Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story

by Lambert, Lucy

  From there, I took a quick stop at my flat to pull on some clothes that weren’t wrinkled and then it was another bus ride to the Sapienza campus.

  I arrived outside Dr. Aretino’s office in time to see a young woman step out. I recognized her from class. Angelina or Annalisa, I couldn’t remember which. She was normally quiet in class, but when she did speak she always had something insightful to say.

  And she was quite pretty. Dark hair that spilled in springy ringlets to her shoulders, doe eyes and full lips accentuating her heart-shaped face.

  “Hey!” I said.

  She either didn’t notice me or deliberately ignored me, quickly disappearing down a bend in the hall. I frowned after her.

  A pretty, young woman stepping out of Dr. Aretino’s office with a troubled look on her face? It wasn’t hard to see the good professor’s modus operandi.

  I wanted to go back, then. Maybe spend the rest of the day with Liam. I could hear Dr. Aretino rustling papers on his desk, hear the squeak of his office chair as he rotated it.

  Just clear your conscience, at least, I thought.

  So for once I swallowed my fear and knocked on his partially closed door. Angelina (Annalisa?) had swung it most of the way shut on her way out.

  “Ci?” Dr. Aretino said from within.

  “It’s me, Emma,” I said.

  “Emma? Come, come. Yes, come in,” he said, standing up and then opening the door the rest of the way. He waved me to the padded chair in front of his desk and then sat in his on the other side.

  The back wall of his office was a large window that looked out across a quad lined with trees. It was a spacious room, not like the janitor’s closets-turned-offices of professors I’d had back in the States.

  Bookcases lined both side walls, filled mostly with volumes on European art of the last 700 years or so. On his desk he had a plaque with his name on it, a slim computer monitor and keyboard, and a golden miniature of Atlas shrugging beneath the weight of a wireframe world.

  And a picture frame, facing away from me. I suddenly wanted to know whose picture sat in that frame.

  Dr. Aretino put his elbows on his desktop and clapped his hands together, the tips of his fingers tapping against each other. “What is it I can do for you, Ragazza D’oro? You look quite concerned. Have you perhaps come to realize the truth?”

  I shifted in my seat, instinctively crossing my thighs. This close to him, I could smell the pungent oil he used to keep his thin, dark hair slicked back from his forehead. The glare from the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling dazzled on that shiny expanse of skin over his eyes.

  “Dr. Aretino, I’m not changing my answer. I know that for a while, I let my schoolwork slip. I was dealing with some personal things. You must have seen how much I’ve improved over the past couple weeks alone?”

  “Oh, yes, a great deal of improvement,” he said.

  “Then maybe you can do the right thing and give me the marks we both know I deserve.”

  Dr. Aretino shook his head, that splotch of light on his forehead shifting back and forth. “Such a pity that you are not willing to do what needs to be done to stay. And just as you are beginning to come into your own here in Rome. Exams are coming soon. I’m sure if you got the chance to take them, you would do quite well. A pity,” he said, tsk-ing and clicking his tongue.

  “You’re going to force me to take matters into my own hands, professor,” I said.

  A shot of cold fear ran through me when I said that. I could hardly believe that I’d been able to get the words out.

  The fear was there, but something else, too. Excitement, exhilaration. Was this how it always felt to stand up for yourself?

  I could get used to that.

  “I invite you to try,” Dr. Aretino said. He waved at the walls, indicating the university as a whole, indicating that he had the faculty on his side. Indicating that he saw nothing I could do against him.

  “So you’re not going to change your mind?” I said. I wanted this absolutely clear. I couldn’t go through with anything without that clarity.

  That was why Liam hadn’t tried to keep me from this, I knew.

  He spread his fingers out and looked at me with the corners of his mouth downturned, as though his hands were tied.

  My skin crawled. I’d heard people use that expression before, but never really understood what they meant. Then I did. It had me squirming, had me wanting to run out like Annalisa (Angelina?) had done only a few minutes earlier.

