Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  Inside the lobby Anne Marie filled out the registration forms, handed over her passport, and asked the clerk if anyone had asked for her. He shook his head and summoned a boy to carry her bag up to her room for her. Before she followed him to the elevator, she took one more peek out the front door. He was still there. She turned quickly, as if she hadn't seen him, but her heart was racing. He'd been staring at her.

  At the door to her room she gave the boy a tip. By the look on his face and his exuberant “grazie,” she must have given him too much. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. She had to get out her currency converter and figure out the exchange rate. But not now.

  She kicked off her sandals and opened the doors to the balcony...and her mouth fell open. There it was. Everything she'd dreamed of, everything she'd imagined. The bougainvillea tumbling over the hillside, the red roofs of the houses that clung precariously to the cliffs, the sun glinting on the dazzling blue-green sea below. It was worth every penny it cost her if she never took another vacation in her life. This was the stuff memories were made of.

  She gripped the edge of the railing and looked down at the turquoise swimming pool three stories directly beneath her, surrounded by semi-naked bronzed bodies. She breathed in the perfumed air, felt the sea breeze on her face, the cool tiles under her bare feet.

  As pleasant as the room was with its white-washed walls and spare, elegant furniture, she had to go downstairs. She had to be ready to greet Giovanni. She changed into a dark calf-length skirt that clung to her hips and thighs and a simple white tank top with a vest Evie had assured her looked youthful but not desperately so, and gave herself a critical look in the mirror. She topped it all with a straw hat, then took it off. She was afraid Giovanni wouldn't recognize her, since she barely recognized herself above the neck. Especially with that hat.

  There was no more time to dwell on her appearance. She slipped on a pair of espadrilles she hoped made her look like she belonged in Europe instead of small-town USA and went back to the lobby. He was an hour late, which was nothing by Giovanni time. He'd always been late for class. The teachers just shook their heads. After all, he was Italian, he was Giovanni - charming, easy, lovable, and their star soccer player. She glanced out the front entrance. The man was still there. She took another look. Yes, it was him. Same pose, sunglasses back in place. Damn. What was he waiting for? Who was he waiting for? Whoever it was, it wasn't her.

  She chose a comfortable, rattan chair in the corner of the lobby where she could see the entrance, but not the man outside. But that didn't stop her from thinking about him; from wondering what he was doing there and what color his eyes really were.

  She opened a guidebook called Archeological Sites of Italy and tried to read about the places she planned to go to. An hour later, she had only read one page. Her eyelids were heavy, closing against her will. It must be about midnight California time. Every time the phone rang at the desk her eyes flew open and she looked up expectantly, but the clerk never even looked her way. Another hour after that, she closed her guide book with a loud snap. It was one thing to operate on Italian time; it was another to make her come all this way and not show up at all.

  She yawned and stood up as the man who was not Giovanni sauntered into the lobby. Was that a coincidence or had he been waiting for her? She wiped her damp palms against her skirt.

  “You're waiting for someone, for this Giovanni?” he asked. It was uncanny how much like Giovanni he sounded.

  “Yes, why?”

  He flipped his cell phone closed and put it in his pocket. “He won't be coming today.”

  She stepped back, startled and annoyed. “How do you know?”

  “It's obvious, it's too late. But I'm a tour guide. I can show you around, wherever you want to go. It will be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you, but... Just because he's late, doesn't mean he isn't coming at all.” Even if Giovanni didn't show up, she would manage on her own. She hadn't come all this way to be taken in by a tour guide, if that's really what the man was. For all she knew, he was a con man or a gigolo. She blinked back tears of disappointment and fatigue.

  His eyes widened at the sight of her tears. Automatically he handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

  She took it automatically and wished she hadn't. “If Gio...my friend wasn't going to meet me, he would call me or leave a message. So thank you for the offer, but I don't need a guide.”

