Roulette

by Megan Mulry

  Teresa is staring around the room in stunned silence, trying not to gape, then remembers she’s supposedly working. “Oh, yes!” She looks at her watch. “I promised Ms. Steingarten I would have you both home by five.”

  I look at my watch and see it’s already a few minutes past. “Thanks for the kind invitation, Rome, but—”

  “Miki! Mom will totally understand!” Isabel widens her eyes at me as if I am the stupidest girl in the fifth grade.

  Rome smiles at his new accomplice, then looks at me. “Isabel is a very wise girl. It’s best not to pass up spontaneous invitations to a Venetian rooftop at sunset.”

  The way he looks at me, well, I actually sway. “Okay.” I clear my throat because I can’t seem to get that breathiness to go away. He keeps staring at me.

  “So?” he asks.

  “Right,” I say, snapping out of my may-I-stare-into-your-eyes-for-the-rest-of-my-life reverie. “Teresa, we’re fine to see ourselves home. Thank you so much.” I reach out and shake her hand.

  “The pleasure has been mine.” Her eyes twinkle as she smiles and shakes my hand. “Please let me know if you want any more tours.” She hands me her card.

  “I definitely will. Thanks again.”

  Rome opens the door and leads Teresa out to the landing. Another guard is standing there, and Rome instructs him to show Teresa out. I imagine his Armani assassins popping up like mushrooms—anytime one is called away, another one appears.

  When he comes back into the study, the sun is slanting through the beveled windows behind me and he looks insanely gorgeous, sporting his typical casual uniform of a white oxford shirt—rolled up to reveal his strong, tan forearms—and beautifully tailored linen trousers. The easygoing cut of his clothes somehow makes him appear even more powerful. “So, Isabel, do you want to call your mother from my landline—”

  “I’ve got it!” I interrupt, pulling out my cell phone and dialing Vivian.

  “Where are you guys?” she asks without preamble. “I thought for sure you’d be back by now.”

  “We ran into a friend . . .” I’m dreading her impending shriek and hoping it won’t be too obvious across the room.

  “Really?” she asks doubtfully.

  I think she already suspects.

  “Yes,” I speak quickly. “Jérôme de Villiers’s art collection . . . It’s such a funny coincidence . . . The tour guide made arrangements for us to visit this anonymous collection . . . and it turns out . . .”

  Vivian is laughing hysterically, just like Zoe did. Apparently, my botched love life is sidesplitting. I keep talking over her gasping fit.

  “So, he’s invited Isabel and me to have a drink on his rooftop terrace . . .”

  “Of course he has!” she nearly guffaws.

  “So, we’ll be home in about an hour.”

  She stops laughing immediately. “Absolutely not!” she cries. “What’s his address? I’m coming over.”

  Isabel and Rome are laughing about something out the window, as he points across the canal.

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  Rome calls over from the other side of the room, “Please tell Vivian I’d love to meet her if she’d like to join us.” Of course he says it loudly enough that Vivian can hear.

  “Oh, thanks, but—” I try.

  Vivian yells into my ear, “Yes!”

  “She’d love to,” I answer lamely.

  “Great.” Then he’s looking at me again, and it’s like Isabel and Vivian and his bazillion-dollar Venetian palazzo and the whole universe all evaporate and he’s just looking at me. “Great,” he says again, more softly.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” I say to Vivian. Then I look back at Rome. “What’s the address here?”

  He gives me the details and I tell Vivian, and she tells me she’ll be here in five minutes. I’m tempted to tell her not to trip on the cobblestones in her haste, but I refrain. I put the phone back in my side pocket as Rome and Isabel begin walking toward me.

  “All set?” he asks.

  “Yes, she says she’ll be here in a few minutes. Should we wait for her?”

  “We can if you like, but one of the guards can also show her up.”

  “Okay,” I answer, getting a little buzzed just standing near him.

