When in Rome (A Heart of the City Romance Book 4)

by C.J Duggan

  ‘Get on!’ The helmet was thrust into my chest and I juggled the black, shiny dome, watching on with an open mouth as Marcello made his way back to his Vespa. I swallowed, seeing the determination in his stride as he slid onto his bike, placing on his own helmet.

  Maria giggled. ‘I don’t think waiting for the bus is going to be necessary.’

  I gripped the helmet. ‘Is he always like this?’

  Maria shrugged. ‘That’s Marcello.’

  I turned away from his angry eyes, lowering my voice. ‘Maria, how is Marcello associated with the group?’

  Maria sighed. ‘It’s complicated.’

  Her answer gave me absolutely no confidence; I was about to climb onto the back of a tiny death trap with this man. Maria led me over to the Vespa; it felt like a funeral procession, or a walk to the gallows. I would have sooner taken my chances with possible heatstroke and dehydration than be forced to wrap my arms around Marcello.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t told Sammi what a terrible person I am,’ Maria quipped as Marcello fastened the strap at his chin.

  ‘I am not convinced you are,’ he said, gripping the handles and looking at her with interest.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ she said.

  Marcello shook his head. ‘So you still haven’t made up your mind.’

  ‘I told you I would think about it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m still thinking,’ she snapped.

  ‘And then what? Tomorrow you are gone and again … nothing.’

  Their words were heated and my attention snapped between them like a tennis match. Was this a lovers’ quarrel? What was she equivocating about? Whatever it was, it clearly burned Marcello’s blood. If he looked unhappy before, he looked near on homicidal now.

  ‘Just give me time, and when we come back, who knows?’

  Marcello scoffed. ‘That’s what you said last time, and the time before that.’

  Marcello started the Vespa. Though I didn’t know much about them, I could tell that he had started it rather violently, and not how you were supposed to do it. I didn’t know if it was my eagerness to leave this awkward conversation behind, but I clipped on my helmet and jumped on the back of Marcello’s Vespa so quickly that I barely had enough time to secure my arms around his ribs before he peeled away from Maria and sped into the fray of death-defying traffic.

  Oh, God, what had I done? I had climbed on the back of a Vespa with a madman, quite literally.

  I had heard that the best way to see Rome, in fact the only way to see Rome, was on a Vespa, but with my eyes firmly closed and my koala-like grip around Marcello I wasn’t going to see anything. All I could do was feel and hear the sensations that would only amplify my terror if I opened my eyes.

  ‘Can’t breathe!’ Marcello laughed, yelling above the soaring sounds of traffic and chaos. Only then did I open my eyes a little.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I shouted, loosening the tiniest amount but still clinging firmly.

  Marcello peered back at me, and maybe it was the distance he had put between him and Maria or the wind in his face and the sunshine on our shoulders, or maybe it was just this particular angle, but his dimples were back, and his bright white smile flashed as he glanced at me.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he said, and I could feel the vibration of his laughter in my chest.

  ‘Just watch what you’re doing,’ I yelled, gripping tighter once more as he expertly veered around a honking car.

  ‘Well, stop distracting me,’ he said, veering down a side street. The buzzing of the motor echoing off the curved buildings and my head turned upwards as the coloured flags of strung-up washing whizzed by. We sped along places and paths that no bus could possibly go, and I don’t know if it was exactly the shortest route back to Hotel Luce del Sole, but it certainly was the most distracting. In a good way. I felt the cool wind at my cheeks, and any sickness I had felt was replaced by a new energy, a thrill in the pit of my stomach and the safety I felt whenever I was with Marcello. It was something I pushed to the back of my mind, even as I found myself resting my chin on his shoulder, my body melting into his. I didn’t know if he could tell from the change in my posture, but Marcello glanced back at me again, fleetingly. There was no missing the lightness in his eyes, the flash of something shared; he looked, dare I say it, happy, and it was the kind of look that could fill you with warmth better than any sunshine could. I didn’t want it to be over, I wanted him to keep driving long past Hotel Luce del Sole; I didn’t care if we never made it. With the promise in Marcello’s face in stark contrast to the reality of what awaited me at my hotel, I hoped that my telepathic pleas to Marcello would work.

