she was fooling. Inside she was still the same straight-laced librarian, the same dumped, divorced, disappointed woman she was when she'd left California - wasn't she? Or were those feelings of failure receding with every passing day? With every touch, every look, every kiss from this man she didn't know?
She sneaked another look at Marco's profile, at his high cheekbones, at his hair windblown across his forehead. When he turned and their eyes locked and held for a brief moment, her pulse quickened, and she knew she was not the same woman who'd left California only days ago.
That woman never looked at men. Not the way she was looking at Marco. That woman never felt sexy or wildly feminine, the way Marco made her feel. Somewhere between there and here she'd left that woman behind, standing on a corner somewhere wearing clothes that were practical and sensible, but could never ever be called provocative or glamorous or even stylish.
“Then I was wrong,” he said. “You're not in love with Giovanni.”
“Of course not; we're just friends. At least I hope we are. You read the note he sent me.”
“I'm sorry about not giving it to you.”
“But not about reading it?”
She wished she didn't sound so prim, but he seemed to bring out that side in her. Except when he was bringing out the other side, the wild, wanton side of her. No wonder she was having an identity crisis. It wasn't just the clothes or the hair; it was him. It was the way he made her feel.