  We start to go up the stairs, Isabel and I walking in front of Rome. “So, how many guards do you have?” Isabel asks enthusiastically. I look over my shoulder and see Rome looking at me again, and I stumble on the edge of one of the stone steps. He reaches up quickly to steady me, his palm at the base of my spine, and I feel it like a brand through the thin fabric of my dress.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  He pulls his hand away once I’m steady, and I can feel the outline of where he touched me for many seconds afterward.

  “There are about twenty guards, Isabel,” he continues smoothly. “But they’re not mine, really. They belong to the palazzo, because of all the artwork.”

  “Cool.”

  When we get to the top floor, another guard is standing by glass doors that lead out to the roof terrace. He touches a button and the doors slide open.

  “Wow!” Isabel beams. “This place is seriously awesome.”

  “Thanks,” Rome says, and it sounds like he really means it.

  There’s already a bottle of prosecco in a silver ice bucket on the stone side table, and a platter of salamis and cheeses and small pickled vegetables for us to nibble on. Isabel walks straight to the edge of the roof, craning her neck to get a better view out over the canals.

  “Be careful!” I bark.

  “Seriously, Miki! You have to see this.” Isabel’s perfectly safe, with the half wall coming up above her waist.

  “I’ll be there in a second,” I tell her. I’m staring at Rome while he’s looking in Isabel’s direction and opening the prosecco. I love his hands on the neck of the bottle and how he’s twisting the large cork. My gaze travels up to his face, and he totally nails me fantasizing about his hands, having turned back at some point to focus on what he’s doing. We are looking at each other like idiots when the cork explodes from the bottle. I jump, and Rome smiles and pours two glasses for us.

  He finishes making the drinks, then walks over to where I’m standing and hands me one of the flutes. He’s added a bit of fresh peach juice, and I can smell the summery, intoxicating scent as he holds it out for me to take. When I wrap my fingers around the stem, he still doesn’t release his hold, and I look up into his eyes.

  “Miki, I want—”

  “There you are!” Vivian cries as she explodes onto the roof deck. Rome releases the glass and takes a few steps away from me to introduce himself to Vivian and offer her a drink.

  “Perfect timing,” he says with that dastardly hint of his French accent. “I haven’t taken a sip yet, so here’s a Bellini for you. I’m Rome. You must be Vivian.”

  “Why, yes, I must.” She’s such an easy mark, honestly. I bet if he asked her about her husband, she would reply, “Who?” with complete sincerity.

  I watch as she flirts with him and he spars easily. He pours another drink for himself and makes a nonalcoholic version for Isabel. The four of us sit down on the large outdoor sofas and enjoy the early evening, chatting about the film festival and some of Vivian’s more high-profile deals, all while my insides are turning into something resembling panna cotta.

  Rome talks to Vivian and Isabel like they’re old friends, but even though his words are directed toward them, it’s as though his energy is somehow directed at me. He doesn’t look at me too much or do anything overly obvious, but I feel hot all over and start to get fidgety in my seat whenever he talks.

  After the second round of drinks and more platters of food casually arriving, I catch Isabel yawning and know she must be feeling the jet lag. And I need to get out of here. I feel flushed
and overwhelmed by the rush of all the old, unresolved emotions, and there’s nothing Rome and I can discuss in front of Isabel and Vivian, in any case.

  “Getting sleepy, Isabel?” I ask.

  Isabel looks like it’s the last thing she wants to admit, but she nods. “I am. A bit.”

  I stand up and Isabel does, too. I want to laugh at Vivian, who looks as though she’s considering a longer visit with Rome while I take her eleven-year-old daughter back to the villa. “Vivian?”

  “Oh, fine, I’m coming. But it’s just so magical here. I hate to leave.”

  Rome is now standing as well. “Come over anytime. Please feel free.”

  “Really? How wonderful.” Vivian may be blushing.

  If we were sitting at a table with a tablecloth, I would totally kick her shin right now. “Vivian?”