  Please, keep going, just a little longer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had helmet hair, my cheeks were flushed, and I clung on to Marcello far too long; he literally had to peel my hands off his waist. As he helped me from the back of the Vespa my legs felt like jelly, the vibrations still running through my body. The last thing I felt I needed now was to lie down and sleep; I felt alive and Marcello knew it, smirking as he took my helmet from me.

  ‘What?’ I tried to look serious but was never any good at having a poker face.

  ‘See? That wasn’t so bad.’

  I shrugged. ‘I could just as easily have waited for the bus.’

  And there it was, Marcello’s broad, brilliant smile as he locked the helmet into the back storage compartment, an action that made me kind of sad because it meant that our joyride was over.

  Like everything with us, the moment of lightheartedness was fleeting and an awkward silence fell when he turned to me, looking at me as if waiting for direction. The idea that I was the one who should know what to say or do was utterly ridiculous; I struggled to ‘adult’ at the best of times, let alone in matters of the heart. There were a thousand questions brewing inside my head, most of which began with ‘So, about last night …’

  Did he regret it? Was it just one of those things fuelled by music, alcohol, hormones and a near-death experience? Or should we blame it on Rome? I imagined his potential responses: he was bored, he always hooked up with Maria’s tour groups, he was trying to make Maria jealous …

  Maria. My mind wandered into the myriad of questions about what exactly was going on between the two of them.

  ‘I told you I would think about it,’ she had said, and he’d been angry about it. Maria had said it was complicated, but what kind of complicated, and why did the very thought of it make my insides twist? Was this why he didn’t want anyone to see us together last night? I wanted to ask all these questions, even though I was afraid of the answers. I needed to know if Marcello was the bad guy—or, even worse, was I? Was I unwittingly involved in some kind of Roman love triangle? Oh, wouldn’t Jodie just love that, the dull, mousey girl of the group who can’t hold her liquor embroiled in some tawdry love affair.

  I looked at him closely; while obviously telepathy wasn’t our thing, there was something in his expression that said, ‘Ask me, go on.’ But then I caught myself. It wasn’t the first time I had imagined something; why should this be any different? I wondered if he could read the multitude of conflicting emotions in my face. Would he see, ‘Who are you, and what’s your story?’, ‘How dare you pash and dash last night!’ or ‘I really want to kiss you again—want to come up?’ I cleared my throat and looked away, hoping he wasn’t that perceptive.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for the ride,’ I said, stepping away from the Vespa and dodging the pedestrians in our narrow street.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked, genuinely concerned.

  Confused.

  ‘Yeah, much better. I think if I have a lie-down I’ll be right.’

  A flash of Marcello on top of me, naked and between my thighs, smiling down at me in a twist of sheets and a creaking bunk bed, caused me to blink rapidly in an effort to clear the image away.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he asked, not entirely convinced.

  P
lease, God, don’t let him be able to read minds.

  I swallowed. ‘Of course.’

  We stood there a moment longer. Was this it? Was this to be how my last day in Rome ended? Would this be the last time I saw Marcello? Why, WHY didn’t I throw that bloody coin into the fountain? I had a vision of Jodie doing that very thing, and if that idiot secured herself a ticket back here then the world really was an unjust place.

  I breathed out a laugh.

  ‘What?’

  I shook my head. ‘I am officially the worst tourist.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You have seen some things … done some things,’ he said, a little curve to his mouth.

  Was he flirting with me?

  ‘I have,’ I admitted.

  Marcello’s lip tucked in under his teeth; he chewed thoughtfully as he seemed to weigh up the next question. He looked down, then asked, ‘Any regrets?’

  Whoa, there was a loaded question.

