by Cat Grant
A knock came at the kitchen door, momentarily jolting her from her pity party. Holden, one of their other security men, handed her a long gold florist's box tied with a red velveteen ribbon. Inside she found a dozen long-stemmed white roses and a card, which read:
I didn't want you to think I forgot.
Love you—Nick.
Her mood now brightened, she took her usual morning sunbath on the terrace, dozing on the comfy chaise. When her cell phone rang, she lunged for it half bleary eyed, hoping it was Eric.
"Hey, birthday girl!” came Nick's voice, distant and blurred with static. “Did you get the flowers?"
"Y-Yeah, I did,” she stammered, blinking hard to try and clear her head. A slight twinge of disappointment had crept into her tone; she hoped Nick hadn't heard it. “They're lovely. I've got them sitting on the table right next to me, in fact."
"Oh, good. I thought I might've screwed up the order. I called it in to the florist in Grieve, but it took ten minutes of fighting the language barrier to convince them I didn't want them shipped to me here in Greece."
She laughed. “So any idea when you'll be back?"
"In another day or two, I think. The Red Cross just arrived, so I've shifted to covering the search and rescue."
"Yeah, I saw the news yesterday. Is it as terrible as it looks?"
"God, Ally, it's unimaginable. Every day more people pour in, thousands of children separated from their families...” Even through their lousy connection, she could hear how grimly wrung out he sounded. Both her men had the habit of driving themselves too damned hard for their own good. “Alan's got another correspondent coming to take over within the next day or so. Believe me, I can't wait."
"Well, until then, be careful."
"I will,” he replied. “Say hi to Eric for me when he gets back."
She drifted back inside the villa, taking her cell phone into the bathroom with her while she had her soak, still hoping for a call from Eric. But by the time she climbed out, the clock read a quarter till noon, and he still hadn't called.
Irrational anger rose within her, though she tried to fight it. So Nick could take time out from a natural disaster to send her flowers, but Eric couldn't even pick up the fucking phone? She knew she shouldn't let something so petty bother her, but dammit, it hurt.
She got dressed and wandered back out to the terrace, mostly because she couldn't think of anything else to do. She'd fallen in love with this place when she first arrived, but now the thought of another day alone here stretched out ahead of her like a life sentence.
Grabbing the keys to the Mercedes from Nick's desk, she darted back to the bedroom and packed a small bag, then headed down to the kitchen. The back door lay only about a hundred feet from the garage. With luck, she could escape down that service road and be on the highway to Florence before Dalton even realized she'd left.
Apparently the birthday gods were smiling upon her, for within ten minutes she found herself speeding toward the city, her favorite jazz CD bopping along in the background. Guilt pricked at her, but she brushed it aside. She'd only be gone one night. Besides, Eric had promised to take her to Florence for her birthday, so it seemed only apropos that he'd become the catalyst for this little road trip.
She was only about sixty kilometers away, according to OnStar. If she floored it, maybe she could squeeze in a visit to the Uffizi before dinner.
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Chapter 13
Three Tickets to Paradise:
Complications
Ally arrived in Florence by mid-afternoon. She checked into a suite at the Grand Hotel on the Via Ognissanti before taking a leisurely stroll along the Arno until she reached the Uffizi. Finding the crowd surprisingly sparse for a Saturday, she took her time wandering through the various galleries.
However, it didn't take long for her to realize she was simply meandering aimlessly from room to room, scarcely noticing the astounding works of art. She'd so looked forward to coming here with Eric. After growing up in a home filled with his mother's amazing Impressionist and Cubist collection, he'd developed a lifelong love of great art. He'd give her the four-star guided tour here, complete with impassioned mini-lectures on the history of each piece. She'd often thought if he hadn't been born rich, he would've made a superb university professor.
But of course, before she left she had to take in a viewing of Michelangelo's David. She'd always heard how breathtaking it was, but now with it standing there before her, she couldn't help feeling oddly disappointed. Even a man chiseled out of stone couldn't hold a candle to Nick's lush male beauty.
