Prosecco Heart

by Julie Strauss

  Afraid she might spit the wine all over his wheat-colored linen shirt, she reached across him and spat directly into the bucket. She could feel his chest against her arm, muscled and unyielding, and her breasts pressed into the bar. She wondered if she could just keep going, crawl straight over him behind the bar and make a run for it so she wouldn’t ever have to see him again. Instead, she retreated to her seat, dragging the bucket to her other side.

  “I’m so sorry. I had to spit that out and needed this.”

  “You do not drink the wine.”

  “I’d be dead if I drank everything I tasted. I have to be smart about wine.”

  “Ahh,” he said with a small smile, and then tilted his head back to drain the rest of his glass. “Smart is a very sad way to drink wine.” He stood from his chair and nodded at her.

  Almost against her will, Tabitha turned and watched him leave. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered, and his waist narrowed down into his slacks. The crowd seemed to part around him, and she saw other women’s eyes fall on him as he walked.

  “Smooth move, classy lady,” she muttered to herself as he disappeared into the warm blue night.

  Sighing, Tabitha turned back to the wines in front of her. She had three more reds to taste; then she knew the owner would want her to try the dessert wines. It would be easily another hour before she finished here. And suddenly she was ravenous.

  She wasn’t doing this correctly. Cori wanted her to explore the region and get to know the local culture. That would include talking to people, getting to know the chefs, pausing to try the wines with the food. To figure out what she enjoyed. And yet ever since Tabitha landed at the Treviso airport, she’d done nothing but sip and spit. She hardly ate, she’d barely made eye contact with anyone except winemakers, and she certainly hadn’t gotten any stories. She knew this was not what Cori wanted, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her portfolio was filled with copious notes about wines to import, but she hadn’t lived for one second.

  She was treating this like Royal treated it, she realized.

  Tabitha sighed, closed her eyes, and relaxed her shoulders. She needed to be more like herself, not like Royal Hamilton, Sir Titsalot. Cori had hired her for what she did best—her ability to experience wine in her own unique way. This mad quest to taste every single wine in the Veneto region was going to make everyone insane.

  She sipped the next one, closed her eyes when she swished it in her mouth, and thought about the man who had just left the bar. She wondered what his full lips might feel like on her neck.

  Ripe and luscious. A dripping honeyed fig.

  The next wine was dark and heavy, a Corvina with deep cherry and peppercorn flavors. She wondered what it was like to touch his hair.

  Thick, dark, velvety. A modern-day vampire.

  She swirled the final glass for a long time before sipping, thinking about the scent of his skin she’d caught when she leaned past him. Yes, it had been to spit out a mouthful of warm wine into a bucket, but she’d touched him and had to resist the urge to lick him when she moved back to her seat.

  Forest and tinder and leather wrist restraints and a thatch of curly black chest hair that leads down his stomach in a perfect treasure trail.

  She crossed out her words, slashing over the description again and again until it was obliterated.

  Tobacco, saddle, and brown sugar.

  That would do. Typical words that made sense in the wine world. Her face was on fire, and she caught the owner’s eye.

  “I think I’m done tasting for the night,” she said. “Maybe I can try the last few tomorrow.”

  He nodded, but she hardly noticed, being so intent on the food in front of her. She’d forgotten to eat most of the day today. That could be the only explanation for her shaky hands and her pulse pounding in her ears.

  Her hotel was only a block from here. She would walk slowly, breathe in the night air, really look around for once. She’d been in Italy for two solid weeks now and had hardly seen anything except wine glasses. Next time she’d build in more time to enjoy the scenery. Italy used to be her favorite place in the world. She and Royal had honeymooned here. She had a print made when they returned, and hung it over the wine rack in their house: You can have the world if I can have Italy.

  She took it with her when she left him. Yanked it off the wall, in fact.

  I get Italy, asshole.

  Her memory was interrupted by the pop of a cork, and she looked up to see the handsome man from earlier standing beside her with an open, unlabeled bottle. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed the mouthful of bread and cheese she had just shoved into her face.

  “I brought you Prosecco.”

  Tabitha tried not to roll her eyes. He was handsome, but not handsome enough to babysit through an amateur attempt at winemaking. “Why is it that every single Italian I’ve ever met has a vat of homebrew in their backyard?”

  The corner of his mouth rose in a tiny smirk that formed a small dimple on his cheek, and her pulse quickened.

  “Wine, perhaps. You cannot make Prosecco in your garden. This one is from my favorite winery. I thought you might like to taste it.”

  She sighed.

  “I’m not looking for bubblies right now, just so you know. I mean, I’m happy to taste it, if you are asking for a professional opinion. But I’m not going to buy it. Our sparkling wine division is stocked for the year.”

  “Do you ever sip wine only for pleasure?”

  “What a ridiculous question.”

  He leaned close to her, speaking into her ear. She could see a slight scruff of a beard, barely visible in the amber lights of the bar, dusting over his chin. She fought the urge to touch his whiskers. “I do not want you to buy this, or distribute it, or judge it, or any of the things you do. I want you to taste it.”

  Tabitha swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and he pulled away from her.

