Windy City Romance: Boxed Set: Prequel - Book III

by Barbara Lohr

  Easier to be a babe in another country with no students or parents.

  “Thank you for the flowers.” When Amy awakened from a needed nap, a gorgeous bouquet of pink gerbera daisies sat in the ice bucket on the side table. Apparently Mallory had slipped out to one of the flower stalls while she slept. Where he got the energy after their torrid early afternoon session was beyond her. Amy still felt limp, with a few mild aches in all the right places. As long as she could walk, she was fine.

  This must be how a wanton woman would feel—satisfied and a little sore.

  “What's that Cheshire cat grin about?” Mallory's blue eyes warmed above the rim of the glass.

  “Nothing. Everything.”

  After the much needed nap—being a babe could be exhausting—they got dressed and headed for the Piazza San Marco. They even tagged along behind a group touring the Doges Palace with a guide. Wasn’t this why she’d included Venice—the history? The ceilings of the palace soared above them, walls and arches adorned with intricate carvings and ancient tapestries. But overall, the palace was dark, as were the stories of the stern rule of the doges. What a relief it had been to escape back into the sunlight.

  “So what did you think of the palace?” Amy asked as they sipped their bellinis. “You were pretty quiet.”

  Taking one of her hands, Mallory began to play with her fingers. “I have a low tolerance for large musty museums, palaces, forts. Not my thing. But since I’m with you…well, I’m willing to tag along.”

  That darn red flag went up. “So you didn’t come on this trip necessarily to see Italy?”

  When Mallory looked away, her heart contracted. “I would imagine that no one can ever get enough of Italy.”

  One week with no complications was beginning to feel hollow.

  “The palace wasn’t as interesting as the paintings in the Uffizi,” Mallory said.

  “Any paintings in particular?” Back to their teasing banter.

  “Have to admit, I am partial to nudes.”

  She swallowed. “Figured that.”

  Mallory nodded knowingly, eyes flashing into blue heat. Her throat and lips felt parched, as if seared by a brush fire, and she tossed back what was left of her bellini.

  Hands linked, they wandered out, stopping in various shops and kiosks that sold jewelry, blown glass pens with delicate writing paper, or first editions along with the latest best sellers. One kiosk on the walkway fronting the bay featured a wall of masks in bright blue, yellow or green—a dazzling display of color, adorned by feathers and ribbons that danced in the breeze sweeping off the canal.

  “Mardi Gras! Aren’t these wonderful?” The masks glittered in the sunlight, mysterious and playful.

  “Look. Just matches your new dress.” Mallory unhooked a gorgeous green mask with yellow sequins edging the openings for the eyes. Plumes of lime and aqua feathers along with long silk streamers of green and blue cascaded from one side.

  Carefully, Amy slipped it over her hair.

  “Very nice. Adds a bit of mystery.” Mallory stepped back in appreciation.

  “It doesn’t feel like me.” Staring at herself in the mirror, she felt dazed. Amy wanted to be this woman always.

  And that scared the heck out of her.

  On impulse, she grabbed a blue mask with a bright yellow and blue harlequin design and held it up to Mallory’s face. But seeing his eyes peeking out from the mask chilled her. Quickly, she returned both masks to the display.

  “Not a good color on me?”

  “Didn’t do you justice.” Breaking away, she strolled toward the next booth. When Mallory caught up with her, he had bought the green mask. Oh, this wouldn’t do. Mallory made decisions so quickly, while she agonized, weighing each option.

  Then she stopped. Did she want to be a list maker? Did she want to be the woman who didn't go out for a beer with the other teachers because she had papers to grade?

  “Thank you.” Clutching the bag to her chest, she knew she'd keep this mask forever.

  ~.~

  After wandering around aimlessly and watching a mime dressed all in white perform at one of the squares, they went back to freshen up for dinner. The concierge had suggested a casual restaurant that sat on the canal in front of the Hotel Marconi. Mallory didn’t see any point in consulting a guidebook to find something more exotic.

