Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  After devouring the truffle she felt better. Much better. Sex and chocolate. Chocolate and sex. Her body hummed with contentment and a sense of comittment to Marco’s well- being.

  “Shall we be off?” she asked brightly.

  He gave her a reluctant stiff smile, one she imagined was full of admiration for her courage and her gumption and maybe more, and she put her hands on the steering wheel.

  He settled back in the seat, resting his swollen arm and hand on the open window ledge.

  She took a deep breath and put the clutch in with her left foot. Then she turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine, enjoying the sound and the feeling of power. She'd never been aware that she was lacking in power, but ever since Dan walked out on her, she'd known what it was like to lose it. Now, slowly but surely, she was getting it back. She worked the knob of the gear stick, trying to figure out where the five gears were.

  She glanced at Marco, hoping he didn't know she was unsure of herself, but he wasn't fooled. He pointed to the little diagram on top of the knob and she nodded. Of course she knew there was a diagram. It was just that she thought Italian cars might be different.

  She bit her lip and shifted into first gear then let out the clutch a little too fast. The car jerked forward, and stalled inches from a large birch tree. She was breathing hard, and perspiration beaded on her forehead. She felt Marco's critical gaze on her.

  “Give it a little gas as you let the clutch out,” he said.

  “I did.”

  She restarted the car, found reverse, and raced the engine as she let the clutch out. This time the car jumped backward five feet before stopping.

  “Do you want me to - “ he said.

  “No,” she said shortly. She would start this car, and she would drive it if it took all day. He had his medication; his hand was wrapped in ice. There wasn't anything more anyone could do for him right now, since he refused to see a doctor. And they were on vacation. At least she was.

  “Look,” he said, “it's just a matter of coordination. I don't know why women can't do two things at once. For some reason, they can't operate manually.”

  Even if pain was making him irritated, his remarks made her face turn red and her throat burn. “Oh no?” she retorted. “I think I did a pretty good job of operating manually back there on the picnic blanket.”

  She started the engine again, shifted into first gear, eased the clutch out as she lightly pressed on the gas, and felt a surge of pleasure as it all came together. The car nosed its way smoothly back onto the highway, and she shot him a triumphant smile.

  Marco smiled back at her, despite his pain and his fear that she couldn't drive and that she'd either burn out the clutch or they'd end up in a ditch. How could he resist her? Her blue eyes glowed and her smile lit up her face. She had guts, this woman. She also had a beautiful smile, and he wanted to think he'd given her reason to smile a little more often.

  He'd been a boor to criticize her that way. He also hadn't said anything about their love-making, but he didn't intend to. Making love to Ana Maria was like nothing he'd ever done before. Her cries still echoed in his mind, and the sight of her body under the dappled sunlight would stay with him for a long time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marco shifted in the bucket seat tying to get comfortable, but his mind, as well as his body, was in turmoil. He'd done what he thought she wanted. God knew he wanted it too. He'd thought once would be enough. He'd discovered what he'd suspected; she hadn't had much experience. Her husband was a zuccone, a fool, a cretin who hadn't appreciated her.

  She was a passionate woman, one who deserved more. But was he the man to give it to her? Marco was worried. He'd felt something back there he'd never felt before. He'd felt a connection, an invisible cord that stretched between them. He'd also felt it on the boat and that night in the hotel. And now, with their clothes back on, with her driving his rented car badly, and he under the influence of the medication, he felt the connection all over again. What did it mean?

  Damned if he knew.

  He knew she'd gotten what she wanted; he could tell by the look in her eyes and that smile on her face. That was that; she didn't want or need to go any further.

  But he did. Even with his eyes half closed, his brain half asleep and his hand and even his arm useless, he knew he wanted more. He wanted to take her to bed in a real bed, to spend the whole night with her. He wanted to see her beautiful breasts, her long bare legs and her pale skin in the moonlight and by lamplight. He'd made love to many women, and he thought he understood them. He knew what they wanted, and he was sure he could give it to them.

  But Ana Maria was different. He was no longer sure of anything. Except that she couldn't drive a manual transmission. But that hadn't stopped her. He tried to stay awake, but the vibration of the engine and the effects of his medicine on top of mind-altering sex were too much for him to combat. Despite his efforts, his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, giving up control of the route and the road to her. But that was all, he told himself. In everything else, he was in control. Absolutely.

  Anne Marie glanced at Marco as she drove. He looked miserable, with his swollen hand and arm propped up on the window ledge, and those frown creases in his face. At least he was getting some sleep, but it didn't look like he was having any pleasant dreams. Maybe he was sorry he'd made love to her. Maybe the end of the sentence that began with “I wish...” would have ended with “...we hadn't done that.”

  She was not sorry, though she did feel bad that he'd slept in the chair last night. No wonder he needed to sleep. That and the medicine had knocked him out.

  As for her, she was enjoying a surge of power and freedom. She'd mastered the controls of the car. She'd had the most incredible sexual experience of her life, and she was now driving to anyplace she wanted to go. Marco said he had no plans. He didn't know where they were going, and it didn't seem to matter.

