My Italian Beast (Part One)

by Marian Tee

  Oh.

  Did his eyes just narrow?

  “This is my sister Anneke.” Jaak’s words drew my attention back to him momentarily, but when I glanced back at my brother’s friend, it was like I had only imagined the change in his gorgeous features.

  I must have imagined it then. Right?

  Jaak gestured carelessly to his companion. “Anneke, this is Marcus Ravelli. He’s staying with us for the summer.”

  Marcus. I adjusted the old pair of glasses perched on my nose while I tested the man’s name in my mind. Marcus Ravelli. The name suited him. It sounded manly and sophisticated, mysterious and---

  Wait.

  My gaze flew back to my brother. Had I heard him correctly? Was I going to live under the same roof with Mr. Italian Perfection over there?

  When Jaak glanced at me oddly, I flushed and quickly rose to my feet, realizing I had been gaping all the while. I turned towards Marcus, telling myself to play it cool and act totally normal.

  Hi. Heya. What’s up?

  That was what I wanted to say.

  But old habits died hard.

  “Good afternoon.” I wanted to kick myself as soon as the words were out.

  When Marcus’ lips twitched, I also realized that I was already halfway to offering him a handshake, and I managed to pull my arm back in time.

  Stop being so formal, Anneke!

  Marcus Ravelli closed the distance between us, and I fought against the urge to step back as his presence threatened to overwhelm me. “Ciao, bambina.” His accent was exquisite, but as his dark eyes slid over me, I found myself reminded of three things.

  One: I was still in my teddy bear PJs.

  Two: I hadn’t taken a bath for two days.

  Three: My nose still felt a bit runny, thanks to getting my heart broken as the last minutes of Dawson’s Creek’s season finale played out.

  It was like being punched with a three-hit-combo, the knowledge of just how awful I looked right now frying my brain---

  Ah! Wah! Gah!

  ---and I found myself at a loss.

  What should I do first?

  Switch the TV off to salvage my reputation as the smart, sensible girl in the family?

  Pretend I was sick so I had an excuse for my unwashed hair?

  Or maybe I should just run out of the living room screaming because it wasn’t fair that these guys would always be prettier than me.

  Before I could make up my mind, Jaak’s friend murmured, “Cute pajamas.”

  My mouth opened and closed. He sounded sincere enough, but the devilish gleam in his dark eyes threw me off.

  “Cute but ancient,” Jaak slotted in. “It’s also the only thing she likes to wear in her bum phase.”

  Oh, Jaak…you moron.

  “She doesn’t even bother taking a shower at times.”

  I gaped at my brother, and I said in a strangled tone, “TMI, hello?” I couldn’t believe how Jaak had managed to murder my reputation in a matter of seconds.

  “It’s not,” Mr. Insensitive dismissed. “You don’t need to hide anything from Marcus.”

  I didn’t?

  “Marcus knows Willem and Nic, too. We’ve been friends with him for years, so he’s like family,” my brother elaborated.

  He was?

  Jaak’s gaze turned towards the TV and groaned. “You’re still not done drooling over that Pacey guy?”

  That was it.

  I had only met Marcus Ravelli barely five minutes ago, and the man had already been exposed to all of my deepest, darkest secrets.

  “Please do not feel embarrassed on my account, bambina.” His tone was all dark and mysterious, and although I had no idea what ‘bambina’ meant, it sounded cute. It made me feel cute, and that was rare.

  “Your brother is only making me jealous. He knows how much I envy him for having a big family. It’s always been a dream of mine to have a little sister I could torture…”

  Something gleamed in his eyes when he murmured the last word, and I felt something inside me tighten.

  But when I looked back at him, it was gone, Marcus finishing smoothly, “And of course I also want a sister I can be overprotective with.”

  Right. I wasn’t quite sure I believed him about that, but I said politely, “That’s sweet.”

  “It is sweet,” Jaak interjected easily, “but also unrealistic in your case, since you’re a year older than him.”

