The Italian's Runaway Princess

by Andrea Bolter

  Luciana was so aware of people all around her, her eyes darting this way or that when someone touched her.

  “I’m not used to being so physically close to so many people.”

  “You’re going to be bumped into, rubbed up against and even shoved. If you’re uncomfortable, let’s leave.”

  “Certainly not,” she said, giving his hand a playful tug that brought a hitch to one corner of his mouth. “I’m not made of glass, you know. I won’t break!”

  Gio had a moment’s caution when he thought of himself as responsible for her safety. Even though no one had put her under his supervision, he considered himself nonetheless to be her guardian. After all, she was a princess in a strange land.

  Judging from the happiness on her face, though, she was having too much fun to be daunted with any further warnings. Besides, while there were surely pickpockets and thieves in the area, the San Lorenzo markets of Firenze were hardly dangerous places. He’d watch over her to make sure she used common sense.

  “Look at those colors.” She pointed to one stall that held a selection of silk scarves hanging from hooks. Bright pinks and purples and yellows, every color in the rainbow was utilized in the dying of fabric to create them.

  An emerald green scarf captured Luciana’s attention. She looked around to see how other shoppers inspected the merchandise, unsure how close a scrutiny was customary.

  “You can touch it,” Gio prodded.

  Luciana reached out to a corner of the scarf, rolling it between her fingers, then holding it up to check the transparency.

  “One for fifteen, two for twenty-five.” The hawk-like merchant quickly seized on her interest. He added a sales pitch, “The color is beautiful with your eyes.”

  Luciana let go of the scarf and they started to move to the next stall.

  “Wait,” the scarf vendor called out, “try it on. I’ll give you a deal.”

  Gio and Luciana smiled at each other. She glanced back at the scarf that she really seemed to like.

  “Haggle with him,” Gio said to her. “That’s the way of these markets.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can, Luci.”

  The green hue of the scarf was apparently enough to lure her back. The merchant detached the item from the dozens he exhibited on hooks. Luciana stepped closer and the man wrapped the long scarf twice around her neck, creating a very chic style. He handed her a mirror to see for herself. “I’ll give you two for twenty, a special price, only for you.”

  “Do you see a second one you like?” Gio whispered in her earshot only.

  She shook her head no.

  “Then make him an offer.”

  “I only want one,” Luciana stated to the merchant, but in a tentative voice.

  “Usually I charge fifteen for one. I’m offering you two for twenty.”

  “No,” she said with a firmer volume that made Gio proud. “If you’ll give me two for twenty, then how about one for ten?”

  “You’ll have the other one for a gift,” the vendor persisted.

  When she returned to her home at the palace, Gio knew that Luciana was not going to be giving presents she’d bought at street markets. No, instead she would be spending weeks, if not months, trying to quell the anger of her father and her fiancé after she’d run away on this trip. Souvenirs were not going to be appropriate.

  “Take the scarf off and hand it back to him,” Gio counseled. “Then we start to walk away again.”

  The merchant grunted as she tried to hand him the scarf. “You drive a hard bargain, bambolina.” He wouldn’t take it from her, insisting that she hold on to it. “Okay. Thirteen-fifty for one.”

  Luciana shook her head. “Twelve.”

  “Twelve? You want to put me in the poorhouse?” he balked with a grin.

  “Twelve,” she said with resolve.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Inside the old market building, as it had been for centuries, fresh food was for sale. As he and Luciana browsed the first aisle, several stands held the ripest-and juiciest-looking produce, from dark greens to crisp bell peppers to oranges with skin so bright you could almost smell them from a distance. Another stall had dried pastas in every imaginable shape, some tinged black from the ink of squids, others flecked with a beautiful green from spinach. A big wooden sign leading to a kitchen area read Pasta-Making Classes Here.

  Another merchant sold a wide array of olive oils from regions all over the country, the amber of their color distinguishing the varieties. Yet another stand was lined with a case of fine cheeses, from the creamy and runny to the crumbly hard of the finest Parmesan.

  “What would you like to cook tonight?” Gio asked Luciana as he enjoyed seeing the green scarf around her neck and recalled the negotiation for it with amusement.

  “Perhaps pasta and vegetables? And cut fruit afterward.”

  “Pasta with a sauce?”

  “Last night at that restaurant by the river we had simple pasta tossed in olive oil and fresh tomatoes with basil. Let’s make that.”

  Luciana chose a seller she thought had the most enticing offerings.

  “I’ve never picked tomatoes before,” she confided to Gio. “I’m assuming they should be dark and firm.”

  Together, they chose tomatoes from a big pile, showing each other potential candidates for the other to approve. The stall was supervised by an old woman in a knit hat who probably assumed that he and Luciana were a couple. Although they could be merely coworkers, or even siblings, or just friends.

  Friends? Was that what they were? Gio barely knew how to understand these last few days let alone put a label on them. Friends had to start from some point but soon knew each other well, often seeing one another through the trials and tribulations of their days. He and Luciana weren’t that. They were friendly acquaintances, he’d grant only that much.