  I made myself stay. If you want to catch a rat in a trap, you had to bait it, after all.

  “I heard that there’s another fundraiser coming up,” I said. Did that sound casual enough? I hoped so.

  Dr. Aretino smiled, and I realized that he must think that I’d finally begun to bend, finally seen the futility of my resistance. Yes, I definitely needed to see Liam after this. I’d have him wrap his arms around me and hold me until I forgot all about the good professor.

  “Yes, there is,” he said, “I had almost forgotten about it,” Sure you did. He continued, “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you there?”

  I made as good a show of it as I could, letting my eyes run across his desk, working my jaw, ending it all with a reluctant sigh, “Yes.” Who knew that it could be so difficult to get a single syllable out?

  Think of Liam. Think of talking to him. Think of looking into his eyes, I kept repeating.

  “Good. Very good,” he said, clapping his palms together, “You won’t need your dance instructor this time, either. I will email you the details. Is there anything else?”

  He seemed so very pleased with himself, as though he saw victory approaching fast. The crawling feeling worsened, and I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

  There was one more thing I needed to do before I got out of there. So I smiled, hoping my lips didn’t look too bloodless. “You have a great view of the campus!”

  “What? Yes, I suppose,” he said, standing up as I did.

  I slipped between his desk and the bookcase and went up to the window. It actually was a nice view, but I couldn’t enjoy it.

  “A lovely view, yes,” Dr. Aretino said. I could feel him standing behind me.

  I counted to five in my head (five seconds never felt more like five minutes in my life) and turned around. I dodged around him, my eyes searching for that picture.

  It was a portrait of an older woman. Still pretty, the age just beginning to show in the corners of his eyes. I wondered how Dr. Aretino could sit behind his desk and talk the way he did to his female students with the eyes of that woman watching him the whole time.

  “Your wife?” I said.

  “Yes. Do not worry; she won’t be at the fundraiser,” Dr. Aretino said.

  “Good to know,” I said.

  Then I excused myself, pulling his office door closed behind me. I understood now why Angelina (I was 90% certain it was Angelina, now) had done it. Who wanted to feel those eyes of his following you down the hall?

  I took a few turns, found the staircase, and then stopped on the landing. The excitement and fear mingling in my stomach had stirred themselves into a sick sensation, and my knees kept trembling.

  I did it! Dr. Aretino wasn’t going to give up. So that was it. I committed myself to bringing him down. Now all I needed to do was figure out the how of it. I knew the where and the when, with the fundraiser.

  Also to start studying for my exams. I’d nearly forgotten how close they were, and for a time there they hadn’t seemed that important what with being on the verge of deportation and all.

  But what I really needed was a shower. And Liam. A shower and Liam at the same time. That sounded nice.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m going to steal you away for the day,” Liam said. He sat on the edge of his bed, nothing but the fluffy white hotel towel wrapped around his waist.

  It was more than enough to tear my eyes away from the screen of my laptop. He’d dried himself almost completely, and he smell
ed so fresh from his shower.

  A bead of moisture he’d missed slithered its way down the shallow cleft dividing the two columns of his abdominal muscles. I wanted to go lick it off him.

  “You know that I can’t,” I said, trying to tear my eyes away from his sculpted torso and failing. He leaned in closer, the movement wafting his aftershave my way. I almost fainted.

  “I know that you can. Can and will,” he said. He stole a kiss, leaving my lips tingling and my throat dry. I tingled all the way down to my toes.

  I’d spent the morning here with Liam. Studying, or trying to. I had my browser open to a digital version of a Renaissance art journal and I’d barely managed to make my way through the abstract.

  The fundraiser raced towards me, and exams, and final assignments for my classes I knew I’d at best get Ds on if I didn’t fix this whole thing with Dr. Aretino.

