by Tamara Lush
She didn’t ask because she didn’t want to know the answer.
* * *
Luca sat alone at the edge of the pool, his feet and calves dangling in the water. He sipped from a full glass of wine, swallowed and then grimaced. A humid breeze barely cooled his hot skin, which still blazed from kissing Skylar goodbye.
“You’re dangerous,” she’d whispered to him right before she left.
“You don’t know how dangerous, mia cara,” he’d responded. If not wholly intentionally so.
Swirling his feet in circles underwater, Luca wondered why he was so captivated by Skylar. The American girl was frustratingly bewitching. She could turn into a bit of an obsession if the frequency of his thoughts about her were any indication. And all because she kept putting him off.
Or was there more to his interest?
He couldn’t get her orange blossom scent off his skin. He could practically feel her breath on his neck and her warm lips on his. And how she talked, animatedly, about writing and books.
Her intelligence was a turn-on. And her eyes, big and ocean-colored, made his heart crash around his chest. He wanted something he’d never desired before: to get to know a woman perfectly. What made Skylar tick? What motivated her? How had she become so strong after her mother died?
No matter how many times he pleasured himself to the thought of her, the end result was the same. He wanted her. Desired her more each time he saw her. It defied explanation and reason. When Skylar eventually said yes to him, the erotic rush would be so worth the wait. Almost like getting a tough source to agree to an interview then listening in fascination as the person bared their secrets. That’s what being with Skylar would be like. She would let him in, drop that eggshell-thin yet impossibly tough exterior and reveal her innermost desires. Once she gave herself to him they would be explosive together.
Wanting her, and the buildup to their sex, would eclipse all of his other worries in the coming weeks. Skylar’s surrender, her vulnerability and her secrets had the potential to turn him on more than a thousand models. Although…something about her little lecture about feminism and sleeping around unsettled him. Did she really think of him as promiscuous? Was he? It had never occurred to him that he had a double standard about promiscuity. How odd, that with a few words Skylar could make him look at something differently.
Although he wanted her, he’d have to soon tell her that he definitely couldn’t have anything serious. The thought of having that conversation made him feel guilty, because he hadn’t been totally upfront like he normally prided himself on being. He was a hypocrite because of his circumstances. He wished his life wasn’t so screwed up, otherwise he’d just let the relationship unfold normally. Like a normal person.
Frowning, he opened his eyes and glanced down at his phone, wondering if she would actually text him like he asked to confirm she had arrived back at her condo safely. He sighed at the phone’s blank screen and swiped at an app, making sure that his incoming and outgoing text messages were encrypted. Her safety was a priority to him, even though she wasn’t aware of it. Plus, her confession about her parents and her ex-boyfriend had touched something soft and protective inside of him. She was alone, with no one to look out for her.
Skylar was like him in more ways than one. Broken. Hurt. Maybe not as broken and hurt as he was, but he detected a melancholy in her. He could make her joyful for a while, if only she’d let him. God knows she’d already lifted his mood.
So, he would wait. It was early August. Skylar was his summer fling. Autumn was still weeks away in Florida.
His phone buzzed with a text. It was her, and she was home safe.
He caught himself smiling, and that made him frown. In the short time that he’d known her, she’d affected him like no other woman. So, maybe he should walk away. That would be the safer route. Safer for both him and for her. After what happened to Annalisa in Italy… His mood instantly soured when he thought of the woman he’d slept with a couple of years ago while working at the newspaper. They’d been colleagues and he’d told her he wasn’t interested in anything serious, which was his usual speech. She’d taken it hard, but they’d eventually parted friends. She was a good woman, a talented writer. Then his book came out and his parents were murdered. A week later came an ominous, anonymous letter saying that Annalisa had disappeared. That’s when he’d left Italy. That’s when he’d realized that he couldn’t be a normal person anymore.
It made sense for him to be concerned about Skylar’s safety, but his uncle kept reminding him he was secure here. Things seemed calm. Bruno Castiglione was under house arrest and awaiting trial. Surely Skylar wasn’t in danger. Right?