She went back to the hotel for an early dinner and sat sipping wine and pushing her salad glumly around her plate. Now she wished she'd never left the villa. She'd be just as lonely there, but at least she wouldn't have to watch everybody else having a good time. Evidently she'd forgotten how to have fun without Nick and Eric in tow.
Her attention wandering, she took in the rest of the room. A dark-haired, elegantly dressed woman sitting almost directly across from her looked vaguely familiar. Their eyes locked, recognition flickering across the woman's face. To Ally's surprise, she got up and came over.
"How lovely to see you again!” she said with a wide, scarlet-lipped smile.
Ally shook her proffered hand, feeling distinctly like an idiot. “Um ... likewise."
"And I can tell from your expression that you do not remember me.” She spoke excellent English, with a strong yet charming accent. “Adrianna Mastelli. We met in Milan when you were covering the Versace collection for CNN."
"Oh!” Now she remembered—they'd sat at the same table at the luncheon preceding the fashion show. “Hello! God, I feel so silly! It wasn't that long ago!"
"Ah, don't apologize. Most of the time, I have an awful memory for faces, but you look exactly the same!"
"I'll take that as a compliment.” Gesturing at the empty chair across from her, Ally added, “Since it appears you're alone too, if you'd care to join me..."
"I would love to."
They laughed and chatted for nearly three hours, killing two bottles of pinot grigio in the process. Maybe the wine deserved the lion's share of the credit, but Ally found herself growing more relaxed than she'd felt in ages. The only woman friend she had these days was Holly, but Adrianna possessed a poise and sophistication Holly lacked, coupled with a similarly witty, ribald sense of humor that put Ally immediately at ease.
They'd long since finished their meal, so when the maître d’ came over and politely asked them to vacate their table, they ambled upstairs to Ally's suite, ordering tiramisu and more wine from room service. The dessert sat on the coffee table untouched, but the wine didn't, and soon Ally flopped back on the couch with another full glass, giggling her head off at another one of Adrianna's wild stories.
"So tell me,” Adrianna went on, “what are you doing in Firenze without your husband? You are married to that American senator, no?"
"That's a long story,” she replied with a sigh, “but suffice it to say, my husband has a hard time tearing himself away from his work."
"Mine as well. I don't even bother asking him to come away on holiday with me anymore. Of course,” she added with a wink, “visiting my lover helps me pass the time quite pleasantly."
Ally almost choked on her wine. She'd never heard anyone mention infidelity in such a casual fashion before. Eric had always told her that the Europeans regarded these things much more pragmatically. “Y-You have a lover here in Florence? So why aren't you with him right now?"
"Well, you see, he is wonderful in bed, but he becomes far too possessive. I have to get away every now and then, or he drives me mad."
"I know the feeling."
"Ah, so you have a possessive lover too?"
"No, Nick's nothing like—” Mortified by what she'd almost said, she stopped short, all but clapping a hand over her mouth. “Um, actually, it's my husband who's the possessive one."
"But you do have
a lover, no?” Grabbing the wine bottle, Adrianna poured them both fresh glasses. “I saw you in the Michelangelo gallery at the Uffizi this afternoon. Women always think of their lovers when they look upon David. Although from the expression on your face, I don't think your lover suffered by the comparison."
"No, he certainly didn't,” Ally murmured, sipping her wine, enjoying the euphoric glow it spread throughout her entire body. “So does your husband know? About your lover, I mean."
"He does, and he does not.” Adrianna shrugged. “He is grateful that I have a means of amusing myself, so that I don't disturb him at his work. As long as my affair poses no threat to our marriage, he is content to pretend that it does not exist."
"That's very ... open-minded."
"No, it is sad. I loved my husband very much at one time, you see. Now we merely tolerate each other."
Not merely sad, but tragic, Ally mused—and uncomfortably close to home. Is this what lay in store for her and Eric, co-existing in the same house for years on end, drifting apart yet not bothering to divorce because of the toll it would take on Eric's career? She couldn't think of anything more empty or pointless. “I sometimes wonder if..."
