by Carol Grace
“Anyway,” she said, her voice not quite steady, “when we dock we'll be going our separate ways. I can't impose on you any longer. I need to see the rest of Italy on my own.”
“On your own?” he asked. “What about your friend Giovanni?”
“What about him?” she asked with a sharp glance in his direction.
“You said you were going to meet up with him.”
“I don't know about that,” she said. “I may see him or I may not. He once promised to show me around Italy, but that was many years ago and I wouldn't hold him to that. He doesn't owe me anything.”
But what do you owe him? Marco wondered.
“In any case, I have my guide books in my tote bag.”
“And your gift for Giovanni? You didn't leave it in your suitcase, did you?”
“No, I have it here.” She pointed to her tote bag. “Plus a little present for the cousin of my friend who lives in Rome. Thank heavens I had the sense not to pack these things. Please tell your grandmother I will send back Isabella's clothes and tell her how much I appreciate having them.”
“Perhaps you can thank Isabella yourself,” he said, “since you're going to Rome. You may want to stay at the convent in one of their guest rooms. It's not expensive and it's well located. Or maybe you've seen enough of our family.”
“No, I'd love to meet her.” She held out her hand to shake his good-bye.
Another excuse to kiss her? No.
“You have my card with my cell phone number. If you need help, any kind of help, give me a call.”
She smiled, but he had the feeling she wouldn't be calling him, not even if the leaning Tower of Pisa fell over on her or Vesuvius erupted while she was visiting Pompeii. Yes, she'd invited him to come to the US, but she was just being polite. In reality, she'd rather call the US Embassy or Giovanni than him.
Now he'd have to think up a story for why he'd followed her to the ruins. To take some tourists on a tour? That story was getting a little old and he was stretching her credulity to the limit.
The boat docked and he let her walk off ahead of him, her suitcase in one hand, her purse over her shoulder and her tote bag in the other hand. A man in a uniform was holding a sign that said “Paestum.” He saw her pause and speak to him. Then she nodded and got into a black limousine.
He shouted her name. He tried to run after her, but a crowd of tourists getting off of a bus in the piazza blocked his way. He shoved his way through the crowd and stood watching helplessly while the limo disappeared down the dusty road. One more foul-up like this and he'd have go back to handing out speeding tickets on the Amalfi Drive. He couldn't lose Ana Maria. She was his lure, the bait to catch Giovanni. That was all.
Anne Marie congratulated herself on getting rid of Marco and finding a cheap and comfortable ride to the hotel in Paestum. It was blessedly cool inside the air-conditioned limo, and the driver was a wealth of information about the ruins and the sights along the way. She settled back against the back seat, feeling proud she was on her own at last. Marco was somewhere back in Salerno, probably as glad to be rid of her as she was of him.
He was just too simpatico for his own good. He should be kept off the streets and away from vulnerable tourists like herself. He radiated heat that would have scorched the average female, and she was not at all average when it came to men. She'd been in love with two men in her life. Giovanni, her high school crush, and her husband Dan. Neither one was anything like Marco. Giovanni was a romantic, but he was just a boy when she'd known him. Dan was not romantic at all, at least not in the past few years. But that was okay. She loved him because he was reliable and dependable. She thought they were too old for romance. Apparently Dan thought otherwise.
No wonder Marco affected her like he was a blast furnace and she was made of wax. She'd been in a different world these past years, without love and without passion, and never knowing what she was missing.
No wonder she didn't know how to act. Yes, she knew that if you can't stand the heat you should get out of the kitchen. She was getting out. Now. Before she melted away into a puddle at his feet. Better late than never.
When the driver turned off the highway toward the beach, they passed the horses and buffalo grazing in the fields. Anne Marie knew at once she was going to love this place. It was so non-touristy. So rustic. How lucky she was to have Giovanni suggest it to her.
