The Italian's Seduction

by Karen Van Der Zee

  Where was she?

  Valentina bounced out of her chair. “I’ll go get her.”

  He leaned back in his chair and his cellphone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Pronto.”

  “Massimo! It’s Elena. Come sta?”

  Oh, God, not Elena. He closed his eyes and searched for patience. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You sound tired. Poor you. Is Valentina giving you problems? Teenagers these days, they are so much trouble. I can only imagine what it must be like for you. I was thinking you should—”

  “She’s gone!” Valentina came bursting into the dining room and he didn’t hear what other wisdoms Elena was offering up for his benefit.

  “Elena,” he said into the phone, interrupting her, “thank you for your insights. I’ll call you back later.” He cut the connection without waiting for her reply.

  Valentina flung her hands up in a gesture of frustration. “I looked everywhere! Mimma hasn’t seen her, either. What did you do? What did you say to her?”

  An honest reply to this would not benefit his seventeen-year-old sister. “Calm down, Valentina. She probably decided to go back to town to see about the apartment.”

  “We just came from there! And you told me you’d help her!” It sounded like an accusation and he felt a stirring of anger. Of frustration.

  “She didn’t want my help,” he said flatly. “Sit down and let’s eat.”

  Valentina plopped down on her chair and tossed her hair back over her shoulder and gave him a challenging look. “Why would she leave without eating first? I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t hungry. I’m not a mind-reader, Valentina.” He held out the salad plate to her. “Here, have some of this.”

  She glowered at him, clearly suspicious, but she dropped the subject. Instead she started talking about a grammar school friend who’d just come back to town from a holiday trip. They wanted to go to the outdoor concert tonight, have something to eat in town, was that all right? Fine, he said. Gina was a nice girl. He’d known her family here in town since he was a boy.

  He ate without tasting anything. He kept thinking about Charli, seeing her as she’d lain there on the bed, all soft and willing, one perky breast inviting him with its rosy nipple. He looked down at his dessert and almost groaned. Sweet, ripe, luscious raspberries.

  Charli was sitting on the top step of the stairs near the front door of the apartment, elbows braced on her knees, her head in her hands, waiting. Stewing. Sooner or later that woman would have to come home and she was not leaving until she did. She was going to sit here all night if necessary. At least the old marble was cool to sit on if the rest of the stairwell was muggy and warm.

  The smell of cooking drifted down from upstairs. Onions, garlic, oregano. It smelled wonderful and her stomach growled. She was starving. After Massimo had left her room she couldn’t bear to face him again over lunch, so she’d skipped out of the house and gone down to town and wandered around in a trance of fury and embarrassment. She was a weakling.

  She groaned and shifted on the cold marble, pushing the memories of her total cave-in away.

  The door downstairs squeaked open and she lifted her head. Maybe the trespassing witch was coming home. She was ready for battle. But it wasn’t a woman coming up the stairs. It was a man. Massimo.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said, his voice cool as spring water.

  Every muscle in her body tensed. “What do you want?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  She put her hand on her chest. “Be still my heart.”

  “I didn’t intend to upset you.”

  “Oh, please, spare me.” She looked away from him.

  “I was worried about you when you didn’t come to lunch,” she heard him say. “I looked all over for you.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Worried, why? You thought I’d thrown myself off the cliffs or something?”

  “You do have a sense of the dramatic, don’t you?”

  “Italy brings it out in me.” For effect she flung her hands in the air. “Must be the air, the water.”

  “Where have you been all afternoon?”

  She shrugged. “Everywhere.”

  She’d walked all over town, found the studio di notaio closed. Of course it had been. Most businesses and shops were closed in the afternoon and wouldn’t open again until five. She’d checked at the tourist office at the railroad station and had been told there still were no rooms available in town. She’d gone to the apartment and found no one there. She’d waited for an hour and then walked down to the marina and watched the boats and ferries come and go. Now she was back at the apartment, waiting again, and this time she wasn’t leaving.

  Massimo lowered himself on the step below, turning sideways to look at her. She didn’t want him here. She waved her hand. “Please, make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically.

  “Thank you,” he said soberly.

  She glared at him. “I didn’t actually mean that.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  She groaned and closed her eyes. “Please, go away.”

  “Charli, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t mean what? Oh, please, you exactly meant what you did! So I hope you’re happy. You proved your point. You’re a master of seduction and I’m easy. Now leave me alone so I can suffer my humiliation in peace.”

  Her stomach growled audibly, which did nothing for her sense of dignity.

  He arched one eyebrow. “Humiliation?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Don’t tell me I am overreacting.”

  “There’s no reason for you to feel humiliated.”

  “Well, I’m not used to feeling like…like I’m full of cheap lust and ripe for the plucking by any man who—” Oh, God, she heard herself say the words, saw him struggle not to laugh.

  She dropped her head in her hands, wishing she could just die right there. Could she embarrass herself any more?

  He said nothing, made not a sound.

