by Tamara Lush
At twenty-two, she was alone in the world and it kind of sucked. Pushing herself was the only thing she knew how to do, since she’d been doing it so long, anyway. Maybe that was why, as she sat in her car soaking up the air-conditioning, she was still reeling from that kiss with Luca.
She was lonely.
Soon after their encounter she had searched on the Internet for a Luca who lived at that gated subdivision, but she didn’t find anything. She’d perused online property records, but she only had his first name and wasn’t exactly sure of the address of the house, since she had entered and left through the back. She also didn’t have Luca’s phone number, and even if she had, she sure as hell wouldn’t have called or texted. Her New Age, yoga-teacher mother had raised her to be a feminist, to take charge of her relationships, but Skylar felt strongly that if a man was interested he should show it.
She sighed, thinking about how she wished she could talk to her mom about everything happening in her life since graduation day, but five years had gone by since her mom died, and a year since her grandma passed. Now Skylar was more alone than ever.
About to cry, she stopped herself and pointed her car’s air conditioner vent at her face, blasting it to the max. The sweat on her face evaporated and she shut her eyes, reminding herself to cut the self-pity crap. She wasn’t a victim. She wasn’t special. She was just another unlucky person trying, against the odds, to succeed.
No mud, no lotus. Her mother had always liked to say that. It meant that only through suffering could real enlightenment and bliss unfold. Skylar was somewhat skeptical of this, as she was of all her mother’s New Age sayings. When, exactly, did the mud end and the beautiful green grass of bliss begin?
She opened her eyes and grabbed her purse. There would be no further blissful kisses with Luca; that much was clear. He hadn’t tried to reach her, which confirmed all of her fears about herself. He was probably annoyed with her and assumed she’d been teasing him. Or he hadn’t been all that interested to begin with, if the speed at which he’d walked her to her car was any indication. He must’ve thought she was boring, just like James had.
So. She’d made the right choice to not have a one-night stand that would have surely ended in awkwardness. Or worse, shame and regret. It was better this way. She didn’t need a man to distract her. Her goal was to work hard at The Post, write excellent stories, and get hired somewhere bigger. To sell her grandmother’s condo and be free of her student loans. Yet her mind kept returning to Luca, and not only because of the way he’d touched her so sensually.
Why hadn’t he wanted to tell her that he was the Good Samaritan? She had put the question to Jill in the newsroom, conveniently omitting the part about how they’d made out in the pool, but her boss just shrugged and told her to move on. “It’s Florida. People come here to lose themselves, not be featured in a page-one newspaper story.”
Grabbing her car keys, Skylar hobbled into Greenway, Palmira’s upscale health food store that smelled like fresh-cut flowers and strawberries. Her feet were swollen from the humidity, and she had turned down Emily’s invite to a local bar, longing to be one with her pajamas, her sofa and Netflix. Plus she wanted to hit a yoga class early the next morning and didn’t want a hangover. The yoga teacher hadn’t moved the class from the site of the plane crash, and while Skylar didn’t like the idea of practicing where a tragedy happened, it was titillating to think of being so close to Luca’s house. She just might have to wear her most flattering yoga shorts.
Not very enlightened or yogi-like, she told herself sarcastically.
She scooped up a container of her favorite kale salad at the to-go counter and wandered over to the produce department. Shopping here was like a religious experience, because the vegetables and fruits always seemed to sparkle while gorgeous Baroque music wafted throughout the store.
Fresh guacamole and tortilla chips also sounded like good comfort food. She dropped a bulb of garlic in the basket. She was squeezing the Haas avocados for ripeness when she heard a familiar, accented voice.
“Skylar Shaw.”
She froze, her hand on an avocado, then looked up. Crap. She was lost the moment she looked into his glittering eyes. It was glorious. Like someone had sent the best-looking man in the world to her health food store for her viewing pleasure.
