by Carol Grace
“There must be another way besides the bus or car,” she said, pulling her hand back. She did not want to get involved with another Moretti or be indebted to anyone. She looked around the table. “Train...boat...?”
Magdalena nodded. “Si, barca per Salerno.”
“That's right,” Marco said. “There is a boat to Salerno. We can take you to the dock where you can catch it. From Salerno you can take a train or bus to Paestum.”
“Perfect,” Anne Marie said with a surge of relief. She would be on her own, away from the man to whom unexpected violent things seemed to happen and away from his eccentric but charming family, too. She would be on her way to meet Giovanni at last. And alone.
“What is not so perfect is that your suitcase has been damaged.” Marco said. “I am afraid your clothes have been soiled by petrol when the gas tank ruptured. I'm sorry.”
Her heart sank. She'd forgotten her suitcase was in the trunk. How could she continue her vacation without the clothes she'd so carefully selected from catalogs for their easy wash n' wear characteristics, their many pockets and sturdy zippers, their matching coordinates and wrinkle-proof fabrics?
No matter how anxious she was to survey the damaged suitcase, she soon realized that nothing could or should interrupt an Italian meal, no matter how casual the gathering. Not until everyone had eaten at least two helpings of pasta and several pieces of warm crusty bread, and drained their wine glasses, could she go outside with Marco to look at her bag he'd placed on the front porch.
She gasped at the sight of the smashed suitcase with a gash on one side and a huge ragged hole on the other. The lock had sprung open and she could see her clothes were indeed coated with thick, smelly gasoline.
“Mamma mia,” his grandmother said from the doorway. She pressed her hand to her heart and exclaimed at the sight. Magdalena, who'd left her sleeping baby in the living room, wrinkled her nose when she got a whiff of the flammable liquid. Rocco hovered over Anne Marie's shoulder, surveying with undisguised interest her once-pristine new underwear, now gasoline drenched and reddish colored, and Marco looked like he wished he'd never seen her or her suitcase. She was sorry about his car, but glad that he had more to worry about than getting her to Paestum and being her tour guide.
“It's all right,” she said quickly. “I can get some new clothes. When I go home I'll have these all cleaned. They'll be as good as new.” Thank God she'd put the yearbook in her tote bag.
Marco repeated what she'd said to his grandmother, who replied in a torrent of excited words which ended with her taking Anne Marie's hand and pulling her back inside the house.
“Nonna wants you to borrow my sister's clothes for your vacation,” he said. “The ones she left behind when she joined the convent. In the meantime she will wash your clothes for you and have them clean when you return from Paestum.”
“Oh, I couldn't let her...” Anne Marie said. She hated to impose, and she was sure the clothes of the young and lovely Isabella wouldn't fit. And even if they did, they wouldn't be at all suitable for a forty-something wholesome American librarian.
“But she insists,” Marco said. “At least have a look at the clothes. Take a few and if you don't want to wear them, don't. But don't hurt her feelings,” he said sternly.
Anne Marie flushed with annoyance. She didn't need to be lectured on manners by an Italian mystery man who was being pursued by someone who had destroyed his car and her suitcase.
She followed Nonna up the narrow staircase to a small bedroom that trapped the heat under a slanted ceiling. Nonna raised the window and let a gust of fresh air into the room. Then she opened the closet and brought out dresses and shirts and pants and even shoes, the kind Anne Marie had seen on every stylish Italian woman. The old woman held up a black sleeveless short dress with a wide band of white across the neck. It was made of some stretchy fabric and looked so small Anne Marie was sure it would never fit her. Nonna had no such reservations. She gestured for Anne Marie to try it on.
What could Anne Marie say, what could she do but take off her clothes? Then she had to remove her money belt. If she hadn't, it would have made a huge bulge under the dress. Isabella's dress felt tight, tighter than Anne Marie ever wore her clothes, but not uncomfortable. Nonna stepped back and her eyes widened as she looked Anne Marie over.
