“No…” That wasn’t right. He was the man who’d made her laugh over cornetti and try new flavors of gelato. He was her expert on vacationing and—
“Trust me. Meeting someone like you only throws it into sharp relief. I’ve never had any problem with that, I know what I am.”
His brief grimace told her he was less content with that than he liked.
“But whatever degenerate asshole made you think you’re less than amazing, he’s the one who’s pissing me off. You are beautiful. You! The woman right here in front of me. Funny even when you don’t mean to be. You have an honesty that runs so deep that every feeling shines out of those gorgeous eyes of yours. And I’d wager there’s a sharp brain hiding in there was well. That I can’t pay you a simple compliment without you flinching away, that’s making me beyond pissed off. I—”
A polished wooden staff came between them, making them both jolt back to the limits of his hands still clenched around her shoulders.
“Are you okay, signorina?” An Italian policeman asked her softly in rough English as his police baton lay across Ridley’s forearms.
“No, but it isn’t his fault. He’s trying to help.”
“Signore will drop his hands, per favore.” He tapped his wooden baton lightly on Ridley’s forearms. A small crowd had gathered to observe the goings on.
Ridley made a show of opening his hands slowly and then dropping them to his lap.
The break of connection was too abrupt. Too much was whirling in her brain that she still didn’t understand. She wished she had a recording of what he’d just said to her. The words had blurred beneath the weight of his fury on her behalf.
On her behalf.
When was the last time someone had defended her? When was the last time she had?
* * *
Erica reached out and took his hand in hers, despite the looming police officer. The guy was slender, but his shoulders and his sidearm said not to underestimate him. Nor his far grimmer looking partner standing a few feet farther back—his palm casually on a taser.
But despite the way Ridley had just handled her and yelled at her, Erica took his hand. First eyeing him, then the officer with those big browns of hers.
“It’s okay, officer. He’s a friend. He is trying to help.”
Is that what he’d been doing? He didn’t even know. He felt like a poker player who’d dropped his cards face up on the table and now was supposed to play.
But that someone could make a woman like her feel so small just made him want to—
“Ow!” Her squeak of pain as he crushed her fingers in his hand had the policeman’s baton catching him sharply enough under the chin to force Ridley to look up at him.
“Sorry,” he managed, barely able to swallow past the baton. Ridley attempted to withdraw his hand. But still, Erica held onto it.
The policeman turned to his partner and they traded some fast Italian back and forth. He hoped he was wrong about hearing arrestiamo in there somewhere. It sounded like a question. Not good.
“Maybe you should let go of my hand, Erica. They think I’m trapping you.”
Instead she laced her fingers more deeply in his. Then, with her free hand she tapped the officer on the arm.
He looked down at her as they were both still seated.
“Watch,” was all she said.
Ridley watched her and could only wonder. It was as if a different woman sat beside him. She had great posture, but now it was exquisite.
“Eh?”
With a surety that he’d never seen in her before, Erica leaned over and kissed Ridley on the lips. And not just a little kiss. She kissed him like she’d meant to anyway and wasn’t merely demonstrating his innocence.
The smell of her hair had been nothing compared to the taste of her. The richness of a Barolo, with the sweetness of a Glacière, and the aged depth of a Burgundy Grand Cru. And the heat! Her lips were warmer than sunbaked grapes near bursting on the vine.
The baton slid away from the bottom of his chin and the officer might have said, “Ah, amore.” But Ridley couldn’t be sure because his senses were on complete overload. He touched her only at their interlaced fingers and their lips, but it was more than enough to trigger a synergistic circulation of energy greater than any vintner’s peristaltic wine-transfer pump running at full bore.
“Whoa,” he managed to mumble. “Just…whoa!” He placed his free hand on her shoulder and eased her back. It took him a moment to recover enough to gasp out, “What the hell was that?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“What worked? What are you talking about? Making my blood boil from overheating?”
“The police, silly.”
He looked around and they had indeed moved along. The crowd had dispersed as well, though several passersby were giving them knowing smiles.
“That was your whole plan? To kiss me until they went away?” Then why were Ridley’s ears still ringing?
She offered a very Italian shrug that said “of course.” He didn’t buy it. He didn’t want to buy it. Not after a kiss like that. But he’d already learned that her emotions always showed and they weren’t, except…
“Your ears are bright red.”
She shook her hair forward to cover them, but he reached up to brush one into the clear, enjoying the soft feel of her cheek.
“You blush ears first?” As if she wasn’t cute enough already.
Erica sighed. “I do,” as the warm glow extended, finally, to her cheeks.
“Good to know,” and he knew what came next: awkwardness, hesitancy, maybe even regret. “So, what do I have to do to get another one of those? Beat up a cop?”
She glanced after where they’d gone. “I don’t know. They look pretty tough.”
“You’re right, they do. Maybe if I find an old Italian woman…”
“I wouldn’t try it,” she glanced at him, then away, but not soon enough to hide her smile. “Have you seen these old Italian women? I wouldn’t dare take one on.”
