by Liz Fielding
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed any. I suppose we could put up some “found” ones?’
‘That’s probably a lot wiser than knocking on strangers’ doors when I barely speak a word of Italian,’ she agreed.
‘Not just wiser,’ he said, ‘it would be a whole lot safer. Do not, under any circumstances, do that on your own.’
‘You could come with me.’
‘Let’s stick with the posters. Can I leave you to take a look around the market without getting into any trouble while I take a photograph of the rat and run off a few posters? I’ll come and find you when they’re done.’
‘Trouble?’ she repeated, looking around at the bustling market. ‘What trouble?’
‘If you see anything with four legs, looking lost, walk away.’
* * *
Geli explored the market, using her phone to take pictures of the colourful stalls and sending them to her sisters. Proof that she’d arrived, was safe and doing what came naturally.
She tried out her Italian, exchanging greetings, asking prices, struggling with the answers until her ear began to tune in to the language of the street as opposed to the carefully enunciated Italian on her teach yourself Italian course.
Despite her intention to simply browse, she was unable to resist some second-hand clothes made from the most gorgeous material and was browsing a luscious selection of ribbon and beads on a stall selling trimmings when Dante found her.
The stallholder, a small, plump middle-aged woman so bundled up that only her face was showing, screamed with delight and flung her arms around him, kissing his cheeks and rattling off something in rapid Italian. Dante laughed and then turned to introduce her.
‘Livia, questa è la mia amica, Angelica. Angelica, this is Livia.’
Geli offered her hand. ‘Piacere, Livia.’
Her tentative Italian provoked a wide smile and another stream of unintelligible Italian as Livia closed both of her hands around the box of black beads she’d been looking at and indicated that she should put it in her bag.
‘I sorted out her traders’ licence a few months ago,’ Dante explained. ‘It’s her way of saying thank you.’
‘She should be thanking you.’
‘I don’t have a lot of use for beads and, since you are my friend, it would make her happy if you took them. You can buy something from her another day.’
‘Grazie mille, Livia,’ she said. ‘Will you tell her I love her stall, Dante, and that I’ll come back and buy from her very soon.’
He said something that earned her a huge smile then, after more hugs and kisses for both of them, Dante took the carrier she was holding and peered into it.
‘You changed you mind about window-shopping, I see?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got a job, rent-free accommodation for a month and a workshop that I’m paying for with my time. And now I’ve got some fabulous material to work with, just as soon as I unpack my sewing machine.’
‘Do you need more time?’ He looked around. ‘I believe there are still a few black things left—’ She jabbed her elbow in his ribs and he grinned. ‘I guess not.’ He took a sheaf of papers from the roomy pocket of his waxed jacket. ‘Shall we get this done?’
She took one and looked at the photograph Dante had taken of the kitten. ‘He’s quite presentable now that he’s clean and dry. Trovato... Found?’ He nodded. ‘Contattare Café Rosa. And the telephone number. Well, that’s direct and to the point. Uh-oh...’ She looked up as something wet landed on the paper and the colours of the ink began to run into one another as more snow began to fall. ‘If we put them out now they’ll be a soggy mess in no time,’ Geli said. ‘Have you got a laminator?’
‘No.’
‘Fortunately, I packed mine.’
* * *
While Dante, wrapped up against the weather, left on his mission to stick up the laminated posters of the lost kitten, Geli called her bank’s fraud office and passed on the crime number the Commissario had given her.
‘Okay?’ Lisa asked, handing her a long black apron.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve done everything I can.’ She tied the apron over her clothes and watched Lisa’s demonstration of the Gaggia and then produced, one after the other, a perfect espresso, latte and cappuccino.
Lisa, arms folded, watched her through narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve done this before.’
‘I was a student for four years. My sisters paid me for the work I did for them, but paints, material and professional sewing machines do not come cheap. Then, as now, I needed a job.’
‘Right, Little Miss Clever Clogs, you’ve got your first customer.’ She indicated a man standing at the counter. ‘Go get him.’
