Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  “I never had a diamond. Just a gold band. When we got married we were young and Dan couldn't afford one. Then when an anniversary came around and I might have gotten one, I decided I'd rather have an appliance or a new car, so I kept wearing my gold wedding band. Until I came to Italy. Maybe you're right; maybe there is no such thing as forever. There wasn't for me. No diamond and no forever.” A month ago, the thought would have made her cry. Now it just made her mad that she'd been betrayed. She put her hand on Marco's arm. “Don't worry, I'm not going to cry.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I don't know. Everything that happened back in Oakville seems so far away from here. I have so much else to think about. New people, new things to see like the temples, my ruined suitcase, my clothes...”

  “And Giovanni.”

  “Yes, of course.” She dropped her hand from his arm. “Giovanni has a way of taking your mind off other problems. He's one of a kind - charming, good-looking. You're from the same town and about the same age. I can't believe you've never met him.”

  “Maybe in Rome,” he suggested.

  “I doubt it. Because with him, you never know. He shows up when he wants to or when he can. He's married, did I tell you?”

  “I think you did.”

  “He wasn't wearing a ring that I noticed, but that doesn't mean anything. Not to men. To me my ring was a symbol of love and trust and commitment. All that is gone.”

  “Is that why you don't wear any jewelry? You weren't wearing any until you found that ring on the street.”

  She nodded. “I'm surprised you noticed.”

  “I notice many things about you.” He gave her a look that made her toes curl in her new sandals.

  If he was handing her a line, it was a good one. Coupled with that look in his eyes, it was enough to cause her lungs to feel like they'd collapsed and couldn't hold any air. There were people walking by on the sidewalk, chattering in Italian. School children were on their way home for lunch, swinging their book bags, but their voices faded into the background. All she heard was Marco's voice in her ear. All she was aware of was his shoulder next to hers, his warm breath on her cheek. He had a way of doing that. Of making her forget everything but him.

  She had to pull herself together. This relationship, whatever it was, was going to last only until she got to Rome. Then he'd go back to his solitary life and she'd...she'd see the rest of Italy on her own and go back to her own solitary life. Only she didn't want a solitary life. She wanted a life shared with someone she loved. Could she go back to Dan? He hadn't gotten married. Was there any chance they could work out their problems and...

  Marco put his arm around her shoulders and led her away, and she forgot about Dan. Forgot about everything but here and now and Marco.

  “What did you buy?” Marco asked.

  “Some wonderful things,” she said, feeling the warmth of his arm as they walked toward their car. Feeling protected and feminine and almost natural to be walking down a street in Italy with a man's arm over her shoulders. As if it was natural for a tourist to be picnicking off the beaten track with her so-called tour guide. As if it was natural to fantasize about making love to him on a picnic blanket under a tree. “Besides the bread and cheese, I got a roast chicken at the rosticeria and some salad.”

  They got into the car, put their bags in the back seat, and drove out of town.

  He shot her a questioning look. “Aren't you going to ask where we're going?”

  She shook her head. “I'm in your hands,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her.

  She hadn't meant that literally. She only meant...or had she? Was he surprised? Shocked? Pleased?

  She flushed but met his gaze head-on. The look in his eyes was full of questions. Did she know what she was saying? Did she mean she could actually go through with it? Could she do it and not look back? Could she throw caution to the winds and do what she'd come to Italy for? To eat the fruit when it was ripe; to live life to the fullest, every minute, every hour of every day and not think about the future? To make love to a stranger and not ask questions - not look for guarantees, not worry about the consequences?

  He must have read the answer in her eyes. He drove fast without speaking and finally swerved off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road. He stopped the car and from the trunk he produced a plaid blanket. It must have come with the rental car. With their arms full of picnic supplies they followed a path through the woods past fragrant cedar trees, their feet crunching on fallen leaves and needles.

  She wondered where they were going, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was they were going together. Somewhere they'd never been before and would never go again. And when they got there...anything could happen. Coming out of the woods, she saw they were on a hill overlooking a valley, verdant with vineyards.

  She gasped at the sight. “This is beautiful. How did you know? You have been here before, haven't you?”

  He stood there for a long moment, taking in the view. Then he shook his head. “No.”

  He took the bag out of her arms and set it on the ground, along with the white wine he'd bought and a bag of ice he'd stuck it in to keep it cool. He spread the blanket out and she sat down on the edge of it, cut a wedge of cheese and tore into the bread as if she'd been starving. Maybe she had. Nothing had ever tasted as good as this ripe cheese and warm, crusty bread. Maybe it was the air. Food always tasted better in the fresh air. After devouring almost half a loaf of bread, she looked up and saw him watching her with an amused expression.

  “What?” she asked, startled.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I was just watching you.”

  “Watching me stuff myself.” She smiled ruefully.

  He drank from the open wine bottle and handed it to her.

  “You should do that more often,” he said.

  “Stuff myself? I'd weigh two-hundred pounds.”

  He gave her an amused look, his eyes traveling the outline of her breasts and her hips as if he were imagining her with an extra two-hundred pounds. She frowned, and he coaxed, “No, smile. You have a beautiful smile.”

