Love Capri Style

by Reynolds, Lynn

  “Let me tell you something!” Her voice came out in a raspy, angry whisper. She jabbed a finger at his chest, and he backed away. “If you hadn’t moved so slow the other night, I might not have lost my nerve. Then neither of us would have spent the evening taking cold showers!”

  Eric’s eyes widened in disbelief. “So I’m a villain for trying not to pressure you?”

  She balled her hands up into fists and gave a stifled cry of frustration. “Look, what does it even matter? Your future motherin-law and the wedding planner are on their way here. You had no business even asking me out. And don’t give me that nonsense about an ‘arrangement,’ either. Women who are hiring wedding planners don’t make that kind of arrangement.”

  If he told her the truth, it could easily land on the front page of the next issue of Fame. Yet he wanted her to know he hadn’t set out to make a fool of her. Eric stilled his protesting inner voice with a few shallow, quick breaths. “Can I speak to you somewhere less conspicuous?”

  Amanda glanced all around and only then seemed to realize they’d been arguing, however quietly, in the center aisle of the amphitheatre.

  Eric did something out of character, which was getting to be a habit whenever she was near him. He said please.

  Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a curt nod. Eric led her back up the center aisle and out of the walled amphitheatre. They emerged in the field that was being used as a parking lot for staff and reporters for the duration of the festival.

  Amanda crossed her arms over her chest, enhancing the cleavage displayed by her sweater. Eric massaged his forehead, struggling to banish all thought of laying his hands on those ripe round breasts.

  “Look, this is off the record. Does that term mean anything to someone from Tate Global?”

  Amanda bristled. “It does to me.”

  “Fine.” He nodded, mostly to convince himself to keep talking. “I’m not getting married to Stacey.”

  Amanda let out an exasperated puff of air. “Look, our source is her own mother, Eric. She called my editor and said she’s bringing this wedding planner to meet with you guys.”

  Eric ran his hand over his jaw and groaned. Then he walked away from Amanda and sank against the amphitheatre’s exterior wall. “I might have known,” he mumbled. Stacey had learned all her lessons about wild behavior from a master—her own loud, unstable, attention-getting mother.

  “Stacey and her mother haven’t spoken in months. This is either some demented attempt at a reconciliation, or more likely, she can’t stand being out of the spotlight herself and is trying to wheedle her way back into it.”

  Amanda took a few tentative steps closer to him. “Is that the truth? Because that’s kind of story in itself.”

  “Yes, and a very sad one. But still off the record.” Eric propped his sunglasses atop his head and locked his gaze onto her flawless face. “It’s the truth. My word of honor.”

  Amanda looked down, trying to hide a quiet little smile.

  “They have a terribly dysfunctional relationship,” he continued. “I think avoiding contact with her is why Stacey’s doing so well now. She should get a restraining order against her parents.”

  He wasn’t even half-joking.

  “Parents can be a pretty big pain,” Amanda agreed. “Sorry if the story has taken the focus off your festival, but you two will get past it. I should go now.”

  She’d worn her hair down around her shoulders and when she turned to go, it flew out around her like an array of sunbeams. He darted out his hand and caught her wrist. She stared down at it, but made no move to shake him loose. Slowly, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. Her fingers relaxed and caressed his chin. Longing for her burned in him like thirst in a desert. Suddenly he was sick of trying to be the respectable businessman. So tired of trying to be Antony.

  “Stacey and I aren’t engaged. We aren’t even lovers.”

  “You’re not?” Her skepticism was readily apparent in her voice.

  Eric released his hold on her. “She’s like a sister. A frequently irritating sister, as a matter of fact.”

  Amanda’s bewildered expression came as no surprise.

  “My brother wanted a hipper image for Greyford, so he signed Stacey to head the festival we were sponsoring. We’ve known her for years, since we met her at a party when she was a teenager, and we knew she could be rather wild. So my brother sent me to keep an eye on her, and then the rumors about the two of us started.”

  Leaning against the stone wall of the amphitheatre, he closed his eyes, steeling himself against the memory of his last conversations with Antony.