He tapped out a text to her.
Sweet dreams, mia bella ragazza.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When she drove over the bridge to Palmira Island in her rented Toyota, Annalisa felt like a caged panther, trapped. It was a surprisingly small place. But she wouldn’t be here long. Luca would surely want to take her somewhere even nicer.
Methodically she drove the road that circled the island, noting all of the quaint stores and bars and restaurants. Where could Luca be? The area was so small that she could practically go door to door looking for him—and she would, if it came to that. Americans were so friendly, surely someone had seen him and would tell her. He would stand out here like a sparkly vampire in a teen movie, she thought with a laugh, passing older retirees on three-wheeled bikes and golf carts. He was probably going crazy on Palmira, bored out of his mind.
She found the Sand Castle Hotel, which looked both run-down and like a 1960s beach movie set. Online it had looked quaint and clean. Now she wasn’t so sure, and that sent her into a snit.
Pouting, she flounced into the office. An older man smiled.
“I have a reservation. The last name is De Rossi.” Of course she would register under a fake name. Why not one similar to Luca’s?
“Yes, miss. You’re in room 110. Great view of the water and the sunsets.”
Annalisa filled out the paperwork quickly, thankful that she had taken time to practice her English while in the hospital. Her stepfather’s words came back to her. “You’re beautiful and brilliant, but you’re just not right in the head.”
“You from Italy?” the hotel desk clerk asked, sucking his teeth.
She nodded and shot him a tight-lipped smile. “How did you guess?”
“Your name. Your look. My father was in World War II and he brought home photos of all the pretty Italian girls. Like you.”
She laughed.
The man slid a key attached to an aqua-colored piece of plastic toward her, then a few tourist brochures and pointed with his pen to a number imprinted on the plastic. “Here’s your room. We have breakfast every day from seven to ten. Coffee, pastries, juice. And here’s some things to do around Palmira. Of course you’ll go to the beach.” He patted a folded map. “And there’s a nice shell museum.”
Annalisa forced a tight smile. When would he stop talking?
The man unfolded another brochure. “This is pretty neat. Palmira Preserve. Hardly anyone goes there anymore. There’s boardwalks over the swamp. Lots of birds, turtles, big alligators. Might want to check it out if you’re looking for something different.”
No fucking way would she go there. Annalisa shuddered.
“Tell me,” she said, scooping up the key and pamphlets. “I heard that a well-known Italian-American lawyer has a home here on Palmira. Maybe you know him? Federico Rossi?”
The man’s mouth dropped open and he pointed at her. “That’s so funny you ask. I was just reading about him.” He turned and rifled through a stack of newspapers on a shelf, then handed her one. “Here. That’s the local rag. The Palmira Post. He’s got a big case coming up. They did an article.”
Annalisa looked at the front page. There, in full color, was Federico Rossi. He was striking, and his eyes were so similar to Luca’s that she almost gasped. Shooting her sexiest smile at the clerk, she lowere
d her eyes to scan the headline: PART TIME PALMIRA RESIDENT FILES CLASS-ACTION LAWSUIT ON BEHALF OF PET OWNERS.
“Oh, miss? I almost forgot. I need a driver’s license. Or a passport. For my records.”
“Of course.”
Extracting her Gucci wallet out of her matching purse, Annalisa took out the fake license she’d bought on Miami Beach a week before and handed it to the man, who studied it.
“Sabrina De Rossi. Any relation to the lawyer?”
She shook her head. Not yet. “He’s Rossi. I’m De Rossi. They’re variations on a common name in our country.”
As he scribbled down the pertinent information she scanned at the byline on the newspaper article. Skylar Shaw. Annalisa frowned, wondering if that was a man or a woman’s name. Sometimes it was difficult to determine the gender of English names. Skylar. It sounded like a little boy’s name. And Skylar was another possible way into finding Rossi, and maybe even Luca.