  As he watched Luciana sort through the bunches of basil on offer, he contemplated whether she had hoped that romance would be part of her exploration here in Italy. Maybe she had longed to know attraction and lust before the arranged marriage she was to enter when she returned home. Maybe she’d imagined being swept off her feet by a swarthy and confident Italian Casanova, a stereotype perpetuated in movies and TV shows. He believed her to be virtuous, but he did wonder if she wanted to play at courtship in this most romantic of cities.

  That was something he couldn’t help her with. Too risky, for one thing, if his own body’s reaction during the gelato tasting was any indication. And thank goodness she’d pulled away after that passionate kiss on the bridge. Gio wouldn’t have the slightest notion how to pretend to woo a woman yet be expected to know exactly when to back off and put the charade down so that he kept it safe for her.

  He wouldn’t step foot in that territory. If he wanted something he took it, and nothing stopped him. Maybe he was that cliché of an Italian lover, after all. Because want Her Royal Highness he did, so he had to jerk back his own reins.

  Luciana brought the tomatoes and basil to the old woman so that she could weigh them and charge her.

  “Three-fifty,” the woman said. Gio reached in his pocket for his cash and began to count it out.

  “Three,” Luciana challenged. The princess was apparently using her newly learned bargaining skills, not knowing that produce wasn’t usually brought to auction.

  “No, Luci,” he said with a chuckle, “these are set prices.”

  After all the groceries were purchased, Gio and Luciana made their way out of the market and onto the street where Viggo was waiting to take them home.

  In the car, Luciana scrunched her nose with concern. “I should have mentioned that I don’t know how to cook.”

  “I’ve been living in hotels for years. I have no idea how to cook, either. But it’s just pasta, right? How hard can it be?”

 
* * *

  At the villa, Gio used his key fob to open the doors to the main residence of the villa. Since Luciana had been staying at the compound, she’d never been inside the big house, as he called it.

  “So this is where you grew up?”

  “Here, and summers at the vineyard.” Gio had described the vineyard and winery in Chianti where his retired parents now lived.

  As they stepped inside, Luciana admired the furnishings in the huge sitting room that faced the courtyard. Glass doors running the entire length allowed light, and fresh air if desired, to permeate the room. The space was divided into different sections. One sitting area was close to the doors, with two sofas facing each other and some armchairs. It was done with white and pink fabrics, giving it a cheerful mood.

  A dining area with a long rustic wood table able to seat twenty or so took up another portion of the room. Comfortable-looking upholstered tan chairs surrounded it. A grouping of dark green chairs was arranged in a corner by a fireplace where tall bookcases lined the walls.

  Everything was done in a casual sophistication befitting this most successful of Florentine families. It made her want to meet Gio’s mother, whom he credited for the interior design. Large mirrors everywhere gave the room an ambience that was stately without being at all stuffy. Art objects of historical significance sat on side tables, and Italian landscape paintings adorned the walls.

  This was distinguished yet unceremonious. Stylish without taking itself too seriously. Comfortable in its own skin yet at the ready to summon strong passions.

  Oh, wait. Luciana was reviewing the furniture, not Gio.

  She couldn’t resist a long gander at his visage as she caught it in profile in one of the mirrors. There was no doubt he was a breathtaking man. Although because he was, at heart, a scientist with his nose in a laptop much of the time, he was hardly the entitled playboy billionaire one might expect based on his family’s success.

  He’d mentioned that there had been women in his life he viewed as predators. Luciana didn’t doubt that there might be many who saw only money and position when they looked at him. Women who were motivated by what they could get from him, be it a luxury lifestyle or a career gain. That must be tied into his reasons for staying single, not letting anyone get too close. He’d probably experienced personal betrayal, been used.

  For her, being with Gio made her actually believe in trust.

  And hope. And enthusiasm.

  And a womanliness she had never known anything of before. Never to be nurtured in her, but it was nice to know that it existed.

  Or was it torture?

  She’d been having the most daring thoughts, ones that the kiss on the bridge and the gelato tasting only served to heighten. Gio made her want to explore something that wouldn’t be found in a travel book. Luci, too, had begun to wonder about...

  Lovemaking.

  With Gio.

  Could that be part of her awakening here in Florence? To know the pleasures of the flesh? That kiss had prompted a flood of desire, as if it had been shored up inside her and only Gio could set it flowing.

  “This way to the kitchen.” Gio jogged her out of those visions as he carried in the grocery bags they had bought at the central market. Luciana touched the green scarf still wrapped loosely around her neck. She knew that slip of fabric was going to be ultimately tucked into a back corner of a drawer in her bureau at the palace. Years from now and decades after that, she’d pull out the testament to the prewedding journey that changed her view of life, and herself, forever.

  Perhaps it would have been better not to have taken this trip. Then she’d never have to live with the memories of bargaining at the San Lorenzo market or of taking in the sheer brilliance of Michelangelo’s David. Of watching joyous children play in a piazza. And especially of Gio awakening her sexuality and forcing her to understand want. In the end, she might even hate him for showing her something she could never have.

