by Leigh Tudor
The Amalfi Coast
Two years ago
The swap of the 1932 Picasso with Mara’s near-perfect dupe was nearing completion. She couldn’t wait to finally exhale, sleep forty-eight hours straight, and hopefully hit a gelato store before leaving Italy.
The Picasso turned out to be a bitch of a project. She had always found the Cubism style of art quite difficult to replicate, as the artist had to capture the swashbuckling effortless style expressed on the original.
This particular Picasso certainly proved her point, as she had labored over the high-resolution photos taken by Ava, researching the piece and trying to imagine what the Spanish artist used to create certain effects. Her frustration level reached an all-time high when an orderly made the untimely mistake of entering the art studio with her lunch and left covered in sand, sawdust, and cerulean blue enamel house paint.
Picasso was nothing if not eccentric in the materials he used.
In her altered mind, there was a reason she was a hack as opposed to a world-renowned artist such as Pablo Picasso. His strength of composition and mastery of line were so unique they made her paltry efforts look rudimentary and labored.
But after hundreds of attempts and migraines that made her weak and at the same time want to throw things, she managed to create an imitation that would require a magnifying glass as well as a doctorate in art history to identify its inconsistencies as compared to the original.
The private Italian villa that housed the artwork in question sat along a remote strip of the Amalfi coast, hidden between towering rocks and lush vegetation overlooking Arienzo Beach.
The exchange was ridiculously easy, despite the smattering of security guards. Luckily, the heavily armed men seemed more interested in discussing last night’s card game than protecting the priceless masterpiece as Ava and Mara easily disabled the alarm wires and slipped inside a French door leading into the kitchen.
And there it was, the Picasso depicting his well-known lover at the time, sitting in plain sight on the living room wall above the stucco fireplace. The same place where Ava had found it when she broke in several months ago and took the high res photos.
Paolo, the in-country contact they had yet to meet in person, had provided up-to-date logistics on the homeowner's ETA, which she and Ava followed to the letter with only a few minutes to spare.
They worked quickly, and in little time, Mara was riding behind Ava on the back of their rented scooter. Her arms clutching the linen-wrapped artwork worth an estimated tens of millions of dollars.
And now that the job was nearly complete, they waited in the dark of night to make the exchange at the end of what looked to be a medieval stone bridge.
Within seconds of their arranged meeting time, a vintage Alfa Romeo Spider pulled up. Mercy’s throat went dry as a tall drink of water emerged from the driver’s seat wearing an expensive-looking stark white linen shirt and dark slacks. The wind languidly pushed the shirt against his torso and teased his thick dark hair.
Mara heard sexy music in her head along with a view nothing short of a slo-mo porn scene. Similar to the one she had happened upon between jobs in Milan while staying in an equally seedy motel.
With the more dangerous elements of the heist behind them, any sane person would be kicked back, smoking a virtual clove cigarette and noshing on a charcuterie tray in their mind.
Instead, having laid eyes on their criminal contact, Mara found herself suffering from multiple emotional stress personalities (not a real thing). And beside herself with extremity-numbing lust.
She mentally smacked herself in the face with the stone-cold reality that the man was a thief.
That’s right, a thief and very possibly her future husband and father of their half dozen dark-headed, doe-eyed Italian babies.
But let’s be honest, she was a thief as well. Then again, maybe he had a reason for living a life of crime? Let’s face it, she did.
Steal or lose everything she loved.
Simple extortion.
Her Prince Charming had yet to speak, but it didn’t matter. She was completely and instantly infatuated . . . and practically engaged.
“Paolo,” Ava said, “this is Mara Shriver, my assigned partner for this mission.”
Mara shook his hand, ignoring the name-game Ava played as he murmured with unleashed charm and a deep Italian accent, “A pleasure to meet you, Mara.” And then he did that thing she’d only read about where he wetted his bottom lip with his tongue.
Annddd . . . she was love-drunk.
She swallowed her heart until she could feel it beating relentlessly against her rib cage. The man personified everything romantic and mysterious as he was lithe and handsome with hair the color of midnight and eyes that swam with dark promises and guaranteed satisfaction.
Oh, and stubble. A smattering of whiskers she desperately needed to feel against her cheeks, not to mention other more delicate areas of her body.
Ava handed the covered canvas to Paolo, aka sex on a stick. He pulled back the linen cover and smiled and then leaned it against a nearby tree as if it held no more value than a paint by number. Pulling out his phone, he began to write a text stating he was in possession of the piece and to initiate the wire transfer.
Mara noticed the Rolex Cosmograph on his wrist and the dark hair covering his veined forearms.
Slowly becoming sentient and aware that Ava had watched her hormonal upheaval with silent criticism, Mara gave her an eye roll along with a look that said, Chill out, Grandma.
Ava responded with wide eyes and a snarky look that said, Then stop drooling like a cartoon dog eyeing a mirage.
But she just couldn’t help herself as she stared at his long fingers pressing out the covert message.
Barely a minute passed before he looked up at Ava with a nod. “Bonifico bancario e completo.”
