Her Italian Millionaire

by Carol Grace

  “I don't know.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Get your clothes. We're getting out of here.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “To my room.”

  She drew her eyebrows together in a puzzled frown. “Next door,” he said.

  “I thought the hotel was full.”

  “It is. I pulled some strings. Now, come on. Let's go.”

  There was nothing Anne Marie would rather do than get out of the room. It made her feel sick to think of some demented stranger pawing through Marco's sister's beautiful things. Marco filled his arms with most of the clothes and she picked up what was left, then went to the bathroom for her toothbrush and toothpaste.

  She felt like she'd been hit by a cyclone, knocked down and blown away into a different place. A dangerous place. Like a barefoot robot, she followed Marco to his room which was a cool, clean and untouched mirror image of hers. The only sign that it was his was his small valise on the luggage stand. The bedside lamps made small circles of light on the walls. The air was clean and fresh, the faint scent of his soap and shaving lotion only noticeable if she thought about it. If she thought about him. Which she did.

  Once inside with the door locked, she shuddered then heaved a sigh of relief. Marco put his jacket around her shoulders, poured some dark red liquid from a bottle on the bedside table into a glass, and gave it to her.

  “Drink this and I'll be right back.”

  It tasted like dark purple grapes, but it was twice as strong as wine and it burned her throat as it went down. But by the time Marco got back, she had her bare legs tucked under her and she'd stopped shaking.

  “Where did you go? What did you do?” she asked.

  “I told the management what had happened and I made a few calls.”

  “I don't understand. Why would anyone...”

  “That's what we have to find out. Are you sure you don't have anything anyone would want?”

  “Positive. You've seen everything I have, and that's not even mine. It's Isabella's. I'm glad her clothes are all right.” The thought of her first ruined suitcase triggered something in her mind. “You don't think this had anything to do with the accident in San Gervase, do you?” The accident that might not have been an accident.

  “The only thing I know is that it has something to do with you,” he said.

  “Me? It was your car they smashed.”

  “No one smashed my car before you came.”

  “I suppose no one followed you either, no one slapped you in a restaurant or...” She shook her head. “I don't believe it. Do you really expect me to believe your life was uneventful and dull before I came? Are you saying that you sit in an office all day and shuffle papers for the Bureau of Tourism? That all this excitement happened because of me?”

  “Don't you believe me?”

  His gaze was steady; he looked so sincere. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him. Even more, and up till the moment she walked into that room next door, she'd wanted most of all to make love to him. He made her feel beautiful, sexy and exotic. The sight of her room had ruined what might have been the most romantic night of her life.

  He wasn't the man she'd been dreaming about for twenty years, but in a way it that would have been better. When it was over, it would be over. No regrets. This man probably didn't know the meaning of the word.

  He was experienced, no doubt about that. His touch was incendiary, just the sound of his voice in her ear on a crowded dance floor turned her knees to rubber and caused an ache in the center of her body. An ache that got worse, more intense, as the evening went on. There was only one cure, one way to stop it. So she'd thought.

  But she was wrong. There were two possibilities. She could give in to her wildest dreams and make love all night or have someone ransack her room and send her libido crashing. Fate had decided it would be the latter.

  Marco went back to the bathroom and she heard the water running. She sat in the chair by the small table in his room and stared off into space. Starting with that wild ride to the dock on his lap, he'd made it blatantly obvious he was just as turned on as she was. Now how did he feel? Was he just as revolted, sick and angry and even worse - baffled as she was? Marco came out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the room. His shirt was unbuttoned. She tore her gaze away from his chest.

  He took a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Smoking isn't good for you,” she said.

  He put it back in his pocket. “Neither is playing dangerous games.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, wide-eyed. Did he know she'd sneaked off to see Giovanni? Even if he had, what was dangerous about meeting an old friend and giving him his yearbook?

  He answered her question with one of his own. “How do you feel?”

  What could she say? Nervous? Disappointed? Disgusted? Worried? All those and yet it was worse. She shivered. Her skin burned hot was she was cold inside.

  “I've got something for your sunburn,” he said, holding a tube of ointment in his hand. “Lie down on the bed.”

  The king-sized bed was turned down for the night and the sheets smelled like sunshine and fresh air. She lay on her stomach, closed her eyes and waited. Inside her head a voice was saying, watch out. Be careful.

  He lifted the hem of her shirt, and gently spread a cool lavender lotion over the prickly skin on her back and gently massaged her shoulders with his large hands. She let out a long sigh of bliss.

  “I'm not wearing a bra,” she said, her voice muffled against the pillow.

  “I noticed,” he said.

  He'd noticed? Had everyone noticed? Was she dressed like a slut? Acting like one? At the moment, she didn't care. All she cared about was Marco's hands, those strong fingers, and what havoc they were playing with her nerve endings. Alternately soothing and exciting, and she wanted him to go on forever.

  “You like that?” he said, his voice rough as the rocky shore of the Amalfi Coast.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. But her shirt was bunched around her shoulders. She yanked it off over her head.

