When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  The team lines up, toes tapping, as he thumbs through the boarding passes and starts calling out our names. “Corrine. Rafe. Dave.” Each person steps forward to take their passes and heads toward the gate agent. “Lauren. Joe. Miranda.”

  Then it’s just me. Domenic and me, staring at each other steps away from the jet bridge. He holds my boarding pass out to me, and a little surge of indignation heats my face. I want to hear him say my name, the way he said everyone else’s, like it’s validation for my spot on his team. My brows lower and my mouth tightens. I stride toward him, close enough to take my boarding pass.

  But I don’t.

  I glare at him.

  Waiting.

  A little coil of something hotter than indignation winds through my core at the amusement shining in his emerald eyes.

  He thinks this is funny. My discomfort and impatience is a freaking joke to him.

  “Well?” I grind out.

  Slowly, he extends my boarding pass toward me. A half-grin pulls at one corner of his mouth as I continue to wait. Something else appears in his eyes alongside that irksome amusement.

  My stomach flips.

  “Kate.” His voice is low and sonorous, just loud enough for me to hear.

  The flip, and the simmering annoyance that’s been building over the past three minutes, explodes into an eruption of raging butterflies. Dizziness threatens the stability of my stance, and my cheeks are on fire. Short of breath, I snatch my boarding pass from his artistically elegant fingers and march myself down the jet bridge.

  “Holy crap, what the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter as I stomp down the stairs to the tarmac and cross to the charter jet to board. “I’m a professional. I’m a hard ass. I don’t get flustered when a hot guy stares me down and whispers my name.”

  Hot guy?

  The realization of what just came out of my mouth makes me stop dead in my tracks, right at the top of the aircraft steps.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. When I first saw Domenic in that conference room yesterday, my heart rate went up a little because, yeah, he’s not too bad on the eyes. Coupled with the nonchalant attitude he exudes every freaking second, any woman with a pulse would be hard pressed not to find him attractive. And I’m certainly not dead.

  But his arrogance would also make most women in my position irritated beyond belief. He’s certainly starting to get under my skin, and he’s hardly spoken to me since I came on the job.

  Joe pops into the doorway. “You okay? You look kind of stunned.”

  Forcing thoughts of Domenic out of my head, I nod. “Yeah. Just never been in a luxury charter before.”

  “What can I say? Given how little down time we’ll have in Rome, it’s a nice splurge to travel overseas in style and comfort.” He grasps my arm and pulls me inside.

  The aircraft is on the small side, but the interior is spacious without rows upon rows of cramped coach seating. Soft leather seats, more like armchairs, are grouped around the cabin in twos, and what amounts to a three-person sofa lines the wall under the windows opposite the hatch. Polished wooden side tables flank every group of seats, and a small bank of cabinets is tucked against the bulkhead near the cockpit door. At the back of the jet, the copilot refills a travel coffee mug from the carafe on the kitchenette counter.

  Joe points to the cabinets at the front of the plane. “You can stow your carry-on in any free compartment. Once we hit cruising altitude, most of us will find a spot to sprawl out and sleep the length of the flight. Bathroom’s up behind the cockpit. The galley’s stocked, so help yourself if you’re hungry or thirsty.”

  I nod, following his lead around the cabin. “Does it matter where I sit?”

  “Stick with me. I like to camp out near the galley; I tend to get the munchies when I’m traveling.”

  Footsteps bound up the metal aircraft steps. I turn as Domenic ducks into the cabin. Our eyes lock again, but he breaks away and claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Seats, people. Pilot’s waiting on us.”

  “More like the pilot’s waiting on the copilot’s coffee.” I gesture toward the galley, where said copilot is lazily stirring powdered creamer into his cup.

  Joe starts to laugh, but chokes it back with a snort when Domenic’s glance shifts his way. “Come on, Kate. Let’s get buckled in.”

  I stow my carry-on in the last empty compartment and follow Joe to the rear of the plane. The clatter of seatbelts fills the cabin as everyone finds a spot. Most of the team gravitates toward the front and middle of the cabin, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from habit or because they’re all giving me a wide berth. Sighing, I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat cushion. Joe’s being friendly and helpful, but he’s the only one so far. My curiosity about what happened to Riley, ratchets a little higher as the jet taxis onto the runway, picks up speed, and takes off. Whatever happened has Joe upset, at the very least. Domenic must not have given Beth any details, or she would’ve given me a heads up about it as another area to tread lightly. The dynamics of this entire team are on edge, and as the untrusted stranger, I’m at the center of it.

  The plane levels off, and the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign. Immediately, buckles come undone, and the sprawl Joe mentioned begins. Lauren retrieves a laptop from her carry-on, popping in earbuds to keep from distracting Corinne, who curls up beside her with a stack of fashion magazines. Rafe and Dave wander to the galley and return to their seats with an assortment of packaged snacks and bottled juices. Miranda gathers some papers from her bag and makes the rounds of the cabin, passing out everyone’s itineraries. The only one who doesn’t move from his spot is Domenic, who appears to have fallen asleep.