"If what?” Adrianna prompted.
The words bubbled up inside her, clamoring to get out, things she hadn't even confided to Nick or Holly. Maybe voicing all her fears would finally help her exorcise them. “I sometimes wonder if Eric only keeps me around because he needs a wife to wear on his arm at all his political soirees. Sometimes I think that if he could go out in public with Nick, he'd drop me faster than a hot iron."
"And Nick is...?"
"My lover, and Eric's.” There, she'd said it. An amazingly giddy sense of relief swept through her. “He's lived with us for the past two years. Eric and I share time with him."
"So Nick's the man your husband told the press he'd been in love with for several years?"
She nodded, downing the last of her pinot. “They've known each other a long time."
"And you love them both?"
"Yes,” she whispered.
"Then you are a lucky woman."
"Well, lately I haven't felt very lucky. Everything's become so ... complicated."
Adrianna laughed. “I can imagine."
They talked some more, but Ally soon felt herself starting to fade. The next thing she knew, she awoke on the couch with a pounding headache and a profoundly fuzzy sensation between her ears. Adrianna was gone.
She could taste the vomit rising in her throat the second she stood up. Rushing to the bathroom, she managed to fling up the toilet lid just in time to avoid splashing last night's dinner all over the floor. Afterwards she turned on the shower full-blast and climbed in, standing under the warm, massaging spray.
Her head still ached when she stepped out, though her mind had cleared enough to keep her stomach roiling. God, how could she be so fucking stupid, spilling every detail of her private life to someone she barely knew? In all likelihood she'd never see Adrianna again, which was no doubt a good thing. Eric would hit the roof if he ever found out.
She got dressed and checked out, heading back to the villa. Nausea still seized her, so much so that she had to pull over twice to vomit. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this hung over, but she made a silent vow to never let it happen again.
* * * *
She arrived back at the villa to find it still empty, which left her feeling strangely relieved. All she wanted now was to go back to bed and sleep for a few more hours.
She woke near dinnertime, drawn downstairs by telltale banging and shuffling sounds echoing from the kitchen, and found Nick with his head stuck in the fridge, foraging for sandwich fixings. They came across some rare roast beef, Swiss cheese and a loaf of crusty French bread and made themselves a huge hoagie. Ally only took a small portion, but after her sick-a-thon that morning, she felt grateful to keep even that much down.
Apparently her greenness around the gills hadn't escaped Nick's attention either. “You okay?” he asked, gnawing off another bite of sandwich. “It's not, um ... that time of the month again, is it?"
"No! God, Nick!” She didn't know whether to laugh or die from shock. Nick didn't usually refer to things like that without blushing. “What makes you think that?"
"I don't know, you've just been acting weird these last few days."
"Thanks a lot."
"I didn't mean it like that! But I've been worried about you ever since that day we went on the picnic. You sort of scared me."
She stared at him. “What, so I ask you to treat me a little more roughly in bed, and that means I'm nuts?"
"No, of course not, but...” He put down his sandwich, choosing his next words with care. “You just seem unhappy, with me and with Eric."
"Gee, ya think?” she snapped. “The two people I love best in the world bring me to this fabulous place for a vacation, then decide they've got better things to do than spend time with me. Why in the world would that make me unhappy?"
"C'mon, Ally, that's not fair. You're the one who told me to go to Greece."
"I know. And I'd tell you the same thing if it happened again right now. But Nick, I won't lie to you. I'm lonely.” Tears welled up, making her bite her lip to stave them off. “I'm lonely even with you and Eric in the same room with me. Do you realize that you two are the only people I ever talk to anymore, besides Holly? I've got no other friends. My job is a joke. You and Eric have actual purpose to your lives, but what do I have? Nothing."
He looked a little surprised—but only a little. “Why didn't you tell me about this before?"
"Because you're busy, and Eric's busy, and I understand that. I don't expect you to spend every waking moment entertaining me. But if I don't find something to do for myself, I'm going to explode."