When she got there she'd ask to ride one of the horses. Then she'd gallop across these fields, the wind in her hair, the power between her legs thrusting her forward. The horse would snort and breathe heavily as she raced toward the sea, at one with the animal. She'd hear the pounding of hooves behind her. She'd turn her head and see another horse and rider gaining on her, getting closer and closer still. Who would it be? Marco? Giovanni?
The driver said something, and she was back in a limo and not on a horse, which was probably better since she'd never been on a horse in her life.
The road seemed to go on forever. No wonder there weren't many tourists here; it was way, way off the beaten path. The farther the better, she thought. Just so she could be at the ruins by tonight to meet Giovanni, she didn't care how far away the hotel was.
When the driver finally stopped, she didn't see the hotel. She didn't see anything but vast fields of poppies and tall grass.
“Where is the estate, the agriturismo?” she asked stepping out of the car and inhaling the warm fragrant air.
“Not far,” he said, waving his hand off in the distance. “They will come for you in a cart with horses. Very picturesque, no?”
“Yes, very. Could I have my bag please?”
The driver opened the front door of the limo and pointed to her borrowed suitcase.
“This bag?” he asked with a smile on his thin lips.
She nodded.
He picked it up, then shook it and set it down again on the leather seat. He repeated the motion several times while she watched with a puzzled frown.
His smile disappeared. “This is not your bag, yes?”
“No,” she said. “Not originally. How did you know?”
“This is Italian bag, not American.”
“Oh, yes. You're right. I borrowed it.”
“But where is yours, Signorina?”
“It is ruined, smashed. In an accident in San Gervase.”
“An accident? Everything inside is ruined?”
She nodded. Why would he care?
He let fly a torrent of angry words and stamped his foot on the cracked pavement. Then he tossed her borrowed duffel bag to the ground next to her feet and kicked it with the pointed toe of his leather boot. With an oath, he turned on his heel and without another word he got into his limousine and drove away. She hadn't even paid him. But then, he hadn't delivered her to her hotel.
For a long moment Anne Marie stood there, wondering what it all meant. Then she looked around. She was in the middle of nowhere. This was no estate. There was no hotel here or anywhere near here. Would someone really come for her in a horse-drawn cart? It didn't seem likely. More likely, she'd been dumped. But why? Why the interest in her suitcase?
She sat cross-legged in the grass at the edge of the road and took out her guidebook. She read that the estate was only open in the summer. This was September and it was closed. But Giovanni had said he'd made her a reservation. The place sounded so charming, so bucolic, so perfect. It probably was. But it wasn't here and it wasn't open.
There was nothing to do but to start back up the road she'd come from. So far she hadn't seen a single car, but sooner or later someone would come by and give her a ride to town. The sun was still beating down on her back. She unzipped her bag and rifled through the beautiful, exotic clothes that belonged to Marco's sister until she found a camisole top with thin straps. If she was back home, she'd never think of undressing in the middle of the road, but she was in Italy now and there was no one around which was too bad in terms of hitching a ride, but fine for changing clothes. In a minute, she'd
exchanged her Lycra and cotton shirt for the bare silky top, transferred the items from her bulky money belt into her purse, and was ready to go.
When she got to her feet and picked up the bag, it seemed heavier than before. Or maybe she was just more tired than before. It had been a long day, starting at the crack of dawn with a hangover and a vague feeling of unease caused by her inability to clearly recall the events of the preceding evening. Those events were still unclear and continued to recede. So much had happened since.
She walked and walked and still there was no sign or sound of a motor vehicle of any kind. The only sound was the buzz of the bees in the wildflowers on the side of the road. Her feet felt like they were weighted with lead and she was thirsty. Her bare skin prickled from the rays of the sun and her arms ached from carrying the bag. Her old bag had wheels, this one didn't. All she could think about was getting to the ruins in time to meet Giovanni. If no one came by, she'd walk all the way there, sore feet or not.