Geli took a deep breath. ‘Ciao, signor. Che cosa desidera?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Ciao, signora... Geli,’ he added, leaning closer to read the name tag that Lisa had pinned to her apron. ‘Il sono Marco.’
‘Ciao, Marco. Piacere. Che cosa desidera?’ she repeated.
‘Vorrei un espresso, per favore,’ he said. Then, having thanked her for it, ‘Che programme ha per stasera? Le va di andare a bere qualcosa?’
The words might not have been familiar, but the look, the tone certainly were and she turned to Lisa. ‘I think I’m being hit on. How do I say I’m washing my hair?’
‘He wants to know if you have any plans for tonight and, if not, can he buy you a drink. So good for business...’ she murmured.
‘Definitely washing my hair.’
Lisa gave him the bad news and he smiled ruefully, shrugged and drank his coffee.
‘What did you say?’
‘That you’re working tonight. Why?’ she asked, thoughtfully. ‘Have you changed your mind? He is rather cute.’
‘Very cute.’
‘Well, he knows where you’ll be tonight. Maybe he’ll come back.’
‘Does that mean I’ve passed the interview?’
‘When can you start?’
‘It had better be this evening, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want Marco to think I was lying.’
‘Heaven forbid. Come on, I’ll run you through the routine and then you’d better go and put your feet up. It tends to get busy on a Saturday night.’
Half an hour later, Geli said, ‘Can I make a hot chocolate to go? I’ll pay for it.’
‘There’s no need. Staff get fed and watered.’
‘It’s not for me. One of the stallholders I met this morning is a friend of Dante’s—’
‘They’re all his friends when they want something,’ she said, pulling a face.
‘Are they? Oh, well, anyway, she gave me some beads so I thought I’d take her a hot drink.’
‘That’s thoughtful, but it’s on the house,’ she said as Geli made the chocolate and poured it into a carry out cup with a lid. ‘You don’t know how grateful I am that you’re staying, Geli. I really didn’t want to leave Dante on his own.’
‘Hardly on his own. He seems to know everyone.’
‘Everyone knows him. They come to him for help because he’ll stand up for them, fight their corner against bureaucracy and lead their campaigns to save this place from the developers. They don’t care what it costs him. You’re different.’
Geli shrugged, not wanting to get into exactly how different it was. The situation was already awkward enough.
‘I mean it,’ Lisa said. ‘You’re the first woman he’s shown the slightest interest in for over a year and it hasn’t been for lack of attention from women wanting to comfort him. He was engaged—’
‘He told me what happened,’ she said, cutting Lisa off mid gossip.
‘You see? He never talks about that. I don’t suppose he told you that they were both punishing him for not doing what they wanted?’
‘Punishing him?’ Geli shook her head. ‘I... I imagined an affair.’
‘Nothing so warm-blooded.’ Lisa rubbed a cloth over the chrome. ‘It hit him very hard.’
So hard that he couldn’t envisage anothe
r relationship. That was why he’d told her. Not to forestall gossip, but so that she’d understand his reluctance to follow through on the obvious attraction. The classic ‘It’s not you, it’s me...’ defence.
‘I’m just saying...’ Lisa concentrated on polishing an invisible smudge. ‘I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.’
Really? A bit late to be worrying about that, Lisa...
Geli shook her head. ‘I’m not interested in commitment. My sisters have all that happy-ever-after stuff, baby thing well covered. I’m my mother’s child.’
She frowned. ‘Your mother?’
‘She didn’t believe in long-term relationships. My sisters and I all have different fathers. At least we assume we do, since we all look quite different.’
‘You don’t know your father?’
‘She used sperm donors.’ It was her standard response to anyone interested enough to ask. Spilling out the truth to Dante had been a rare exposure. But then everything about Dante was rare. ‘So much less bother, don’t you think?’