  His hands returned to move in lazy circles from her shoulders to the back of her neck. It was smooth, it was stimulating, and it was thrilling. She didn't want him to stop. Not now. Not ever. The image of the ransacked room receded. The only thing that mattered was the way he continued to stroke her skin.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Better, and more alive than ever before.

  Marco shifted to the center of the bed, straddling her with his knees pressed into the mattress. He let his hands skim over her soft skin, from her neck across her shoulders, long strokes down her spine to the curve of her hips. He slipped his hands under her skirt and caressed the swell of her round bottom. He stilled his hands and waited for her to protest. If she did, he wouldn't blame her. She'd had one hell of a night. If it weren't for the damned bastards that had ransacked her room...

  “If you want me to stop, say so,” he said.

  She didn't say so. Instead she made little sounds of pleasure, sounds of desire that made his whole body feel like he might spontaneously combust. With his hands cupping her butt, he flashed on the day he'd seen her in the bathroom of the hotel, bending over, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her sweet ass. If he'd known then what he knew now, what would he have done? Turned in his resignation? Told Silvestro he couldn't handle the case? That he'd gotten emotionally involved? Marco, emotional? He was physically involved, and that was all.

  “No,” she breathed. Her voice was no more than a sigh, but he could hear the yearning in it. “Don't stop.”

  He moved his hands to the backs of her knees. She moaned. He kneaded the taut muscles of her calves. She murmured something unintelligible.

  He traced kisses where his hands had been, moving up her spine, across her shoulders, behind her ears, feeling her skin heat beneath his lips. His body was on the brink of exploding.

  A few more strokes, a few more kisses, and he'd gent
ly roll her over, he'd look into her eyes and watch her while he kissed her breasts, her belly and then... It was what they both wanted. He knew it. She'd told him with her eyes, her body and her voice. She wanted him. He wanted her. It was inevitable. He'd known it the first moment he'd set eyes on her in the hotel courtyard. It was just a matter of time. Now was the time.

  The purring sounds she made caused him to ache with desire. He knew she was upset about her room, but that was then. This was now. She was ready, and God knew, he was more than ready.

  But was she ready in spite of what had happened tonight or because of it? Was she still in a state of shock at seeing her things tossed all over the room? If so, he couldn't seduce her. He was no saint, but he didn't take advantage of women in shock.

  He moved his hands back to her shoulders, touching her lightly with the tips of his fingers. He rested his cheek against her shoulder. He could feel her breathing slow down as his sped up. He heard her sigh and felt her muscles relax. He kissed her flushed cheek. Her mouth curved in a half smile. Her eyelashes fanned in a smudge against her cheekbone. She was asleep. He felt all the air leave his lungs. It was over before it had begun. He was filled with a sense of regret so sharp it pierced his chest.

  The first thing Anne Marie remembered when she woke that morning was the touch of his hands on her skin - the callused fingers tracing the outline of her muscles, leaving imprints she could still feel. She buried her face in the pillow and tried to remember what had happened. She was still wearing her skirt, but her shirt was gone and she was covered with a sheet. Her mouth was dry and tasted like grapes. She turned over, and blinked at the sunlight that filtered through the half-closed blinds.

  Of course, she was in her room at the hotel. But it wasn't her room. This was his room. Through her narrowed gaze she saw Marco was sprawled in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking miserably uncomfortable. His hair was angled across his forehead, his wrinkled shirt hung loose and unbuttoned. She spent a long moment contemplating his bare chest lined with dark hair.

  His bare feet made him look vulnerable for the first time since she'd first laid eyes on him. She swallowed hard, sat up in bed and stared at him as it all came back. The meeting with Giovanni, the motorcycle ride through the dark streets, the dancing, the music. And last, the ransacked room. And now she was in Marco's room, in his bed, while he slept on a chair. And she was half naked. She found her shirt stuffed under the pillow and tugged it on over her head.

  The last thing she remembered was his smoothing lotion on her back. It was all a blur except for the sensations that lingered. The way her whole body had thrummed like a guitar he'd stroked until his strokes became so gentle she'd fallen asleep and slept as if she'd been drugged - soundly, deeply, profoundly.

  Another less pleasant memory that nagged at her was her ransacked room and the knowledge that someone was looking for her or something she had, and they weren't doing it in a very nice way.

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She had to get out of there, away from whoever it was who'd done this to her. She had to find a safe haven.

  “Are you all right?”

  Anne Marie's pulse jumped. A second ago he'd been asleep, now Marco was sitting up in his chair, wide awake, his dark eyes alert.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, trying to avoid staring at his chest again, at the expanse of muscle and bronzed skin visible. “I. . .I'm sorry about taking over your bed. You should have made me sleep in the chair. This is your room.”

  “I didn't mind,” he said.

  “If it's all right with you, I'll use your shower.”

  “Be my guest,” he said with a generous wave of his hand.

  “Then I'll be on my way.”

  “On your way,” he repeated. “To where?”

  “I don't know. Somewhere else. Somewhere where I won't stand out, where I can disappear into the crowd, where I feel safe and maybe check into a Hilton. There's got to be a hotel somewhere where this doesn't happen.” She gestured toward her former room next door.

  “You wouldn't leave on an empty stomach, would you?” he asked. “Breakfast is included, you know.”