Anne Marie knew what she was going to say. It's not you, dear. It's much too young for you. It's too bad, but you look ridiculous in it. What was I thinking? You are not the type to carry off these clothes. We'll have to think of something else.
This never would have happened if Anne Marie had not accepted that ride from Marco this morning. Otherwise she'd be on her way to Paestum right now, alone with a full suitcase of her own clothes. Yes, she might be lonely. No, she'd never have met his grandmother or his sketchy cousin or eaten a real, home-cooked Italian meal, but her suitcase would still be intact, and her carefully chosen travel clothes would still be new and unworn and unwrinkled and ready for the meeting with Giovanni. The reason she'd come to Italy.
Suddenly all she wanted was to take off the dress, get on the boat and wave good-bye to the disturbingly sexy Marco and continue her trip by herself. Even loneliness would be better than this nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was being sucked into the heart of a family of a man who had secrets and told lies and invited danger into his life.
Meanwhile Nonna was still staring at her, no doubt planning what she was going to say about the dress so as not to hurt Anne Maria's feelings.
The dress was snug. She knew it would be. Isabella must be a size smaller than she was. The fabric hugged her breasts, her waist and her hips. She had no shoes to wear with such a dress. Nonna tilted her head from side to side.
“Bella,” she said softly, “molto bella.” But she had a tear in her eye as she spoke.
Anne Marie was worried. Was she sad to see her granddaughter's dress on someone else? Was she sorry she'd offered it?
“Grazie,” Anne Marie said. Now she didn't know if she was supposed to take the dress or not. She stood in the middle of the room shifting from one foot to the other. She lifted the skirt up to her waist and was about to take the dress off when there was a knock at the door.
“Avanti,” Nonna said.
Marco stuck his head in the door. Anne Marie dropped the skirt that hit her mid-thigh, but not before Marco had a good look at her cotton underpants. That must have been quite a thrill, she told herself sarcastically.
Thrill or no thrill, he spoke in Italian to his grandmother, but his eyes never left Anne Marie. It was the dress, she told herself. He was only interested to see if his sister's dress fit her. Well, it didn't. He could stop staring now. He could leave the room and return to whatever it was he was doing. Surely there was more to be done about his car and the accident.
“Very nice,” he said at last, raising his eyes to meet hers.
“What?” she asked.
“The dress. Nonna thinks you and Isabella are about the same size. It makes her sad that Isabella is wearing a gray novice habit now and not her own clothes, but she is happy to know the clothes will be worn by you. She will pack a suitcase for you and then -”
“A suitcase?” She could accept a dress or two without feeling obligated, but a suitcase full of clothes? She stopped when he shot her a warning glance. “Then I must really be on my way,” she said. “Please thank your grandmother. For the clothes and for the lunch.”
He nodded, but just stood in the doorway, hand braced on the woodwork, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.
While he did, his grandmother was carefully packing clothes into an old-fashioned canvas bag. She'd opened a dresser drawer that contained lacy underwear. She saw Marco nod to his grandmother and that went into the bag as well as dresses, pants, shirts, a nightgown and even a swimming suit, all folded neatly and packed. She should have stopped her, said that was enough, too much, but she'd didn't want to hurt her feelings.
She wanted
to take off the dress and put her own clothes back on, but she couldn't undress with Marco in the room. So she just stood there, her arms wrapped around her waist, with the warm breeze from the open window bringing the scent of roses from the garden below. But it wasn't the breeze that made her skin prickle, it was the way Marco had stripped her bare with his hooded gaze.
She wondered if she'd ever met anyone before who exuded so much male magnetism. Maybe she had but she hadn't reacted. She'd been a married woman, after all, and immune to the sexy glances of strange men, if there'd been any. Not any longer. She was only too aware of Marco, his remarkable eyes, the way he looked at her, his strong hands on the wheel, the way he drove. She had a feeling that the way he undressed women with his eyes was such a habit with him, he didn't even know he was doing it.
Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it in the still room, even see it beneath the stretch fabric of his sister's dress. She cursed herself for being so susceptible, for letting him affect her that way. He was just being Italian, that was all. And she was just being her naive American self.
Then he was gone. Without a word he closed the door behind him and went downstairs. She took the dress off, put on her money belt and her only remaining American clothes that now felt bulky and baggy, and accepted the fact that she was leaving with a suitcase full of an Italian girl's clothes that would bind her to Marco's family until she returned them, even though she would hopefully never see him again after today. Not if she could help it.
Nonna kissed her good-bye, Magdalena waved from the doorway and she and Marco got into Rocco's car for the drive to the boat dock. It was a small car with no back seat which meant she had to sit on Marco’s lap while Rocco pulled away from the house with a squeal of his tires.
Uneasy with her body pressed against Marco's, she shifted her body forward until she was balanced on Marco's knees, her head brushing the roof, her own knees wedged against the dashboard.
“Is there a...a seat belt?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. How was she going to endure a ride to town like this?
Marco put his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest.
“You don't need a seat belt,” he said, his voice so close she could feel his warm breath against her ear. She stiffened. Oh, God, how long would this ride take?
“Relax,” he said. “It's only a short ride.”
But how could she relax with his arms around her and her body pressed against his, so tightly she could feel every muscle in his thighs and most of the bones in his body?
He spoke to Rocco in Italian. Rocco answered, taking his hands off the steering wheel to gesture wildly. They were talking about her and her trip. She knew that much. She heard “barco” and “Salerno.” They sounded angry, but she knew that Italians could sound and look angry and not mean it.
All she knew was that sitting on Marco's lap, feeling him beneath her as the car took the curves, suddenly aware of his very obvious erection beneath her, and his low voice in her ear was as close to a Chinese torture as she wanted to get. It was that combination of pain and pleasure that could break the most hardened criminal. Why was she being punished this way? No more talking to strangers. She'd had her adventure; this was it. Once aboard the boat, she would cease talking to strangers. Not even a smile or an innocent look.
When Rocco pulled up at the dock, she jumped off of Marco's lap and planted her American shoes firmly onto the pavement. She would have run toward the water and leaped aboard the boat if it weren't for her borrowed suitcase in the trunk and the necessity of saying good-bye and expressing her thanks.
She didn't want either of them to think she was an uncouth American tourist, but she wanted to be rid of them. Now. Before she lost it. She'd been holding her breath, her nerves stretched as taut as a travel laundry line, the kind that was in her ruined suitcase along with packets of laundry soap. She'd been longing, waiting for the moment when she'd finally be rid of Marco. That moment had finally come.
After thanking Rocco, after he'd kissed her on both cheeks and said good-bye, she turned to say good-bye to Marco. But he was already carrying a bag in each hand to the ticket booth. Two bags? Where had the second bag come from?
She hurried after him and tried to take them out of his hands. “Too heavy for you,” he explained.
“But what...” She never finished her sentence because he was now in the process of buying her ticket for her. That was going too far. That was where she was drawing the line.
“No,” she said loudly. “I'm buying my own ticket.”
He held his hands up, his face a mask of innocence. “Of course. I was trying to help.”
“I know,” she said, feeling foolish for overreacting. “I appreciate it, but I don't need your help. I can manage. Thank you for everything. It was nice meeting you,” she said shortly.
Did he know that nice was not the right word to describe what meeting him had been like? Disturbing, exciting, dangerous, intense, stimulating...
The ticket taker slapped her change on the counter along with her ticket, then spoke rapidly and pointed toward the boat.
“Let's go,” Marco said. “It's leaving in ten minutes.”
“I can manage. Really.”
“I want to be sure you get you a good seat on top for the view.”
He boarded the boat with her and carried the bags up the narrow stairway to the top deck where he found her a seat up in front.
“This is good,” he said, glancing around at the other passengers.