  Moron.

  Jaak was such a moron.

  “It’s how she looks that matters,” Marcus rebutted, “so I stand by what I say.” And then his lips curved ever so slightly as he glanced back at me. “You agree, don’t you, bambina?”

  Oh, Marcus…you prince.

  But I couldn’t say that, just like I couldn’t make myself even think of not-so-nice things about anyone. Years of living under Willem de Konigh’s watchful eye had effectively trained all forms of rudeness and coquetry out of me. In the end, I could only say lamely, “You can just call me Anneke.” I tried not to wince as the words slipped past my lips.

  Way to go, Anneke. You can’t possibly say anything more boring than that.

  “I guess I could.” Wickedness laced his tone, and he gazed at me under hooded lids, murmuring, “But I’d rather not…bambina.”

  Oh.

  Was he actually flirting with me?

  I collapsed in my seat at the thought.

  I must be mistaken. No one had ever tried flirting with me before – or at least no one like Marcus Ravelli, who surely couldn’t need me for my money.

  Jaak had started talking again, something about a party being thrown by one of our neighbors, and Marcus answered my brother as he sat on the armchair near me. Our knees touched, and instant heat – lethal, treacherous, and intoxicating – licked my skin.

  I carefully swung away, my back rigid with shock, my throat tight as I struggled not to whimper.

  Yes, whimper.

  Not gasp, not scream, not anything but whimper, and I didn’t understand it.

  Actually, I didn’t understand anything at all when it came to Marcus Ravelli.

  Why was he so different?

  It was a question I shouldn’t have wanted an answer to, but because I was an idiot, I did, and the answer would eventually unfold itself over the summer, like a flower whose fragrance would linger…every time Marcus and I touched.

  Chapter Two

  “Not a euro more, and that’s my final offer.” I tried not to smile as I gave the ultimatum, knowing how this would end. Mr. Paddy owned the largest used bookshop in town, and we have had this same conversation from since I was seven years old and had finally been entrusted with my own allowance.

  “You drive a hard bargain, miss.” The older man took off his cap, scratching his head as he mulled my offer over. He was only pretending of course, and we both knew it.

  Finally, he grumbled, “Alright, it’s a done deal.”

  I beamed. “I knew you’d see it my way.” I handed him the notes, and he started stocking my worn-out tote bag with my purchases.

  It was a beautiful morning, and the wonderfully familiar sights of Bruin Hemel were just enough to make me forget about yesterday’s fiasco. Everything here smelt of warmth and love, from the freshly baked pastries of the corner bakery to the wonderfully musty smell of hand-bound tomes coming from the town’s numerous bookshops.

  Summer in Bruin Hemel also meant festival season, and so every inch of the town was bustling with activity. Market Thursdays became a daily thing just for this season, and all the stores had sale posters hanging on their doors and display windows. Food carts also popped up at every other street, alongside makeshift stalls in which everything related to arts and craft were sold. The poets had their vintage typewriters in front of them, scribes for hire who were ready to pen anything from a haiku to a sonnet. The scrapbook artists were also out in full force for this year’s festival, their wares neatly arranged on their foldable tables: craft scissors and washi tape on one side, boxes of clear
stamps and colored pens in another. A few minutes were all they needed, and their happy customers would be able to take home a personalized memento of their festival tour.

  By the time I had to walk back home, my tote bag practically weighed a ton while my wallet was suffering from overuse. The crowd started to thin as I made it out of town, and by the time I reached the private road leading back to our estate, noise from the festival had faded completely.

  I pulled out a random book from my tote bag and smiled happily at the sight of a velvet-covered Black Beauty edition that I had gotten for just two euros. Thrift shopping was a beloved pastime of mine, and nothing gave me a greater thrill than knowing I had scored a huge bargain.

  I ran my fingers lovingly on the cover, savoring the feel of its texture. Oh, bliss. Dropping the book back into the tote bag, I began rummaging through my purchases, remembering the other bargain book I had scored. It was a relatively rare edition of The Tenant of Wildefell Hall, and when I couldn't find it, I started taking everything out.

