“One step at a time. We’ll get back to Florence and make a plan, okay?” Jack tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she’d done for Juliet a million times over the years. They stood close to each other, the front of their bodies pressed together, in the tiny doorway.
“Jack, I’m so thankful you’re here. What would I do without you?”
“Luce, I have a confession to make,” Jack said, in a low, rough voice. “I’m not here only because Nonna asked me to be. I’m here . . .” here he paused so long that Lucy looked up into face. “I’m here to apply for a job.”
“A job?” Lucy wrinkled up her nose. “Here? In Italy? As a lawyer?”
“No.” Jack shook his head, his eyes brilliant green this close. “As your lover.”
Lucy blushed when she recalled her ridiculous conversation with the cat. With one finger, he tilted her chin up and met her eyes, his eyes hot. He brushed his mouth over hers once and then again, their lips dragging together. She licked her lips, loving the taste of Jack and let her eyes fall shut. Weary of being sensible, responsible, dreary, Lucy ran her hand up his neck, pulling him closer, before fisting her fingers in his dark hair and kissing him again.
The simmering passion between them sizzled, like a pot that bubbles and boils over with no way to contain it. They clutched at each other, the raindrops pummeling the earth around them and thunder rolling overhead. He pulled her hair out of the messy ponytail she’d bundled it into and cupped the back of her head, licking at the seam of her lips, sliding into her mouth in an intimate invasion. She melted against him, her breasts heavy with desire, aching with need . . .
“Scusi.” A quiet voice said from behind them and Jack and Lucy jumped apart. As she stumbled backwards, Lucy whacked her elbow on the wall and the pain made her eyes water. Jack stood across from her, his breath sawing in and out of his chest, his eyes a brilliant emerald and his mouth swollen from hers.
“Scusi,” Gino repeated. “Today is not the day for a picnic, eh?” He waved at the rain and pushed the hood of his jacket over his dark curls. He offered Lucy a black umbrella and gestured toward the road. “I think we must go now. Before the road washes out. I would not want to sleep up here with all the . . . fantasmi.”
“Fantasmi?” Lucy repeated.
“Ghosts,” Jack translated.
Lucy glanced around. Twilight edged over the horizon and the sun dipped low in the sky. She and Jack hadn’t noticed. She flushed and shivered at the thought of being stuck up here in this haunted place at night. She followed Jack and Gino back to the car, her mind swirling with all she’d learned. She’d just kissed Jack with far more passion than she’d ever felt for her husband. And he’d most definitely kissed her back. Now, what should she do about it?
Lucy
Florence, Italy
Present Day
After their aborted picnic at Ali d’Angelo, Lucy and Jack arrived back in Florence, hungry and discouraged, just before sunset. Vincente dozed outside the trattoria but awoke when the Fiat stopped in front of them. They paid Gino for his time and for gas and he roared off into the night to see about a girl. Since they’d missed lunch, Vincente prepared a simple but delicious supper for them of pasta, salad, and chicken. While they ate, they shared their adventure with him and passed around the photograph of Paolo.
“It would be a miracle if he were still alive, if he lived through the horror,” Vincente commented. “I was a baby, carried away from the destruction in my mother’s arms. She is long dead. I know of no one. I am sorry.”
“If you think of anything, will you call us?” Jack asked, pushing his business card with his cell number scrawled on the back across the tiny tabletop. Vincente nodded and went back to staring out the window. Jack and Lucy walked back into the night, the first moment they’d been alone since their kiss. Jack reached over and took her hand. It felt secure, natural, right to clasp hands with Jack and stroll through the streets of Florence like a honeymooning couple.
She’d never expected the stunning white-hot passion that exploded between them back at Ali d’Angelo. For a few precious seconds, when she’d first seen Jack rounding the Fountain of Neptune, she’d seen simply a handsome stranger, instead of the Jack she’d known since childhood. Maybe he’d had a similar perspective shift. Maybe being in Italy allowed their underlying, simmering passion to bloom, outside of their normal comfort zones, their normal lives, their normal roles.
But, eventually, they would return to their real lives in Applebury.
With that return to their ordinary world, what would happen to their potential—okay, Lucy admitted, their blossoming—affair? Because as scorching hot as that kiss had been, there didn’t seem to be any question of an affair happening between them. Passion that strong was not going to be denied. She didn’t want to deny it. Just that one tantalizing taste would never be enough. She craved so much more.
It was all so complicated, all the ties and history that bound them together. Jack was her best friend’s ex-husband. He’d been best friends with her own husband. He was Juliet’s uncle by marriage, just as she was an aunt by marriage to his two sons. Their backstory was far too heavy, too tangled and complex to survive back in their normal lives.
So, if they embarked on a torrid affair, what would happen when they went home to Applebury? Could they go back to just friends? Would she want more when they went home? Would he? What if things went horribly awry here? How could they risk their friendship this way?
“You’re quiet,” Jack said, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand as they strode into their pensione. Maybe she was the only one who felt more. Perhaps Jack was just carried away by the romantic locale.
