When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  “Clearly you didn’t end up following that path. What happened?”

  Our entrees arrive before he can answer, and we pause the conversation long enough to arrange the plates so that both of us can sample from each dish.

  “Reality happened,” Domenic continues once the waiter again disappears. “A friend and I went to Iraq after the fall of Baghdad in ‘03. We were slated to go out on a military convoy with a group of reporters, but our clearance got hung up in red tape.” He falls silent, his gaze dropping to the spoon he’d picked up and now twirled between his fingers. “The convoy was attacked by insurgents, and the Humvee carrying the war correspondents was hit by an IED.”

  Silence falls over our table, and I look down at my hands, waiting for him to go on. When he doesn’t, I take a wild guess at his train of thought. “So after that scare, you changed directions.”

  “Plus my mom told me the real value in my art was when I used beauty to reach people.” He lifts his eyes again, the lopsided grin back in place. “And since she’s the most beautiful person I know, I believe her. I decided I’d rather photograph gorgeous people in amazing, exotic locations, than spend my life adding to the depictions of suffering and destruction. Never looked back, and never regretted it.”

  My lips twist. “I wish my mom was the sort to impart such wisdom. Mine just harps on me about getting married and pokes fun at my profession.”

  “Ouch. Even now that you’re officially an international fashion photographer?”

  “She doesn’t know, actually. But even if she did, I doubt she’d change her tune.” I reach for my water glass.

  Domenic watches me take a drink, a frown drawing a slight crease between his brows. “I gather from your self-proclaimed snarky tone that you and your parents don’t get along.”

  “I get along great with my dad. My mom and sister? Not so much.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks just before digging into the gnocchi.

  My chest tightens. I haven’t really talked to anyone about my relationship with my immediate family in a long time. Even Beth doesn’t know all the dirty details. But for some reason, being half a world away from that whole hot mess lends me freedom, the feeling I could tell Domenic anything right now and be totally fine with it tomorrow.

  I go with it. Why the hell not?

  “Here’s the short and not so sweet version.” I take a couple bites of risotto before launching into the nitty-gritty. “For one thing, my dad’s the only one who’s ever supported anything I’ve done related to photography. Number two, my sister’s the one everyone always called beautiful. Number three, my mom decided two years ago that she wanted to be free to . . . I don’t know, reclaim her lost youth or something. So my parents got divorced. It’s been ugly. I let my mouth get the better of me one too many times, and now my sister hates me.”

  Domenic slides the plate of gnocchi toward me. “Nobody’s sister ever actually hates them.”

  “Mine does. I called her out at the last family reunion, about how she and her then fiancé were faking it, and everybody knew it. I might have called her a bitch in the heat of the moment.” The fire sizzles out of me, leaving behind rapidly cooling embers of regret. I rest my fork on the plate in front of me and clasp my hands on the table. “Fact is, I was reeling from Mom and Dad’s split, and I knew my sister’s engagement was a mistake. They didn’t love each other.”

  “How could you know that?”

  I bend a wry look at him. “Seriously? Engagement and wedding photography is my bread and butter. I know how people in love look at each other. And I never saw it with them. It was too bad, her fiancé was a decent guy. But she ended up jilting him and eloping with some billionaire. She invited me to the wedding, but I managed to screw up our relationship even worse by going.”

  “Do you regret going?” His hand, warm and reassuring, covers mine.

  My eyes burn, and I shake my head. “Not really. I did at the time. Sadie—that’s my sister—hardly spoke three words to me the whole time I was there. I’d planned on saying all this stuff to her, about how I’ll always be there if she needs help or a shoulder to cry on. And then, out of the blue, her ex showed up.” Without thinking, I grip Domenic’s hand. “Instead of taking my sister aside and explaining how I’d known for a long time he wasn’t really in love with her, or she with him, that I hoped she would be happy with this new guy she’d fallen so madly in love with . . . Instead, I blasted her best friend and accused her of engineering some sort of scheme to ruin Sadie’s wedding.”

  Domenic squeezes my fingers. “Did you have just cause?”

  Grimacing, I slip my hand free. “No, not really. I was just upset about nearly being left out of my sister’s big day, and admittedly, I was always jealous of how close she was to her friend. They were more like sisters than Sadie and I had been since we were kids. I got to St. Croix in a pissy mood that tanked even farther once I saw all of them together at the wedding.”

  “Well,” he says, sitting back. “Maybe one of these days you’ll get a chance to explain to your sister and apologize.”

  “Doubtful. Even if she doesn’t hate me, she’s too busy enjoying her picture perfect life to spare a minute to listen.”

  Domenic shrugs and turns his attention to the food in front of us. It’s not really a dismissal, just an acknowledgment that I need some breathing room to cool off. After a few minutes, I resume eating as well, letting the tension ebb from my neck and shoulders.

  “I suppose you’d like some background info on my chat with Corrine.” He picks up the conversation without looking up from his plate.

