Sophie smiled. “You know? You’re right. We are smack-dab in the center of heaven right now. Just like I predicted, the sun is coming out and the weather is turning glorious. And we are going to have the time of our lives. I’m not going to let some selfish road hog kill my buzz. After all, I’ll never see him again anyhow.”
Chapter Five
Lorenzo drove like a bat out of hell to get back to the house in time. He’d been duly warned by his mother, and one person he never crossed was Fabiana Romeo. It wasn’t as if she was going to give him a spanking or put him in a time-out, but he had a particular soft spot for his mamma ever since his papà died when he was younger.
Back then, each of the Romeo kids handled the loss of their father differently. Some pretended it hadn’t happened, as much as that was possible. Some hunkered down and became serious—Sandro chief amongst them, which had always bummed Lorenzo out. Up until that time, the two had been thick as thieves, and together they had pushed the boundaries established by their parents in order to carve independence into their own teenage lives. They got into harmless trouble, wrecking an Ape—a sort of dwarfed, three-wheeled truck used to haul equipment on the property—for instance, and mercilessly teasing their sister Valentina, occasionally even sneaking off to the village of Santa Romeo to meet up with girls late at night when they were supposed to be home in bed. Yet when his papà passed, things naturally changed overnight and Sandro became instantly distant and no longer interested in boyish pursuits.
Because Sandro had taken on the role of trying to replace their father, it only made sense for Lorenzo to bear the mantle of tending to his heartbroken mother. And he had quite the knack for it. His mother was crestfallen without her marito, and Lorenzo spent his waking hours comforting her broken heart.
He could remember sitting with her, his arm snuggled over her shoulder, as she wailed and sobbed and slept and started the cycle over again. For months Lorenzo stayed by her side, consoling her, cajoling her, doing whatever he could to help her cope in her time of darkness. It was something he tucked away subconsciously, the lesson that loving so deeply could only lead to pain and hurt. Better not to love at all than to love and lose. This he knew from firsthand experience to be true.
Of course a byproduct of being his mother’s keeper meant that even now, he never wanted to disappoint her. So when Fabiana told him to be at the house in time for their guests to arrive, he was going to honor her demands even if he truly wanted those guests to be on the next flight back to the States.
He pulled into one of the outbuildings that housed the myriad farm equipment used at the vineyard, taking some time to towel down his beloved gloss-black Ducati. Of course it didn’t need to be dried off but it was, after all, the closest he’d ever come to caring for a baby, and he wanted to make sure his beloved charge was supremely well-maintained. Glancing at his Breitling watch, he realized he was late and took off at a rapid clip to get into the house in time.
Still dripping wet, he raced up a set of wide marble steps that were flanked by two flower-filled large urns. He skidded across the marble terrace, slammed open the back door, raced down the hallway past the kitchen, remembering only as he made it to the grand hallway—a museum-like area of the palazzo that was filled with priceless paintings, busts, and statuary—that he’d forgotten to leave his helmet back with the motorcycle. Too late. There stood Fabiana, who threw him a look that could curl straight hair.
With both hands, he lifted his helmet off his head, muttering apologies to his mamma right as she made introductions.
“And finally we have my son Lorenzo, who promised he would be here on time to greet you all. I apologize for his lack of manners.”
“Mamma, I’d have been here on time, but there was a carload of tourists with some pazzo woman driving like a ninety-year-old nonna. I couldn’t get past her for like thirty minutes and it was killing me. God, I wish these tourists would leave the driving to those who live here.”
His mother glared. “I’m sure the woman wasn’t crazy and was simply driving carefully in the rain. At any rate, as I was saying, Sophie, I’d like you to meet my son, impatient Lorenzo, who I promise, now that he’s here, will be at your side during your stay, ready and willing to meet your every need.”
At last, Lorenzo looked over and noticed the very head of cascading dark hair he’d glimpsed through the rainy car window only half an hour ago, and his glaring brown eyes met her deep chestnut ones as recognition washed over them both.