“Thank you,” she said once again. Now go. Go back to your so-called boring desk job and your family and your damaged car and your problems and let me go. She wondered if he'd kiss her. If he did, it would only be on the cheek. If he did, it would be to say good-bye. If he did, she wished he'd get it over with.
She was standing there, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand, trapped by the look in his eyes, trying to remember, trying to decide if she'd dreamed he'd kissed her on the way back to the hotel last night or if he really had.
“Good-bye, Marco,” she said. “Ciao.”
“Ciao, Ana Maria,” he murmured. Then he framed her face with his hands on her cheeks, leaned forward and kissed her. Under a warm Italian sun, in the middle of the afternoon, with noisy tourists and travelers filing on board and taking their seats all around them, his lips met hers. With the smell of salt air and the deck moving gently underneath them, he kissed her good-bye.
He kissed her quickly as if he too wanted to get it over with, then he took a deep breath and kissed her again, this time taking his time, using his lips and his tongue and his teeth and leaving her knees weak and her head floating somewhere above her body.
Was this how Italians said good-bye in public? If so, how did anyone ever leave? And how did they kiss in private? As far as kissing went, he was way out of her league. If he'd kissed her last night like this, she wished she'd been sober enough to appreciate it. She'd never been kissed like this in her life, except for last night, and had no clue how to respond. All she could do was to put her arms around him, cling to his lips and hold on for the ride. It was wrong, it was crazy, but she didn't want to stop. She wanted to absorb the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms and the magic of those amazing kisses.
Without breaking the kiss, without taking a breath, she felt Marco's cool hands slip under her shirt. She shuddered under his intimate touch then gasped as his fingers found her money belt. Was that it? Was he just a common thief after her money?
“Che cos'e questo?” he muttered. “What is this?”
“It's...it's my money belt,” she said breathlessly. “For safety. So no one steals my money.”
She felt his lips curve against her cheek. “You Americans. You protect your money, but what about your heart?”
How could she answer when he was kissing her temple and the corners of her mouth. The boat whistle split the air, but it seemed to come from another place and another time. He was holding
her so tightly her breasts were pressed against his chest, and she could feel his heart racing. But why? He was a charming Italian gigolo, with many notches in his belt, so what did it mean to him, kissing an American woman good-bye? If only she had someone she could ask. Some woman, or some advice columnist.
Even as she felt herself tumbling deeper and deeper under his spell, she knew what the answer would be.
He's a player, a ladies' man. You're American. A little different from his usual conquest. You may be over forty, but you're naive and innocent and you're a challenge. As soon as he figures you out, as soon as you start asking questions and making demands, he'll drop you so fast your head will spin.
Her head was already spinning. With a huge effort, she pulled back, put her hands on his shoulders and took a deep breath. His eyes had lost the cynical look she was accustomed to seeing. He was looking at her intently, studying her as if he was trying to decide who she was and why he was kissing her.
“Is this all part of your service?” she asked, trying for a light tone, a tone that said, that meant nothing to me. “See the ruins, learn the history, have an exciting ride through town and then a good-bye kiss? All for the same price? You must let me know how much I owe you.”
His gaze hardened. He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her again. This time he devoured her. This time his message was clear. This is not about a job. This is about you and me. This not good-bye. This is to show you it is something you couldn't pay for, because it's not for sale, and if it was, you couldn't afford it.
She was stunned. She was shocked. She clung helplessly to his shoulders and then she realized her hands were wrapped around his neck, her fingers laced in his hair. She kissed him back without thinking, without caring she lacked his technique and skill. If energy and enthusiasm and abandon counted, then they were even. He didn't seem to care about her lack of technique, either. His hands were on her hips, pressing her against him.
Marco was breathing just as hard as Anne Marie was. When she finally caught her breath, she turned to look down at the dock. The boat was pulling away. The engines were chugging and people were waving their handkerchiefs. And Marco was still on board.