Though he’d said he wanted to apply for the job . . . Maybe . . .
“I’m not sure what to do here. I think we need to talk more. Think this through.” Butterflies spiraled in her stomach and her heart slammed against her chest as she considered the implications, the consequences of giving in to the lust that burned between them.
“We’ll work on finding Paolo in the morning,” Jack said as they paused outside her door.
“Not Paolo.” In the rising tide of her panic, she’d forgotten about Paolo. “Us.”
“So, you want to talk it out and think things through?” Jack said, as he pressed her close against the door, his warm, hard body pressed along her front. She shut her eyes; sure she couldn’t withstand the hunger in his gaze. She nodded, a little breathless with the sure knowledge that he, at least, was ready to continue their interaction from Ali d’Angelo, if the rigid bulge pressing against her stomach was any indication.
“Lucy?” Jack whispered, his lips hovering over hers. “You think too much.”
Instead of kissing her mouth, though, he trailed his lips down her neck and found her earlobe, sucking at the sensitive flesh until she moaned. She whimpered, clutching at the door as desire sizzled over her skin, awakening her. She pressed her palms flat against the door, seeking purchase, stability, to prevent spiraling into madness.
“This is such a bad idea.”
“Why, exactly, is it a bad idea?” He slid her shirt collar aside to place a gentle kiss on her collarbone, licking the spot before pressing another nipping kiss against her skin. Lucy leaned back against the door for support, her knees weak as desire swirled through her.
“I don’t remember. It is though,” Lucy moaned as she dug her hands into his silky hair and tugged upwards. Jack raised his head and met her eyes, his gaze heated, waiting and still. Lucy knew the next move was up to her. She hesitated for another few seconds before opening the door at her back and tugging him into the room.
They tumbled on to the bed, a tangle of arms and legs. She toed the door shut and rolled on top of him in the tiny, narrow pensione bed. He groaned, low and deep, as she tugged his shirt off and ran her hands down his muscular chest, lightly furred with hair, straddling him on the narrow bed. Moonlight streamed through the tiny window, gliding his face and chest in silver. She bent and s
wirled her tongue around his nipple, learning the taste of him. His hips jerked against her, his breathing hard and erratic.
He retaliated immediately, whisking her shirt over her head and popping open the front clasp of her bra. He stroked her shoulders and then down to the tips of her breasts with his strong fingers, while she rocked herself against him. Lucy was so hot, so aroused, so ready for him, she nearly exploded just from his touch and the feel of him pressing against her.
She unbuttoned his jeans, sliding her hand into his pants to clasp him and he made a strangled sound that could have been her name. She stepped from the bed and made short work of the rest of her clothes. He wiggled from his jeans and grabbed for his backpack. She flushed as she realized she’d never even considered protection. She’d been married too long to even think of it. He rolled the condom on before kneeling on the bed, pulling her to him.
She tumbled on her back on the bed, as he kissed her deeply, their tongues tangling as they panted together. Lucy opened for him, crying out as his fingers caressed her most sensitive spot, swirling the moisture he found there around her clit and stroking. She arched up and he plunged his fingers deep into her, his thumb still swirling around her most sensitive spot. Without warning, she cried out as her climax crashed over her. He kissed her through it, swallowing her cry of release.
He pulled her to the edge of the bed, standing between her legs. She opened her eyes as he pressed deep into her, supporting her legs, holding her open for him. He pounded into her, watching himself sink inside her. Lucy grasped his hips, pulling him deeper as he leaned down to kiss her. She wrapped her legs around him, startled to find herself on the edge of another climax so quickly. He braced one hand on the bed, using the other to tease her with his clever fingers. In seconds, she climaxed around him, pulling him deep, as she shuddered and quaked around him. He gasped against her neck, jerking his hips with the force of his release before pulling out of her body. He took care of the condom and came back to the bed, gathering her close. They lay together, cuddled close, as the tree shadows on the ceiling danced in the autumn breeze.
“Jack, I think we need to talk.”
“Okay,” he agreed, rubbing lazy circles on her shoulder and side, his voice rough.
“We need to agree on some parameters.”
“This sounds like a contract negotiation I had last week,” Jack laughed. “Go on.”
“We are moonstruck.”
“Moonstruck?” Jack raised up on his elbow before propping his head on his hand, gazing down at her, his free hand still stroking idly over her.
“We’re acting oddly because we’re here, in Italy, the most romantic country in the world. This would never have happened between us back home.”
“I see,” Jack said, his eyes locked on her face.
“It’s too complicated.” Lucy raked her hands through her hair. “My dead husband is your ex-wife’s sister. What about the kids? You’re uncle to Juliet and . . .”
“How about we leave the Parkers out of this?” Jack said, an edge of steel in his voice.
“Jack, that’s what I’m saying. Here, in Italy, we can just be Jack and Lucy but there, back home, we will always be connected to the Parkers . . .”
“My ex-wife is a lesbian. She’s getting married in less than a month. I don’t see . . .”