  Giovanni would surely show up, if not to show her around, at least to pick up his yearbook. In his note, he'd seemed pleased and touched that she was bringing it.

  “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “Why? Why do you want to know? What do you want?” Her voice rose and she glanced pointedly at the clerk behind the desk, wondering if she should complain she was being harassed. The desk clerk glanced up and then back down at his desk. He couldn't have been less interested. She took a deep breath and looked the stranger in the eye. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Marco,” the man said. “Marco Moretti.” He glanced down at the book in her hand. “Are you interested in archeology?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don't miss the Greek temples at Paestum.”

  “I won't.” She said briskly. She didn't know quite how to end this awkward conversation. Thank you didn't seem quite appropriate. He might say, for what? How about good-bye? Arrivederci? She understood Ciao was too familiar unless an Italian said it first.

  So she turned without saying anything and went to the desk to collect her key. The clerk handed it to her, along with a large square white envelope. Where had it come from? No one had come through the lobby since she'd been there. She shot the clerk an inquisitive glance, but he gave her a blank look. She felt Marco Moretti's eyes on her back and slipped the envelope between the pages of her guide book.

  “Ana Maria?” Marco said.

  She turned. The way he said her name sent shivers up her spine, reminding her of Italian lessons and the romantic sound of the overture to La Boheme she used to play over and over after Giovanni left and went back to Italy. But how did he know her name? Maybe from the hotel clerk?

  “When you visit the ruins,” he said, “you will surely need a guide. Someone who speaks English.”

  “I have a book,” she said, and held it up. The envelope slipped out onto the polished marble floor. Before she could bend down, Marco had retrieved it and handed it to her with narrowed eyes. His fingers brushed hers, and she felt an electric shock zing through her body. She bit her lip to keep from gasping. He was so close she could see that his eyes were a light brown flecked with green. She stepped back. She'd read somewhere that southern Europeans had a different concept of personal space, and this man surely did. He was too close. Much too close. Even in this cool lobby, she could feel the heat from his body. She stepped back again until she bumped into the front desk.

  Marco was observing her as intently as she was him, and she felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. His gaze dropped to the letter with her name scrawled on the outside of the envelope, and she held it tightly, half afraid he might try to take it from her. But why? Why would he care?

  “The book is not enough,” he said. “If you decide to go to Paestum, and you must go if you have come this far, you will need someone to explain it all to you. The story behind the history, the art and the architecture. I know things that are not in the book.”

  I'll bet you do. There was no getting around it; he was definitely the kind of Italian man mothers warned their daughters about. How many women had he given personal tour to and lived to tell the tale?

  She had an uncontrollable desire to test him. To see how far he’d go. “Such as?” she said.

  He stared at her.

  “You said you know things that are not in the book.” She held up the book. “What are they?”

  He hesitated only a moment, his eyes gleaming. “Such as which are the real Greek paintings in the museum and which are the Roman copies. Unless one is
an expert, one can't tell.”

  “And you are an expert?”

  “In some things. I am Italian,” he said with a shrug. As if that explained everything.

  She didn't want this very attractive Italian shadowing her around the museum, leaning over her shoulder, his sexy voice in her ear, explaining the paintings. That's what Giovanni was going to do. That's what he'd promised to do so long ago back in California.

  She gave Marco a brief, polite smile. “I'm sure you're a wonderful guide,” she said.

  A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Are you?” he asked.

  She blushed. She was just trying to be polite.

  “If I decide to hire a guide, I'll keep you in mind.” Keep him in mind? How was she going to get him out of her mind? He was attractive in a rugged way, with a warm, deep voice that made her skin tingle all over. He had an air of mystery about him that was partly bothersome and partly intriguing and all-Italian. If only Giovanni would walk in now, that would solve all her problems. This guy could very well be some kind of jewel thief who hit on American tourists. Not that she had any jewels worth stealing, but still. Giovanni would say a few choice words in Italian, the kind in the chapter on Elementary Put-Downs and Swear Words, and the man would disappear as fast as he'd appeared.