  “Yes?” She turns to me like she barely knows me.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Oh. Right.” She puts her glass on the Etruscan stone table and smiles at Rome. “Thanks again. The prosecco, the delicious food—”

  “Viv,” I interrupt softly. Isabel is leaning into me, and it really is time for us to leave.

  “Come this way,” Rome says, leading us back into the house as soon as he sees how exhausted Isabel is. He presses a button and opens a door to reveal a small elevator. “At your service.” He smiles at Isabel.

  “Thank you,” she says with a yawn, and the four of us get into the narrow cab. As the elevator makes its smooth descent, it’s basically torture standing a few inches behind Rome. Isabel and I are at the back, and Vivian and Rome are standing right in front of us. When it mercifully comes to a stop, Rome pushes open the door to allow Vivian to exit; Isabel follows her mother into the front hall.

  “Miki, may I call you?” he asks in a low voice, but politely, as if he’s some country gentleman hoping to pay me a visit.

  I look up at him as I turn to fit through the cramped door of the elevator, my hip skimming his. “Yes . . . please.” I’m frozen there for a second.

  He exhales, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my neck. He turns quickly to see that Isabel and Vivian have gone toward the front door and are no longer visible, then kisses my lips with a fleeting tenderness. “Jusque-là,” he whispers in his sinful French.

  Until then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As soon as I’m out of his range, I start to breathe normally again.

  Isabel is dozy and sweet, leaning into her mother as we walk to the bridge and cross back to our side of the canal. When we reach our place, Isabel looks up at me and says, “If anyone can help you get over your crush, I bet that man Rome can. I think he likes you.”

  Vivian smiles at me over Isabel’s soft blond curls. “I agree.”

  “Well, you are both exhausted,” I say. “So why don’t you go to sleep and we’ll see about crushes tomorrow?”

  “Okay,” Isabel answers easily. We are up in our room by then, and Vivian is helping her out of her shorts and T-shirt and putting her into her pajamas. She’s asleep within seconds.

  I’m sitting in one of the stone window seats, looking out at the city. Vivian comes over, and I stand up to give her a hug.

  “I love you, Miki.”

  “I love you, too, Viv.” I hold her close. “You’re the best.”

  She pulls back and looks into my eyes, making sure I’m all right. “You okay with everything? With him?”

  I nod. “More than okay. Whatever happens.”

  “You want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “No, I’m good. I’m going to stay up and read for a while.”

  She hugs me one more time, then turns to go. “Sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  A few seconds after she leaves, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket with a text alert. I pull it out and smile.

  What are you wearing?

  I smile at the screen, then type back.

  The same thing I was wearing ten minutes ago when I saw you.

  A few seconds pass with the cursor blinking, so I know he’s composing a reply. He texts:

  Want to meet up for a late supper?

  I look at Isabel asleep and then out the window at the magical city.

  I’d love that.

  His reply is there in a few seconds.

  Casual?

  I smile at the memory of our last “date” and think of my Lanvin gown. Why should I save it for the gala?

  Formal. I’m in the mood to get *dolled* up.

  Touché. Be ready in thirty minutes. I’ll be down in front of your place.

  I smile at his familiar determination, then put the phone away. I try to be quiet as I rustle around in the bag, feeling like the teenager I never was—sneaking out to meet a boy. I find the dress in the white tissue and shake it out. After I hang it up, I stroke down the sensuous fabric for a few seconds, imagining the feel of Rome’s hands through the silk. I quit my reverie when I remember the real man is on his way over and I need to jump in the shower.

  As I quietly get ready, I think back to that first night in Saint Petersburg and how willfully careless I tried to be. All this time, I thought I was protecting myself from Rome and the wildness of his passion, but the truth is so obvious now. I’ve been afraid of my own voracious appetites, tamping myself down, shying away from my own power.