  “That's right.” Once she got some coffee she'd be able to think more clearly, be able to make plans calmly and rationally. She'd be able to put the events of yesterday in proportion, if not out of her mind and concentrate on the future. At least her future travel plans. No use in planning too far ahead. No, she wouldn't leave before breakfast.

  “And we'll buy you a new bag for your clothes before you go.”

  Her gaze fell on the stack of clothes on the table. Instead of the tangle they were in last night, they were now neatly piled. Instead of thanking him once again, over and over, she wrapped her arms around her waist and headed for the bathroom.

  “Ana Maria?”

  She turned. Marco was standing at the door, so impossibly sexy in a rumpled way, it hurt her eyes to look at him. “I'll go out for a while, to give you a chance to get ready.”

  She nodded. What more was there to say except thank you, again and again?

  “Lock the door behind me,” he said.

  After she'd dutifully locked the door, she noticed his leather jacket on the back of the chair he'd slept in. She picked it up to inhale the intoxicating smell of the leather and the smell of Marco, and an envelope fell out of the pocket.

  It was addressed to her and had been slit open. Where it had come from, and why it was in Marco's pocket? She read the brief message written in Giovanni's fine handwriting. Memories of his post cards written in that same slanted script that arrived after he'd left town before graduation came rushing back. How excited she'd been. How she'd saved them all in her scrapbook.

  “It was so good to see you, my dear Ana Maria. I am sorry I could not spend more time with you. You mentioned going to Rome. Please call me when you arrive at the number below. Ciao and Buon Viaggio.”

  Another chance to see him; to wrap up a chapter in her life with a little more satisfaction than she had last night. But should she go? Should she call him? Did he really want to see her or was he just being polite, trying to make up for last night when he'd effectively blown her off?

  Marco sat at a small table on the patio with a cup of strong black coffee in front of him, smoking a cigarette. He was going to quit, but not now, not today. He reached for his cell phone and the minute he switched it on, it rang.

  “Where are you?” his grandmother asked. “Rocco said you went on the boat with the American girl.”

  “That's right,” he said. “We're in Paestum.”

  “'We,” she said. He could hear the surprise and almost glee in her voice.

  He decided to ignore it. What good would it do to deny any personal interest in Ana Maria? To proclaim that this was all in the line of duty, or that he'd accidentally been prevented from getting off the boat in time? His grandmother would believe what she wanted to believe. And she wanted to believe there was something romantic going on between him and Ana Maria. He could picture Nonna now, sitting in her kitchen, something simmering on the stove, a torta in the oven and a smile on her face, her eyes bright and hopeful. But she didn't start in on her usual harangue; she had other matters on her mind.

  “Marco, I'm worried,” she said. “I have had a call from your sister in Rome.”

  “With good news, I hope,” he said. They kept expecting her to say she'd had enough of convent life, that she was returning home to take up a job and find a husband.

  “Some good news. She has put off indefinitely taking her vows.”

  “Good.”

  “But here is the bad news. She says she has heard from Giovanni. He's going to Rome to see her next week.”

  “What?” Marco gripped his cup so tightly he was afraid it might break.

  “I don't know what it means,” Nonna said. He could tell she was worried. “If she's putting off the vows because of Giovanni or...”

  “It doesn't mean anything good,” Marco mutt
ered.

  “I thought perhaps you -”

  “She doesn't want me interfering in her life. She made that very clear. Does she know that you were going to tell me?” Marco asked.

  “Well...”

  “In fact, she told you not to tell me, didn't she?”

  “Marco, I can't let her ruin her life. Hasn't that man done enough to her already?” Nonna said.

  He couldn't agree more, but the last time he'd tried to save her from Giovanni had been a disaster.

  “What can I do, really? What can anyone do? She's an adult. She makes her own decisions,” he said.

  “You can go there. You don't need to make a scene or make any demands. Just a friendly visit from brother to sister.”

  “She doesn't want to see me.” They'd parted on acrimonious terms, arguing and yelling, just as they'd done over trivial things over the years.

  “Of course she does. She's just too stubborn to admit it. Don't tell me you're too stubborn to try?”

  “Call it what you will, I won't go to the convent and play the role of the big brother any more. I gave her my advice once. She didn't take it then. She won't take it now.”

  “Please. Just think about it.”

  “Nonna. I'm working. I know I don't appear to be, but I am.”

  “Working? With a molto bella woman and the wildflowers and the temples and...”

  “How does Isabella sound?” he interrupted. “Do you think she really plans to see him, after all he's done to her?”

  “She sounded unsure. She sounded happy and sad at the same time. I'm worried. I don't want her to become a nun, but on the other hand, there are worse things.”

  And the worst of the worse things - was Giovanni. He caught sight of Ana Maria just then, walking gracefully toward him in Isabella's shoes and a pair of tight-fitting designer blue jeans and a black shirt that was stretched tightly over her breasts. The enticing mixture of her American body in Italian clothes caused him to lose his train of thought.

  “I must go now, Nonna. I'll call you later.” He stuffed the phone in his pocket and smashed his cigarette into the ground with his heel.