Remembering he was supposed to be describing the landmarks, Michelangelo brought out a crumpled note from his pocket. Holding it in the palm of his hand, where no one would see, he turned on the intercom. ‘I’d like to welcome all the members of the Easthampton Civic Symphony. Per Ms. Maxhammer’s request, I’ll be announcing important landmarks along the way.’
He checked the note. ‘To your left is Lago Traiano, an artificial lake built by Imperatore Traiano in 98—117 B.C. and used as a port in the time of Imperial Rome.’
Turning off the intercom, Michelangelo glanced longingly at the circle of pines. He’d taken the guided tour on a horse-drawn carriage with his father as a young boy. If only he was still here, he’d think of a way to save the vineyard.
He turned his attention back to Carly. Scrolling down a list of e-mails on her cell, she didn’t even look up to see the lake, which sent a dagger of pain through his gut. Stupid American, can’t even appreciate the Italian countryside. Would she stay on that thing the whole time and miss all the views?
Michelangelo sat beside her once again and tried an attempt at conversation.
‘Is this your first time in Italy?’
Carly nodded as she checked off the boxes beside the e-mails and deleted a bunch. ‘First and last.’
Wow, he’d not heard that before. No visitor he’d ever met didn’t want to come back. What was with her? Want stirred in his gut as he looked her up and down.
‘Is that so? I’ll have to change that.’ The words slipped out of his mouth as more of a challenge than a remark. Did he just hit on her? What was getting into him?
Carly dropped her phone and glanced at him with a mix of surprise and dismay, and maybe—if he didn’t imagine it—a hint of desire. She shifted a little further away, pressing her side against the window. ‘Excuse me?’
Michelangelo’s friends said he was smoother than gelato. He could work his way out of this. He shrugged. ‘Everyone falls in love with Italy. Once you’re here, you’ll always remember it.’
‘Besides music, I haven’t fallen in love with anything in my entire life.’ Carly twirled a strand of silky hair behind her ear. ‘Good luck.’
Michelangelo took that as a challenge. Whether to make her fall in love with Italy, or with him, he wasn’t sure.
Chapter Two
Diva’s Choice
Carly hoped Michelangelo couldn’t see her heart beating like a metronome on vivace. She read the next e-mail, trying to focus and ignore how the hottie tour guide may have just hit on her.
Honestly, she must have read him completely wrongly, because they’d had about the worst introduction she could think of, and she’d watched a whole ton of romantic comedies in her day with Melody; While You Were Sleeping, Groundhog Day, Pretty Woman, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. She could go on and on—they’d even come up with their own top-fifty list.
Wait a sec. Didn’t they all have rough starts?
Michelangelo leaned over and his eyes glanced down as if reading over her shoulder.
Sighing, she shut the screen off. She’d have to wait until they reached the hotel if she wanted any form of privacy.
‘How long is this trip?’ Her tone came out more annoyed than she would have liked. All the unread e-mails, the conversation with Dino, and her embarrassing introduction to Michelangelo had raised her anxiety to momentous levels. Thank the hotel gods for mini bars.
‘It will take us about thirty minutes to reach the center of Rome, where the Villa Borghese is located.’
Great. Thirty minutes of spine-cringing awkwardness.
She turned to the window. Lush hills spread before her in blankets of emerald, accented by pointed, dark shrubs and patches of red and white wildflowers. An old farmhouse made with bleached stucco and red-orange tiled roofs claimed the side of a hill. Italy really was gorgeous.
Her phone vibrated with another new message.
Too bad she couldn’t appreciate it.
Michelangelo gestured to her phone. ‘You’re a wanted woman.’
‘Right now I am. Give it two weeks, and we’ll see if they still call.’ Carly tucked her cell in the front pocket of her purse, wishing she could control her mouth. Why was she spouting her problems to this man?
Michelangelo pouted his thick, velvety lips, a look which came across as sultry and alluring. ‘You’ve got some fickle friends.’