  It would be nice to get away from it all, but I knew I couldn’t. I resolved not to let Liam sway me, no matter what method of persuasion he chose (I hoped it would involve him dropping that towel to the floor and putting this bed to better use).

  Somehow he’d managed to read my mind again.

  “One thing no one seems to remember in this age of constant effort and work,” he said, nudging my laptop closed with his fingertips, “Is that taking enough rest and breaks is just as important.”

  “Is that so?” I said. His cheeks and chin looked so smooth from his shave. I kept wanting to see just how smooth by pressing my lips to them. It wasn’t fair at all. I wanted to get work done and all he needed to do to distract me was to exist and to be close by.

  Not fair at all. I found myself wishing I was a better artist so that I could sketch him, paint him, sculpt him.

  “It is,” he said. He leaned over my closed laptop and kissed me, gently, carefully, so that only our lips touched. His lips were soft and supple and tempting.

  Resolve. Failing. I thought.

  Then he pulled back. “Tease,” I said.

  He shrugged. I watched the interplay of the muscles under his skin involved in the movement, some of my own muscles twitching and quivering in response.

  “Just a little. Have I convinced you? Say yes,” Liam said.

  “But… Studying…” I said, reaching out for my laptop like a drowning man straining for something, anything to keep from slipping below the surface of the water.

  Liam got it first, pulling it back so that my fingertips touched nothing but the smoothness of the high thread count duvet.

  “Cruel, so cruel,” I said.

  “So?” he said. Then, almost like he didn’t mean to do it (almost) he clasped his fingers behind his head and stretched.

  I couldn’t help the little animal noise that escaped through my lips, my eyes drinking him in, devouring the sight of his flexing biceps, the tightening of his abs, the V-shape of his torso. That strand of muscle that ran down from his hips, leading beneath the towel. Many women referred to it simply as “the V.” I’d learned long ago from an art text that it was actually called the Belt of Adonis.

  “That’s no fair,” I said.

  “If it’s a fair fight you’re doing something wrong,” Liam replied.

  “Fine. What is it?”

  He glanced at the designer digital clock on the nightstand. “Looks like I’ve got just enough time to get dressed and get us over there.”

  “Over where?”

  “The train terminal. I have our tickets in an envelope by the door.”

  “Train?”

  ***

  It wasn’t just any train, either. It was the Frecciarossa, or Red Arrow. A bullet train. It was long and sleek and smooth, its aerodynamic exterior hinting at just how fast it could go.

  We caught it via the Roma Termini, the first of two central transit hubs in Rome.

  I wished we could have stayed there longer, but we were in something of a rush.

  It was a rather modern, even futuristic looking building set in sharp relief with the classical architecture of the city around it.

  The roof caught my eye first, looking something like the cross section of a low wave traveling across the water. From inside, the rake of the ceiling gave the whole space an incredible sense of depth.

  Sleek fashion advertisements dotted the polished floor. All sorts of stores from newspaper stands to little cafes and restaurants lined the walls.

  And there were people everywhere. Children marveling at the ultramodern look of the space, men and women in business wear rushing around, a few tourists taking everything in, camera flashes blinking.

  I would have been happy spending the whole day there exploring with Liam.

  He led me down to the train platform, where we found the Frecciarossa waiting for us. Like its name suggested, it was a speedy-looking shade of red. Except it had a streak of grey running between those strips of red.

  “Where are we going?” I asked while Liam pulled out the tickets to scan them into the machine so we could board.

  “Rome is nice and all,” Liam said, he took my hand and led me into the train. It was wider inside than I would have thought. The windows looked slightly tinted, shading the outside world, the platform on the other side and the people there waiting for a different train.

  Groups of four wide-backed, comfy looking seats took up the sides of the aisle.

  “However,” Liam continued, checking seat numbers against the tickets, “If you really want to experience Italian art, there’s really only one place you absolutely must go.”

  The operator’s voice came on. I heard the word Firenze and my heart sped up.