  She drove through pine forests. She drove up over modest mountain passes and down through verdant valleys. She passed small towns and vineyards. She passed farmers in their fields who stopped to wave at her, and she waved to children walking by the side of the road. She saw signs pointing to towns she'd never heard of and she turned onto roads that could lead anywhere. It was exhilarating.

  Until the engine started missing. It coughed and sputtered, and she pushed her foot down on the gas pedal until it hit the floor. The engine stalled and jerked to a stop on the empty two-lane road. They hadn't passed another car for an hour.

  She muttered a curse.

  Marco woke up with a start. Damn, she would have liked to have started it up again without his knowing.

  “Mio Dio,” he said. “C'e qualcosa che non va? What in the hell happened?”

  “I...I don't know. It just stopped.”

  “Just stopped. What did you do to it?”

  “Nothing. I was just driving along...”

  He looked at his watch and frowned. “Mamma mia! Have I been asleep all this time? Why didn't you wake me? Where are we?”

  “I don't know. I thought it didn't matter.”

  He got out of the car and raised the hood with his good hand. She got out and peered at the engine, as if she knew what was what. As if she knew what could possibly be the matter. She watched while he yanked on a rubber tube and examined it. “Get back in and start the engine,” he ordered. “Please.”

  She got in, turned the key and held it. Nothing happened. She didn't know whether to stay in the car or join him to look under the hood again and pretend she knew what she was looking at. She decided on the latter.

  “How is your hand?” she asked, watching him tap on the engine with his good hand, the other arm held stiffly at his side.

  “My hand is not the problem,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “See this? This is the fuel line. There's gas in it.” He squeezed it and tiny spurts burst out. “But the fuel pump is cracked. The gas is leaking out and not getting to
the engine.”

  “Oh.”

  “I'll call a garage. Do you have any idea where we are? Do you remember any of the signs on the road?”

  “Let's see. Benvenuto. I saw that a while back, and..”

  “Benvenuto means welcome.”

  “I know that. What about Avalina, could that be a town or does it mean dangerous curves ahead?”

  He ignored her sarcasm and started punching numbers into his phone and then he talked fast and loudly. While still talking, he took a map from the glove compartment and spread it out on the hood of the car. He listened to someone on the other end, then he looked at the map. Then he talked some more. When he hung up, he stared moodily out across the valley below.

  “Did you find out where we are?” she asked.

  He pointed to a spot on the map. “We could be here. Or here.” He pointed to another spot. “I described the landscape, and the garage in Maggiore thinks he can find us.”

  “What if he can't?” she asked.

  “Then we'll wait here until someone comes along.”

  “But we haven't passed another car for hours. We could be here for days.” She looked around. They were on a narrow mountain road, surrounded by fir and pine trees. The air was cool and fresh. It was a lovely spot. But spending days there without food or shelter with a man like Marco might present a few problems.

  He shrugged. “We have bread and wine. We'll survive.”

  Yes, they'd survive. Though they might have to make a temporary shelter out of branches and leaves with their picnic blanket for a roof. After the bread and wine were gone, they could fish from a nearby stream and pick berries. Marco would go out and hunt for wild animals and she'd stitch clothes for them out of the skins. At night they'd lie on a bed of pine needles and make love for hours under the stars. It could be days or even weeks before anyone found them. Days and weeks of non-stop passion. Half naked, they'd chase each other through the forest, to fall laughing in a pile of dry leaves where their laughter would turn to cries of passion. It was enough to make her wish they'd be really, truly lost.

  Anyone with a shred of romance in his soul would have said, we have bread and wine and each other, Anne Marie thought, especially after that incredible love-making back there. But Marco, true to his word, was not a romantic. He didn't believe in love or romance.

  Fortunately, he believed in sex. And sex was what she wanted and needed. She hadn't known it before today. Or if she had, she hadn't admitted it to herself. Now that she knew what she'd been missing all these years, she wanted and needed it again. She wanted and needed Marco to make love to her. He'd made her feel whole. He'd made her feel desirable and wildly feminine and uninhibited. But she had the distinct feeling Marco had had his fling with the American tourist and was feeling only regret. He hadn't so much as smiled since they got up from the blanket. Of course he'd been stung by a bee, but couldn't he have said something...anything?

  “Don't look at me like that,” he said.

  She felt her face flush. Was she that transparent? Could he tell she was lusting after him even now? She had to think about something else. Think about Rome. Think about home. Don't think about the fireworks that had gone off when he made love to her. For him, it was probably just another roll on a picnic blanket with an eager American tourist who'd come to Italy to get unrepressed. She knew he didn't make a living as a tour guide. He was either a gigolo or...

  “How? How am I looking?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

  “Like this was my fault. After all, you're the one who got us here.”

  “You gave me no instructions. You led me to believe we could go wherever we wanted to. I thought the point was to see the countryside.”

  “Well,” he said, leaning against the car door. “Take a look. We're going to be seeing a lot more of it than we planned.”

  “You mean...” Should she start collecting branches for their shelter now? Was it really possible to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together?