Wire transfer complete.
Ava pulled out her phone, glanced at Paolo, and then gave a narrower, more threatening one to Mara as she stepped aside to make the private call to Halstead.
Tongue-tied and riddled with lust, Mara jammed her hands into her pockets and did her very best to come off as mature, bored, and unaffected.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he said with a knowing smirk.
She gave him a side-eye and dipped her chin, suddenly finding her lace-up black boots quite fascinating. “Grazie.”
“Tu parli italiano?”
“Solo un po.” Just a little. She shrugged and then bit the corner of her lip.
“There is rumor that a lovely woman painted the piece that now graces the wall of the villa.”
Without thinking, Mara divulged the truth with a shy smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” she lied, knowing he knew she lied and was said woman.
She turned toward Ava, who appeared to be speaking with Dr. Halstead, waiting on confirmation.
“Let us meet later for a celebratory drink, yes?”
Oh my, yes.
She wanted to drink with him, make out with him, and procreate with him.
But nerves and a truckload of doubt gnawed at her insides.
Ava would be furious.
They had strict instructions to never, under any circumstances, deviate from the agreed-upon plan.
And the last time she checked; a post-midnight tryst wasn’t on the documented project schedule.
She shook her head. “I . . . I can’t.”
“I will pick you up outside your hotel, no?” he continued, moving an inch closer and making her nether region damp with a mixture of anxiety and straight-up lust.
How humiliating. She’d have to change her underwear when she got back to the room.
“It will be an innocent celebration. I want nothing more than to learn about the beautiful woman who paints the stars.”
“It’s two in the morning,” she reasoned, praying he’d reason back with her. “What bar is open at this hour?”
“Tell me where to meet you, and I will bring a bottle
of wine, and we will sit near the water and toast a great day.” He turned his head toward the canvas sitting against the tree. “You have returned a family heirloom. The evil man who stole it will be punished, but first, we needed to bring the nostalgic piece home. Allow me to thank you properly.”
“May . . . I see it?” she asked, dying to get a glimpse of the original firsthand as she had worked so very hard to replicate it, but then she was also dying to run her fingers through his thick unruly hair and curl up in the crook of his neck.
He merely grinned before reaching down to uncover the canvas and lift it to the moonlight.
She stood beside him in awe, feeling a small part of validation. Her imitation was very close to the original, although she could see areas where she had fallen short, and for her, they were glaring transgressions.
Regardless, she gave herself kudos for what she did well and learned from those areas of the piece where she could have done better.
She breathed in the surrealist elements which so lovingly depicted the artist’s forbidden love affair with Marie-Therese Walter. One of a series of paintings, most of them with vibrant blue and lilac spanning more than five feet tall.
This piece was much smaller and more obscure. Many believing its existence to be folklore rather than a true living piece of art. A family heirloom heartlessly stolen and overtly sitting on a living room wall off the Amalfi coast.
“You smile as if you know this piece . . . intimately.”
Goading her for information.
“Maybe,” she said with a wry grin, attempting to dampen her pride in creating anything remotely close.
“You must tell me everything. Anyone who possesses such beauty and can create such beauty must be a very special woman.”
Woman.
He. Called. Her. A. Wo-man.
Not once, but . . . well, several times.
At eighteen, no one had referred to her as someone with even a modicum of maturity or gravitas. Ava treated her like she was still fourteen years old, sharing those stupid Little House on the Prairie books with her when she should be pawning them off on twelve-year-old Charlotte.
Woman.
The simple word seemed almost magical as it reverberated in her head.
All she wanted at that moment was to hear more about how womanly she was from this man’s gorgeous lips.
Mara flinched, and her blood pressure spiked as she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.
“We’re good, Paolo,” Ava said, implying the wire transfer had successfully landed into Halstead’s offshore account.
In a state of panic and afraid of losing this singular opportunity, Mara whispered, “Where?”
He leaned into her, and she thought she’d swoon from the scent of sandalwood and testosterone. “Meet me outside the Church of Santa Maria Assunta in an hour.”
His eyes shown with something like hard-won satisfaction as he looked over her shoulder toward Ava while covering the canvas with the protective cloth.
“We are finished here, no?” His eyes lingered on hers and then to Ava.
Ava pocketed her phone. “We are.”
This was crazy. And stupid. And probably the most irresponsible and utterly exciting thing Mara had ever done in her life.
Once she and Ava arrived at the hotel, Mara yawned theatrically and told her sister she was exhausted and not to wake her until the van came to take them to the airport at noon.
“But I thought we’d check out some Italian TV drama together?” Ava said with a pout. “Maybe watch a little Il commissario Montalbano.”
“Okay, that was a terrible Italian accent. And why is it you bug me about reading saccharine, old-timey stories like Little House on the Prairie, but you’re okay with me watching a show about dark, gruesome crime-solving in Sicily? Might I remind you that many people would call us the bad guys, aka criminals?”
“Little House on the Prairie happens to be a classic—”
Mara interrupted, “And Laura Ingalls was a woman before her time.” She’d only heard these pronouncements from her older sister like eleventy-billion times.