‘Um...’ She’d rendered Lisa speechless? That had to be a first... ‘Okay. Well, I suggest you come down at seven, while it’s still quiet, and you can shadow Matteo. He’ll look after you until you get the hang of things. Hold on...’ She reached behind her. ‘Take the menu to familiarise yourself with it.’ She wrote something on the bottom. ‘And that should deal with anyone pestering you for a date, although a shrug and non capisco will get you out of most situations.’
‘Like this?’ She shrugged and, putting on a breathy Italian accent, said, ‘Non capisco.’
Lisa grinned. ‘Say it like that and I refuse to be responsible!’
* * *
Saturday night at Café Rosa was non-stop service of food and drink to the accompaniment of the jazz quartet from the night before. Everyone was very patient with her and Matteo caught any potential disasters before they happened. She had a couple more offers of a drink and dinner, which she managed to dodge without incident, although once Lisa was away there was no need to pretend that she and Dante might become an item—
‘Geli...’ She turned to find Lisa holding a tray loaded with coffee, water and a panino.
‘You can take your break now. Will you give this to Dan on your way upstairs? And remind him that it’s Saturday night. All work and no play...’ She looked around. ‘We seem to be between rushes at the moment. Take your time.’
* * *
Dante heard Angelica coming—it was disconcerting how quickly he’d come to recognise her quick, light step—but he didn’t look up as she opened the door. If she saw he was busy she might not stop. His head might be telling him not to get involved, but his body wasn’t listening and he needed to keep his distance.
‘Lisa sent you some supper,’ she said, placing it on the table behind his desk.
Of course she had. Any excuse that would throw them together...
He grunted an acknowledgement and continued to pound away at the keyboard.
‘It’s not good for you, you know.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Eating while you work.’ Angelica backed up and propped herself on the edge of his desk. ‘You’ll get indigestion, heartburn and stomach ulcers.’
Nothing compared with what her bottom, inches from his hand, was doing to him. ‘Haven’t you got a café full of customers?’
‘I’m on my break.’ He continued typing, although it was unlikely he was making any sense. ‘Lisa expects me to sit on your knee and ruffle your hair while I tell you about all the men who’ve hit on me this evening.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘Not in so many words, but she told me to remind you that all work and no play makes Dante very dull. And she told me to take my time. Of course, it could be that I’m so useless she’s desperate to get me out of the way for half an hour.’
‘Are you useless?’
‘Not totally.’
No. He’d heard all about her virtuoso performance on the Gaggia from a very smug Lisa.
He stopped pretending to work and looked up. She’d swathed herself in one of the Café Rosa’s long black aprons and her hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon. She looked cool and efficient but that full crimson mouth would turn heads at fifty paces.
‘How many men?’ he asked.
‘Let’s see. There was Roberto.’ She held up her hand, fingers spread wide and ticked him off on a finger. ‘Dark hair, blue eyes, leather biker jacket. “Andiamo in un posto più tranquillo...”’ she said in a low, sexy voice.
‘I’d advise against going anywhere with him, noisy or quiet.’
‘He’s bad?’
‘His wife is away, looking after her sick mother.’
‘What a jerk,’ she said, using a very Italian gesture to dismiss him. ‘What about Leo? He wanted to “friend” me on Facebook. Was that a euphemism for something else, do you think?’
‘That you’re thinking it suggests you already know.’
‘Men! All they want is sex. Doesn’t anyone ask a girl out on a proper date any more?’
‘A proper date?’ he asked.
‘The kind where a man picks a girl up from her home, takes her to the movies, buys her popcorn and they hold hands in the dark—’
‘Was that it?’ He cut her off, trying not to think about Angelica in the dark with some man who might be holding her hand in the cinema but would have his mind on where else he was going to hold her when he got her home.
‘What? Oh, no. Gennaro was very sweet, but I’m not looking for a father figure, and Nic, the guy who plays the saxophone, said “Ti amo...” in the most affecting way, but I think that was because I’d just taken him a beer.’