  “I mean we probably need a new fuel pump and fuel pumps for twenty-year-old Lancias are in short supply, especially in some God-forsaken village.”

  “Couldn't we rent another car?”

  “I can't leave the Lancia here. It's valuable and I promised to bring it back. In good condition.”

  “I have to be in Rome in a few days.”

  “Don't worry, Giovanni will wait for you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have a feeling he wants to see you as much as you want to see him.”

  Anne Marie didn't know where Marco got that idea; Giovanni's letter was certainly casual. “Let me see your hand,” she said.

  He unwrapped it and held it out in front of him, observing it as impassively as if it belonged to someone else. She took his hand in hers and looked at it carefully. His skin felt warm. His fingers were still swollen, but the rest of the swelling had gone down. She felt a rush of sympathy and desire and something else, something that scared her.

  “What are you doing?” he said suspiciously.

  “Just...just checking,” she said, rewrapping it for him. “I see it's better. It must be the medicine and the ice.”

  “And the chance to rest it,” he said. “Thank you for driving. I'm sorry I didn't choose a more serviceable car. A Fiat would have done, but I liked the looks of the Lancia.”

  “It's beautiful,” she said, running her hand over the polished hood.

  “But not practical. I should have known it wouldn't hold up.” Marco wondered if he'd ever learn that with women and cars, looks weren't everything. In fact, the more beautiful the machine or the woman, the less likely they were to be dependable. If he ever found both looks and reliability under the same hood, or the same skin...

  “But it was worth it. We had a great ride,” she said.

  “Yes, we did,” he said with a half smile and a long, knowing look. They'd had an unbelievable ride, and it had nothing to do with the car. When the words sank in, she bit her lower lip and her cheeks flushed. He loved seeing her cheeks turn pink. How many women her age still blushed? How many women made love the way she did, shy and bold at the same time? None that he'd ever met.

  “And anyway,” she said, breaking eye contact and looking away, “we are in no hurry to get to Rome, as long as I have time to see the sights and meet up with Giovanni and Evie's cousin. As you said, we can survive as long as we have our wine and bread.”

  “And if the tow truck doesn't find us, you wouldn't mind sleeping under the stars?” He swiftly adjusted his fantasy from making love to her on clean sheets in a bed, to making love outside with the moon shining through the trees. That ought to satisfy his wildest dreams; then he could let her go. Go back to America, back to her ex-husband who by now, unless he was a complete idiot, must have realized what he'd lost. Or go off to see Giovanni and give him the diamond.

  He'd have to arrest them both, of course, but if that's what they deserved...so be it. In a few days he'd be able to handle whatever had to be done. He just needed a few days to get over whatever it was he had. Some kind of adolescent lust, or some damn thing. Maybe fate had decreed that the fuel pump should fail, that they should have to spend a few days in some village while his passion cooled. So he could do what had to be done and not look back.

  He was waiting for her answer. He didn't know a woman in the world who would sleep outside without complaining.

  “Of course I wouldn't mind. It would be an adventure.”

  “What about bears?”

  Her face paled. “Are there bears here?”

  “And wild boar with big tusks.”

  She licked her lips nervously, then she laughed when she realized he was joking. And the tow truck arrived. She smiled with relief. She had the most amazing smile. He couldn't help smiling back at her. He couldn't help kissing her quickly on those smiling lips while the tow truck backed up to the front of the Lancia.

  The driver gave them a quizzical look, admired the Lancia, hooked it to his
truck, and then they all squeezed into the cab of his truck for the ride to the town of Maggiore. Anne Marie was crushed against the door. Marco put his arm around her shoulders possessively, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged to him. Of course it was none of the above. It was simply that there was no room for his arm anywhere else. His hip was pressed against hers, but he didn't seem bothered by their close proximity. She was. So bothered, she clenched her hands together and turned her face to the window to catch the breeze to cool her fevered cheeks.

  Marco and the driver conversed in Italian, which left her free to go over the day's events, especially the event that had shattered all her notions of what sex was. It wasn't a ritual that had to be performed once a week in a darkened bedroom. It wasn't mechanical. It wasn't boring. Of course, after twenty years with any man it became that way.

  Twenty years of sex with Marco? She sneaked a glance in his direction. He met her gaze, his eyes glimmering with amusement as if he knew what she was thinking. There was no way he could know, but she didn't feel safe. She felt scared. Scared she'd never make love with him again. Scared she would make love with him again.

  The small town of Maggiore boasted a garage, a church, a market, and vineyards that covered the hills for miles around, but not much else. Still, the streets were full of people.

  “They're here for the grape harvest,” Marco said.

  “These are the workers?” she asked.

  “Or tourists. This is an old Roman town. Besides the grape crush, there is a wild donkey race tomorrow to kick things off.”

  “Then there will be a hotel,” she said.

  The driver shook his head and spoke to Marco.

  “He says it's full. But there's a youth hostel and rooms for rent.”

  While she wondered just how long they'd be staying in Maggiore, the driver drove through an old stone gate and pulled up in front of a garage on the town square. Marco went with the driver to talk to the boss.

  Voices drifted from the garage.