  If the phone rang, he checked to make sure it wasn’t Amy’s mother or aunt but he was not answering Chad’s calls. His head just couldn’t go there.

  A good choice, the restaurant was intimate, but he hardly knew what he was eating. His mind spun, filled with questions.

  One thing had become clear. He wanted more than one week with Amy. And his need had nothing to do with a wager.

  As dusk settled over the darkening waters of the canals after dinner, Mallory and Amy strolled hand in hand toward the Piazza San Marco, where the music of a stringed quartet floated over the square. They settled at a table at one of the cafes clustered at the edges of the piazza. Fat pigeons toddled about the square, pecking for crumbs.

  “Haven’t heard a thing from Caitlin.” Thin lines of worry creased Amy’s brow.

  Mallory chucked her gently under the chin. “Maybe they’re otherwise engaged. Like us.”

  “Could be. She’s not like me…”

  He caught her hand. “You’re very different but both special. And she is devoted to you.” In some ways, he felt Caitlin had helped his cause.

  “Really?” Settling back in her chair, she laughed softly. Her contentment pleased him.

  The waiter brought the wine. Mallory could not remember when he’d felt this satisfied and it had nothing to do with the food.

  Dark clouds scudded across a night sky. The end of the trip loomed.

  “Doesn’t everything feel special here?” Amy’s glance swept the darkening piazza.

  When he expanded his chest with a sigh that came from his toes, Thornton Enterprises seemed distant and unimportant. With an instrumental flourish, the quartet launched into a spirited tango.

  “Dance?” Eager to have her in his arms, Mallory sprang to his feet.

  Amy gripped the arms of her chair. “Oh, Mallory. I can’t tango!”

  Four couples had moved onto the piazza, away from the tables. One duo began to tango, their liquid movements defying their heavy leather sandals. An older couple initiated a slower, more sedate tango, backs rigid and arms in position. The others merely swayed to the music.

  He’d be damned if he was going to miss this dance, even though he hadn’t a clue where to put his feet. He smiled down at Amy. “Can you lean? I can’t tango either, but I lean well. Sometimes even in time to the music.”

  Amy’s wistful eyes followed the dancers.

  Prying one hand from the chair, Mallory gently tugged her to her feet. With a timid smile, she folded nicely into his body.

  Just as she would in his life.

  A plan had begun to formulate in his mind. Amy’s head rested soft on his shoulder as they swayed across the uneven stones. Others soon joined them, but for that moment, they were the only two people on the piazza and they belonged together.

  “Isn’t this the best, Mallory?”

  He cupped his hand over hers, the one flat against his heart. “The very best.”

  “Could we leave?”

  “My thought exactly.”

  Chapter 20

  “We really need to go to Murano today?” Mallory asked. Staying in bed seemed so right. Amy’s skin felt soft and the bed warm. Room service made perfect sense.

  Hair deliciously mussed, she gave him a stern glance that probably struck fear into her students. “The glass blowers are known worldwide.”

  “Love it when you talk teacher to me.”

  Murano. In the foyer of his Savannah mansion sat an enormous piece of green Murano glass atop an ebony pedestal. Overhead hung a stunning blue and green Chihuly chandelier, his mother’s favorite.

  Amy had not shown any curiosity about his family
or his home. Sympathetic? Yes. Curious? Not really. Rhonda has just about demanded an inventory of the Savannah mansion after the first time they’d slept together.

  Spooning deeper into the arch of Mallory’s body, she sighed. Then she grabbed one of her infernal travel guides from the nightstand and began to fumble through the pages. “That is why we came, right?”

  Mallory’s veins turned to ice. He could never tell Amy why he’d come on this junket to Italy. The corporation? The luxury car?

  Looking back, he felt like a damn fool. That night in the Oglethorpe Club was an eternity ago.

  “Murano it is.” Throwing back the covers, he headed for the shower. He needed time to clear his head. Time to strategize.

  When Mallory and Amy reached the bay in front of the Doges Palace, they hopped aboard a tour boat headed for Murano. The farther out they got, the better the view. Mallory pointed to a large cruise ship that sat at anchor. “Ever taken a cruise?”

