by Carol Grace
He slanted a provocative glance in her direction. “Haven't you ever given in to temptation? Or are you too old for that kind of thing too?”
“I don't think we know each other well enough to be having this conversation.”
“Then let's talk about your friend Giovanni.”
“Why are you so interested in him?”
“I have a few questions I'd like to ask him.”
“Write them down. I'll ask him for you when I see him.”
“I have an idea. I'll go with you. We'll have a get-together, the three of us.”
“He might not like that.”
“I'm sure he wouldn't.” He paused. “So Giovanni was a big hit in America?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone at my high school was in love with him.”
“Even your friend Evie?”
“Evie? Oh, no!”
“What's the matter?”
“The candy. Evie's cousin's candy! I left it at the hotel.”
“We'll buy her some along the way.”
“No, it's a special kind. It's Nob Hill candy, made by hand on Nob Hill in San Francisco. They've been making it there for over one hundred years. We have to go back.”
He put his foot on the brake and the car screeched to a stop. He turned around and headed back to Paestum.
“Thank you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
He didn't speak for a long time. She felt terrible making him turn around, and she tried to think of something to say to break the silence.
“Don't you know anyone who's happily married?” she asked at last.
He shook his head.
“I do. I have several friends who are.”
“How do you know?” he asked curiously.
“I guess...I guess no one really does know. Why do you ask?”
“I ran into an old friend on the boat who's gotten engaged. He said he was dreading marriage. He was feeling trapped.”
“Then why marry?”
“I don't know. Maybe he thinks he's in love.”
“What about your grandparents? I thought you said...”
“I said they were married for fifty years. For them it worked. For Antonio and Bianca it might work. But you have to believe. I don't. For me it wouldn't work. I know myself.”
“I admit I don't know you very well, Marco, but I saw you with your grandmother at her house, in her kitchen, and I know that you love her very much. So don't tell me love doesn't exist.”
“That's different,” he said shortly.
She shook her head. It wasn't different. He was a tough man, but he was capable of love, whether he believed in it or not. “Tell me,” she said. “Don't you ever get lonely?”
“No,” he said a little too quickly, keeping his eyes on the road.
She studied his face once again, knowing he wasn't likely to acknowledge love or being lonely, not to her.
“Do you?” he asked.
“Yes. Ever since Dan left, I've been the odd man out. I liked being part of a couple, I liked being married. I liked knowing someone was waiting for me to come home, that someone thought about me and brought me little presents, flowers or candy sometimes. That I came first in his life. Of course, I was wrong.” Her lower lip quivered for a moment as she thought of just how wrong she'd been. How duped, how betrayed, how stupid.
“You're not going to cry again, are you?” he asked, sounding alarmed.
“No.” She clamped her back teeth together.
“Let's change the subject,” he said. “What else did you like about marriage? Did you like sex?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her tears forgotten. He had a way of shocking her, of making her see things from a different perspective. A male perspective. A very macho male perspective.
“I'm not going to answer that,” she said, her lips stiff.
“By not answering it, you are answering it,” he said.
“All right, then,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm, staring at the road ahead. “We didn't have sex that often. In retrospect, maybe that's something I should have done something about. Only I didn't know what to do. I thought that's the way it was after twenty years of marriage. No surprises, just...just comfortable sex. Predictable sex. Once-a-week or maybe once-a-month sex.” When he didn't say anything, she swiveled her head in his direction. “Is there something wrong with that?” She shook her head. “Never mind, I know the answer. There was something wrong or I'd still be married.”
“Maybe you didn't want to still be married.”
“Of course I did. I told you I loved being married.”
“Maybe you didn't want to be married to him.”
“We'd been together for over twenty years. You don't just throw over something like that because your sex life is predictable or boring.”
“So you found it boring.”
“I found it comfortable. That's different.”
“If you say so,” he said.
“I do say so.” She looked out the window. She'd never discussed her lackluster sex life with anyone, not Evie, not any of her other girlfriends, and she had no intention of discussing it with some Italian man who probably had sex every day and twice on Sunday, with a woman like his girlfriend from the restaurant or one of the women who supposedly paid him to show them the sights of his country. So why had she let him drag her into that discussion?
“What about you?” she asked boldly. Why should she be the only one put on the spot? “How do you like sex?”
He flicked an amused glance in her direction. If he was shocked by her frankness, he didn't let it show.
“Of course,” she continued, “You're an Italian male. I don't know why I should even ask.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “That's right, we're all alike, amoral, sexually obsessed, shallow, and after only one thing - the conquest.” He sounded annoyed and disappointed. “I thought you were too smart to put people into niches.”
“We have a saying, 'If the shoe fits, wear it,'” she said. “Maybe I'm not as smart as you think, not about men. But I'm learning. There's a good reason for stereotypes, they're often based on fact. What's your stereotype of the typical American?”
“Open, frank, happy, trusting, naive,” he said. “There, I've just proved your point for you. Because that's you.”