  Nope. Not that. Not this either.

  The books balancing on my arm began to pile up.

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  “There you are.”

  I jumped, literally, and the books on my arm tumbled to the ground.

  Crap.

  Heart still thumping, I quickly bent down to pick up the books, all the while praying I had only imagined what I heard. Or if not, then let it be Jaak. Or Willem. Or Nic. Actually, anyone else would do except---

  “Mi dispiace, bambina.” Marcus Ravelli crouched down in front of me as he spoke, and my heart threatened to jump out of my chest.

  I could only nod stiffly, all the while thinking, Please go away. I wasn’t at all used to being alone with guys, and especially guys like him. But instead of leaving, Marcus helped pick up the books that lay scattered on the ground.

  Crap. Manners forced me to fumble for something to speak, and I said the first thing that came to my mind---

  “How do you do.”

  ---which, unfortunately, was also crap.

  There was a slight pause, and then Marcus answered in a solemn voice, “I’m quite fine.”

  Craaaap. He was laughing at me. I could feel it. He was totally laughing at me, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “And you, Ms. de Konigh?”

  Okay, now he was making fun of me.

  I tried to think of something witty and clever to say – something maybe Fleur would come up with – but nothing came to mind.

  “I am also doing well, thank you.” And with that, I ended up being myself, aka the most unimaginative girl in the planet.

  Marcus cleared his throat.

  Twice.

  He was definitely still laughing at me.

  “So…”

  In the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for a typewritten piece of paper from the ground, and I froze. Crap.

  “What’s this?” Pause. “And who’s Justin and Cameron?”

  “No one you know.” I managed to snatch the typewritten piece from his hands without meeting his gaze. It was the only way to make it through this ordeal alive, the only way to make my heart stop beating so hard and fast like it was on steroids.

  “Are you sure?” Marcus’ tone was musing. “They sound familiar.”

  I shook my head vigorously. “You must be mistaken.” Anxiety had me back to speaking like the Queen of Contini, my grandmother, and I added emphatically, “It is doubtful you are acquainted with them.”

  “If you say so.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But are you really sure---”

  I froze.

  “Because that line about crying a river made the poem sound like it was for Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz?”

  And now it was my turn to cough, several times, while my mind scrambled for an excuse.

  Marcus let out a surprised laugh. “I actually got it right?”

  “I only intend to send it anonymously.” I mentally winced as I spoke, the words sounding defensive even to my ears. “I’m just happy that they’re together. As a fan. It’s not like I’m---”

  “Rilassatti, bambina.”

  I fell silent, reacting more to the placating tone of his words, whatever it meant.

  “I find nothing wrong with what you’re doing. Bene?” He leaned forward as he spoke, and my breath caught as the faint, unmistakable scent of his cologne teased and tantalized my senses. It was a unique mixture of sandalwood, vodka, and something else I couldn’t quite identify.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  “Excuse me?” It was hard to concentrate on his words, my senses all of a sudden acutely aware of how near he was. I reached for the last book on the ground, all the while trying to figure out what that last piece of the puzzle was. I was usually good with scents, but this one---

  Our fingers came into contact as we took hold of the last book at the same time.

  Oh. So this was what he meant.

  The contact was fleeting, but the heat of his touch burned and lingered, and all thoughts about the ingredients of his cologne were forgotten as I yanked my hand away. I rose to my feet in clumsy haste, trembling. What was happening to me? Why did he make me feel so weird?

  My eyes still trained on the ground, I watched Marcus rock back to his feet gracefully, envying and hating him for his composure.

  “Here you go.”

  Marcus handed the book to me, and this time I took meticulous care not to let our fingers touch. “Thanks.” I dropped the book back into my tote bag, still not meeting his eyes. Now go away.

  But of course he didn’t. “Jaak told me I could find you here.”