  I stared at him for a long time, so long that he eventually lifted his eyes to meet mine. Of course I had regrets: the coin tossing, the binge drinking, the stopping at a kiss and not giving myself something more to remember from that heated night. But I couldn’t voice any of that, and a simple ‘yes’ would leave him guessing in far too cruel a way, though a part of me wished I could. I imagined walking away with a hair flick, without a backwards glance. That’s what Jodie would have done, but I wasn’t that cool—or that mean—and I was okay with that.

  ‘Well, in the immortal words of my travel agent …’ I held out my hand to shake, unsure what else to do. Ugh, what are you doing?

  Marcello’s brow curved slowly, taking my hand into his with interest. ‘Yes?’

  I shook his hand as if finalising a business deal, and it felt all kinds of wrong. ‘No regrets,’ I said, then dropped his hand, deciding this would be my grand exit. It wasn’t exactly the microphone drop I had wanted; it wasn’t a departure any red-blooded male would remember a woman for. If anything, turning away and heading through the doorway of the hotel, I could just imagine the look of utter confusion spread across Marcello’s face. With every step up to my thankfully vacant dorm room, I cursed Jan Buzzo for sending me on this trip, and myself for being so goddamn awkward.

  Chapter Twenty

  I shook his hand? I shook his fucking hand!

  Marcello’s last memory of me could so easily have been of me pressing him up against the wall, my tongue in his mouth. But no, instead it would be a handshake. I pulled the pillow over my face to muffle the groans of despair, until I remembered I didn’t know where that pillow had been. I cringed and threw it away.

  I sighed, fidgeting on my top bunk and linking my hands behind my head for support. Come on, Sammi, go to sleep. That’s why you left the tour, to rest and replenish. Make it count. If I wasn’t going to be getting my money’s worth exploring the Vatican’s treasures, I could at least prep myself for what was to come. Pompeii, the Amalfi Coast, Florence, Venice! There was so much to discover in this stunning country. Besides, technically today wasn’t the last I would see of this place, as the tour would bring us back here to fly home. As I opened my eyes to stare at the now-familiar brown water stain on the ceiling above me, it occurred to me that I really shouldn’t be in any hurry to come back here. What did I expect, that Marcello would be waiting at the bar downstairs, champagne and roses in hand, ready to ride off into the sunset with me on his Vespa? That kind of thing only happened to my sister. My eyes flashed open again, this time with purpose.

  Claire!

  If anyone made me feel less chaotic about my own existence it was my sister. She was often stressed and unpredictable but it was more to do with décor colours and reservations for dinner. It was the kind of chaotic life she now thrived in since being with her Parisian celebrity chef boyfriend Louis, by far the most exciting and exotic thing to happen to the Shorten family. Maybe a chat with my sister would help calm my addled brain, and I could finally get some shut-eye.

  I got out of bed and walked down to the hotel kiosk to send Claire an email. The kiosk, or ‘business centre’, was littered with scrunched-up pieces of paper, an overflowing wastepaper basket and the remnants of coffee cup rings around the grimy keyboard. The large, box-shaped computer screen that sat on a flaky, rickety old desk looked like it was a thousand years old, perhaps one of Rome’s most ancient relics even. I took the liberty of dragging over a chair that was missing from the desk, making myself comfortable and waiting for the painfully slow dial-up to connect me to civilisation.

  I had emailed Claire about my travel plans when I’d first booked my trip, giddy and terrified about what lay ahead, but I’d not yet had a response. Logging into my Gmail, I wished for a message from her about a surprise meet-up in Venice, or a girls’ weekend in Tuscany. But she and Louis were always busy—always doing something fabulous—so it came as little surprise that my inbox was empty, aside from the usual spammy twenty-percent-off sales from Dotti and Jeans West. There was, however, a response from my dad, who was far more computer-savvy than Mum. I had told them of my free day spent sitting on the Spanish Steps, seeing the Trevi Fountain and lunching outside the Pantheon—had even included a couple of snapshots—careful to paint the perfect picture of the globetrotting daughter. I left out the small detail of dry-humping my gorgeous Roman tour guide; there were some things better left unsaid.