He gave her a full, seductive grin. The produce misters blasted fine spray onto the nearby organic micro-greens, as if Luca was so hot that the sprinkler system came on to extinguish the invisible blaze. Skylar suppressed a giggle. It was maddening how he reduced her to such girlishness. Her mother hadn’t brought her up to be coy around men.
He wore dark blue gym shorts and a white T-shirt with the word NAPOLI in black across the chest. Flip-flops adorned his feet, and unlike the other day he had stubble on his face, which made him look older—and sexier.
“Oh. Hi. I didn’t recognize you with your shirt on,” she said.
His eyes widened and he laughed, and when she recalled how he bit her bottom lip and moaned in her mouth as they kissed in the pool she wobbled a little and steadied herself. Must be the tall heels. Skylar squeezed the avocado harder so that she would have tactile contact with something.
Don’t fall for his many, obvious charms. Like his beautiful smile.
He was probably a man-whore. She couldn’t forget that.
“I’ve been reading you in the paper every day,” he said in that sexy accent. “You’re busy. I loved the story on the unusual orchid collector—how she grew that ghost orchid on hundred-year-old hickory wood.”
He had picked out the most unusual detail in the story. It was as if he knew exactly how to flatter her.
“Thanks. But she wasn’t just unusual. More like obsessed.”
He tilted his head. “Aren’t the best stories about obsession? About men and women who want only one thing, whether it’s orchids or money or another person?”
She sucked in a breath and held it. What, exactly, was he implying? Her hand was still on the avocado, squeezing it in a death grip. His hands clasped his grocery basket, and she noticed his knuckles were white.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess they are.” She exhaled and straightened, not wanting to let on that his little monologue was making her insides quiver. “I’m just getting off work. The governor was on the island today for a news conference, and I had to cover that.”
Like he was interested in the governor. Maybe she should shut up and leave.
“An interesting assignment, no?” He still had that delicious half-smile on his face. His eyes swept down her body, and it was as if fire licked her skin.
“Not really.” She shook her head and wondered if she was coming off as too cold. How ironic. Was that a bead of sweat running down the back of her neck? She had a vision of his tongue in the same place.
He seemed so confident, with more than a touch of ultra-masculine edge in his voice. Even though he wore gym clothes, he commanded attention with those dramatic features and that amused grin.
Say something! Stop being mute. He’ll think you’re stupid.
He glanced in her basket. “And what are you making for dinner tonight, Skylar? Ah. Garlic. Well. You won’t be going on any dates.”
She snorted out a laugh.
Luca opened his mouth in a lazy smile, and his tongue slowly licked the corner of a lip. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come to my house sometime and I’ll make you dinner. Surely you would like to enjoy a delicious Italian…meal.”
Skylar stared at him in surprise then chortled, tossing her head back at the cheesiness of his words. He seemed to get her amusement and laughed, himself.
“That was a stupid line, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes. It was. At least you recognized it, though.”
“But I’m serious. Why don’t you let me make you dinner?”
She bit her lip and tried not to grin. Should she? It seemed he hadn’t been put off completely by her refusal to sleep with him.
“I mak
e a mean tiramisu.”
Skylar smirked. The sexual tension between them was hot. And she loved tiramisu. And… “Hmm. When?”
“Let’s see. The next few days, I’ve got family obligations.” He paused and was obviously doing some sort of mental calculation before he grinned. Why was it so warm all of a sudden? Was that a dimple embedded in his cheek? All Skylar could think of was his mouth on her neck, and she swallowed hard.
Just then an older man approached. Probably a good thing. Skylar had visions of Luca kissing her atop the pile of avocadoes. What was happening to her? Where was all this lust coming from? She couldn’t wait to escape.
“Luca, how quickly you’ve made friends on the island,” said the man. He was in his sixties, handsome and shorter than Luca. She was startled by how similar his eyes were to Luca’s. Identical, even. Was that why he seemed so familiar?
“Oh. Uncle, this is Skylar Shaw. She’s a reporter for The Palmira Post. Skylar, this is my uncle.”