She forced herself to stop staring at his lips and focused on his two-tone, blue-amber eyes. ‘It’s the nature of the bizz I’m afraid.’
‘Sounds as risky as owning a vineyard.’
Oh yeah, right. Wandering through the vineyard and taste-testing great wines. Like he could really compare all the competition, the hours spent practicing, the expensive instruments, and the twenty-four-seven gig schedule? She crossed her arms and turned toward him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The crop yield all depends on weather, pests, and the quality of the vines. One late frost, swarm of aphids, or disease can mean thousands lost. And that’s just the beginning. Even if you have a good yield, you have to protect against bacteria, make sure the tanks are all sanitized, and check the bottling line systems and drainage systems. There’s always something that needs fixing or replacing.’ For a moment he looked older than his years—which couldn’t be any more than hers.
Carly tried to lighten the mood. ‘No wandering through the vines drinking Chardonnay?’
Michelangelo laughed and looked at her as if he wished there was, just so they could do it together. ‘More like being knee-deep in grape must or crawling into the tanks to sanitize them.’
Carly batted her eyelashes. ‘How romantic.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Michelangelo grinned.
OMG did I just flirt?
It had been a few years since she’d thrown herself out there, and she blushed like a giggly schoolgirl. Geez, she had to pull herself together or she’d end up on some crazy fling. Like that would last longer than the two-week tour.
Carly turned back to the window to cool things off, and they rode in silence.
The rolling hills had morphed into beige, white and pink stucco buildings interspersed with grand stone facades in the arched and domed architecture characteristic of Rome. Carly marveled at the bustling, narrow streets. The farthest she’d traveled was Disneyland in Florida as a kid. The absence of Starbucks, McDonald’s, and any other US clothing and food chains gave the city a timeless, classic look.
I’m not in Kansas anymore.
The intercom buzzed as Michelangelo turned it on. He opened his hand, then closed it again and stuffed his palm into his pocket. Was he nervous? After all the tours he must have given, this should be old school for him.
Michelangelo took a deep breath. ‘Up ahead we’ll cross the Tiber river, which is the third-longest river in Italy. It comes from the Apennine Mountains in Emilia-Romagna and flows four hundred and six kilometers through Umbria and Lazio to the Tyrrhenian Sea. The king Tiberinus Silvius was said to have urinated in the river, which was subsequently renamed in his honor.’
Carly laughed out loud, then covered her mouth.
Michelangelo raised a dark eyebrow in question as he turned the intercom off and sat back down.
‘Men. They have to mark their territory.’
He widened his gorgeous eyes. ‘Is this how you view all men?’
Somehow, Carly felt as though he’d use her answer to judge every single thing about her character and whether she was available or not. It had to be good. And firm. It had to draw the line between them.
‘Only the ones I’ve met so far.’ Carly’s heart sped. Why the hell would she say that? It was practically an invitation. Somewhere between America and Italy she’d lost her brain filter, and her mind.
‘I see.’ Michelangelo smiled as though he had a tasty secret on his luscious lips and gazed at the road ahead. Carly tried not to notice the way the fabric of his cotton shirt lay against his smooth chest, or the strength of his jawline.
; They passed over the glassy Tiber river, and into downtown Rome. Residents watered their plants on the balconies and set up their storefronts under bright awnings. Carly could see why Michelangelo claimed everyone that visited wanted to come back. The city charmed her on a grand scale while still claiming its historic roots with pride.
The bus pulled up in front of a stone building with arched windows and striped, rounded awnings that reminded her of fancy candy wrappers. A red carpet lined the path to double glass doors. Carly breathed with relief. The air between them had grown thick with tension, and she was eager to get off the bus, get a drink and read her e-mail.
Michelangelo stood and addressed the entire bus. ‘Welcome to the Villa Borghese. I’ll see to it your luggage is deposited at your room. You may go directly to the front desk and check in.’
Carly stretched her legs and stood. She’d been sitting down all day, first on the plane, then on the bus and it felt good to move around. While Michelangelo helped people with their bags and answered questions, she took the opportunity to sneak away.