  “Oh?” My aversion to rudeness forced me to raise my gaze---

  Crap.

  I had been hoping he wasn’t as beautiful and sexy as I remembered---

  But he was.

  His hair gleamed black under the sun, and the cream shirt he wore, which was tucked into a pair of dark shorts, only served to accentuate the bronze hue of his skin. He should have looked preppy and…and…foppish, I supposed, but instead he just looked breathtakingly sophisticated and sexy.

  Maybe it was because he was Italian, and so everything about him was sensual.

  Maybe…but something inside of me doubted it.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Marcus murmured.

  He was?

  There was a moment of silence, and then his lips slowly curved into a wicked smile. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  No. And this one I didn’t even have to think about. Never. And so I slowly shook my head. Marcus Ravelli was danger spelled in capital words, and danger had no place in my life.

  His gaze narrowed, becoming speculative. “Sei una bella sfida,” he murmured.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You are quite a challenge.” Before I could understand what he was implying, he then reached for my tote bag, saying, “Let me carry that for you, per favore.”

  “Oh, no, it’s---” But he had already reached for the tote bag, and I said lamely, “Thanks.”

  And then it happened once more, his fingers grazing over my skin, and I went rigid.

  Crap.

  He was either too hot or I was too sensitive. Either way, it made the thin fabric of my dress feel like it wasn’t there at all.

  He slung the tote bag over his shoulder.

  Oh.

  It made a rather incongruous sight, with my Too-Many-Books-So-Little-Time tote bag ruining his all-Italian macho image.

  My lips twitched, and he grimaced, muttering something in Italian.

  “What did you say?” I asked uncertainly.

  “I look ridiculous, do I not?”

  “N-no.” But I had a harder time keeping a straight face.

  He let out a mocking sigh. “All I need is a cup of tea, and I could be the poster boy for your festival, si?”

  This time, I couldn’t help it, my laughter spilling out as I pictured Marcus Ravelli with a
bookish tote bag on his shoulder and a dainty English cup balancing on his tiny finger.

  When I was sufficiently in control, I mumbled, “Sorry.”

  “Va bene.”

  I lifted my gaze to his, intending to apologize more sincerely, but the words were forgotten when I saw him staring at me.

  Oh.

  I looked away and stared hard at the ground, trying not to fidget at his scrutiny. I reminded myself that I at least looked more presentable now, having swapped yesterday’s PJs for a short-sleeved shirtdress. And you took a shower, I added silently to myself. There was that, too.

  So…

  Unable to bear the way he kept staring, I finally looked back at him.

  His dark eyes gleamed. I know I’m making you nervous, that gaze of his told me, and I like it.

  I gulped. Danger. He was definitely the personification of danger.

  His lips curved in a sinfully beautiful smile. “You look beautiful today, bambina.”

  Riiiiiight.

  In my experience, only three types of people told me I looked beautiful.

  One: family and friends who meant it because love made them blind.

  Two: people who worked for or worked with my family because necessity made them blind.

  Three: men who pretended they were blind because they wanted to marry me for money.

  But Marcus didn’t fall in any of those categories, and so his words left me stumped.

  “Not really,” I said finally, “but thanks.”

  “Do you always receive compliments so graciously?”

  Heat rose to my cheeks at his mocking tone, and I answered reluctantly, “No.”

  “Ah. So it is only me then?”

  “Jaak did say I could treat you like my family.” I tried not to sound too defensive but failed.

  “Is that so?” he drawled. “Are you then saying…” His voice lowered into the most sensual purr. “You see me as family?”

  Oh. The words took me by surprise, and my lips parted without any words coming out.

  Did I see him as family?

  The short answer was – no.

  I didn’t see him as family because to see him as family was to have no right to be attracted to him---

  And I didn’t want that.

  And Marcus Ravelli knew it.

  His lips curved in a smirk as he waited for me to answer, and I wished I could say I found his smirk annoying, but I couldn’t. It just looked beguiling, and it made me want to throw my hands up in despair.