“Hi. I’m Federico.”
Skylar extended her hand. Now she remembered who he was. Federico Rossi was a personal injury lawyer who advertised on television and radio all over Florida. His commercials were notoriously cheesy, with the tag line, “We the People.” The reporters in the newsroom chanted it in unison whenever the ads came on TV. She had heard the older Rossi owned a home on Palmira. His main law practice was four hours away in Miami, according to the commercials.
And Luca was his nephew.
He had mentioned an uncle the other night. Luca Rossi? Was that his name? She grinned. Now she’d be able to investigate him properly.
“Federico Rossi, right? The lawyer? It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rossi. I’ve seen your TV ads. Are you enjoying Palmira?”
“Yes, I am. Most of the time I’m in Miami, except when I want to spend time with my brother’s son, my nephew here. Palmira is my second home, my vacation getaway.” The older man winked.
“Oh yes. Luca told me all about how you’ve let him stay at your place while working on his master’s thesis.”
Federico smiled and his eyes widened. “Yes…that’s right,” he said slowly.
Skylar smiled back. How interesting, that Luca hadn’t mentioned his uncle was a famous attorney. Now her curiosity was working overtime trying to figure out why.
“Well, we should be going,” Luca said in a bright voice. “It was good seeing you. I’ll call you.”
His voice faded as she looked into his eyes. While she’d never seen such beauty or felt such intensity from a man, she was curious why he was now in such a hurry to leave. No way would she let Luca—or his uncle—slip away now. This random encounter was perfect. She wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to get to know Luca on her own terms or ignore a potential interview. Or to cultivate the elder Rossi as a source. A trifecta of awesome.
Turning to Federico, she beamed. “You know, Mr. Rossi, we have a weekly feature at the paper called People of Palmira. We profile a prominent resident and run a nice, big photo. Could I interview you? I’m sure you have some great stories.”
“Of course, Ms. Shaw, I would be honored. I never turn down a conversation with a beautiful reporter. You could come to the house and we can talk. Right, Luca?”
Skylar shifted to regard Luca. His sexy eyes had turned steely.
“Um, sure, Uncle. Sure.”
“Perfect,” Federico said. “How about Wednesday morning at around eleven? I have to be in Miami later that night.”
Skylar grinned, ignoring Luca. “Thank you. I’m free and I’m sure I can make a photographer available as well, Mr. Rossi.”
“I live in The Sanctuary. The address is 100 Sea Grape Lane. Do you know where that is?”
Luca spoke in a flat tone. “She knows.”
“I know,” Skylar said at the same time. “See you both at eleven on Wednesday. Have a great weekend.”
“You too, Ms. Shaw. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Luca still had the icy glare on his face. “Ciao.”
Skylar quickly made her way to the checkout stand, her cheeks blazing. She reminded herself that Luca wasn’t James, that his flashing eyes weren’t reprimanding her. He was sending some message to his uncle.
Relax.
Driving home, she chided herself for the millionth time about something else. James shouldn’t have such a hold on her reactions to men. When would he stop looming large in her life? She’d been in two relationships—well, three, if you counted the guy she went to prom with her junior year of high school and lost her virginity to, but Skylar didn’t count him as an actual boyfriend. He’d been a teenage prom-night hookup, and a lame one at that.
Devon had been her first actual “boyfriend,” though in retrospect it too had been barely real. More like committed friends. Short and sandy-haired, Devon was from Boston and a communications major. He’d wanted to be a sportscaster. They’d met at a journalism department Christmas party their first year of college, and he’d made her laugh, a lot. Then he went abroad their sophomore year and the relationship fizzled. Skylar couldn’t even remember who forgot whom first.