  “No.” Amy squinted at the huge liner.

  “We'll have to do that some day.”

  “Happy talk.” Pulling away, she frowned.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No really, Amy. I’d like to know.”

  Just then, the excursion boat pulled along the weathered pier of Murano, and they all filed off. Shuffling onto the dock in back of an older couple, Mallory sank into troubled thoughts. Was Amy keeping secrets from him?

  Guilt squelched that suspicion. Wasn’t he harboring secrets of his own? Another glance toward the cruise ship pushed everything else from his mind.

  Perfect. Crazy, but perfect.

  Taking Amy’s hand, he led her into the colorful town, where pink, blue and yellow storefronts offered a firsthand glimpse of artists at work. Her breezy aqua top and mini skirt were so girly, so her, as were those cute blue sandals.

  If he did meet his goal—and he was becoming more determined by the hour—he wondered what stone to give her for a wedding gift. Would it be jade, the color of her eyes when she became so serious…or aquamarine to remind them of the day she leapt into the bay at Monterosso? His showrooms carried only the highest quality stones. Nothing else would do for Amy.

  Morning sun bounced off the colorful stucco facades of buildings, cooled by a refreshing breeze from the bay. Stores closest to the dock quickly filled with tourists. They moved past, finally entering an empty shop. At the back stood a middle-aged guy with a ponytail. A sturdy chap, the artist braced his feet wide while he worked. Mouth set and eyes protected by goggles, he twirled a long metal pole in an open furnace glowing with white heat. Although the artist wore thick gloves, the scars on his arms weren’t recent. This guy had probably spent years perfecting his art.

  “There are times when I’m in awe of the artist in the front lines,” Mallory said as the man put his mouth to the end of the blowpipe, cheeks rounding with the effort.

  Amy wheeled around, eyes suddenly cool and guarded. “Are you talking about the artists you meet in your own work?”

  So it had come to that. All week he’d been dancing around what he did for a living. Mallory certainly didn’t want to be cast in the same light as her idiot fiancé, but this wasn’t the time to explain. When was the right time to tell a woman you’re worth millions?

  “Right, with my jewelry store.” He let it go at that.

  Amy picked up a vase shaped like a pear. “Will you look at this? So beautiful.”

  Slowly, she ran one finger along the lips that tucked into a v in both front and back. The glass was a delicate pale pink that deepened in the folds as the design tightened. An arrow of need lanced through Mallory’s body.

  Everything about Amy was so damn sexy.

  “I’ll take it.” Then, at her startled look, he added, “Good for Christmas. Don’t you agree?”

  “Christmas.” Her smile faded.

  “I never know what to give my staff.” Although she joined him as they chose colors, something was off. What had changed her mood?

  By that time, the glass blower’s wife had joined them. Mallory gave her shipping instructions for his lot.

  “Oh, you can just put mine in a bag,” Amy said quickly. “I want to look at them.”

  “Sure? They’ll be heavy.”

  “When we get back home, I’m going to line them up on the bureau and just remember…how beautiful they are.” A muscle moved in her throat.

  Her enthusiasm touched him. The morning felt so damned domestic, like they were a couple. He almost felt drugged by complacency as they drifted back to the boat.

  ~.~

  When they reached the Piazza San Marco, Amy made a quick call to Caitlin and they set up plans to meet for lunch.

  “Don’t mean to be avoiding you,” she told her sister.

  “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t I give you a call when we find a restaurant?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Her sister’s voice sounded sleepy, even though it was almost noon. Probably still in bed. Amy’s bag weighed heavy on her arm.

  Hadn’t they spent the morning wisely? But another part of her wished they’d lounged in the room. Time was short. When he mentioned Christmas, a hole had opened up inside her.

  Over the past few days, Amy’s life had gone haywire. Her travel chum had become more important than the trip. As they strolled the cobblestones of Venice, a sadness fell over her.

  The end was in sight.

  The end of her trip and the end of her travel chum.