“I think my manliness has just been insulted.”
Erica finally turned to face him. “No, if that kiss was any indication at all, your manliness has nothing whatsoever to fear.”
“What in the world am I supposed to do with you?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn’t willing to explain.
She’d said it as if it was simple fact. Not a tease. Not a joke. Simply a statement. Goddamn woman confounded the crap out of him.
“I think you’re supposed to be teaching me about vacationing,” she went for the nearest subject change.
His own thoughts didn’t follow. Instead he should be finding the nearest hotel room to drag her into and to hell with waiting for the train back to Corniglia.
“Come on,” Erica rose to her feet and their still-clasped hands had him rising to his own. “Look, there’s a tower.”
* * *
Look, there’s a tower? Was that the lamest line ever in the history of womanhood? Definitely in the slender volume Erica: Womanhood of - a study. Very thin. And very lame.
His kiss…his amazing kiss…had snapped her back to her senses. She supposed that maybe Ridley was right about being the bad boy—but he was so good at it. If Ridley could deliver on even a tenth of that kiss’ promise, maybe she’d sign up for a course entitled: Bad Boys: How to Find and Never Tame Them.
She could feel a wildness in her. She had no reference for that. Barely knew what it was, but it had her thinking crazy thoughts that didn’t seem very Erica-like. Good thing or bad thing?
Unknown.
So instead, she’d fallen back on the lamest line in the book: Look, there’s a tower.
Of course there was a tower. This was Vernazza, Italy. The ancient fort loomed over the harbor entrance, carved into the cliff face that soared upward from the inner edge of the modern breakwater.
Ridley fell in beside her without remarking on her record-worthy lame-i-tude. Maybe, just maybe, he needed a mome
nt after that kiss as well. Again, good thing or bad thing? She couldn’t tell. He’d seemed to enjoy it, hadn’t he? Her mind was blurring again.
The fort. Somewhere around here was the fort. Right! Directly in front of them. She clung to the idea of the fort like an anchor in a storm. An apt metaphor in a harbor town. Did she get a bonus for that? No, because she hadn’t connected that beforehand. She really needed to stop talking to herself.
The far side of the harbor was a near vertical wall—so steep that it barely had the terraced grape vineyards. The town spilled from the head of the ravine down to the water, reaching a last thin trailer of buildings along the inside of the cliff that curled protectively around the harbor. Beyond the end of the cliff, the broad, overly geometric, modern breakwater narrowed the harbor mouth even further, creating a place to stroll and watch sunsets over waves.
But historically the town had ended with the great fort built against pirate raids of half a millennium before.
Here, at the point closest to the ocean, were the fanciest restaurants and shops. The white linen tablecloths were preset with silverware and both thin and round wine glasses. A greeter stood casually nearby and waved them toward a table.
“Welcome to Italy,” he called in happy English (England English, but thick with charming Italian). “Come. Come. We have a wonderful sea bass caught just this morning,” he wave toward the sea. Then he continued, pointing to the mountains, “I have also imported from Lake Como very fresh perch. Come. Come.”
Erica couldn’t help herself and laughed in his face. “Scusi. Scusi,” was all she managed as she scurried by. Ridley’s belly laugh wasn’t helping matters.
“He said ‘perch.’ I couldn’t help myself,” she whispered as soon as they were clear.
“Tell me about it,” Ridley was still chuckling.
“He said ‘per—’ Oh. You’re agreeing, not asking me to tell you about it.”
And that friendly laugh of his rolled out again and included her. By their joined hands, he tugged her in and kissed her on the nose. It was a happy gesture, rather than a meaningful one. It was just that he was happy to be with her for the moment, so why was she busy overthinking it?
Because rat’s-ass ex-boss would have used it to kiss her whenever he wanted as a demonstration of control. Ridley was merely glad to be with her.
Stop thinking, Erica. Good advice? Or was that what had trapped her in the first place? And here she was, thinking again.
Fort. Follow the fort.
The entrance to the stairs was easy enough to find and she plunged into the narrow passage with the relief of entering a swimming pool on a hot day.
It rose in short, steep flights carved into the stone, making it impossible to still hold hands. Maybe that too was a relief.
A little sign said “Just 9 to Go” in Italian and English. A couple squeezed by them on their way down—it was all there was room for.
The next turn said “8.”
At “5 More” she realized that with the steepness of the stairs, her behind was right at Ridley’s eye level. The Erica Barnett she knew would have been horrified by the thought. The Erica Barnett who had just kissed a man on the Vernazza waterfront for the police and everyone else to see hoped he enjoyed the view.
That thought almost made her stumble. She really did hope that he enjoyed it. She’d had a taste and was slowly realizing that she wanted more. More what, she wasn’t exactly sure. But more Ridley Claremont III was definitely a part of that.
“Just 2 More Turns.”
She looked up, but the carved stone ceiling showed no signs of ending. The stairway itself twisted and turned as it snaked its way upward. She could imagine ancient Italian fighters defending each turn to the death. Swords ringing against iron shields. No room for a bow. It was a hand-to-hand sort of corridor. Her intellect knew it must have been a bloody and awful affair, but there was a fanciful air to a battle so long gone.