  “I do?” Maybe she didn't smile much. Maybe she hadn't had much to smile about, until now. Not only had she smiled today, she'd laughed.

  He reached across the blanket, across the bread crumbs, and lifted the corners of her mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Like that,” he said. “It's not so hard, is it?”

  She shook her head. Her mouth was so dry, despite the wine, that she couldn't speak. She couldn't smile either; her lips were trembling too violently. The sun was high in the sky. The only sound was a bee buzzing in the distance. He smoothed her lips with his fingers, then brushed them with a kiss. It was not enough. It was worse than nothing. It made her want more. So much more. She pressed her lips together to keep from making a fool of herself. She'd never been aggressive. Not in bed, nor in life. She wasn't about to start now.

  But she wanted a real kiss. She wanted him to invade her mouth, to press her into the ground and make love to her. She wanted the earth to shake and the mountains to move. She wanted it all and she wanted it now.

  Her clothes were too tight, too heavy. She wanted to peel them off. She wanted to lie on that blanket, naked under the filtered sunlight and make love. She wanted to see Marco's lean, strong body above her, gaze into his remarkable eyes and feel his mouth warm against her skin. Now.

  “Ana Maria?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He stood and stripped off his clothes. His body was perfect, long and powerful and magnificently aroused in the dappled sunlight. Like the statue of David, only better, made of flesh and blood. She wanted to reach up and touch him but she was suddenly shy.

  She held her breath and lay perfectly still, afraid to break the spell. He went down on his knees and moved toward her, a predatory gleam in his eyes that made her bones turn to jelly. He was so close she could see his eyes smolder. She fumble
d with the buttons on her shirt.

  He yanked at her shirt and it flew open. She unhooked her bra and tossed it on the grass. Free from restraints at last! The cool air made her skin feel alive, made her nipples pucker. Now for her skirt...

  Marco put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down against the blanket. One hand moved to cup the back of her head, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.

  “Ana Maria,” Marco said, his face inches from hers, his voice low and tense. “I've thought about this since the first time I saw you. It was what you call my fantasy. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  She panicked. She'd never been anyone's fantasy. What if she wasn't up to it? What if she didn't know what to do, how to act? She fought off the urge to grab her shirt and cover herself and run back to the car. But she'd fantasized about this, too. She wanted it so badly she felt it in her bones.

  His hand moved to cup her chin and force her to look at him. “Tell me. Show me what you want.” His eyes darkened to the color of chocolate. His mouth promised sensations she'd never known. She forgot to be scared, forgot to worry what he thought of her. She'd been waiting all her life for this.

  She put her hands on the sides of his face, feeling the slight roughness of the shadow of a beard that lined his jaw. Show him what she wanted? She brought his mouth to her aching breasts. That was what she wanted; that was what she needed.

  The smell of his slightly musky skin, the fresh fragrant air made her gloriously dizzy. When his mouth took possession of one nipple and sucked and tugged at it she felt like she was falling through space. His hand went to the other breast, kneading and massaging until she fell into a new and marvelous universe where gravity no longer applied. She was spinning around.

  His mouth trailed kisses down across her rounded belly and to the apex of her thighs. She drew in a large breath and held it, her whole body trembling.

  “Wait,” she said. “I...I've never...”

  “Never?” He was incredulous.

  This was not the time to explain she'd only had sex with one man in her life. One rather unimaginative man.

  “Good,” he said, sounding unaccountably pleased.

  When his mouth found her most intimate spot she was completely unprepared for the sensations that ripped through her body. She gasped and exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. She heard a voice that didn't sound like hers cry out, then she collapsed and burst into tears. He wrapped his arms around her and she sobbed uncontrollably against his chest.

  They lay there under the trees, his arms warm and protective, his shoulder a pillow for her head. When her breathing slowed back to near normal, and her tears dried on her cheeks and on his shoulder, she opened her eyes and raised her head. He smoothed her damp hair and tucked an errant strand behind her ear. And he smiled, a half amused, half tender smile.

  “I know I promised I wouldn't cry anymore, but I didn't know,” she murmured, her cheeks and her whole body flushed. “I had no idea it could be like that.”

  He kissed the corners of her mouth and the hollow of her throat. He tasted like wine and his kisses were even more intoxicating. She must be drunk, drunk on his kisses and his touch. Why else would she feel so dizzy, disoriented, wiped out?

  Marco rolled over and lay on his back, and she propped herself on one elbow, her equilibrium returning, her adrenaline pumping at the sight of his marvelous erection. Shyly but purposefully, she leaned forward and ran her fingers over his smooth velvet sheath. Goosebumps rose all over her skin.

  He shuddered and he wrapped his hand around hers. “Yes,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel.

  She ran her fingers over the silky-strong length of his organ, marveling at the length and the steel strength. He moaned deep in his throat and she thrilled at the power she had over him, the ability to make him come alive in her hands; thrilled to feel his masculinity, to hold it, and want it. She wanted it deep inside her, wanted it to reach into the depths of her, to make her call out once again the rapture and the earth-shaking joy in the stillness of the pure air.