  Startled, I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “I didn’t eavesdrop on purpose. I seriously was getting ice cream.”

  Now he does look up, but only long enough to shoot a grin my way. “I’d rather you hear the basic details from me, since some others on our team tend to . . . embellish.”

  I set my fork down. “Okay. Let’s hear it. What’s the deal with this Riley character, whom everyone is so careful not to mention but can’t seem to stop referencing nonetheless?”

  “Riley was my second in command.” He takes one last bite, pushes his empty plate away, and folds his forearms on the edge of the table. His emerald gaze catches mine and holds it, the light from the pendant above us glinting in his eyes. “Or at least, I’d planned on making her my second in command. She came to the team about four years ago with an MBA that I thought I could put to good use. The contract you signed was, for the most part, her handiwork. But she’s also the reason I spelled out the clause about the copyrights.”

  “I’d wondered.”

  His lips quirk down. “There was always language about copyright infringement. But Riley was the first one to challenge me on it. She was good, and she knew it. And when I found out she’d taken some of my proofs from a major shoot we did last winter and passed them off as her own, everything blew up.”

  Something in Corrine’s comments had hinted at more than professional betrayal, but now I sense it would do no good to bring it up. “That sucks. But I was told I was covering a medical leave of absence.”

  “Okay, let me rephrase.” His tone flattens. “Riley blew up.”

  Ah. “Mental breakdown?”

  He pauses for an excruciatingly long moment, as if weighing how much to reveal. “Sure. Let’s go with that terminology.”

  “But a leave of absence would imply the intent to return at some point.”

  “Being well-known and prolific has its disadvantages at times.” Domenic shrugs. “Saying Riley went on a leave of absence sounds better when the press gets wind of the surface details.”

  My curiosity is far from sated. If anything, it’s been fed further. But this isn’t the time to ask for specifics. For now, it’s enough to know why I’m in Rome.

  But it isn’t e
nough to explain why Domenic’s so interested in me.

  “You heard me tell Corrine how good you are,” he continues as if reading my mind. “And you are. I told you straight up a couple weeks ago why I hired you. I know better than to dive in head first without testing the waters.”

  I swallow and stare him down. “Maybe so. But I kind of got the impression this was intended to be a date of sorts.”

  “Maybe I’d like it to be.” His murmur barely reaches my ears, a velvety purr I feel more than hear.

  Another delicious shiver spirals over my scalp, while the rest of my body melts from the inside out.

  I jump in my seat as my cell phone rings. Domenic glances down at my bag, slung over the back of his chair. “Can you grab that for me? Inside front pocket.”

  He fishes it out and hands it over before the call goes to voice mail. I answer without checking the Caller ID.

  “Kate?”

  My heart drops into my stomach, a cold lump that sets my risotto churning. “Hi, Mom. Hang on a second.” I mute the phone against my chest and stand. “Sorry, Domenic, do you mind if I step outside for a minute?”

  He shakes his head and waves me toward the door. Just before I step out onto the sidewalk, I glance back to see him standing and taking his money clip from his pocket to pay the bill.

  Mom starts in on me before I even clear the threshold. “I stopped by your studio today while I was in Atlanta shopping. One of your per diem photographers was there working and said you were out of town.”

  Out of town is an understatement. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Well, where are you? I wanted to take you to lunch!”

  Leave it to my mom to feel inconvenienced by my skipping out on plans I didn’t know I had. “I’m in Rome.”

  There’s a brief pause. “You don’t mean Rome, Georgia, do you?”

  I snicker in response.

  “Katherine Luann Miller! Do you mean to tell me you’re in Italy right now? Why are you in Italy?”

  Mom’s use of my full name puts the final damper on my rapidly souring mood. “It’s a temporary job. I’m working a fashion shoot.”

  “Fashion? You don’t know the first thing about fashion.”

  “It’s a great opportunity,” I force through clenched teeth.

  “Sounds like something way out of your league to me.” She sighs. “And here I was just starting to think you were finally satisfied with your little portrait studio.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “My business isn’t a little portrait studio. It’s—”

  “You know, if Sadie—”

  “I have to go, Mom.” One thing I refuse to tolerate tonight is another of Mom’s laundry lists of ways I don’t stack up to my sister. “Maybe we can plan for lunch when I get back to Atlanta in a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks! Kate, don’t you think—”

  “Bye.” I hang up before something beyond bitchy escapes.

  The restaurant door opens behind me, then Domenic’s hand settles on the small of my back. “You okay?”

  I glance at him, surprised by the concern in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just my mom.”

  “Understood.” He plucks my phone from my hand and tucks it back into my messenger bag. “We’d better catch a bus back to Prati before they stop running for the night.”

  His fingers dancing through the fabric of my designer dress, he guides me down the street and around the corner. We reach the transit stop just as a bus pulls up and ride in mutually approved silence, until we get off at the stop nearest our hotel.