‘Have a good stay, signorina.’ A hint of playfulness danced in his voice.
She whirled around. Michelangelo smiled and winked, then turned to the rest of the orchestra. Feeling as though cupid’s arrow had hit her straight through the head, Carly stepped off the bus and walked the red carpet into the Villa Borghese.
A white marble floor with lightning streaks of mica and gray spread out before her. Wooden columns, much like those in Roman architecture, structured the lobby area where two young men in crisp suits waited for her to check in. Both of them were handsome, dark Italian men, but neither compared to the one she’d just met.
Carly walked up to the main desk wondering who’d be sharing her room. A scandalous thought of Michelangelo in his boxers passed through her mind before she squelched it. No, probably more along the lines of snoring Bertha.
The man at the counter gave her a room key for three fifty-two. ‘The elevator is around the corner to your right.’ He spoke in perfect English. ‘Welcome to the Villa Borghese.’
‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’ Carly smiled. ‘One more thing, who’s staying with me?’
He checked his computer. ‘Alaina Amaldi.’
Carly’s heart froze over. Not the diva who accused her of playing her high A two cents sharp! ‘There must be a mistake.’
He checked again, but not before giving her that I think this lady is crazy look. ‘No, signorina. There is a specific request to place you two together.’
Dammit, Melody, you had to fall in love!
‘I can assure you, I didn’t place such a request.’
The host shook his head. ‘Mi dispiace, signorina. Perhaps Signorina Amaldi did?’
Carly shook her head. It was more likely their stage would freeze over and the curvy Alaina Amaldi would fall through it than the opera star would choose to room with her.
‘Can’t you change it?’ To Michelangelo. She bit her tongue. ‘How about Bertha Payne. Who’s she staying with?’ Anyone was better than that vibrato-crazed soprano.
He typed a few keys. ‘I have her with Trudy Phillip. Per her request.’
Trudy, of course. She and Bertha were both as old as ancient Rome. They probably wanted to reminisce about the Coliseum days while they knitted doilies.
The line was lengthening behind her, and the receptionist flicked his eyes over the crowd nervously. Carly knew when she’d outstayed her welcome. ‘Very well.’ She adjusted her purse strap and followed his direction to the elevator.
This day is getting better and better.
Chapter Three
Never-ending Songs
‘May I?’ Michelangelo offered his arm to the sweet little old lady who was the last orchestra member left on the bus. As he had helped the others with their bags, she sat knitting as though patiently waiting for him to come over.
‘Of course, love.’ She wrapped her knobbly hand around his arm. ‘An old lady like myself will get whatever help she can.’
‘You’re like a fine Pinot Grigio, aged to perfection.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Mmawh.’ He helped her stand and walked to the front of the bus.
‘I like you. What was your name again?’ She squinted at him through glasses so thick they must have been bulletproof.
‘Michelangelo.’ He smiled as he took the last bag on the shelf, along with a violin case. He helped her down the steps and onto the sidewalk. ‘And your name is?’
‘Bertha, but my friends call me Bert.’
He kissed the back of her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Bert.’
‘Oh the young ladies will like you.’ She chuckled and walked away muttering to herself. ‘Kissing my hand like I was a marriage prospect.’
Michelangelo stood with a pile of bags, wondering what had just happened in the last crazy hour of his life. Sure, in his opinion they were all self-centered, ill-mannered, brash-speaking Americans, but they also had an openness to them he was beginning to like.
Carly was another story.
Two concierges came through the double glass doors with carts, and he helped them load the luggage while immersed in his thoughts. Why had he told her about his winery? He had sworn not to tell any of them the real reason why he was doing this tour for fear Ms. Maxhammer would see right through the elaborately constructed façade. And, of course, the only tours he’d ever led were on his own vineyard. He had no idea what he was doing. He was in it for the money, and the money alone.
A little voice inside him teased, what about Carly?