  Joe leaves his seat to grab two bottles of water, one of which he hands to me when he returns. “So tell me about what you do.”

  “Why?” I ask after taking a swig of water.

  “There’s only so much small talk that can fill a trans-Atlantic flight. I figured you’d want to get it out of the way so you can spend the rest of the trip asking a little more about your role in the shoot.” He reaches under his seat and pulls out a box of travel guides. Flipping through them, he makes a satisfied hum when he finds what he’s looking for. The travel guide to Rome lands in my lap as he straightens. “Plus you’ll want to plan some of your sightseeing. You won’t get a ton of down time to go exploring, but you’ll want to hit the highlights.”

  I stare at the cover of the travel guide, a collage of images that depict the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps, and Trevi Fountain. Then I set it on the table to my left. “I have my own portrait studio in Atlanta. Maternity, engagement, newborn, children. That sort of thing. I usually end up shooting the weddings of my engagement clients, too.”

  “So what brought you to our illustrious team?”

  “Friend of mine from college works with a talent agency in Manhattan. I guess Domenic contacted her when he needed a quick substitute.” I glance at him. “For this Riley person.”

  Joe just nods. “Ever done fashion before?”

  “No, but I studied some techniques in college. I’m a fast learner.” For a second or two, I fall silent and stare out the window. Then I turn back to Joe. “Actually, I’m hoping this will help me break into a different field. Something with more widespread recognition. And I’d like to explore opportunities to get into fine art photography. It’d be cool to someday be a female Ansel Adams or something like that.”

  Miranda approaches us, papers in hand. She gives one to Joe, who folds it in half and sets it aside. Then she turns to me. “Itinerary for week one,” she states in a monotone, giving me a single sheet of paper.

  A brief word of thanks hovers on the tip of my tongue, but it dissolves as she hands me a stapled packet. “What’s this?”

  “Your contract.” She glances at Joe. “Your agent didn’t g
ive you a copy to sign ahead of time. She told Domenic to have me handle it.”

  I should have expected a written contract. Nodding as if this is old news to me, I page through it, skimming the clauses.

  Miranda reaches over to jab her finger at one clause near the end of the contract. “You’re good with this one, right?”

  “It’s standard legalese to protect intellectual property rights,” Joe interjects. “Domenic includes it in everybody’s contracts, even the long-term people. Just states that you agree not to take personal photos while on the clock.”

  I look up at him. “That seems sort of obvious.”

  “You’d think that,” Miranda says with a bitter grimace. “But Domenic’s had . . . issues with photographers in the past.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “I won’t take personal photos while I’m on the clock.”

  “Because if you do,” she continues, “anything you shoot is technically Domenic’s property. He can use those images any way he wants, without reimbursing you. He’ll own the copyright.”

  The clause still seems like common sense to me. I have a verbal agreement with my per diem assistants that runs much the same, though I’ve never put it in a written contract since they’re on duty for specific reasons.

  My gaze travels the length of the cabin, taking in Domenic where he sits, legs outstretched, hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed as he tips his head back against the seat. If he’s not asleep, he has to be able to hear our conversation thanks to the acoustics of the plane.

  I’m not an idiot. He’s gotten this far because he’s just that good. What happened to make him feel the need to include such specific verbiage in his contract?

  Joe hands me a pen. “I’d initial it, so Domenic knows you took extra time to review that clause. Then sign the last page.”

  I give him a sidelong glance, but do as he suggests. Miranda whisks the contract out of my hands as soon as I finish scribbling my name.

  “Trust me,” Joe murmurs, reclining his seat. “You’ll be glad of that clause down the road.”

  Chapter 5

  Unsettling In

  By the time we arrive at Fiumicino International Airport, forty miles or so west of Rome itself, everyone is stiff and grumbling from being cramped inside the charter jet for the better part of the day. We stumble down the aircraft stairs to the tarmac and cross to the jet bridge in the deepening Italian twilight. Rome is only six hours ahead of New York, but the day has almost ended.

  Other than comparing to see if their smartphones automatically updated to the new time zone, no one says much as we make our way as a group through customs and baggage claim, and head down to catch the direct rail line into Rome. Joe sticks close to my elbow and makes sure I stay at the front of our entourage, trailing Domenic’s long, leading strides by only a couple paces.

  “Try to keep in proximity to him,” he whispers as we board the train to Termini Station. “It’ll show him you’re willing to step up, even if you’re out of your comfort zone.”

  I do as he says, but after snagging a seat across the aisle from Domenic, I wonder at the wisdom of taking the suggestion. An unexpected burst of goosebumps runs down my arms and legs as he glances at me. The goosebumps turn to a rush of heat when he keeps his gaze pinned on me for a full minute, watching as I flip through the travel guide I brought from the plane.

  Joe leans over. “Small talk,” he hisses before burying his nose in his phone.

  So far, my interactions with Domenic, such as they are, haven’t been very positive. I clear my throat and face him, lifting the travel guide. “Any suggestions for things I shouldn’t miss seeing while we’re here?”