  “You do not want to hear the story of this wine,” he continued, “so you tell me one. What do you think about when you taste this?”

  Without breaking his gaze, he reached over the bar and picked up a glass, handed it to her, and then took one for himself. She mimicked his movements: when he brought it to his nose to smell, she did the same. He sipped, and the tiny bubbles cascaded over her tongue. He swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers, and she did the same.

  “What do you think of it?”

  Tabitha took a deep breath, the remnants of the wine still in mouth, the scent filling her head.

  “My mom was a workaholic when I was a kid. We never saw her. But once in a while, on a hot summer day, she would squeeze lemon juice into her hair and then sit out in the backyard so the sun would give her blonde highlights. She’d sit out there for hours, eating honeydew melons and prosciutto, and squeezing more lemons and reading magazines. After that, she’d use the garden hose to rinse out her hair, and then we’d lie on the grass with her until it dried. She had long hair in those days—almost down to her waist—and it would blow around in the breeze. For the rest of the day, if I got close to her, I could smell her hair. I always thought that must be what the sun smelled like.”

  His eyes had narrowed, just a bit, and a small smile played on his beautiful lips.

  “You like this Prosecco?” he asked.

  “I think it is delicious. Better than delicious. One of the best I’ve ever tasted. It tastes like sunshine.”

  “Ahhh. You said you tasted it. You did not analyze it.”

  Both of their glasses were empty, though Tabitha didn’t remember sipping on hers as they talked. He picked up the bottle.

  “If you like, we can continue tasting this wine at my house?”

  Holy Italian Stallion, would I like it. I want to taste every inch of your body…

  Tabitha had to gulp several times before she could croak out a reply. “Uh, thank you for the offer, but no.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t go home with strange men, particularly men with eyes like you
rs. Bedroom eyes.”

  “You believe I want to hurt you?”

  “You think I’m going to take a chance?”

  “Who was the last man you made love with?”

  “Okay, sure. Why not? It was my husband. Ex-husband. Over a year ago.”

  “And this man wounded you?”

  “He cut my heart right out of my chest.”

  “How long did you know one another?”

  Sly devil.

  “Seven years. Fair point. I still won’t go to a strange man’s house. Especially when I don’t even know his name.”

  He held out his hand. “Giovanni Palmisano. My uncle Francesco is the owner of the enoteca.”

  “Giovanni. I’m Tabitha Hamilton. Lawson, I mean. Tabitha Lawson.”

  “Tabitha.” He purred it in the Italian way, Ta-bee-ta, sending chills from her ankles straight to the base of her neck. “I will take you out to dinner. We will drink the Prosecco, and after we dine, ti accompagno. I will accompany you to your home to make sure you arrive safely. If you want to invite me into your home, I will go. If not, I will say goodnight and dream of you.”

  “Bloody hell,” Tabitha said, and stood up from her chair.

  5

  The elevator doors closed behind them, and Giovanni put his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. His lips smashed against hers, and she finally got to run her hands through his hair—soft, thick, and curly, even more luscious than she had imagined all night in the bar and afterward, in the trattoria where they ate dinner. She could taste their entire evening on him—the citrusy Prosecco, the people smoking on the patio, the yeasty bread, the smoky meats, the platter of tiny strawberries they’d eaten for dessert. Giovanni had broken off chunks of a chocolate bar and fed it to her while they sipped espresso, stroking her thigh with his other hand. It all came together now, his powerful arms around her, the whiskers on his chin scraping her tender lips.

  The doors opened and she backed out of the elevator, still clinging to him, unwilling to take her hands off his body after restraining herself all evening. They stumbled down the hallway, her walking backward and Giovanni balancing them by dragging one of his hands against the wall. When they reached her room, she looked down to her purse to fish out her key, but Giovanni kept his lips on her body, running them across her collarbone and up her neck. When she finally found the key, she reached behind her, blindly trying to find the lock, while Giovanni pressed his body closer to hers, leaning her back into the hotel room door. Finally, driven mad by frustration, she turned away from him to unlock her door. Giovanni stood behind her; she could feel his hardness pressing into her back. He ran his hands from her hips up the sides of her stomach, cupping her breasts and then dragging his fingers through the top of her hair and pulling it away from her neck, while feathering gentle, wet kisses along her exposed skin. Everywhere he touched her lit her skin on fire.

  She shoved the door open and walked inside, dropping her purse on the ground and yanking her sweater over her head. She turned back to see him standing in the bright hallway.

  “Are you coming in?

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “I want to be sure.” He remained in the doorway of her room, not crossing the threshold, but he unbuttoned the top of his shirt, never dropping his gaze from hers. “I got you home safely, as I promised. Now, if you would like, I will go.” He had unbuttoned his shirt down to his navel, and he pulled it out of his slacks now. Tabitha’s body trembled with desire.

  “You have a six-pack. I mean, of course you do.”

  He smirked and looked down at his muscled stomach. “This? It is nothing.” He let his hands drift slowly down his sides, and she could see the strain in his pants when his hands came to rest on his hips. He was torturing her.