‘That’ll do it every time for Nic; even so, that’s quite a fan club you’ve got there. Are any of them going to get lucky?’
‘With Lisa keeping a close eye on me? She’s doing a great job of protecting your interests.’
‘She doesn’t trust my personal charm to hold you in thrall?’
‘I’m down there and you’re up here working.’ She lifted her shoulders, sketching a shrug. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ She blew away a wisp of hair that had escaped its tie. ‘Did I mention Marco? He came in this afternoon when Lisa was showing me the ropes. I made him an espresso. He’s downstairs now...’ She stopped. ‘You don’t want to hear this when you’re so obviously busy. I hadn’t realised running a bar involved so much bureaucracy.’
‘There’s enough to keep me fully occupied, but I’m working on a development plan for Isola. One that doesn’t involve pulling down historic streets,’ he added.
‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s seriously important work and I’m disturbing you.’
Without a doubt...
‘Don’t forget your supper,’ she said, rubbing the tip of her thumb across her lower lip. ‘Is my lipstick convincingly smudged, do you think?’ As she leaned forward so that he could give her his opinion, the top of her apron gaped to offer a glimpse of black lace beneath the scoop top of the black T-shirt she was wearing. It was clinging to soft white breasts and if that was the view that customers were getting as she served them it was hardly any wonder that she was getting hit on. ‘Maybe I should muss up my hair a bit?’
‘You want Lisa to think that we’ve been making out over my desk?’
‘I’m doing my best to convince her that we’re struggling to keep our hands off each other. Without a lot of help, I might add—’
As she reached up to tease out a strand, he caught her wrist.
‘You want your hair mussed?’ he asked, his voice sounding strange, as if he’d never heard it before.
She said nothing, but the tip of her tongue appeared briefly against softly parted lips, her pupils widened, black as her hair, swallowing up the silver-grey of her eyes and the catch in her breath was answered by his body’s clamour to touch her, take her.
For a moment neither of them moved then he released her wrist, reached for the ribbon holding her hair and, as he
tugged it loose, the silken mass fell forward, brushing against his face, enveloping him in the intimacy of its scent as she slid into his lap.
His fingers slipped through it as he cradled her head, angling his mouth to tease her lips open and, as he brushed against the sensitive nerve endings at her nape, a tiny moan—more vibration than sound—escaped her lips, her body softened against him and his tongue was swathed in hot sweet satin.
With one hand tangled in her hair, the other sought out the gap between her T-shirt and the black ankle-length skirt that hid her fabulous legs, sliding over satin skin to cradle her lace-covered breast, touch her candy-hard nipple.
She wanted this, he wanted it and he was a fool not to taste her, touch her, bury himself deep inside her—over his desk, on the floor, in his bed. It had nothing to do with emotion, feelings; this was raw, physical need.
It was just sex—
The four words slammed through his body like an ice storm. Colder than the snow-covered Dolomites.
‘It was just sex...’
The last words Valentina had said to him.
‘Okay, that should do it,’ he said, lifting her from his lap and setting her on her feet before swinging his chair back to face his laptop. ‘If that’s all, I want this on the Minister’s desk first thing on Monday.’
She didn’t move but he didn’t have to look to know that her hair was loose about her shoulders, her swollen lips open in a shocked O, her expression that of a kicked puppy. The image was imprinted indelibly on his brain.
He didn’t expect or wait for an answer but began pounding on the keyboard as if nothing had happened while she backed out of the room, then turned and ran up the stairs. Kept pounding until he heard the door bang shut on the floor above and his fingers froze above the keyboard.
He stared at the screen, the cursor blinking an invitation to delete the rubbish he’d just written. Instead, he slumped back in the chair, dragging his hands over his face, rubbing hard to eradicate every trace of Angelica Amery. It didn’t work. The scent of her skin, her hair was on his hands, in his lungs and, as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth in an attempt to eradicate the honeyed taste of her lips, it came away bearing traces of crimson lipstick.