“How do I get in touch with this reporter?” she asked the clerk, tapping on the newspaper. “Do you know Skylar?” She wasn’t even sure she was pronouncing the name correctly.
The clerk shook his head. “The paper’s downtown, on Main Street. Near the Bacchus wine bar. I’m sure you could just stop in and ask.”
Annalisa carefully tucked the newspaper under her arm and went to her car. She flung the brochures on the dashboard and grabbed her bag. From there she went to her dank, shabby hotel room, and she sank into a hard chair straight out of a mid-century museum exhibit and pored over the newspaper article. The story was all about a pet food lawsuit, Rossi’s political ambitions and his background as a young lawyer.
Useless.
Scowling, she took out her phone and pecked out the name “Skylar Shaw” and the words “Palmira Post” into a search engine.
Check out the latest tweets from Skylar Shaw.
Annalisa tapped on the link. She tapped again to see the profile picture.
Fuck. Skylar Shaw was a woman. A young, gorgeous woman. A little on the plump side, but definitely pretty. She had big, innocent blue eyes, and Annalisa would have liked to be her friend.
In another lifetime.
Annalisa wished she hadn’t seen Skylar’s photo. Now she’d obsess all night, maybe all week, that Luca had met this reporter. She would think and think and think until the pressure grew too great, and then she would have to slice her skin until she felt calm again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Skylar, let me get this straight. You went to hot guy’s house for dinner. The two of you had good conversation, lots of laughs and a hot kiss. Then he was okay when you said you wanted to take things slow and not fuck on the first date. He said he’d call you. I’m not exactly seeing the problem here.”
Emily and Skylar were each on their first beer while sitting poolside at Skylar’s condo, dissecting Luca’s words and the previous evening. It was Friday afternoon, and Skylar had the day off because she had worked so much overtime. It felt decadent, almost like she was on vacation, to be lounging with her best friend on what was normally a workday. Normally she didn’t like beer and never drank in the middle of the day, but the rarity of a day off seemed like a good time to loosen up.
Sitting on a chair beneath an umbrella, Skylar wore a floppy straw hat, while Emily sat in the sun. Although she loved being outside in Florida, Skylar was wary of the UV rays because of her mother’s lethal skin cancer. She was also skeptical of Emily’s assessment. The farther she got from his good looks and charm, the more she questioned exactly who he was.
“Doesn’t it seem weird? Why wouldn’t he talk about his family or his past? And why would a guy that good-looking want me?”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t start. You don’t need me to remind you that you’re hot.”
“I’m fat.”
“You’re curvy and men love that. Jimmy said all the cops talk about your ass.”
“Whatever.” Sky grunted at the thought of cops discussing her body and took a long sip of beer.
Emily sighed. “Skylar. Calm down. Who knows? Luca sounds a little old-fashioned, but honestly he also sounds kind of sweet. At least he’s definitely not just some bro dude who demands to fuck and run. Maybe he is just private. You should be happy. This sounds promising and fun. Damn, I’d screw his brains out the next time I saw him. What’s the big deal? As long as you know what you’re getting going in.”
Emily drained her Corona, and Skylar just stared at her. She wished she could be so practical about sex herself.
“You’re always looking for the bad,” her friend continued. “Remember when you were trying out OKCupid last month and you got a perfectly nice message from that marketing guy in Tampa? You texted something to me like, ‘Just got a well thought-out, kind message from a cute guy. He must be a serial killer.’”
Skylar sighed. Emily was right. She was too hard on men. And on herself.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Damn James.”
The mention of her ex’s name elicited a wary stare from Emily. “Christ. How many times do I need to say it? You need to forget about that asshole.”
Skylar mumbled an agreement. “Did I ever tell you the final straw?”
“No,” Emily said, “but I can’t hate him any more than I already do. After you told me that he pushed you off the bed I didn’t want to know more. Really, Skylar. You’re so strong and tough. You put yourself through college. You’re an orphan. How could you let a man do that to you?”