  After I put on some mascara and lip gloss, then pile my hair into a loose knot with a few clips, I do my usual oh, well, that’s good enough assessment of my appearance in the mirror. But this time I stop short. I realize that my good-enough life is very, very good. If Rome wants me as much as I want him—as much as his tender kiss by the elevator seemed to indicate—what the two of us have is so much more than enough.

  I slip into the red dress, the sheer layers of long, diaphanous silk caressing my bare legs, and zip up the side. I go through my suitcase until I find my small silver clutch and silver heels. I carry the shoes in one hand so I don’t make a click-clacking racket as I go down the stairs, but my heart beats too fast for me to think about anything beyond getting to the ground floor without tripping.

  Signor Moretti is there when I reach the front door. “Will you be returning late?” He gives me a quick, complimentary appraisal.

  “Oh, I’m not sure, but most likely yes. May I take a key?” I slip on my heels as I speak to him.

  “That’s not necessary; it’s on a code.” He gives me the four digits and then shows me how to make sure the door is double-locked when I return.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles, obviously knowing I’m embarking on some romantic rendezvous. He opens the door for me, and when I step out, I see Rome walking toward me in the deep shadows of evening. It’s not quite full night, and the light makes his sleek hair look velvety and his skin take on a coppery hue.

  When he has nearly reached me, he pauses a few feet away and puts his hand over his heart dramatically. “Bellissima,” he whispers.

  I hold the dress fabric slightly away from me and do a half twirl. “I wanted to get your attention.”

  “You’ve got it.” His voice is rough and strong.

  I go still and stare into his eyes; he doesn’t look away. I close the distance between us and kiss him lightly at the edge of his mouth, that small spot that lifts up slightly when his smile is at its most devilish. He groans and pulls me up against him, both of his hands around my waist so our hips slam together, and I bend into him easily. Then I’m circling his neck with my eager hands and his lips are on mine and we are kissing in the shadows. I’m ravenous for him, as if I can finally enjoy a delicious meal that I’ve forbidden myself to try for my entire life, forbidden for reasons that I now realize were anchored in fear.

  Still, kissing has never been our problem. I pull away slowly, caressing his smooth cheek with my fingertips. “Wha
t did you have in mind for dinner?”

  He stares at me for a few more seconds, looking like he has plenty to say but knows we will get to it eventually. “This way.”

  He holds my hand as we walk back toward the Grand Canal. When we turn off the narrow via, there is a glorious motorboat waiting for us at the edge of the canal. The polished teak gleams in the dusky light. Two of his guards are on board, one at the wheel and the other holding the line and waiting to help us get on.

  “Your chariot,” Rome says. He has that sweet eagerness that I noticed earlier on the rooftop, like it really matters to him what I think.

  “I love it,” I whisper as I slide past him and take the guard’s hand so I don’t slip on the edge of the boat. Rome’s eyes glitter with pleasure. Has it always been this easy to fill him with that bubbling joy?

  Once he jumps aboard, the line is untied and the motor revs and we pull out into the canal at a smooth pace. There’s a built-in leather couch at the back, and Rome gestures for me to have a seat. “Do you mind taking your shoes off?” he asks. “The spiky heels are hell on the wood.”

  “Oh, sure.” I bend down to undo the tiny buckle, but he reaches for my wrist.

  “Allow me.” He kneels down, and when his fingers touch my bare ankle, I gasp. He smiles up at me. “You like that?” He traces his finger on the sensitive skin and smiles.

  “You know I do. We’ve never disagreed about that.”

  His face clouds slightly. “Yes.” He finishes taking off my shoes, and then he’s sitting next to me.

  He reaches for my hand, and I feel like that teenager again, the one who never got the memo about making out in movie theaters or how to talk to boys. But then his thumb is gently rubbing the back of my hand and I simply give myself over to how good it feels to be with him, just to sit next to him. I let my head rest on his shoulder as the two of us look at the beautiful buildings drifting past, and he hums his pleasure at the contact.

  “Rome?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the first time you walked into my office in Saint Petersburg.”