She shrugged. It wasn't such a bad description.
“You're wrong if you think I'm only interested in sex and the conquest,” he asked. “If I were I would have made love to you last night.”
She slid a glance in his direction. She wanted to ask why he hadn't, but she didn't. Maybe she was afraid to hear the answer.
It was a relief to pull up in front of the hotel, run in and retrieve her chocolates. By the time she got back in the car she hoped he'd forgotten what they were talking about.
Why did he care about her personal life anyway? Was she a challenge to him? Did he want to see how repressed she'd been? Did he think he was going to take her to bed and give her a thrill? If he did, why hadn't he done it last night? The thought of his toying with her infuriated her and made her heart race at the same time.
She straightened her shoulders and turned her head to look out the window as they wound their way into the countryside once again.
“Those cows grazing are special to this area, which is famous for its cheese. We'll have to stop and get some,” he said.
Her lips curved in a reluctant smile as she realized he was trying to change the subject to something neutral and safe.
“Do you see what I mean?” she said, waving her hand at the cattle standing in the shade of the spreading oak trees. “The whole world is made up of couples, including cows. Not one is by itself. It's natural to want company. Surely you must agree with me.”
“I never thought of cows being lonely,” he said.
“Because they're not. They've got each other. They're never alone.”
“I'm sorry I brought up the cows,” he said with a loud sigh. “Now it's your turn t
o change the subject.”
“Maybe it's because of your job that you're never lonely,” she suggested. Maybe he'd drop a clue as the real nature of his job.
“Yes,” he said. “At the end of the day I'm always glad to get away from it.”
“From the tourists, you mean.” But that wasn't what he meant. He was no more a tour guide than she was a belly dancer. But she wasn't in the mood for a confrontation. “Then why aren't you trying to get away from me? At the end of the day, there I am, still around, a pesky tourist who wants to see everything and do everything and asks too many questions. Yet you've offered to drive me to Rome. And I haven't paid a cent for your services. In fact, I owe you money. So why are you doing this? How can you afford it? You must have a very generous nature.”
His mouth curled in a half smile. “Then that's your answer,” he said.
She wasn't satisfied with his answer, which really wasn't his answer at all. If he'd simply wanted to have sex with her, he could have done it last night. Why hadn't he tried? Was she that unattractive? That old? Of course, she'd fallen asleep. But she would rather have... No, she wouldn't even go there.
Marco had no idea where he was going. Giovanni would be in Rome in five days. He could drive to Rome in a matter of hours and wait there, but he wasn't in the mood for Rome and he wasn't in the mood to wait. Rome was too noisy, too frantic, too busy, and when he got there he'd have to face problems he didn't want to face.
He'd have to come to grips with the very real probability that Ana Maria was going to give him the gigantic diamond he was expecting. It might be under that new ring she'd acquired, or it might be somewhere else. Maybe she didn't even have it yet.
If she gave it to Giovanni, he'd have to arrest them both. The idea of her in cuffs and behind bars was disturbing. It shouldn't be. He'd arrested women in the past; he'd seen justice done and closed the door on the case. It might not be that easy this time.
Why else would Giovanni want to see her again, if he didn't think she had something for him? He turned his head to look at her in the stretch jeans that hugged her hips and the shirt that rippled across her breasts every time she moved, and he knew the answer to that one. She was a sexy woman and Giovanni liked sexy women. Was that all there was to their relationship? Was she simply a tourist with nothing to hide? Or was she a criminal who was smart enough to double-cross Giovanni and deal with someone else, one of his rivals?
Giovanni wasn't the only diamond dealer in Italy, not by any means. But if it wasn't a double-cross, then what did that “Gotcha” note in the yearbook mean?
He was definitely not in the mood to go to Rome nor to think about Giovanni and jewels or analyze the woman next to him. Instead he was in the mood to drive through the countryside in a classic touring car with her at his side. He was in the mood to watch her out of the corner of his eye. To see the sun shine on her hair, to watch her cheeks turn pink when she got upset about his views on love and marriage.
Was he really the loner he pretended to be? He'd never thought about it. He never thought about love or marriage much, brushing off his grandmother's nagging.
Sex was another matter. That was one of his favorite subjects to think about, especially when he fantasized about making love to the woman at his side. He couldn't imagine her husband not wanting to take her to bed every day. If he had a woman like that at home, he'd come home for lunch every day. He'd make love to her on the terrace, in the garden, under the olive tree, and in bed at night. Her husband must be an idiot.
For some reason, he was being forced into the question of marriage on all sides. First his grandmother, then Silvestro, then Antonio, and now Ana Maria. Everything he saw and everything he heard only underscored his belief that he was not cut out for marriage. If he had been once, it was too late now.
A voice inside asked if this trip would be the same if he was by himself? No. Would it be better or worse? He refused to answer that. It would be different, that was all.
The road was climbing into the mountains where the wind was cooler. The evergreen oak trees were deep green on both sides of the road. There was no more grass, no more cows grazing.