Ava finished with her index finger in the air. “But we are not criminals.”
“Under what country’s definition and jurisdiction would we not be criminals?”
“None. But the point is we have no choice in the matter. We are extorted slave labor.”
“Yeah, tell that to Il commissario Montalbano.”
Ava threw a pillow at her, and she ducked. “Going to bed now.” She wiggled her fingers. “Night night.”
Forty-five minutes later, she opened the door and spied Ava asleep on the sofa, her prone body illuminated by the television screen. She slipped out of the room and now stood in the courtyard of the Church of Santa Maria Assunta. She stared up at the colorful majolica-tiled dome, wishing she could see the beautiful artwork inside and choosing to believe it wasn’t a coincidence Paolo would choose Positano’s most popular wedding venue as their meeting location.
What a wonderful story they would tell their future children, with spins on certain amorous details, of course.
And then she spied him, walking up the steps to the courtyard and striding toward her as she stood next to the bell tower.
“Bellisima,” he said and kissed both of her cheeks just like the gentlemanly criminal she knew him to be.
“Are you talking about me or this beautiful work of art?” She gestured toward the church.
“You, of course. But would you like to see inside?” he asked.
“Um . . .” she said, knowing it was closed for the evening or morning as it was well past midnight. “Can we?”
“Of course, that is why I suggested we meet here. Because it is beautiful, and I have a key.” He held it up, and she grinned and did that girly ecstatic hand clap thingy she swore she would never do, especially in front of the man of her dreams.
Smiling at her exuberance, he grabbed her hand and led her to the side of the church steps through an obscure alley and for a moment, she questioned her sanity at meeting a complete stranger, well criminal acquaintance, and allowing him to lead her around while she was unarmed.
But then how could she explain herself when they began to make out, and while feeling her up, he came across her Sig Sauer P320?
Kind of a mood chaser.
Despite her inner cautionary voice reverberating like a set of drums in her head, he reached a small side door with flashing red warning lights and easily opened it with his magic key. She swooned at his command of the key, wondering what other things he commandeered inside those magical pants, um, pockets.
“Come,” he said, leading her into the interior. She stumbled, and he caught her by the elbow, and then he quickly strode to a side aisle and lit a candle.
As the candle illuminated her surroundings, Mara stood transfixed. The abbey consisted of a nave and two aisles with five arches. She slowly approached the high altar, which housed the wooden statue of Our Lady with the Infant Christ.
Paolo followed dutifully behind her until she made her way to the altar of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, with a beautiful painting from the Chartreuse of Serra San Bruno in Calabria.
She turned toward Paolo with genuine gratitude. “This is so much more beautiful in person than in pictures.”
“It brings me much happiness to see you happy.”
He pointed toward a stairwell. “Shall we transcend the steps? I want to show you a beautiful view of the city of Positano.”
She followed him up a winding staircase, thinking she needed to work out harder on leg training day, and became surprised and enchanted to find herself at the very top of the dome overlooking the city and the blue waves of the Mediterranean Sea.
It was a small room with equally small windows, but the view was breathtaking. The space was clearly set up for gazing as it was surrounded by a circular bench covered with brightly colored tufted pillows.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” Paolo asked, inching closer t
o her, his chest barely touching her back as she overlooked the sea. His breath tickled her neck as his lips lightly landed just beneath her ear.
She heard moaning and realized she was the one making the greedy sound. Begging for more. His lips made their way downward until she became so weak-kneed, she had to reach out with both hands and lean onto the stone surrounding the window.
She turned her face toward him, hoping the movement would translate into her very first kiss. Because him kissing her neck didn’t count. She wanted the real deal. Dirty filthy kissing on the mouth with tongue and everything.
To her disappointment, he moved away and lounged on the pillows, resting his arms on the tops. “Take off your clothes, mi bellissima.”
She froze, unsure how to respond to his demand. She was jonesing for her first kiss, and he was telling her to strip.
His dark eyes were full of desire. “I beg of you, Mara, it is all I have thought about since seeing you for the first time today. I want to see if the skin on your body is as golden-hued and radiant as your face.”
“Would you just take my word for it?”
He chuckled, settling farther into the cushions. “Do not make me beg, mi amore.”
For all her sexually contrived inner dialogue, she felt silly and uncertain. With the exception of being convinced that she was the only eighteen-year-old within several continents who had never been kissed.
A cross between being grossly inexperienced yet determined not to miss this rare opportunity.
Okay, let’s not over react, so he wanted her to drop trou? How difficult could it be? Maybe she could shuck her pants and shirt and finally get that kiss without having to give out the goods?
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, processing her situation.
Come on, girl. Get a grip.
Just because he wanted to see her naked didn’t mean he intended to breach her hymen.
But then again, what did she expect? He was a grown-ass, sexy as fuck Italian god. There were worse things than losing your virginity to your future husband. Seriously, maybe it was okay to fast-track the process and get it over with?
“Mara,” he repeated, “take off your clothing.”