  Dad’s message read.

  Looks great! Miss you heaps, the cupboard has never been so full. Have fun, be safe, love you. Mum and Dad X

  I could totally see Dad typing a reply with one finger at a time, squinting up at the screen, while in the background Mum yelled out instructions that Dad would choose to ignore. It may not have been a full-page spread like Claire would have written me, but it was typically Dad, giving all the important directives, as well as a Dad joke, which is always a bonus.

  Dearest Parentals,

  Can’t wait to smash that cupboard if I ever come back home. Loving Rome! Made lots of nice friends, who are all God-worshipping, law-abiding citizens of the world. Having an early night for Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast tomorrow! Will send some more snaps!

  Love you, miss you.

  Ciao Sammi xx

  I read over my lies and hit send, then clicked on ‘compose new email’. I started hitting the keyboard furiously.

  Claire-Bear,

  I HATE ROME!

  Okay, so that sounds a little harsh, but seriously. I am staying at an utter dive!!!

  I stopped typing and glanced around; what if the hotel monitored emails? Could they have some kind of keyword alert? I took a moment’s pause, then shrugged and kept typing—maybe they would learn a thing or two.

  Hotel Luce del Sole apparently translates to Hotel Sunshine! But trust me, there is no sunshine here; instead, I am being housed in cattle-class accommodation with a group of binge-drinking lunatics, led by Jodie bitch-face, whose personality resembles that blonde child from Lord of the Flies but with less charm.

  Everyone is out enjoying the Vatican and I am here in the hotel kiosk, sunburnt, hungover and all alone.

  I read over my email. I’ve got to say, I found myself kind of annoying. Although it was factually true, I was nevertheless, what was the word …

  ‘You total BITCH!’

  Holy shit.

  I spun around in my chair so fast that I knocked my knee on the desk. ‘Jodie!’

  What the hell was this all about?

  ‘Yeah, old bitch-face was forced by Maria to come check on you.’

  Oh, my God, had she read everything?

  I was tempted to point out that it wasn’t polite to read over some one’s shoulder, but the way she was looking at me right now—as if she wanted to rip me in half—made me think better of it.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  She scoffed. ‘So I see—looks like there is nothing wrong with you.’

  I swallowed; if only she knew how ill I felt right now. ‘Where are …’

  ‘Oh, the b
inge-drinking lunatics? They’ll be back later,’ she said, moving to exit the small alcove of the kiosk.

  ‘Jodie, wait!’ I leapt after her, pulling at her arm, but she violently pulled herself away from my grasp.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just sending a frustrated email to my sister. I was just blowing off some steam.’

  ‘How about you do everyone a favour and just go home? We’re obviously not good enough for you, so why would you want to lower your standards?’

  ‘I never said I was too good.’

  ‘You don’t have to; when you don’t hang out with anyone aside from the Italian Stallion, it’s bleedingly obvious that you would rather be anywhere else.’

  My mind shifted back to my email. Italian Stallion—had I typed that in my email too? No, no, I would never have said that, though that probably wasn’t the most important issue at hand.

  ‘Jodie, please don’t say anything to the others. I’ve just had a bad few days. I’ve never been overseas before and I’m trying to fit in; it’s not something that comes easily to me.’

  I hoped my earnest words would make her feel at least a little empathetic, but any time I thought back to ‘bitch-face’ I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Jodie stared me down, her fisted hands at her side. I almost would have preferred she hit me, get it over and done with, rather than the threats and mind games she no doubt had in store for the rest of the tour.

  I then said what I thought might help my case—so she would know that I had no intentions of getting involved, that it really wasn’t any of my business. ‘Jodie, I never said anything to Johnny about you and Gary.’

  I knew it was a catastrophic mistake the moment the words left my mouth. Fire flashed in her eyes and she stepped forward, into my face. ‘Don’t you dare threaten me!’

  ‘What? I wasn’t …’

  ‘You think you can blackmail me?’