  After leaving the boat, they’d wandered down one of the narrow streets that led off the piazza. Mallory’s arm kept her close, and she let her head fall onto his shoulder. Shadows became narrow as the sun climbed overhead.

  How she wished he’d say something, but none of the happy talk, please. Men did it all the time—another topic for McKenna and Vanessa as they sat in Petersen’s Ice Cream Parlor. Men would paint a picture of the future, like an insurance policy they never intended to cash. Mallory hadn’t shared any details about his work and his life. Surely that indicated that he saw no future for them. Whatever they had was just for this week.

  A babe wouldn’t care.

  Her steps faltered.

  But she did.

  A capricious wind tunneled through the tight buildings, playing havoc with Mallory’s hair. The boys she taught would finger it into stiff spikes with goo or round it into a smooth cap. Not Mallory. The man lived in comfortable certainty about himself.

  So why did she feel so uncertain?

  Who was Mallory Schuster? She wished she had a computer handy so she could Google him. But what did it matter? Just one more day.

  The street had taken them into another smaller piazza with an outdoor cafe. Cozy tables were arranged under a green awning.

  “Good?” Mallory turned to her.

  “Perfect.” Checking the street name on the worn stones of the corner building, she called Caitlin.

  “Amy, would you be furious if we didn’t meet you for lunch?”

  A waitress arrived and handed Amy a menu. “Of course not. After all, we see each other all the time.”

  “Kurt and I don’t want to mess up your time with Mallory.”

  “It’s not like that.” Amy glanced across the table. Lips pursed, Mallory was studying the menu.

  “It could be like that, Amy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do something wild and crazy, okay?” Her sister sounded so darn frustrated.

  “I will. I am,” she insisted, plucking at the edge of the menu. “See you at home, Caitlin, or maybe we’ll end up on the same flight back.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re taking a later flight out. Kurt changed the plans. Wanted to spend more time here.” Amy could hear the smile in Caitlin’s voice and knew Kurt was right there.

  Her heart hammered just thinking about returning to the states.

  “Mallory is a great guy. Do not let that man get away.”

  What her sister really meant was do not screw this up, Amy. />
  But there was nothing to screw up. Was there?

  “Have a good flight back, Cait. Talk to you later.”

  Mallory’s brows lifted as Amy tucked her phone away. “Change of plans?”

  “Caitlin’s not coming.”

  Mallory’s eyelids drooped with sly understanding. “I understand.”

  The waiter came, and they ordered.

  “So, what should we do this afternoon?” Amy asked as they waited for their salads. “See the sites?”

  “Maybe we should rest up a bit?” When Mallory pursed his lips, heated memories coursed through her.

  She knew the power of those lips, and her skin prickled. “Thought we might take in La Fenice. You know, the oldest opera house. Burned down in the 1800s. Of course, they eventually rebuilt it. Very well known.”

  The waiter arrived with their order. Bits of the historical facts she’d studied for months came back, and she tossed them out like seasonings.

  “Or we could go back to the hotel for a bit,” he suggested once the waiter retreated. Mallory’s tone suggested they might go back to tidy up a bit. His smile held devious intent as he cut into the chicken strips on his salad.

  “Really?” She dashed more olive oil on her lettuce.

  “You know, check on the room.”

  “Make sure it’s still there.” Amy played with her fork, suddenly not hungry. At least, not for chicken salad. “Or we could visit the church of San Polo that houses the painting of the Last Supper. We shouldn’t leave without seeing that.”

  “Mold,” Mallory offered with an exaggerated sniff. “Those old churches. Maybe what we need is a little rest.”

  “Or the Bridge of Sighs. We can’t go back without seeing this bridge. All the prisoners, poor things, would cross this bridge on their way to prison.

  “Why would anyone bury themselves in a dark dingy covered bridge on a day like today? I have a much better idea.”

  “What would that be?” Her imagination brought a damp rush.

  Leaning so close that she could see a trace of vinaigrette on his lips, Mallory chucked her gently under the chin. “I have a surprise for you. Eat quickly, cara.”

  With a shiver, she picked up her fork.