“You?” he said in an accusing voice, squinting at her.
“You?” She glared. “With hospitality like we’ve seen from you to this point, well, I’d hate to see you at your worst.”
~*~
Sophie couldn’t believe the dripping wet Adonis standing before her. Because, let’s be real, even if he was a jerk, he was, without a doubt, a Roman godlike version of a jerk, which would be in keeping with tradition. After all, plenty of Roman gods were kind of dicks, both to each other and to regular, everyday people. So this would come as no surprise. Besides, weren’t the hottest guys always the ones with gargantuan egos who thought they were something special?
She’d show him special. If she weren’t so tangled up in this commitment to take on the Romeos at this point, she’d catch the first flight out of here and show him how much they would lose in publicity by not having her show here. That wasn’t an option and she was stuck, although she didn’t have to like it.
She tried not to stare at him as he stood there, a puddle forming around his black leather-booted feet, a look of defiance in his chiseled cheeks and deep-set brown eyes. She had to admit the sexy beard scruff worked well on him, and despite his leather jacket and skintight black jeans being soaked through, his enviable wavy black hair was spared the deluge and looked damned good. As in please-sir-can-I-run-my-fingers-through-it-and-maybe-even-lather-it-up-with-shampoo-when-we-take-a-shower-after-having-frenzied-makeup-sex good.
But hold on one cotton-picking minute—how did she get from wanting to slug this guy to that errant thought? She wasn’t even a believer in makeup sex. Though if she thought about it, it was her family legacy. Her mother and father would have knock-down, drag-out fights about stupid things that would end with them banging the headboard in their small Long Island rambler so distractingly loud, you simply couldn’t avoid hearing them, try as you might. Even if she turned up the volume on whatever she was watching on the Cartoon Network, it didn’t matter. She never understood how you could go from being infuriated with someone to the degree of intimacy commensurate with making love. She needed a long, slow cool-down period before any such “skintimacy” could happen.
That said, if she were to get incredibly irate with a man—like, say, a hot, sexy, Italian man, one whose full lips looked like they could work magic all over her body, dammit—she could see it being with this one. What was his name again? Lorenzo. Lorenzo who had quite the haughty attitude, unfortunately.
Oh well, it was better she didn’t have some instant hots for the guy, because, after all, it would be highly unprofessional to even contemplate knocking boots with him. Nevertheless, she decided to tuck a few thoughts of him away in her brain for when she had to resort to her battery-operated boyfriend to do the trick. Oh, yeah. Once she got past this guy’s bad attitude, thoughts of a hard, wet, fiery, and passionate Lorenzo Romeo might have to suffice at bedtime after she settled into her private room for the night.
Chapter Six
“Mamma, if you’ll excuse me, perhaps Tomasso can show your guests around. I need to shower and change out of these wet clothes.” With that, Lorenzo kissed his mother on either cheek and turned and left the room, leaving her to shake her head in dismay.
“Again, Sophie, Gisele, Justin.” Fabiana nodded at the three. “Please accept my apologies for Lorenzo’s bad behavior. Trust me, I will have words with him. In the meantime, Tomasso, perhaps you can give the tour and help our guests get settled into their rooms before dinner.”
On
ce she’d departed, Tomasso rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what has gotten into my brother, but I hope you’ll take it with a grain of salt. Believe me, the rest of my family will more than make up for his little temper tantrum.”
Gisele, who’d barely let go of Tomasso since their arrival, pulled him toward her for about their hundredth kiss in the past half hour. “Don’t worry. He’s all but forgotten,” she said after she broke the kiss. “Now let’s do the quickie tour because I haven’t seen you in weeks.” She gave him a wink and as if on cue, both Sophie and Justin stuck their fingers down their throats.
“Don’t they just make you want to puke?” Justin elbowed Sophie in the ribs.
“Or find someone I can do that with.” Sophie frowned. For some reason, she could only picture herself doing that with that surly Lorenzo, and the more he lingered in her mind, the more she was determined to make good and sure that never, ever happened.