  From the apartment above came the noise of playing children, music—the familiar tune of Old MacDonald had a farm. She heard it on the fringes of her consciousness, wondered vaguely what Italian children would make of the English song. Well, it wouldn’t be in English, of course. It would have been translated.

  He was touching her, taking away her hands.

  “Charli, come home with me. You cannot stay here.”

  She pulled her hands out of his grasp. “Yes I can. I’m going to sit here until she comes back—that woman, whoever she is.”

  “Her name is Antonia Graziani. And she’s not coming back here tonight.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  AT UNEXPECTED moments Charli’s mind would flash back to her relationship with Richard. One of his control freak tactics had been not telling her things. Seemingly innocent little things that would throw off her own plans or cause other inconveniences. He’d always be so sorry, of course, and it had never really been his fault somehow and then he’d try to make her feel guilty for being upset. Making her feel guilty was another little skill he had.

  Memories of his various manipulations rushed into Charli’s head as she sat in front of her apartment door, stunned by Massimo’s announcement.

  Her name is Antonia Graziani. And she’s not coming back here tonight.

  She stared at him as his words hung suspended in the air between them and wild imaginings sprouted in her head like weeds. She remembered the lacy purple bra in the bathroom, the sexy white sandals.

  “You know her?” she finally managed to ask. “You know all about this and you didn’t tell me?” She clambered to her feet, her legs wobbly with rage and light-headedness. She put her hand against the grungy wall for support. It would not do to crash down the stairs and break a few bones. Talk about being helpless.

  He stood as well and frowned down at her. “Don’t overreact, Charli. I—”

  “What kin
d of game are you playing with me, Massimo? Who is this woman?”

  Annoyance flickered in his eyes. “I’m not playing any games,” he said flatly. “I’ll tell you what I know, but not here in this Godforsaken stairwell.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  His grip on her was pure steel and, unless she intended to crumple and break something, she’d better keep her balance and follow the commander down the stairs.

  He practically dragged her outside, through the archway, into the street.

  “Let go of me!” She yanked at his hand, but he did not let go.

  Which was a good thing. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her and she teetered for a moment, holding on to him for dear life.

  “Dio!” He released her hand and put his arm around her, holding her steady. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

  “No, no. It’s nothing very dramatic.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Just low blood sugar. I didn’t have lunch.”

  “I take full responsibility for that,” he said gravely, as if owning up to a crime of major proportions.

  “You’re a gentleman.”

  He frowned at her, as if not sure if she was serious or not. Then he began walking again, his arm still around her shoulders. “There’s a place over there,” he said, motioning toward the outdoor caffè visible at the corner of the street.

  It was not easy admitting to herself that she liked the secure feel of his arm around her, but she decided not to dwell on it, simply accept it as a convenience in case her brain had ambitions to go spinning again.

  Fortunately she reached the coffee shop in conscious mode and minutes after she sat down she was presented with a cup of cappuccino and a plate of five different pastries—enough sugar to last her through the rest of the month.

  She bit into a crunchy sfogliatella, a regional specialty, and one of her favorite pastries. It was filled with a sweet ricotta cream and she felt the sweetness slide down her throat, into her famished stomach. Ah, bliss.

  She sighed and sat back, took a drink from the cappuccino.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, still the perfect gentleman.

  “Yes, of course.” Physically speaking, at least.

  “Have another one,” he suggested, pushing the plate closer to her.

  “Oh, I will.” She reached for a cornetti filled with chocolate. Very yummy too. For a few moments she simply concentrated on eating. She finished her cappuccino, wiped her mouth and glanced over at Massimo.

  He wore one of those Italian shirts with bold stripes, no tie, sleeves rolled up. His hair lay swept back in lazy waves, teasing the top of his shirt collar at the back of his neck. He looked impossibly, sexily Italian. He was drinking a beer, looking calm and relaxed.

  She sighed, no longer hungry. The sugar was skiing right into her bloodstream, from where it danced straight into her brain. She felt her energy returning, and with it her annoyance at his high-handedness.

  “So, who’s that woman in my apartment? Why do you know her? Are you involved in some conspiracy to keep me from moving into my apartment?”

  He raised his brows in silent reproof.

  She shot him a killer look. “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  That I’m a drama queen. “Never mind. Just tell me about Antonia what’s-her-name. How do you know her?”

  “I don’t know her. I never even met her.” He took another swallow of beer. “All I did was ask one of the neighbor ladies about her.”

  “I don’t get it. When was that?”

  “This afternoon, after lunch. I went looking for you and I first went to the apartment but you weren’t there. I talked to the woman upstairs. She was very helpful.”

  Charli felt stupid. Why hadn’t she talked to the woman upstairs? Possibly she spoke enough English. Why had it not even occurred to her to do that?

  “And what did she say?” She wiped her sugary fingers on a paper napkin.

  “She says this Antonia is some family member who used to visit your great-aunt once in a while. She—the neighbor lady—spoke to her yesterday and Antonia said she was going to Naples for business and would be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  A family member. That accounted for the fact that she had keys. This did not look good.

  Charli clenched her hands in her lap. “She must think she owns the apartment.”