Throughout most of college, she’d been like Teflon to relationships: Sure, she’d attracted guys and even hooked up a few times during parties, but she never got attached because she preferred being alone and focusing on her studies. Until James. He’d been so captivating with his stories of Iraq and Afghanistan, of getting shot at by insurgents and living in a reporters’ house in Baghdad. He’d used his expertise to help her, paragraph by paragraph, with her articles. Because of him she recognized what separated a powerful news story from a mediocre one. Because of him she knew when to ask questions during an interview and when to stay silent. And at first the sex had been wonderful, all caring and whispered sweet words.
He’d changed when he was laid off from the paper, though, as part of massive staff cuts, and began drinking two bottles of wine every day. Sex was less frequent, and it made her uncomfortable that he treated her a bit Svengali-like. She encouraged him to look for other jobs, but he claimed to have enough in savings and from a severance check to live on while he helped her with her career.
“You’ll thank me when you win the Pulitzer someday,” he’d said. “You’re the future of journalism, with your stupid fucking Twitter and Instagram. I’m the past.”
He’d eventually pulverized her self-esteem as a woman just as she felt like she was becoming one. Nothing—from how she sat sipping her drink at a bar, to how she moved her hips during sex—was ever good enough. A moment never passed with James without Skylar being left with the sense that something about her very existence needed correction.
It had left her wondering whether she could ever make a man happy.
* * *
“What the hell did you do that for?”
Luca and his uncle were in the backseat of his uncle’s Mercedes. An armed driver was behind the wheel.
Federico laughed. “My boy. For all of your talent, you’re sometimes kind of dense. You were a journalist and bestselling author in Italy. You should know it’s better to control the press than to have the press control you. Never turn down a chance for publicity. And I think the better question is, how are you already so acquainted with a local reporter?”
Shifting his body to face his uncle, Luca tried to tamp down his irritation. He didn’t mind much that Skylar had met Federico, but he’d never imagined she’d want to write a story on the old man. It was a complication he didn’t need.
“We met when that plane crashed the other day. She came over and had a glass of wine afterward, and…” Luca waved his right hand in the air in a circular motion.
Federico continued to chuckle. “Good for you.”
“I just didn’t think we’d run into her, or that she’d try to interview you. I really don’t want her poking around and mentioning me in her article about you.”
“Relax, Luca. I’ll make sure she doesn’t mention you. This is The Palmira Post, not The New York Times. I know
the publisher, so I can always make a call if we think it’s going to be a problem. And anyway, don’t worry about Bruno Castiglione or the Mafia finding you because of a Florida newspaper article. If I were hiding you, would I go out of my way to be in the news? I’m in the papers all the time. Castiglione is awaiting trial. Your book did its job. Your days of worrying are over.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Luca grumbled.
He didn’t want to rail at his relative out of a sense of old-world respect, but sometimes he wondered if Federico took his concerns about safety seriously. It was difficult to tell. Even though Federico was his blood relative, Luca barely knew him. He was the older brother of Luca’s father, and the two men had been estranged for the entirety of his life for reasons unknown to him. Federico had come to America before Luca was born, and had lived here long enough to assume the country’s breezy, anything-goes facade. Which was why it was difficult for Luca to tell if Federico’s concern for his situation matched its gravity. He’d feel safer when Castiglione—Naples’s biggest Mafia boss and the subject of his first book—was convicted and in prison.
Which would hopefully be soon.
“And you didn’t have to come to the store with me,” his uncle chided.
Luca rolled his eyes. “I’ve been in the house for two weeks. I needed to get out. You’re the one who said it was safe.”
“Palmira is safe. And don’t worry about the reporter. She won’t put two and two together. She’s young. Is she even old enough to drink? She won’t find out anything. There’s so little about you online. That was the benefit of writing your book anonymously, no?”
Luca snorted. “Yeah, only my agent and editor knew that I wrote the book. And my parents. And you.” He made a fist and crushed it on the leather seat. “It still burns me that Castiglione found out I’m the author. I’d love to kill whoever told him. I’m doing my best to lay low until the court case is over. God knows enough people disappear in the months before a trial….”