“And now, friends, let’s give you the grand tour. After that, everyone can get settled in and unpacked before dinnertime.”
They strolled through the grand hallway as Tomasso talked about some of the artwork on display as Sophie stood there, wide-eyed. For a girl who grew up in decidedly working-class suburbia, this place was off the rails in a good way. That people lived like this was truly hard to imagine.
He pointed to a painting by Renaissance painter Titian, another by Raphael. “You caught these at a good time between loans,” Tomasso said.
“Loans?”
“Yes, often we let museums all over the world borrow the art that is housed here. What is art if not to share and be enjoyed by as many as possible?”
It was like she was in a private museum. And to think, on top of it all, they had excellent wine here as well. Perhaps she’d died and gone to heaven. Even on their arrival at the palazzo, they’d been greeted by a gorgeous garden in front, with a massive sandstone basin that looked like a bathtub for giants. Like who has that in their yard? Not only was it the Romeos’ home, it was their palace.
At first, she stood there admiring the buttery-yellow building, taking it all in. A double-ramp staircase led to the main level of the house, fronted by a glorious open-air loggia with statues of gods and goddesses scattered about. Because, well, who doesn’t have statues of mythological characters on the front porch?
Tomasso led them out onto another porch. If you could call it that.
“This is called the Dell’orologio,” he said. “Which means clock’s terrace. And don’t ask me why. I should know that but whatever.” They laughed.
Sophie leaned on the stone railing of the terrace and stared at the spectacular view: before her as far as she could see, hills and valleys lined with neatly manicured row upon row of cultivated grapevines were interspersed amongst groves of olive trees and wooded forests. In the distance, was a beautiful contemporary structure that integrated so well with the surrounding natural beauty it was almost hard to distinguish it.
“What is that place?” She pointed toward it.
“That”—he nodded in the direction of the building—“is the brainchild of my father, which he sadly never saw to fruition. Alessandro picked up where his dream died, and he saw to it that the headquarters of Romeo wines became a reality. It’s even more spectacular than I think our father could have imagined.”
The building appeared low on the horizon, built into the land as if emerging from the earth.
“The plan was to build a stunning structure that would become a destination unto itself while maintaining the integrity of the Tuscan countryside,” he said. “Which means much of the building is below ground. We also chose to keep it as green as possible, primarily using local materials. It is truly a work of art on so many levels.”
“It blends with the terrain as well as the vineyards and olive groves,” Sophie said, clucking her approval. “Most impressive.” She’d pulled out a notebook from her purse and started to take notes, paying attention to where the sun was tracking across the building. It would help her crew figure out the ideal time to capture the exterior shots and make the building look its best.
He led them down a flight of marble steps, along a flagstone path, and into a garden. The fragrance of roses hung heavily in the air, the heavy rains having amplified the intensity of the aroma. They wandered through a maze of manicured hedges amidst splashes of color, surrounded by a riot of spring flowers in bloom.
Sophie turned to see the most resplendent water fountain: a nearly life-sized burnished statue depicting Bacchus, who, if she recalled correctly, was all about enjoying the bounty of the grape. She nodded at the statue. “That dude is my hero.”
Tomasso laughed. “Fun fact: that was a gift from Sophia Loren to my father. They were part of a mutual admiration society.”
“Sophia Loren—my namesake! My Italian mamma named me after her. She thought Sophia Loren hung the moon. Though I don’t think my mother would have appreciated her giving my father special gifts like this. At least while they were married.”
“I think this is kind of like giving someone a leg lamp,” Justin said with a laugh.
Gisele high-fived him for alluding to that tacky lamp from the movie A Christmas Story. “‘Fragile, it must be Italian,’” they said in unison and laughed while Tomasso stared at them with a blank look on his face. “Never mind, babe. It’s a location joke. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Tomasso looked at his watch. “I’m glad you mentioned later because it’s getting late and I need to show you to your rooms and give you a chance to rest before dinner. I can assure you Mamma plans to impress you with her cooking prowess tonight. Please do come to dinner with an appetite.”