  “We’re going to Florence?” I said. I’d wanted to go to Florence, had been planning to go when I’d been planning my Rome trip before my dad got sick. But when I’d lost the will to study, to see Rome even though I lived in it, the idea of going to Florence had died as well.

  “And at 300 kilometers per hour, we’ll be there in an hour and a half,” Liam said, “Here we go.” He motioned to an empty set of seats.

  There was a lot of legroom, as well as a selection of new magazines on the thin table in the middle of our little group of seats. The Europeans knew how to travel in comfort and style.

  They were as comfy as they looked, and I sighed as I sat. Liam sat across from me. We took the window seats, leaving the two by the aisle empty.

  Soon, a man wearing the uniform of the line came over to us and asked us if we’d like any of the national papers for that day, and if we’d like any refreshments.

  “Premium class,” Liam said, “I know you don’t like me spending money on you, but I decided to get the nicer seats anyway.”

  “I’ll forgive you, this time,” I said.

  Other people had begun to board as well, filling in the seats around us. Though no one sat in the two empty chairs in our little group. I gave Liam another look.

  He shrugged, not apologetic in the least. “I wanted you all to myself. What’s the point of having money if you can’t have nice things?”

  It was sweet, and I had to admit I’d been feeling a little anxious about sitting so close to a pair of strangers the whole ride up.

  I had just picked up an Italian edition of InStyle magazine when the train started humming. Although it was less a sound and more a feeling. It started moving away from the platform. Gliding described it better. Like we floated above the ground, it was so smooth.

  And it picked up speed with deceptive quickness. I barely felt the inertia pushing me back into the comfortable padding of my seat.

  Yet when I looked out the window Rome had already disappeared, replaced by the rolling fields of the rich vineyards and farmland around the city.

  And even that flashed by in a blur. If I wanted to look at any one thing, I had to focus on it and turn my head as fast as I could to get rid of some of the haze of speed.

  “Wow,” I said again. I’d lost count of times Liam had done something to make me utter that exclamation.

  “I never get tired o
f hearing you say that,” Liam said.

  “Well it seems like every time I see you, you feed me some amazing food or show me some incredible thing.” Or come out of the shower with that body of yours still flushed from the heat of it and nothing but a towel to cover it. I didn’t voice that last bit out loud.

  “I can’t help it. You make everything feel new to me, like it’s the first time I’m seeing it, too,” he said.

  The way he looked at me across the table, those baby blues fixed so intensely on my face, made me blush and look down at my hands, which I had clasped in my lap over the forgotten and glossy cover of InStyle.

  I could sense something from him, some desire to say something, to express something, that he struggled with. What sort of thing did a man like Liam have to struggle with, especially involving me?

  “Stop,” I said, my cheeks so hot that if they started smoking I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “You know that I won’t,” he said, “You should have learned then when I chased you to the airport.”

  “So we’re going to the Uffizi?” I said, trying to change the subject. The Uffizi Gallery was the foremost museum of art in all of Italy. Perhaps all of Europe.

  “That’s not what I want to talk about right now,” Liam said.

  I’d begun shaking a little. I clenched my hands into sweaty fists, crinkling the cover of the magazine. Had our train car heated up?

  “Work, then?” I said, “How’s your business stuff going? That merger or whatever go through?”

  “Emma, look at me. Please, look at me.”

  I swallowed against a lump in my throat. It wasn’t the train car that felt hot. It was me. I burned. It took every last ounce of willpower I had to drag my eyes away from the smiling model on the cover of the magazine to Liam.

  He’d leaned his elbows on the table. His eyes kept flicking between my eyes, searching. He licked his lips as though nervous. My trembling intensified, seeing him like that.

  “Yeah?” I said, my voice small.

  “My business trip has been over for the last week,” he said.

  “Then why are you still here? Don’t you have a huge international corporation to run?” I knew the answer to my question. I just wasn’t sure I could accept it.