  “One doesn’t just own an apartment, Charli.”

  Well, no, of course not, and she had the paperwork to prove it. “But that woman must be thinking she has some right to be there!”

  He nodded. “So it appears.”

  Charli sighed with frustration. “Well, I’ll have to find a way to get her out of there. I suppose I can simply go in, throw her stuff out the door, change the locks and move in myself.”

  “Yes, you could do that.” The tone of his voice indicated he did not judge this to be a sound course of action.

  Charli considered the laptop, the digital camera, the purple bra, the red flowers, the cobalt blue suitcase and the yellow map of Uzbekistan. She visualized them sitting in a rainbow-colored heap outside the green painted door in the courtyard. Not a way to make friends, probably. Then again, this wasn’t about making friends, was it?

  Two soft brown pigeons scampered around her feet, looking for crumbs. The Duomo bells chimed six o’clock, then continued playing a joyous tune, a lovely old-world sound.

  Here she was, in this charming Italian town, and she didn’t feel very joyous at all. A squatter was living in her apartment and—

  Squatter. The word struck terror in her heart. The apartment had been empty for a year now—or so she’d assumed. “What about squatter’s rights?” she asked. “You must have a law here in Italy.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up in amusement. “Of course, but isn’t it a tad premature to worry about that at this time?” He sounded so calm, so reasonable, so…un-Italian. Where was his hot-blooded Italian passion when she wanted it?

  Not a good train of thought. The memory of his passion only hours ago flashed through her mind. She looked away from him, reached blindly for another pastry and took a bite.

  “Would you like another coffee? Something else?”

  She shook her head and put the pastry down. She was going to make herself sick with all this rich sugary stuff.

  A young couple with a small boy strolled by, the woman all dressed up in high heels and a long white skirt, all three licking ice-cream cones and looking relaxed.

  Massimo put his glass down. “Shall we go then?”

  They drove back to the villa in Massimo’s car, hair blowing in the wind. The road snaking up and around the rocky hills offered glorious vistas of the Mediterranean. The sun hung low in the sky, washing the landscape in golden light. Oleander and bougainvillea bloomed in jewel colors amid the verdant green of palms and trees. The air smelled of sea and sun, of lemons and flowers, of love and seduction.

  It was like a movie, she thought. Charli glanced sideways at Massimo, his profile silhouetted against the sky—forehead, nose and chin carved in strong lines like a marble statue of some powerful Roman emperor. It seemed unreal that she was sitting next to this paragon of masculine sex-appeal, zipping along a most gloriously beautiful stretch of Italian coast.

  He was movie-star handsome, he wanted her, and she was going home with him.

  What was wrong with this picture?

  “What are you going to do if that woman says she’s not leaving?” Valentina asked Charli as they made their way back to the apartment the next afternoon. A Vespa zoomed past them in the narrow alley.

  Charli had asked herself that question ever since she’d gone back to the villa with Massimo the night before. She had no idea what she’d do, what her options were if she of the purple bra and the map of Uzbekistan refused to vacate the premises. Go to the police?

  “I don’t know, Valentina.” Charli wiped her hand over her damp forehead. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and still hotter than blaz
es.

  “Why won’t you let Massimo handle it? He’s good at that stuff, you know.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but he’s a busy man and I should take care of my own problems.” This sounded very good, very responsible, but Charli had secret doubts about her ability to negotiate the infamously convoluted workings of the Italian bureaucracy. Massimo’s help might well be necessary if she couldn’t get the woman to leave peacefully.

  Last night Valentina had gone to a concert with a friend and she’d been alone with Massimo at dinner. All evening he’d been the model of courtesy, a veritable master of decorum. Not a dubious word had passed his lips as they drove home, no unseemly look had come her way as dinner progressed through its various courses. Instead of calming the vibrations between them, it had only made the tension worse. The wine hadn’t helped either and by the time dolce had arrived, in the form of chilled coffee cream, she had been a nervous wreck.

  Claiming a headache, she’d excused herself and taken refuge in her room. Never before had a man so unsettled her. It was pathetic. It was ridiculous.

  Never before have you wanted a man as much as you want Massimo, came the unbidden thought. Admit it, girl.

  Charli gritted her teeth in frustration, turned the corner into a narrow alley and almost tripped over an uneven cobblestone.

  “Slow down,” Valentina said. “You’re racing like you’re running laps.”

  Charli stood still to catch her breath. “Sorry, I was just thinking.” Ahead the alley climbed up to the Duomo, the view of the church partially obscured by jeans and shirts drying on a washing line strung high across the alley.

  Valentina gave a little laugh. “It’s all that adrenaline because you’re angry with that woman for stealing your apartment.”

  “Probably.” Charli pushed her sunglasses up and started moving again. They were almost there. She hoped the squatter spoke enough English to appreciate the full meaning of the speech she had prepared in her mind. It would be so lame to do it all in translation.

  In the courtyard, she glanced up at the balcony and caught a flash of reflected sunlight in the glass of the closing door. Somebody was there.