  “You’re probably right, Giovanni. I’m pretty tired. Maybe we should just say goodnight now, and never see each other again.” As she spoke, she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. Her breasts tumbled out of the cups, and she dropped the pale pink lace on the floor. She ran her hands through her hair in a long stretch, and then let her fingers trail between her breasts and rest on her hips, matching his stance. She never dropped her gaze from his eyes. Two can play this game, Mr. Pasta alla Sexio.

  They faced each other for a long, torturous minute, and then Tabitha broke first. She took two steps toward him and put her hand behind his neck, pulling him into another kiss. Giovanni’s arms went around her waist and his chest crushed against hers. He kicked the door closed behind him and pressed her against the wall again. She wrapped her legs around him, felt his heart beating in rhythm with hers, and let her body melt into his.

  She woke to brutal sunshine; they’d forgotten to close the curtains, and the sun poured into the room. Tabitha glanced at the bedside clock. Six a.m. Shit. Two hours’ sleep? Tops? They’d gotten back to her room at eleven, fooled around most of the night, and only drifted off a couple of hours ago. The man didn’t seem to have an off button.

  The man. Giovanni. His body was draped around hers, and she rolled over in his arms to look at him. She raked her eyes hungrily from his glossy black hair, down his angled face, and along his beautiful bronze skin. Her body stirred with desire, even though she ached from all their activity the night before.

  He stirred next to her, cleared his throat, and stretched. His mouth touched her shoulder, softly, and her skin came alive. He moved gently on top of her. A man who wakes up at attention, she thought with a small thrill. Take that, Royal, you lazy, limp motherfucker. Giovanni stroked her skin gently. Delicately. She arched her back to meet him, keeping her eyes closed, letting herself keep him in her dreams. His kisses moved down her neck over her breasts.

  “Tabitha,” he whispered. “Ti piace? Do you like?”

  God, she was so tired. She lifted her heavy arms around his neck, letting her fingers dance down his back and move over his perfectly round ass.

  “Sì, sì,” she murmured. “Molto bene.”

  He chuckled and whispered a correction in her ear. “Molto buono,” he breathed, and she gasped in pleasure as he moved inside of her.

  She stretched in the morning light, glanced at her phone but then ignored it. She knew the screen was loaded with messages from Cori, texts from her sister about the winery, probably even texts from her mother, offering business advice.

  Not advice. Her mother never advised. Jillie Jones Lawson directed.

  And lordy, did she have a lot of direction for Tabitha.

  Tabitha grinned and pulled the sheets up over her chest. What on earth would Jillie say if she knew her daughter had spent a night in bed with a strange Italian man? On a work trip, no less. Tabitha did not like to think about her mother’s sex life, but whether it was adventurous or not, one thing she was sure of was that Jillie Jones Lawson did not get distracted from her work. Ever. Not even for an Italian.

  Tabitha had to work. A report should have already been filed to Cori; purchase orders needed to be accounted for. And yet she’d spent the morning luxuriating in Giovanni.

  She heard the key in her door and sat up. Giovanni had gone downstairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast. He set the tray on the bed and then stripped before joining her again. He handed her a brioche con cioccolato, and Tabitha laughed at the shower of sweet crumbs that had fallen on the bed in between them.

  Royal would lose his mind at this mess, she thought but didn’t say out loud. She took a deep breath and made an internal vow: This is the last time I spend a moment thinking about Royal Hamilton and the Pussy Parlaiment while I am in bed with this walking god of a man.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I was wondering if you would turn into a troll in the light of day. Like, maybe you looked so great to me last night just because I was so thirsty.”

  “You needed a drink.”

  “Yes, sir, I was parched. But you’re not a troll in daylight. I think you might be even sexier by daylight. How is that possible?
”

  He smiled a far-too-modest smile for a man with his looks, and ripped off a bite of his brioche con marmelata and put it in her mouth.

  “So, are you on Viagra or something?”

  He looked up over his cappuccino, a confused look on his face.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  She laughed. “The blue pill? You know?” She mimicked placing a pill on her lip, swallowing, and then put her finger down near her crotch, extending it out toward him. His eyes widened, and he made a moue with his lips.

  “Ah, sììì, sì, sì. This is what American men need to perform in bed?”

  “I don’t know. Some of them. Usually they don’t have as much, um, stamina? I guess is the word? You don’t seem to stop.”

  He gulped the rest of his coffee. “I am Italian.”

  “You are telling me all Italian men can do it five times in one night?”

  “What if this is true?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to move here.”

  He set his coffee cup down and leaned over to nibble on her earlobe.

  “All night you tell me the smart way to taste wine, and now you have finally said something truly intelligent.”

  6

  “Emil, I’m going to need you to move up the date for the next bottling.”

  “Can’t do that. You know I’m booked to the minute all season long.”

  Tabitha eyed El Zopilote’s production manager with as withering a glare as she could manage. Which wasn’t all that threatening, given that she really did like Emil.

  “Boss, I understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t do what you want.”

  Realization dawned on Tabitha. Emil only called her “boss” when he was trying to placate her.

  “So Royal has been here this morning. Okay, then, let’s hear it. What did he say?”