  “In time, I realized Antony was helping the rumors along, had even planted a few himself. We had a huge argument, and I went off to the Amazon. Then he died and left me with the company and the festival and a star who drank vodka like it was soda-pop.”

  He opened his eyes again. Remembering hadn’t hurt quite as much as he’d expected. Was that a good thing?

  “At first,” he went on, “I had to watch her like a hawk, because I didn’t want to cancel the festival or cut her out of it. She is my friend, after all. And she was a good friend in the wake of Antony’s death. I don’t know how I’d have made it through the first months without her friendship, and Franco’s.”

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  Amanda shimmered before him in the sunlight, like a saint in a stained glass window.

  “I wish you could as well.”

  “You’ve never slept with her? Ever? But you must have kissed or fooled around or something.”

  Eric shook his head, laughing. “She’s done a grand job of cleaning up her act, and I admire her for it, but we’re not lovers. Never have been. It was a publicity stunt that got out of hand. Once the train started rolling downhill, I had no idea how to stop it. For one thing, I was too busy trying to figure out how to replace my brother at the helm of Greyford Publishing. Stacey and I concluded it would be easier to stage a break-up after the festival. Neither of us cared about getting involved with someone else at the time.”

  “How—interesting,” Amanda said in a shell-shocked voice. She moved away from him, towards the amphitheatre entrance.

  Lunging forward, he laid his hands on her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. When he leaned forward and pressed his cheek against hers, she sank against him, trembling. “I had something else I wanted to say.”

  “What’s that?” He heard the quiver in her hushed voice.

  Eric spun her to face him. “Woman, you’re still driving me crazy.”

  He slid his hands up her neck, caressing the contours of her face. When she didn’t pull away, he brought his lips down on hers and wrapped her in a snug embrace.

  Amanda’s hands went round his neck as his tongue darted into her mouth, teasing and tangling with hers. The heat of her body combined with his, until Eric thought they’d go up in flames together. At last, he broke the kiss, nuzzling her neck and burying his face in her loose hair.

  “This is a bad idea.” Amanda smiled but pulled away from him. A confused frown creased her brow. “I have to get back to work. And anyway, this isn’t the place.”

  “No.” Eric nodded his agreement. “Perhaps later?”

  Her eyes widened, and she scurried away from him. Eric smoothed down his shirt and lowered his sunglasses, outwardly cool as he strode back to the amphitheatre.

  Damn. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? The risk he’d taken, kissing her right outside the concert venue in broad daylight. On top of the false wedding story, a scene like that would get major media coverage.

  He was infinitely strange to himself these days. In the past year, he’d gone from a lady-killing adventurer to a harried businessman obsessed with his company’s bottom line and its public image. Naturally, the sight of a girl like Amanda made him long for that old, carefree life. But this absurd obsession with her threatened his ability to focus on Greyford Publishing. He needed to get his mind back on the festival, a
nd more importantly, on next week’s board meeting. He needed—what did he need?

  Bloody hell. He needed to have her just once. Then he could stop wondering about the experience and settle into his new life as a responsible businessman.

  ***

  Amanda brooded in the passenger seat of Zeke’s battered jeep, her pensive mood obvious even to him.

  “You act like your best friend got run over by a steam roller,” Zeke said. “You should be tickled pink, kiddo. Dan’s happy with you now that you dropped that wedding planner bombshell on Stacey D. and her lover boy. She told me she might make their upcoming wedding her cover story.”

  “Whoopee.” Amanda should be celebrating, but she felt petty and slightly soiled. She was also deeply perplexed by Eric’s news earlier today. And by his kiss. Okay, not perplexed by the kiss. More like, wound up tighter than a broken wristwatch and ready to go sproing. Her lips wanted to believe any tale he told in order to get more kisses like that one.