  After handing over my messenger bag, Domenic pauses to brush a stray hair from my forehead. “Don’t let your mom get to you. My mom’s a gem, but not everyone’s is.”

  I release a short laugh. “No one has ever spoken truer words.”

  He leans toward me, entering that bubble of space in a way that would be uncomfortable, if not for the urge to wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him down to steal a kiss. A rush of color pops into his cheeks, and he backs away as if scalded by my proximity.

  “Sleep tight.” The words sound forced, faked. A last-minute replacement for something else.

  “Sure. You, too.” Spinning, I hurry toward the stairs but turn back before I reach the first step. “You owe me ice cream, by the way.”

  Domenic’s face relaxes into a smile as a soft laugh rumbles from his throat. An answering grin touches my own lips just before I head upstairs to my room.

  Chapter 10

  Laying Foundations

  Certain of Corrine’s wrath if she discovers that little black dress is missing from the wardrobe closet, I arrive at the studio a full hour earlier than everyone else to make sure I put it away before she gets there. I also want to get a little more work done on my proofs from yesterday’s shoot at Trevi Fountain. Fortunately, Domenic has similar ideas and walks through the door about ten minutes after me.

  “I almost forgot about that,” he comments as he unlocks the closet for me.

  I bend a chiding look his way and carefully rehang the dress. “Maybe I should let you take the blame when Corrine gets here. This dress has to cost a few hundred dollars, at least.”

  He pinches the hem of the skirt and studies it. “Might be closer to a thousand.”

  “What?” I choke out. “You took me to dinner in a dress that costs a thousand dollars?”

  “And you looked stunning.” He lets the fabric drop and shuts the closet door. Then he turns and plucks at the side seam of my shirt, drawing it away from my body. “Back to no-nonsense today, I see.”

  The back of his hand brushes the bare skin on the inside of my elbow, drawing a shaky gasp from me. “No-nonsense makes the best sense behind the camera.”

  “The way you looked last night, you belonged in front of the camera for once.”

  Heat creeps up my neck and fills my cheeks. “Don’t start.”

  “Don’t start what?”

  “Saying stuff like that. Talking like you think I’m something special.”

  Frowning, Domenic lets go of my shirt. “You are something special, in more ways than one. Any evidence to the contrary is something you’ve made up in order to hide who you are. To protect yourself from getting hurt. I understand that.” He steps toward me, lifting both hands to gently tug a few strands of hair free from my ponytail. “Lucky for me, I see what lies beneath all of that.”

  The loose strands float down, tickling my ears and cheeks as they settle. I stare up at him, breath catching. “And what, exactly, do you think you see?”

  “You.” He rests one fingertip beneath my chin and, with the tiniest pressure, tilts my face up. “I see you.”

  All he’d have to do is stoop about three inches toward me, and our lips would meet. My breathing stops altogether. “You’re full of—”

  “I know. You mentioned that last night.” He lowers his hand but doesn’t step back. “What are you doing on Friday?”

  “Friday?” Why do I sound like a croaking frog?

  “Everybody’s got the day off.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I shake my head a little to clear the Domenic-induced fog from my brain. “I wanted to hit a few more attractions. We won’t be in Rome too much longer. We wrap in three weeks.”

  At last he moves away, hooking his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “Let me take you around, instead of doing the usual tourist routes with Lauren.”

  I cross my arms and glare at him, latching onto the last vestiges of my initial irritation with his arrogance. “Who says I want company to begin with?”

  His gaze darkens, his grin falling away. “I told you on the train from the airport not to go out sightseeing alone.”

  “No, you said to let somebody know when I planned to go out. Besides, I wo
rk in Atlanta. I’m not an idiot, and I know how big cities work.”

  “Kate,” he says, lowering his voice and moving toward me again. “I know you’re not an idiot, and I don’t mean to imply that you are. But if you go out on your own, you might as well wear a sandwich board stating that you’re an American tourist who’s—”

  “Okay, I get the drift. You’re right.” While part of me still rankles at the thought of being told to check in, a bigger part swells with flattery at his concern for my welfare.

  Domenic steps back, blinking as if stunned by my concession. “So you’ll wait and go with me.”

  “If you tell me—honestly—why you want to.”

  “That’s easy.” His grin is back in place. “Spending a beautiful day with a beautiful woman, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world? Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

  “You use the word beautiful too much.”

  The studio door opens at that precise moment, and the noisy tumble of the production crew files into the space. Domenic lets his grin, now filled with self-satisfaction, rest on me a few seconds longer. Then he breaks away to answer the questions launched his way by the gaggle of interns and digi techs.

  Domenic texts me on Thursday night, instructing me to meet him in the hotel lobby at seven the next morning and not to eat breakfast. My stomach growls the whole way down the stairs, but excitement over seeing Rome supersedes any irritation I might feel over getting up so early to do so. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see Domenic leaning against the wall, a brown paper bag in one hand and a to-go cup in the other.

  “Please tell me that’s coffee,” I say, coming to his side.