Sophie rubbed her stomach. “I’m all in. And if you throw in a few glasses of red wine I’ll be forever at your mercy.”
“I think the only mercy you’ll need to beg for is from that hottie brother of Tomasso’s,” Justin said, winking at her.
Sophie let out a growl of disgust. “I’d no sooner apologize to him than ask him on a date.”
Tomasso cocked an eyebrow. “My brother doesn’t date anyhow, so you’re safe. He’s all about spreading himself thin if you know what I mean. He’s what we call a figo, a guy who can always get laid.”
“Yet one more reason to avoid that man even if I am stuck with him while we shoot this show.” She looked at Tomasso and wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, don’t mean to be rude about your brother.”
“No worries—I’m with you on that. But I think you’ll figure him out. Lorenzo’s a straight-up guy, however sometimes his bark is way worse than his bite.”
Justin made a purring sound. “I’d like to try his bite just for fun.”
“Justin,” Sophie and Gisele said in unison. “Down, boy.”
They all laughed as Tomasso led them back to the house toward their respective accommodations.
Chapter Seven
Sophie had never stayed at the Ritz, nor the Four Seasons for that matter, but she figured the guest accommodations here would have made a room from both those places look like an outhouse on the side of a remote country road. She was already worried about returning home and leaving behind the sumptuous luxury of the world’s most perfect bedroom.
After Tomasso had shown them each their rooms, oddly scattered down three different halls —with Gisele’s room right across from Tomasso’s, the better for late-night visits, no doubt—Sophie took a minute to soak in the splendor that was this room. A large window afforded a brilliant view of the breathtaking Chianti countryside. The room had a sitting area with an overstuffed love seat, a large flat-screen television, and a massive bed that must have been custom sized, it was so huge. It seemed a waste of that much mattress space with only one adult snuggled beneath the fluffy down comforter, so soft and welcoming with its seafoam green velvet duvet cover.
They had two hours before they needed to show up at dinner. Sophie took advantage of the time to unpack her suitcase and get herself organized. She set the luggage on top of
the sofa and began to sort and organize things, hanging some clothes in the ample closet across from the even more spacious bathroom, which had a sunken tub and one of those showers with nozzles strategically positioned for just about every need. In an ideal world, she’d happily spend an hour in that shower, or better yet take a soak in the tub, but it would take far too much to get ready all over again. She decided to hold off till she could enjoy it.
Yawning, Sophie stretched her arms and eyed the bed with envy. God, how good would that be to lessen the exhaustion from jet lag with a teensy little nap? Everyone says that’s a mistake: if you want to adjust your circadian rhythm, you simply tough it out and go to bed at night in the new time zone.
She reached into one of the zippered sections of her suitcase and pulled out her socks and jewelry, placing them in the top dresser drawer. Next she unzipped the other one and extracted her panties and bras, putting them away in the drawer next to it. She noticed a stray battery and fumbled in the suitcase looking for what the battery belonged to when her hand settled on her travel-sized pocket rocket.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” she muttered, assuming airport security had a field day rifling through her luggage and finding her vibrator there. No doubt they had a good laugh at her expense. “Thank God they didn’t pocket it themselves. I’m gonna need this, especially with that brother of Tomasso’s lurking. I can tell that man is going to test my resolve.”
Sophie held it up to the light and reinserted the battery, annoyed the TSA couldn’t have extended her the courtesy of doing so themselves, and tucked it into her lingerie drawer. She yawned again, eyeing the bed.
“Maybe a quick catnap.” She unbuttoned her white silk blouse and draped it over a nearby chair, then unzipped her black leather pencil skirt and shimmied out of it, placing it next to her shirt. She unhooked the front of her bra, kicked off her black leather pumps, and didn’t even bother pulling down her thigh-high stockings, figuring she’d have to put them back on in time for dinner anyhow.
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