  Zeke cruised to a stop outside the gates of the villa. He handed their press ID’s to the gate guard, who instructed them where to park and nodded them into the exclusive compound. Passing inside the gates, Amanda imagined herself as Cinderella arriving at the Prince’s ball. To their left, the lower part of a large, grassy hill had been pressed into service as a parking lot and was now filled with the elegant, lavish vehicles of the rich and famous. Zeke parked their nondescript, rust-covered pumpkin between a stretch limousine and a sleek, bullet-shaped silver sports car.

  “I’ll start out shooting the group photos, then I’ll get some individual shots. You can make notes of who’s wearing what, who’s drinking the most and talking the loudest. Battali will have a pretty huge spread of food in the kitchen for peons like us. I’ve been to one of his parties at his house in Naples and even the servants ate well that night.”

  “Nice,” Amanda said. “I hate it when we cover those fancy parties and they shoo us away from the food.”

  “At least it’s Capri. No worries about having to settle for a burger at a greasy diner later tonight.” Zeke gave a gruff, hoarse laugh at his own witticism.

  Together they trekked up the gentle, winding path that led to an elaborate formal garden and a huge, marble fountain sporting a naked sea nymph at its center.

  “Impressive.” Zeke whistled.

  Beyond the gardens stood Battali’s house, rising in tiers like a wedding cake, and ablaze with light. Its three levels of terraces were bedecked with small topiary plants and hanging vines. The scent of citrus and eucalyptus hung heavy in the air around them.

  “Boy, this guy knows how to live,” Amanda mused.

  “If I had his money, I’d know how to live, too,” Zeke replied.

  The low din of conversation grew louder as they approached the terrace surrounding the first level of the house. French doors stood open to the gentle night breeze and hordes of magnificently dressed men and women drifted in and out.

  Amanda cocked an eyebrow at Zeke. “We should both have dressed better.”

  He had, in fact, unearthed something he called a suit. A black jacket that was too long had been paired with a rumpled pair of black pants. He’d pulled his wiry hair back into a ponytail, and to top off his look, he’d added a little string tie like the kind a cowboy might wear in the Old West. The overall effect was that of a dour frontier preacher, come to urge the partygoers to repent.

  Impervious to criticism as always, Zeke shrugged. “Speak for yourself, Jackson. You’re the one that looks like a waitress at one of the cafés.”

  Amanda glanced down at her lemon-covered sundress, one of the outfits Signora Claudia had foisted on her. The halter-top bared her shoulders and emphasized her full breasts, while the flared skirt covered up the hips she’d always felt were too big. Although she’d resolved to return the remaining outfits to the signora’s shop tomorrow morning, she couldn’t bear to give this one back. It suited her body so perfectly. She could barely afford to keep this dress and the one she’d already worn, and she didn’t want to be beholden to Eric Greyford for anything.

  Her hands went clammy at the thought of encountering him at tonight’s soiree. No doubt, he’d be wearing the tux again, as he’d been the first time she met him. He’d looked so elegant that night, utterly scrumptious with his tie undone and the faintest hint of five-o-clock shadow on his jaw. If this ridiculous story of his was another attempt to seduce her, she’d never be able to resist. Even now, remembering the smell of him, a mellow heat began to build in her lower abdomen. It radiated lower, and she fidgeted uneasily, plucking at some imaginary lint on her skirt.

  Zeke prodded her into the confines of the house, where they found themselves in a huge foyer at least two stories high. A servant noted their press passes and let them know there would be opening remarks in the Grand Ballroom—wherever that was—in fifteen minutes.

  “Hey, jackpot,” Zeke muttered under his breath as they entered a large parlor. He pointed across the room.

  Engaged in deep conversation, two familiar public figures leaned over the punch bowl. One was Jason Everest, a hot new action film star. And—could the universe be this cruel?—the other was Senator Tom Harkness. Her father contributed heavily to the senator’s campaign and regularly entertained him at parties. He’d even introduced Amanda to the senator when she’d first arrived in New York, and she’d met the man several times since. Amanda cringed at the thought of being publicly identified as Tate’s daughter—and in the middle of a Greyford Publishing event.

  “I’ll get some photos of them together,” Zeke announced. “You can ask Everest about his next movie.”