He invited her to sleep in his room again, but this time she declined. She still felt a bit shaky and weak, and for the first time in recent memory, her sex drive seemed to be missing in action. Hopefully a good night's sleep would have her back to her old, non-bitchy self again tomorrow.
She did feel better when she woke the next day, so much so that she found it easy to convince herself that the last couple of days were simply a foolish mistake. Fortunately, she mused with a sigh, nothing awful had resulted from it. She'd learned her lesson—no more running off half-cocked whenever she got pissed with Eric. And no more drinking with people she didn't know. In fact, no more drinking, period.
Nick still appeared pretty wiped out himself, so they spent the morning together lazily soaking up the sun. They'd just decided to go inside to fix themselves some lunch when they heard the front gate open and close, followed by footsteps on the terrace staircase, and suddenly Eric appeared.
Ally sprang up to greet him, but skidded to a halt, alarmed by the tight, grim set of his mouth. “Get inside, both of you,” he barked, herding them both into the living room, shutting the terrace doors behind them. Opening his briefcase, he yanked out a sheaf of newsprint and threw it on the coffee table. “I leave for a few days, and this is what I come home to?"
Ally recognized the pile of cheap tabloids, most of them in Italian or French, photos of her and Nick from their day trip in Grieve splashed across their front pages. One publication even had a picture of them kissing in a doorway. She went immediately heartsick, her stomach twisting into knots just looking at them.
And from the expression on Nick's face, his stomach was doing a few flip-flops of its own. “Eric, we didn't see anyone follow—"
"Why not?” Eric snapped. “You're both supposed to be such hot-shot reporters, but you couldn't tell somebody was trailing you with a fucking digicam?” Reaching back into his briefcase, he pulled out something thicker, slicker and glossier, thrusting it right in their faces. “And here's the pièce de resistance."
It was one of the sleaziest of the British scandal sheets, sporting the headline, “When the Senator's away, the wife will play—with his boyfriend!” The accompanying article boasted
“An exclusive interview with Allison Taylor-Courtland!” Skimming it quickly, Ally felt as if the floor had plummeted ten stories beneath her feet. It quoted everything she'd told Adrianna, word for word.
"Tell me this isn't true,” he demanded, in that familiar deadly tone she knew better than to argue with. “Tell me you didn't expose us all to some tabloid reporter!"
"Eric, I-I'm sorry,” she whispered miserably. “I met her for the first time in Milan a couple of years ago. I had no idea she was a report—"
"How could you not know? She's married to Eduardo Mastelli, the Rupert Murdoch of Italy! His name's on half the fucking satellite stations you've been watching since we got here!"
"All right, stop it,” Nick interjected, stepping in between them. “Let's sit down and discuss this calmly and rationally."
"Oh, I think it's a little late for that. Congratulations, both of you,” Eric sneered. “You've managed to destroy everything."
She couldn't take it anymore. Running to the bedroom, she locked the door behind her and flung herself on the bed, sobbing so hard her eyeballs felt like they'd turned into boiled onions. A little while later Nick came by and knocked, but when she didn't answer, he went away.
She lay there for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, until she couldn't ignore her stomach's rumbling any longer. Creeping downstairs to the kitchen, she ran into Nick making himself another sandwich. “How's he doing?” she asked.
"Still pretty pissed,” Nick replied wearily. “I figured you wouldn't be too unhappy if he slept with me tonight."
She nodded. “Make sure he takes his medication, okay? Getting so upset can't be good for his blood pressure."
"I will,” he said, giving her a gentle kiss. “Get some rest. We'll figure this all out, I promise."
Surprisingly, she not only slept, but she dreamed. In her dream, she and Eric walked along hand in hand down in the vineyard, when suddenly the ground began shuddering and buckling beneath their feet, finally giving way. She found herself perched on the brink of a crumbling chasm, Eric dangling over the edge, one hand flailing madly, trying to grab hers. She caught hold of his fingers, but he proved too heavy and he slipped from her grasp, plunging into nothingness with a horrible scream—