  “I'm not talking about money,” he said, looking offended. “I would take you because I love the temples. I want to share what I know and you and I have much in common.”

  “What is that?” she asked skeptically.

  “A love of the ancient world. An interest in antiquity.”

  “Yes, well, my friend Giovanni loves them too, and I can't make any plans until I see him. He's the one who told me about the temples and the statues and...and...” And the music and the paintings and so much more.

  “A shame he hasn't shown up. Do you know him well?”

  “Yes, but it was a long time ago. He was an exchange student at my high school, the star of our soccer team,” Anne Marie said. “And he made the honor roll. Everyone admired him.” Now what made her go on about Giovanni? What business was it of his what her connection to Giovanni was?

  “And the girls, did they all fall in love with him there?” he asked with a slight smile.

  Anne Marie felt the heat rush to her face again. Really, she had half a mind to refuse to answer. But for some reason, she did. “I suppose some did. He made the other boys seem so young and so immature.”

  “Did he,” Marco said, his voice flat.

  She nodded, then she realized she'd said more than she intended. Much more. It was time to put a stop to this inappropirate conversation. Maybe it was because she'd been traveling alone with no one to talk to; suddenly her brain and her mouth were working overtime. “Well thanks,” she said and turned and headed for the stairs.

  Instead of fading away out the door, Marco was right behind her, his footsteps practically on her heels. Her heart pounded. What did he want with her? The letter? Her money? Her forty-something-year-old body? Not likely. Whatever it was, she was not giving it to him. Not without a struggle.

  At the top of the landing she whirled around and faced him head-on. Her face was flushed and she was gasping for air.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Chapter Two

  “To give you my card, in case you change your mind,” he said calmly, handing her an official-looking business card. He paused. “What do you want?”

  “I just want to find my friend and I want to see Italy,” she blurted. As if it was any of his business. He had no right to ask her any more questions and she had no obligation to answer them. She'd done it out of habit; she was a librarian. It was her job to answer questions and to give out information, no matter who wanted it.

  “I can help you,” he said. “At least the part about seeing Italy.”

  “Yes, I understand that and I appreciate the offer. But I prefer to wait for my friend,” she said firmly. How many times did she have to say it? “I'm sure he'll turn up sooner or later.”

  Why didn't he get the message? She didn't want a guide. She didn't need a guide. And if she got one, it would not be some sexy male who made her feel shaky and breathless just by looking at her. It would be a bilingual older lady or a white-haired gentleman with courtly manners who had no effect on her blood pressure.

  “And if he doesn't come at all?” he asked.

  “Then I'll see the rest of Italy by myself.” Brave words, but she knew it would be so much better with Giovanni, who would translate, take her off the beaten path, introduce her to the natives.

  “There are places that aren't safe, not for a woman alone,” he said.

  “I know. I'll be careful. You don't need to be concerned for me.”

  He shrugged. “Someone does, if not this Giovanni. He doesn't show up and leaves you alone, an American woman. It is unforgivable.” He looked her over appreciatively, his gaze lingering on her breasts, her hips and down the skirt to her ankles and shoes. Her skin felt singed where his gaze had lingered.

  Ridiculous. She was being overly sensitive, and he was just being Italian. She was not the kind of woman men lusted over. After all, to him she looked totally wholesome, so completely, boringly... American. Except for her hair. Her hair wasn't American. It wasn't her. It belonged to some Italian in a magazine.

  Compared to the Italian women, she looked hopelessly dowdy in her slightly baggy, wrinkle-proof travel clothes. She'd seen the dresses in the shops and the women on the street. She knew how much attention they paid to their appearance. She should have had a manicure, at least. She should have had a massage and a pedicure. She should have bought a dress at one of the boutiques. Then she wouldn't stand out like this.