  “Later. I have to—um—find the little girl’s room.” Amanda sidled away from Zeke, who scratched his head and glared at her. “I’ll see you in the ballroom.”

  Pushing through the masses of people, she spotted Judy, the Australian reporter, and a few other colleagues crowded at the bottom of a majestic central staircase.

  “What are you waiting for?” Amanda inquired.

  “Stacey Dakota,” the Australian replied. “She’s supposed to be making an entrance any minute—with Eric Greyford. Wonder if they’re going to announce the date, eh?”

  “I doubt it.” Amanda gave an awkward laugh and looked all around at the mobs of people inching closer and closer to the steps. Ever since pouncing on Eric and Stacey at the beach club the other day, she’d been feeling a lot more uncomfortable about this tendency of the media to swarm all over celebrities. Amanda would probably faint if she came down her stairs and found this many people waiting to greet her. Especially if she knew in advance that not all of them were friendly and that some would be pestering her for quotes about stories that weren’t even true.

  Poor Stacey.

  Even as she thought it, Amanda took it back. The young woman appeared at the top of the wide, curved marble staircase, looking serene and in control. She glided down the steps, holding on to the rail but looking up and out and smiling beatifically for the cameras that popped and flashed all around her. Her red satin cocktail dress skimmed her gamine figure, emphasizing her long slender legs and complementing the coppery highlights in her hair.

  Amanda and about twenty other journalists watched transfixed as, for possibly the first time in her adult life, Stacey Dakota made an elegant, dignified and completely sober entrance. When she reached the last step, Stacey broke into a wide, child-like grin.

  “Hi, everybody,” she said to the assembled crowd. “I was so afraid I was going to trip and land right on my bottom. And I bet y’all were thinking the same thing, right?”

  ***

  Eric leaned into the microphone in front of him and spoke to the assembled crowd, a mixture of drab journalists and society types who dripped with jewels. He was careful to keep his gaze focused on the right side of the room, because she stood on the left. Wearing that damned dress Claudia had talked him into buying for her and looking not at all drab. Looking bloody ripe and ready to be plucked from the vine. He
pinched his brow and began again.

  “The Greyford Wilderness Foundation is a cause close to my heart. The foundation has built sanctuaries for endangered animals in Africa and worked to preserve acres of rain forest in the Amazon. Every penny you’ve paid to be here tonight will help with this good work, so I’m grateful for your interest and your support.”

  He walked a fine line when he spoke about the foundation, proud of its accomplishments but trying not to boast. He didn’t want it to be seen as some self-aggrandizing cause célèbre. Had his brother lived, the foundation might have been Eric’s life work, but now it had to take a backseat to Greyford Publishing, much to his perpetual dismay.

  We’ll have music and dancing and lots of fine food tonight,” he went on. “Also some truly excellent wines, thanks to our gracious host, Franco Battali. We look forward to seeing all of you at the start of the festival tomorrow too. And now my friend Stacey would like to say a few words.”

  A round of knowing laughter rippled through the room at the word friend.

  Eric raised his hand for silence and locked his eyes on Amanda’s. “Let me add that you cannot always believe everything you see or hear in the media. Take it from someone who was raised in this business. Some irresponsible journalists have set off a round of rather silly rumors, which I hope you’ll ignore. Stacey?”

  “Thanks for coming, everybody.” She ducked a little too close to the microphone and a burst of feedback ensued. A technician adjusted the sound and nodded for her to speak again. “I’m looking forward to singing for all of you tomorrow and again next Saturday. In between my two shows, there’s going to be plenty of beautiful music in the fields outside Signore Battali’s estate. I hope we’ll see you there.”

  Flashbulbs popped in her face and reporters jockeyed one another to get closer to her.

  “When’s the wedding?” One shouted at her.

  “Whose?” she replied with exaggerated innocence.

  The barrage of questions continued for several minutes. Dishearteningly, Eric noticed most were about the non-existent wedding. Very few reporters wanted to talk about the festival schedule, even though many of the other musicians were also present at the party. Even fewer wanted to learn more about the Greyford Foundation.