  The question appears to catch him off guard. He straightens, shifts in his seat, and peers behind us down the aisle before replying. “Depends what you’re interested in.”

  “What would I want to see if I’d come as a tourist?”

  He glances behind us again, as if checking to make sure no one else can hear him engage in conversation with the newbie. “Everyone who goes to Rome should see the Coliseum, Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps. There are a few hidden gems a lot of people don’t think of visiting.” He turns his eyes toward me again. “But you’re not a tourist.”

  I swallow at the shrewd assessment in his gaze. “The must-sees are on my list for sure. But I wouldn’t mind checking out some of the paths less trod.”

  “You’re a poet in addition to a photographer.”

  Fresh heat rushes to my cheeks at his smirk and the slight condescension that accompanies his otherwise benign comment. “If you call paraphrasing being a poet. Doesn’t everybody have to study Frost and Emerson when they’re freshmen in college?”

  His smirk morphs into a grin. “Maybe. But most people don’t paraphrase them in casual conversation.”

  “Anyway,” I continue, idly flipping the pages of the travel guide again, “I’d like to try and find some corners off the beaten path. Spots where I can play with light and angles to catch some unusual shots. I’ve always found it relaxing to use my free time on the artistic side of photography.”

  Hopefully Domenic catches the emphasis on my free time.

  He shrugs and snatches a wrinkled newspaper off the empty seat beside him. “Rome has plenty of hidden corners. Just make sure you let someone know when you decide to venture out.”

  My lips tighten. Hot words bubble to the tip of my tongue, but Joe nudges my elbow before a sarcastic comment about punching a time clock slips out. Domenic’s lost interest in our conversation anyway, his attention now absorbed in the newspaper. Sighing, I turn to Joe, but his head remains bent over his phone.

  A low growl buzzes in my chest. I prop my elbow on the armrest and lean my temple against my fist, paging through the travel guide once more. Irritation turns the words, maps, and pictures into unfocused gray blobs and blurs as the slowing train squeals its way into Termini Station.

  The hotel in Prati is comfortable, if small. Miranda checks all of us in and hands out room keys, while Domenic reminds everyone to gather in the breakfast room at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, so we can head to the studio as a group for the first day of the shoot. After that, we’re responsible for getting ourselves to work on time, according to our personal schedules.

  Determined not to be the last one downstairs, I set the alarm on my phone to go off at five-thirty and drag myself up to my room. The effects of the time change and general travel fatigue begin to set in, and I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  I dream of Domenic, watching me with an intense, inscrutable expression as I scramble to capture the perfect image of a faceless blur of a fashion model.

  The alarm jolts me awake just as he reaches out to touch my hand.

  Great. My overall curiosity has started messing with my subconscious.

  I can’t banish the memory of the interest in his eyes as I shower, apply makeup, twist my blown-dry hair into a sleek topknot, and paw through my suitcase for something suitable to wear today. My hands land on a pair of slim black ankle pants and a fitted button-down tunic in a shade of blue that usually complements my eyes. Not that I normally worry about complementing my eyes with clothing choices. But I want to look my best today, to prove I have some knowledge of fashion while still feeling comfortable in my own skin. Shoes warrant a short debate. Usually I work barefoot, unless my shoot is in an outside location that requires footwear of some kind. I settle on a pair of rhinestone-studded sandals that look sharp but won’t destroy my feet if I keep them on all day.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I lock my film camera in the in-room safe, grab the bag containing my digital SLR camera and its accessories, and head to the breakfast room.

  Most hotels I’ve stayed at in the past have their breakfast rooms on the main floor, but not this one. Here, the ordered ch
aos of seemingly scattered cafe tables is located on an upper floor. Tall doors open onto a wide terrace, allowing an amazing view of the nearest section of the Prati neighborhood, including a large greenspace across the street. I choose a table out on the terrace and deposit my camera bag on the chair before taking in the vista brightening with the sunrise, hands propped on my hips.

  “Piazza Cavour.”

  Spinning at the sound of Domenic’s voice, I nearly lose my balance and grab the wrought iron terrace railing. “Beg your pardon?”

  He leans against the doorframe, arms folded. A slight breeze tosses the disheveled locks that have slipped free of his low ponytail, and he rakes them out of his face before pushing away from the doorframe and crossing the terrace. “The square across the street. That’s its name. Piazza Cavour.”

  My dream from last night bubbles to mind as Domenic pauses at my side, his arm brushing mine. Heat explodes at the accidental touch, and the stupid butterflies I felt yesterday morning before boarding the charter jet are nothing compared to the maelstrom now swirling through my stomach.

  What the hell? From the way my body reacts to Domenic’s proximity, let alone any casual contact, you’d think I was a smitten, horny teenager instead of a levelheaded adult woman. It’s not like I haven’t been attracted to a guy before.

  Gritting my teeth, I step away from him and turn to lean against the railing. The move puts extra space between us, but his eyes track me in a sidelong glance, as if he can read my mind.

  I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

  “You’re up early,” he says.