Skylar winced at the word orphan. “I sound like a cliché, but the emotional abuse just kind of happened subtly, over time. He waited to ask me out until after my internship was over, and I thought that was chivalrous. He was funny and cute and…I dunno, I thought we had a good connection. And I was ashamed to even admit to myself that things had gotten to such a shitty point.”
“It was more than just emotional abuse from the sounds of it. So, what made you break it off?”
“It was my graduation day. He didn’t come to the actual ceremony but said he had a surprise for me later. Wanted to celebrate my graduation and my job offer at The Post. I went to his house and…surprise! He had invited another woman over. He wanted us to fuck while he watched.”
Emily grimaced. “Shut up.”
“Yep. I mean, I don’t have anything against people who have threesomes or whatever. But not for me. He told me that this woman—some redhead from South Boston—was my graduation present. Can you believe that? Out of the blue like that? He said it was so I could indulge my fantasies. I think he really thought I’d like it.”
“Asshole. Indulging his fantasies and pretending they’re yours. What did you do? I would have kicked him in the balls.”
“I told him to fuck off and left. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Listen,” Emily said. She reached out and put a hand on Skylar’s arm. “I think Luca’s just what you need right now to forget about all that. Just enjoy something casual. You don’t have to marry him, no matter who he ends up being. The important thing is it sounds like he’ll be great in the sack.”
Skylar sighed and opened the little blue cooler sitting near her feet. She popped open two more Coronas with an opener and handed one to Emily, who asked, “Did you look him up in Italian like I suggested?”
“No, I didn’t have time between working my story and going to his house. And this morning…well, I got busy trying to outline my new reporting project.”
Emily tossed a disgusted look her way. “You need to cut that shit with the unpaid overtime. Get out your iPad.”
Skylar always had her iPad with her. She extracted it from her tote and swiped the screen, and as Emily drank and texted Jimmy, Skylar figured out how to search websites only in Italian. There were thousands of hits because Luca Rossi was apparently a common Italian name.
“Okay, here we go, maybe,” she finally said, after scrolling through several pages of results. Emily set her phone aside and slid in next to her on the chaise l
ounge. “It’s an article from Il Mattino, a newspaper out of Naples, Italy.”
“Luca said he was from Naples, right?”
Skylar nodded as she copied the website address and found a site to translate the web page into English. Both she and Emily could see from the photo that the article was about a house fire. The huge home looked like it was bombed. Luca’s name was in the story, but was it the same Luca?
“Due persona muoiono in un incendio domestico,” the headline read. Two people die in house fire.
The translation of the web page wasn’t grammatically correct, but they gleaned the details. A man and woman named Cristiano and Sofia Rossi died in a fire in Naples. Cristiano was a prosecutor in the region of Campania. The cause of the fire was unknown, but investigators were looking into whether it was intentionally set. The Rossis left behind two surviving family members: a son, 26-year-old Luca, and Cristiano’s estranged brother, Federico Rossi, a lawyer in Miami, Florida. Luca was out of the city at the time and was not considered a suspect, the article concluded.
“Damn,” sighed Emily.
“Wow,” Skylar said, feeling her stomach clench as she thought how awful it must have been for Luca after his parents were killed. The incident also explained why he was so hot and cold. She knew firsthand that trusting anyone, getting close to anyone, was difficult after surviving the death of a parent.
“He must feel so much guilt for not being there when they died. No wonder he’s a little different,” she said softly.
This would also explain why he was so guarded. Of course he wouldn’t want to get close to anyone after something like that.
And why did the article say that Federico was estranged from the family? It was an odd word. Skylar scowled. Maybe the online translator wasn’t all that reliable. She studied the article more.
She typed Luca’s name into the box near the little search symbol at the top of the Italian newspaper’s home page. Nothing else came up other than that one story, and she scowled at the screen. How much of the paper’s archive was available? A few keystrokes and website translations later, she discovered the answer was only two years of past articles; anything before that required a subscription in Euros, and she wasn’t about to plunk down her credit card to snoop into Luca’s life. That seemed to cross the line into obsession.