Her witty comebacks had impressed him, and every moment they sat together, the chemistry rose until he thought the air around them would explode into fireworks before they reached the hotel.
‘We’re to deliver these to the assigned rooms, signore?’ The boy reminded him of himself ten years ago when he was lifting barrels on the vineyard. So much responsibility had been put upon him since then.
‘Si, si.’ He handed them a list of the names and room assignments. ‘Pronto!’
The boys scurried off. The lists! He slapped his hand over his face. He’d just given them his way of contacting Carly.
You’re better off forgetting about her and doing your job.
Ms. Maxhammer had hired him to be polite, not to seduce the members of her orchestra. If she found out anything had happened, it would be scandalous. She might even fire him, and he needed that check.
Still, his chest stirred with desire. The last time a woman had caught his attention this badly had been years ago. After college, when his father had grown ill, he’d thrown all his energy into working on his vineyard. Dating was a lost memory.
Maybe it’s time to get out and look around. That little voice hounded him again. This time it was more insistent.
Casually, Michelangelo walked to the desk. One of the receptionists greeted him. ‘Ciao, signore.’
‘Ciao, signore’ He leaned on the marble countertop. ‘Are all of my guests accounted for?’
‘Si. They were all eager to get to their rooms after such a long trip.’
‘Eccellente.’ Michelangelo ran his hands through his hair. ‘Do you mind if I have a look at the list? The baggage boys took mine.’
The host paused, and for a bleak second Michelangelo thought he’d turn him down. He offered more of an explanation, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. ‘Just to verify your list with the bus roster.’
‘Ma certo, signore.’ He turned the computer screen toward Michelangelo.
Michelangelo scanned the names, nodding along the way to assure the receptionist that everything matched up. ‘All the names are there.’ His eyes stopped on Carly Davis, room three fifty-two. He committed the number to memory. Just in case. ‘Grazie.’
‘Anytime.’ As the man moved to turn the computer back, Michelangelo read Carly’s roommate: Alaina Amaldi.
Merda! A memory of the diva requesting her own private limousine instead of the bus came to mind. She’d grumble to Ms. Maxhammer i
f he so much as touched her doorknob. Out of all the people on the tour why did Carly’s roommate have to be her?
Maybe fate was telling him to leave Carly alone and do his damn job. His vineyard needed him, and he refused to break the last link in the family chain. He wanted to pass the lands down to his sons, and his grandsons and great grandsons for years to come. He wasn’t about to let some fling ruin his plan.
Yet, as he checked into his own room, the number still resurfaced in his mind like a song that never ended.
Carly Davis. Room three fifty-two.
*****
Carly plopped onto the hotel bed and closed her eyes. There was no sign of Alaina, so the diva’s limousine must have run into problems along the way—which was fine with her. She needed time to check her e-mails and forget about the sexy conversation she had had with Michelangelo.
How his eyes zeroed in on her as if she were the only woman on the bus.
How his legs had brushed against hers.
Enough! She dug out her phone and brought up her e-mails. Finally some time to catch up.
The door burst open and a curvy young woman with hair bright as fire wearing a sequined, fluorescent-green Versace miniskirt waltzed in. The concierge followed her, with a parade of white leather Louis Vuitton luggage.
She glanced at Carly and sighed as if she’d had the worst day ever. ‘Why does Italy have to be so damned far away?’
Carly shrugged. Even though she’d been thinking something similar, she wasn’t going to respond to such an egocentric statement. ‘If you live here, it’s pretty close.’
‘Ugh!’ Alaina rubbed her temples, then turned to the concierges still standing at the door like seals before a shark. ‘Place them on the bed right side up.’
The boys did as they were told, and she handed them each five euros. At least she wasn’t a cheap prima donna.
Carly stood, leaving her phone on her bed. ‘There must be a mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake, Ms. Davis.’ Alaina smiled, reminding Carly of an evil Disney queen. ‘I specifically requested you so we could practice my aria. The last few rehearsals have been, shall I say…uninspired.’
An American Girl in Italy Page 2