  With her hand still around his penis, she shifted so she was straddling him. She ran her other hand over his skin, tracing the dark hair on his chest, then down to his thighs marveling at the texture of his skin and the outline of his muscles. She followed her hand with kisses, trailing her mouth across his belly, tasting the salt on his skin, delighting in the rough edges and the smooth surfaces. He made sounds so primeval, she no longer worried about whether she was doing it right or wrong. Whatever she was doing, it was working.

  He grew bigger and bigger, pulsating in her hand until she thought she wouldn't be able to contain all that masculinity. Joy bubbled up inside her throat. She watched his eyes dilate and heard the rough explosion of his breath. She'd never felt this way, never realized she could do this. The excitement went to her head, made her feel powerful, in control and yet a part of something bigger than herself, bigger than both of them.

  He groaned and rolled over, taking her with him, and she knew what would happen next. Her body was ready, moist with the liquid honey he'd already tasted in her most intimate spot. She was quivering, silently begging him to come to her. To take her over the edge once again.

  Though she was slick with wanting him, every nerve, every muscle, every organ waiting and wanting, nothing could have prepared her for the strength and the force of the thrusts of his organ. She gripped his shoulders, riding out the storm of passion as he filled the emptiness she hadn't known was there. The emptiness that no one else had filled or even tried to fill. The wild pulsations came faster and faster until the thunder crashed in her ears and lightning struck them both at the same time. In the middle of a warm summer day with the sun shining down on them a storm struck. Only there was no storm, no storm, except inside their bodies, in their minds and in their world.

  He shouted. She screamed. And no one heard. Their voices echoed across distant green hills. He lay on top of her, his weight bearing down on her, a welcome heaviness. Eventually he rolled over again, this time coated with a film of sweat. The look in his eyes, the lines in his face, all told her he was sated and at peace.

  With a supreme effort, she sat up and looked around. If she expected the world to be a different place, she was mistaken. The blanket was tangled beneath them, still covered with crumbs. The empty wine bottle had rolled away and the cheese and cherries spilled out of paper sacks. Bees were buzzing overhead.

  One landed on Marco's hand.

  “Va via,” he told it, waving his hand to shake it off, but the bee stung him. Marco yelped, jumped up and grasped one hand with the other, his face contorted.

  Anne Marie got to her feet. “How can I help? What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said through stiff lips, getting dressed clumsily but quickly with one hand. “I'll be fine as soon as I get to the car and get some medicine. I'm allergic to bee stings.”

  “Oh, my God.” She grabbed her underwear, jeans and shirt and threw them on. “My son is allergic. It's nothing to fool with. Come on, let's go.” She tossed the remains of the picnic into a bag, seized the blanket and they half ran, half walked down the path to the car.

  He reached into the back seat of the Lancia for his valise and took out a small bottle of pills. He popped two in his mouth and washed them down with a swig of mineral water from a plastic bottle. Then he went around to the driver's seat. When he turned the key in the ignition, she glanced at his hands on the wheel.

  “Wait a minute. We still have some ice. We'll wrap up your hand with ice.” She got out of the car and took the bag of ice from the trunk. After pouring off the excess water, she wrapped his arm and the ice in the picnic blanket and knotted it as tightly as she could.

  “It's really swollen,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She knew a bee sting could be potentially dangerous. “It will take a while for the medicine and the ice to work to make the swelling go down.”

  “I feel like a fool,” he said, looking down
at the makeshift bandage on his arm as if it belonged to someone else. “This is ridiculous. How can I drive?”

  “You can't. I will.”

  “You?” He looked at her as if she'd offered to pilot a jet plane. “Do you know how to drive a..a...”

  “Stick shift? Yes, of course.”

  “All right, go ahead.” He got into the passenger side of the car.

  She took the driver's seat, scared spitless. She hadn't driven a stick shift for years, not since Dan had sold their old VW beetle and bought a Honda Civic. But she had to do it. Bee stings were nothing to be fooled with.

  She was also determined to show Marco she could take care of herself and him, too, even though there was plenty of evidence to the contrary.

  “We'll find a doctor in the next town,” she said.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “To have a look at this and prescribe something else if necessary.”

  “It won't be. No doctor. I wish...”

  She waited. He said no more. She could only imagine what he wished. He wished that he'd used a condom. He wished they hadn't stopped there to have a picnic. Her hands were shaking; she needed something to calm her nerves before she took the wheel. “Would you be able to reach around and get me the candy in my tote bag with your good hand?” she asked.

  He hesitated, then reached for the candy. Before he handed her the box, he read the note.

  “Who's Misty?” he asked.

  “The cousin of my friend Evie,” she said.

  “And you're going to eat her candy?”

  “I need it now, and she doesn't. I'm going to replace the pieces I've eaten before I give it to her.” She slipped her fingers under the wrapping and took out the first piece she came to, a dark chocolate truffle with a swirl of milk chocolate on top. She took a large bite and closed her eyes to savor the taste and the texture of one of the best truffles she'd ever eaten. They really were worth the exorbitant prices; no wonder Misty had her bring them all this way. “Would you like a piece?” she said politely, handing him the box.

  “I don't eat chocolate.” He put it back in her bag and tossed that on the seat behind her.