She needed something, a shot of adrenaline in the arm, a drink or a...a piece of chocolate to give her energy. No, she couldn't open the box of candy Evie had given her for her cousin in Rome. But she couldn't shake the thought of the rich, dark chocolates, hand-dipped, made from the finest chocolate beans in the box in her bag. Her steps slowed. What if she just had one, then shuffled the candy around so Evie's cousin never noticed one was missing? She'd have to reseal the package, but she had time to do that. She wasn't going to Rome for a few days. If she hadn't had this meeting set up with Giovanni, she would have stayed there, handed off the candy right away and done the city before setting off for the Amalfi Coast.
She took the candy out of her bag and was dismayed to see how soft the chocolates were. The first chance she got she'd refrigerate it and hopefully it would be good as new. But for now...she slit the cover with her fingernail and removed one round delectable truffle with a swirl of dark chocolate on top. Anne Marie knew how expensive Nob Hill candy was. Each piece hand-made by ladies in white aprons in the pristine kitchens atop San Francisco's highest peak. Or so they said. Maybe those ladies in white were an advertising gimmick. Maybe it was made by a factory in Fremont across the Bay. In any case, each piece cost a small fortune and they were well worth it.
She ate the piece slowly, carefully, while the rich smooth chocolate slid down her throat. Her fingers and mouth were smeared with warm chocolate. She sighed and with the box safely tucked back in her bag, vowed not to eat another one no matter how hungry or how tired.
She had to admit eating the chocolate worked. She was infused with energy, at least for the next fifteen minutes, walking briskly and purposefully. Then she got thirsty. So thirsty she could think of nothing but water. And tired. More tired than before. She dragged her feet. The strap of her tote bag was wearing a ridge on her shoulder. If it weren't for the thought of Giovanni waiting for her there, pacing back and forth at the Temple of Ceres in the moonlight she would have sat down by the edge of the road, put her head on her knees and cried.
No more crying. What good would that do? She'd gone through three of Marco's handkerchiefs already. As soon as she got to a hotel room, she'd wash them out and send them back to him in care of his grandmother. She couldn't miss this appointment; it was the whole raison d'etre for her trip. She didn't want to meet Giovanni with red, swollen eyes. She didn't need to look like the teenager she once was—she didn't want to look like that girl again, or feel like her—but she did want to look her best.
Far in the distance she heard the faint buzz of a motor and a black spot on the horizon. Her steps slowed but her heart beat faster. She set her bag down. Whoever it was, whatever it was, she would pay them whatever it took to take her to a hotel near the ruins.
The black spot grew bigger and the buzz louder and louder until she realized it was the throbbing of a twin cylinder motorcycle. And it wasn't black, it was bright red. Just like the kind her son pointed out every chance he got. The kind he wanted for graduation but didn't get.
Damn. Just her luck. How would a motorcyclist manage to take her anywhere?
If it had been an ordinary motorcycle rider he wouldn't, but this was no ordinary rider, nor an ordinary man.
It was Marco, wearing a helmet, a leather jacket and his wraparound sun glasses. She thought she'd never been so glad to see anybody. But she'd play it cool. His ego was already way too big.
He stopped, got off, took his helmet off and stood there under the late afternoon sun looking at her as if she was a lost runaway.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to find you.”
“I'm not lost,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking back to town.”
“It's a long way.”
“I know that.”
“What is this?” he asked, running a finger across her lips.
“Chocolate,” she said, pressing her lips together so they wouldn't tremble at his touch. It was no use. Her whole body was trembling. It was his touch, and the shock of seeing him. She wrapped her arms around her waist and tore her gaze from his face and focused on the candy.
“It isn't mine. I'm supposed to deliver it to someone. My friend's cousin.”
“Misty?”
She frowned. Had she mentioned her name and not realized it? “I was so hungry so I ate a piece, and now I feel terribly guilty, but even worse I'm about to die of thirst.”
He held out a bottle of Santa Vittoria water and she almost snatched it out of his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice coming out as a dry croak.