  What if she didn’t go home? What if she could just stay here with him, in this beautiful villa, for the rest of her life? Would that smash her relationship with her father beyond repair?

  She’d always put her father first, thought long and hard against taking any action that might displease him. Perhaps she should have better understood her own yearnings all along, and learned to negotiate with him rather than simply obey. Maybe then her need to catch her breath away from the demands of the palace wouldn’t have become so desperate. Might her father in time have come to accept that she could not live her entire life denying her hopes and aspirations?

  “Oh, how nice,” Luciana commented when they entered the kitchen, brightening to appreciate the moment at hand. A black-and-white-tiled floor surrounded a large island workstation. Hanging light fixtures contributed to the slightly 1950s retro look, everything painted white with some red accents. Several ovens, refrigerators and an industrial-style dishwasher let her know that this was a kitchen created for entertaining. Built-in cupboards and pantries attested to the smart design of the space. A large rack that hung from the ceiling held copper pots and pans and baskets of other cooking tools.

  “My grandmother used to cook up a storm in here. When all the family was here for a Sunday supper or a holiday, we were a formidable crowd. She’d have every implement in use.”

  “On her own?”

  “My grandmother cooked everything. Mom and my aunts would pitch in to get everything on platters and served. They always left the cleaning to the kids. They said they didn’t want us to get spoiled rotten. That cleaning the kitchen, which would look like a tidal wave had hit it by the end of the meal, would be good for us.”

  “Was it?”

  “Of course. It built teamwork among the cousins. Plus, it was a big job so it forced us to develop a plan, delegate work, problem solve. Fabulous training for anything in life, really.”

  “I’m never allowed in the palace kitchen. It is attended to around the clock by staff. It’s too risky for me to be in there. After all, a fork might fall to the floor.” Luciana spit out sarcasm that surprised even her. “If I ever want a tea or something other than at mealtimes I, of course, merely press a button and it magically appears on a silver platter.”

  “Okay.” Gio inventoried the ingredients he laid on the counter. “Spaghetti with diced tomatoes, basil, grated cheese and olive oil.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “Why don’t you wash the tomatoes?” he directed Luciana, who was only too delighted to have a task in the kitchen. She took note of the shiny skin and rich red color of the tomatoes they had picked. Turning on the tap at one of the small sinks, she rinsed their lovely selections and dried them on a nearby towel.

  This was already great fun. She thought up a pretend scenario for her and Gio, preparing a simple weeknight supper just for the two of them. Perhaps they’d put the pasta into large bowls that they’d hold on their laps while they watched television. Both of them having changed from their workday clothes into loungewear, she’d wear striped fuzzy socks while Gio sat barefoot as they laughed at an American comedy show.

  Never to be.

  She watched as Gio filled a large pot with water. He carried it over to the stove and lit one of the burners under it.

  “Right now, we can cut up the tomatoes and basil.” He read the instructions on the spaghetti package. “When the water boils, we put the pasta in for eight minutes or until al dente.”

  “Why do you think it says or until al dente? Why wouldn’t it be eight minutes every time?”

  “Because the instructions don’t indicate exactly how much water to use. It reads ‘Fill a large pot with water.’ If you had two pots of boiling water but of differing volumes, that could affect the time it takes to cook the pasta.”

  “Okay. That makes sense.”

  “Also, it reads ‘Boil over a high heat.’ That’s not very specific, as burners
would vary from kitchen to kitchen. As a matter of fact, some are gas and some are electric, which would, theoretically, produce a different result.”

  About a half hour later, Gio and Luciana stared openmouthed at the sloppy mess on the stove. Splatters of tomato seeds and skins, and once-green basil leaves that had now turned black, dirtied the white marble countertop.

  They peered into the colander that held their inedible meal.

  “I wish my grandmother had taught me how to actually cook something.” Gio shook his head in disbelief. “After all, it’s chemistry. I should be good at it.”

  “What do you think went wrong?” Luciana lifted a slimy strand of spaghetti from the floor and then let it fall into the pile with the others.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have put the tomatoes, basil and olive oil directly into the boiling pasta.”

  “I thought we would top it with the cheese.”

  “I have a hunch everything was intended to go over the cooked spaghetti. Nothing but the pasta was supposed to go in the boiling water.”

  “Ah, that’s why the tomatoes exploded.”

  “Why didn’t I look this up online?” Gio mashed his lips together.

  “We thought it was going to be simple.”

  He brought over a small trash can, and used his hand to swipe some of the mess from the countertop into it. Luciana assisted by dumping the entire colander’s worth of food into the trash, as well.

  Next, Gio retrieved a couple of soapy sponges and together they cleaned up the disaster. Luciana had to admit to herself that even cleaning held a special satisfaction for her, as it was such an ordinary part of life for most people. Maybe King Agustin would allow her to take a cooking class if she expressed interest in it purely as a hobby. If he’d permit it, she’d be sure to pass anything she learned down to her children. Surely propriety of the throne wouldn’t be compromised by young people learning how to cook an egg or a bowl of pasta!