Ana Maria hadn't spoken for a long time. She'd described herself as pesky. He thought that meant annoying, and if so, it didn't describe her. She was easy to be with, even easier to look at. His gaze wandered her way once again and he wondered idly if she was getting sunburned again.
Even now he could feel her skin beneath his fingers, smell the lotion he'd rubbed into her tender skin and hear her sighs. He wanted to let his fingers awaken the passion he knew was just beneath the surface. He wanted to make love to her, to show her what she'd been missing in her comfortable, boring marriage, to give her something to remember. He'd spent an entire evening watching the outline of her breasts under that silk shirt, and he still hadn't seen them. Still hadn't touched them or kissed them. Though he could have turned her over last night on his bed, she was asleep by then, and there were rules about that.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said.
“What kind of a tour guide are you?” a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“I'm not working today.”
“Is this what you do for fun when you're not working? Drive around on back roads with a stranger?”
“I don't think of you as a stranger anymore. Not after last night.”
She stared at him for a long moment and her cheeks flushed. He gave her a knowing smile, then turned his attention back to the road ahead.
“Last night,” she repeated. “I thought you said...”
“Nothing happened,” he said. “Not yet.”
She slid down in her seat and closed her eyes. Mesmerized by the sight of her long legs in tight pants, imagining how he'd feel when they were bare and wrapped around him, he pictured stopping by the side of the road, walking off into a copse of trees, and making love in the tall grass, her hair a halo around her head, her voice catching as she called his name when she climaxed.
He'd stroke her face, remove the grass from her hair, kiss the valley between her breasts. And she...she'd use her mouth and she'd...
He swerved back over the dividing line of the road. Fortunately there was little traffic. He forced himself to stop looking at her and keep his eyes on the road. His fantasy was not going to happen. Not now, not her, despite the erection he now had. It was those months of celibacy - it must be. After all, she was just another tourist. She wasn't really beautiful. She wasn't young. She wasn't voluptuous. She wasn't Italian and she wasn't his type.
Not only that, she was here today and gone tomorrow. Which was a good thing; he wasn't looking for anything permanent. It was not a good thing that she might be in jail tomorrow or next week. That sobering thought ought to help him control his hormones.
She didn't open her eyes until he'd stopped in a small town. She sat up straight, blinked and looked around.
“Where are we?”
“The sign says Benvenuto a Racalmuto.”
“Racalmuto,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“I don't know,” he said.
“For an Italian tour guide, there's a lot you don't know about your country.”
“For a woman, there's a lot you don't know about men. We don't like our manhood to be questioned.”
“I wasn't questioning your manhood,” she said. “Unless your manhood is tied to your profession which I doubt.”
“I'm a specialist, and small towns are not my specialty. This is just a town where people live. It's not on the map of things to do and see. Look around. Do you see any other tourists?”
She shook her head. “I'm glad. Thank you for bringing me to Racalmuto. It's just the kind of place I wanted to come to.” She sniffed the air. “What smells so good?”
She looked around and saw they'd stopped in front of a bakery. “Why don't we buy some bread and cheese and wine and have a picnic?” She looked so absurdly happy about such a simple idea, he smile
d. He tried to imagine Adrianna getting excited about a picnic. She and every other woman he knew would have insisted on a four-course lunch at a restaurant. They would not like to sit on the ground, get their clothes dirty, and subject themselves to crawling creatures.
“There may be ants,” he warned.
“What is a picnic without ants?” she asked with a smile.
For a moment he forgot all his problems, forgot to wonder who she was and what she was doing there. He only wanted to hold onto the moment, hold onto that smile and the look in her eyes. Put them away for another day when the sun wasn't shining on her hair and he had other things to do but have a picnic in the country with a woman who didn't care about dirt and ants, and who did things to his heart rate and to his attention span.
After a long moment, she exhaled slowly.
“Well,” she said, and blinked again as if waking from a dream. She opened the car door, took her purse and walked away.
He stood on the curb, leaning against the car door to watch her walk into the bakery, her hips swaying slightly in her tight jeans. He wasn't the only one looking at her. He noticed a painter on a ladder across the street, put his brush down and give her an appreciative leer. Since the man was at work and on a ladder, Marco felt sure she was safe, and he strolled down the street to an open air fruit market to buy cherries and plums. On the way back he bought a bottle of wine, then he paused in front of a small jewelry store.
He stared at the gold rings in the window, at the emeralds and at the diamonds. He was studying the jewelry so intently, he didn't know she was standing next to him until she spoke.
“You say you don't believe in love,” she said. “But they say diamonds are forever. Do you believe that?”
Chapter Twelve
“I don't believe in forever,” he said, which was exactly what Anne Marie expected him to say.
“I'm not surprised. I only hope I'll never be that cynical.”
“No danger,” he said. “Like all women, you're a romantic.”
“I guess I am. Or I was.”
“The wedding ring you had. Was it like that one?” He pointed to a diamond ring in the window.