She forced herself to drink it slowly. Nothing had ever felt so good as that water on her parched throat. Nothing had ever tasted as good as that Italian mineral water. After she'd drunk half the bottle and murmured her thanks once again, he ordered her to get on the motorcycle. This was the man who presumed to give her instructions in etiquette. She was beyond caring. Despite her bravado, she was glad he was here.
Instead of obeying instantly, she ran her hand over the smooth, satin, red surface of the motorcycle. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
“I borrowed it,” he said.
“What is it, a Harley?”
His mouth curled in disgust. “A Harley?” he said. “It's a Motoguzzi.” He paused. “What did you think you were doing, going off with a stranger?”
“Everyone's a stranger,” she said spiritedly. “I'm a stranger in a strange land, as you pointed out. And you're a stranger too, for that matter. If I don't go off with strangers, I'll never go anywhere. How was I to know he'd dump me in the middle of the road?”
“How much did you pay him?” Marco asked.
“Nothing. He left before I could even open my purse.”
“What did he want? What did he say?” Marco asked, his forehead creased with lines.
“First he stopped to let me off back there in the middle of nowhere, even though he'd agreed to take me to the hotel. He picked up my bag, and when he noticed it was Italian and not American, he flew into a rage. What difference did that make? Obviously some, because you should have heard him. He was furious. He kicked the bag and then he took off.”
“Before you paid him,” Marco said, looking dubious.
“Yes. I was afraid I'd have to walk all the way to the ruins. It turns out the hotel where I was going, this wonderful agricultural estate I thought I had a reservation at, is closed for the season. I just hope I can find something else because I...I really want to see those ruins.”
“I'm sure you do.” He strapped her suitcase onto the back fender and handed her his helmet.
“For me?” she asked.
He nodded.
Where she came from, it was the law that riders had to wear helmets, but in Italy? She'd have to trust Marco on that and hope he didn't get stopped and cited before they got back to the town. She fumbled with the chin strap so clumsily he had to buckle it for her, and his fingers grazed her chin. She looked into his eyes
to see if he'd felt anything like the buzz she got from his touch, the buzz that reverberated through her body like an electric current, but all she could see was her own flushed face reflected in his sunglasses.
“Andiamo,” he said, taking his seat and revving the motor. “Let's go.”
She looked at the motorcycle and down at her skirt. He turned around, as if to ask what was the delay.
“You mount on the left side,” he said, “as you would a horse.”
She quickly went around to the other side.
“Now swing your right leg over the seat and hang on.”
He watched as her skirt ripped up the side when she threw her leg over the seat. The old Anne Marie would have blushed at that blatant, sexy look in his eyes. She didn't blush. She met his gaze, and for one brief moment something passed between them, so swift and so fleeting, she didn't know what it was. It might have been approval for her spunk, her cavalier attitude toward her clothes and her willingness to climb on and go wherever he took her. But it was more than that. Much more.
As she settled onto the narrow seat behind Marco, she knew it didn't matter what he thought. She had a goal - to meet Giovanni tonight, and she'd get there any way she could.
With a roar, the motorcycle leaped forward and Anne Marie threw her arms around Marco's waist and buried her face in his jacket.
The Motoguzzi vibrated and throbbed. Her whole body vibrated and throbbed in time to the cylinders. Inside her helmet there was a roar that filled her whole head. Her cheek was crushed against the warm leather of Marco's jacket and the rich, masculine smell intoxicated her as much as a large glass of Chianti. Her bare knees were pressed against the throbbing machine, her feet against the foot pedals as the wind rushed by.
They were alone on the highway. Alone in the world with the endless road stretching ahead of them. She was one with the man and the machine. The sun was low in the sky, the horizon limitless. She thought the ride would never end. She almost wished it never would. She'd never felt so much apart of a machine or a man before. The past receded and the future with it. There was only the here and now.