“Last 1!”
Erica hurried up the last flight toward a bright wash of light.
At the top of the flight, the stairway twisted left and continued upward. But straight ahead was a tiny open patio carved into the cliff.
“Oh, this is lovely.” Ridley came up beside her.
And it was. They’d progressed high up the cliff and their efforts were rewarded with a peekaboo view out over the harbor and the piazza. But that wasn’t what had captured her attention.
“Look,” she pointed behind them.
Ridley turned, then shrugged his confusion. Nice shoulders. He had such nice shoulders. Erica forced her attention away.
She tapped the sign. “Gallery Zero.” It was posted beside a wide open door that led into what had probably been the old guard room. A few nice art prints propped on easels invited them in.
“Huh,” was Ridley’s brilliant comment and made her want to giggle. He was so male. Rat’s-ass boss was practically effeminate by comparison. Perhaps effete was a better word. Always so careful about how he presented himself and how he was perceived. Ridley was simply…Ridley.
“The marketing of it. The countdown. They upped our anticipation with such simple little signs. Made us eager to reach zero. And now that we have, how could we resist going in?”
“I didn’t even notice that, but you’re right. They totally nailed me.” Then he smiled down at her. “Told you there was brain in the beauty.”
Erica could feel her ears starting to heat up and stepped into the gallery.
* * *
Ridley watched her go and admired the view.
Everything about Erica was neat. Her hair, her gestures, that fine behind of hers, which had so distracted him during the ascent—those were the least of it. He too had seen the signs, but she had cataloged, categorized, and instantly understood the full implications of their purpose. Even the strategy behind it.
Bringing a picture of a childhood poster on her phone so that she could find the exact spot.
She’d even found the perfect solution for the policeman. A single gesture that an hour of protesting his innocence could never have achieved.
Erica’s mention that she’d been a business manager had been an offhand, castaway comment. His guess was that she’d been a damn good one. He hoped that whoever the rat’s ass was, he was missing Erica’s skills badly.
He ducked to clear the low doorway and followed her into the gallery.
It was a small space of low stone, just high enough for him to stand without flinching at every step. Rather than feeling cramped, they had again been smart in their marketing. He tried to see it through Erica’s eyes. The display cases were stocked without being tight-packed, which might have felt cramped, and were brightly lit. Other lights highlighted the pale-painted stone as if it too was of interest. A flip rack of prints to one side. A postcard spinner to another, letting you see all of the art twice—simple reinforcement. A low display of leather work—it was more commercial than the work of the Corniglia artist, but even a glance revealed the obvious quality. And three open shelves of jewelry. A lone woman in her fifties sat off to one side.
“Welcome!” She called with a brightly American accent.
Ridley blinked at her in surprise.
“Yes, I’m American. Two girlfriends and I always wanted to go to Italy. Clara, the painter, made it first. She made us come visit her. Our art was portable, our ex-husbands were not, so we came.” She held up a half-made bracelet of intricate beading to demonstrate that the jewelry was hers.
“Living the dream?”
“Twenty years now. We take turns working here in the gallery. It is not a burden,” and her smile confirmed that. He could hear the Italian inflections that had worked into her language. Her flowing blouse and bright summer skirt said that she’d gone Italian in more ways than one.
He also recognized the smile of interest, or at least curiosity. It was a look he knew well. In answer, he took a step toward Erica. The shopkeeper was good—her smile didn’t diminish, it just shifted to a s
imple welcome.
Erica was flipping through the prints. Watercolors mostly. He spotted the harbor, Corniglia, and what he presumed were the other three towns of Cinque Terre. A painting of Portofino showed it with just a few boats and revealed the uncluttered beauty that a tourist would wish to remember rather than the over-crowded “place to be seen” that it was.
“She’s good.”
Erica nodded and kept flipping.
“But your picture captures it better.”
She did one of her quizzical looks and left him wondering just what she was thinking. She turned back to the posters and he realized that even not underestimating her, he’d been underestimating her. He’d seen a cute, screwed-over, kind-of-messed-up woman that wasn’t his type at all but, hey, a woman was a woman.
Unless the woman was Erica Barnett. He liked more and more as they spent time together rather than his usual less and less.
She was damned smart no matter what she said. Full scholarships weren’t given to sixteen-year-old underachievers. He’d loafed through school, enjoying the parties, playing third base (even making the varsity baseball team), and toying with the cheerleaders. She’d earned a full ride at a top undergrad business management school.
“Ha!”
“What?” She asked from where she was inspecting some of the jewelry.
He shook his head. He’d wager she’d gotten an MBA at night school while working, because it was the kind of thing Erica would do. He had aced an oenology masters at UC Davis—growing up in a top winery had been a great prep for that. UC Davis had also placed him well in the field of coed action.
Another couple had come in and were chatting with the artisan in fluid Italian. Dressed too high to be locals—tourists over from Rome or down from Milan.
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