  Then he wouldn't look at her like...like...whatever he was looking at her like. Her skin was hot, then cold. Her face flamed. She wished he'd leave now and go away. She knew what he must be thinking; no style, no panache, no flair. She gripped the book in her hand.

  “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “I don't know exactly,” she said. “Just enjoy Italy,” she added quickly to sound more decisive and not like a woman who'd been stood up. She was beginning to doubt that Marco was a tour guide at all. It was best to assume he was just a gigolo on the make. A tour guide wouldn't ask personal questions. A tour guide worth his salt would have groups of tourists to take around. He'd be booked up. He wouldn't have to hustle individuals in front of fancy hotels. Would he?

  “Good-bye,” she said firmly.

  This time she ran up to the third floor, not caring if she looked like a scared rabbit. She jerked her door open and locked it behind her, then stood leaning against the door, panting, her heart pounding. She pressed her ear against the door but there was no sound. He hadn't followed her.

  Of course he hadn't. He meant no harm. It was just a misunderstanding. Only a chance meeting. She'd just imagined his interest in the envelope. Why should he care? Whatever it was, whoever it was from, it was none of his business.

  Outside on her balcony, she ripped open the envelope and read the message inside.

  Cara Ana Maria,

  I am sorry to miss you today. So many things happen and I have much to tell you. First, trust no one, except me. This is Italy. Things are not what they seem. People are not who they say they are. Leave your hotel tomorrow and come to Paestum alone. I make a reservation for you at the agriturismo estate there. Very comfortable. Very natural. Horses, buffalos, pool and food. Come alone tomorrow night at 10:00 to the Temple of Ceres at the ruins. Not to fear - the moon is bright and the nights are long. Remember...alone.

  Giovanni

  Alone. Alone with Giovanni for a tryst in the moonlight and the ruins. How romantic, and how Giovanni! Surely a married man wouldn't have sent such a message, would he? She sank into one of the lounge chairs on her balcony and reread the note. Not to fear. Then why all the mystery? Why stand her up?

  Well, whatever problems Giovanni had were not her concern. She could only assume he wa
s trying to make time for her, and for that she was grateful. She'd come to Italy for a change from the predictable existence she'd been living for the past twenty-odd years. What more could she want than a tryst with her first high school crush in the moonlight in the shadow of ancient ruins?

  But this was Giovanni's last chance. If he didn't show, she was getting back on the bus to Sorrento on the left hand side of the bus, then taking the train back to Rome. There she'd see all the sites on her long list, visit Evie's cousin Misty, who was supposed to meet her at the airport if her flight hadn't been changed, deliver a box of Misty's favorite American candy and just enjoy herself.

  With a shiver of anticipation, she decided to go to the pool. Swimming was one sure way to stay awake, and her new black swim suit was perfect for a forty-one- year-old woman in reasonably good shape. It was also practical, the way it dried quickly and folded up into a small plastic bag. Attractive, even, with the flattering deep V neckline and a little skirt that made her hips look slim. But when she got to the pool, she realized it was far from sexy. Her suit looked like something somebody's grandmother would wear, compared to the skimpy bikinis worn by the other women at the pool - even those older and fatter than her.

  But as she swam back and forth across the pool, the tension flowed out of her body the way the water in the pool sloshed over the sides. When she got out she shook the water off her short hair, shocked all over again at how lightheaded she felt. Then she lay down on a thick-cushioned chaise and let the afternoon sun warm her pale skin.

  Marco used his pass key to get into her room. He wasn't surprised very often, but this Ana Maria wasn't at all what he'd expected. He wondered how she'd gotten recruited and what she was getting out of it. He had to give them credit for choosing her. She looked so innocent and unsuspecting, she would have fooled anybody. But he saw past the wide eyes and the tourist disguise. He'd almost missed her at first, the photo he got showed long hair. Very clever, cutting it before she arrived. But he'd recognized the big blue eyes.