“I’m a widow. I get it. We both need to get back on the horse, so to speak. We’ve known each other forever, it’s safe for us to be with each other for our first post-marital affairs.”
“That was a little more than getting back on the horse,” Jack laughed. “We’re amazing together.”
She blushed and let him kiss her again. “I think we should agree that we are limiting . . . whatever this is . . . to our time in Italy. We’ll go back to being just friends when we go home.”
Jack chewed his lower lip for a few moments, drumming his fingers on her thigh. She lay next to him with the sheet modestly drawn up to her chest. Finally, he smiled, brushing her hair away from her cheek.
“I accept your offer,” Jack said. “Hot affair, limited to time in Italy. If that’s the case, I guess I better make every moment count.” He smiled as he drew her down for a kiss, easing the sheet off her body. It was a long time before either of them got any sleep that night.
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
Bella woke in the sticky pre-dawn heat of a hot Tuscan summer. In August, it never cooled down, just became less hot when the sun fell beyond the horizon. At least tonight she’d gotten to sleep in her own bed, rather than spending the night in the chilly caves, huddled among the other women, the elderly men, and the children, while bombers rained hell down upon them and the earth shook from the impact. Bella ached whenever she entered the caves now, surrounded by the memories of her and Paolo twined together. Though she’d hoped and prayed their one night of searing passion in the moonlight would result in a bambino, her monthly arrived on schedule, washing her hopes away. Paolo, like Tommaso before him, disappeared into the grinding war machine, leaving her alone in the gray mist, with only her memories for cold comfort.
For so long, Toscana had been spared the worst of the war, the desperate fear and cruel deprivation. But, as the Americans and the British made their slow, grinding march north to Berlin, war arrived at last in her little corner of Tuscany. Even so, olives and chestnuts and grapes still sprung out of the fertile land in abundance. Though the villagers of Ali d’Angelo often witnessed the bombs falling all around them, especially on nearby Florence, like fiery, hellish rain, they were out of the way most threats. Ali d’Angelo was a tiny hamlet with no strategic importance and one very big secret— the hidden treasures of Italy in their caves.
Restless, she crawled from her bed, sipping from her bedside glass of water as she stepped to the window to survey the remains of her town in the silver-gray of early dawn. A wraith drifted from the corner of the house, toward the vineyard. Water splashed over her ankles and feet as her dropped glass shattered on the floor. Her heart slammed against her ribs and hammered out a staccato beat that pounded in her wrists and neck. She tried to suck in air as the wraith’s wrappings fluttered in the early morning breeze, blending in with the mist rising off the vineyards. A ghost?
She recognized Babbo’s halting shuffle. She dashed to his bedroom and found his bed empty, his wrinkled sheets washed with silver in the pre-dawn light. She roused her little cousin, Matteo, who lived with her and Babbo after the war claimed his parents. Together they set out to find Babbo. As they walked, Bella pulled her red shawl tighter around her as the dawn seared the mist off the vineyard. Today would be another scorcher. Already, at dawn, the air was still and hot and quiet, too quiet. There were no birds to croon their welcome to the dawn in this war torn wasteland.
“He wakes confused too often now.” Bella scrubbed her palm over her forehead, her fingers pressing against the perpetual furrows she found there. Her father’s mind, like so much else, slipped away in the fog of war.
“The noise of the bombs?”
“There was no bombing last night. He misses my Mamma and is confused when she’s not there when he wakes.”
“But . . . your mother has been gone for years.”
“Yes, but, he is an old man. He forgets and his mind retreats to earlier times. When I was a girl, he’d go to the vineyards every morning for his walk. He is doing that again now.”
“It’s not safe.”
She led Matteo to the edge of the vineyard—or what had once been a vineyard before war and neglect ravaged the vines. Babbo stood holding the fence, surveying the devastation beyond. She stepped closer, using the hem of her worn nightgown to wipe the silvery tracks of tears from Babbo’s face. Even in the rosy light of dawn, the wrinkles on his beloved face fell to shadows, grief creating deep furrows in his worn face. His papery, translucent skin felt cold under her palm as she took his arm to lead him home. Somehow, without her noticing, the war made her father an old man.
“Come, Babbo,” Bella said, in a low sing-song voice. They turned together, away from the bright glare of the dawn. She heard a twig snap behind her, and glanced over her shoulder to find Paolo standing at the entrance to the caves, silhouetted against the sun, dressed not in his khaki uniform, but in soft work pants and a shirt as blue as the sky. Bella froze and shook her head. First a ghost and now Paolo. Her vivid imagination played tricks on her. Perhaps her mind was confused that morning. Matteo grinned at her and took Babbo’s hand. “Come on, zio, let’s get some breakfast.”
“You see him too?” Bella whispered. Matteo nodded, leading Babbo home. Bella waited until they were out of sight before running to Paolo. He swept her into his arms, crushing him against her, his warmth seeping through her chilled body. They separated, as she stared into his handsome face, joy and wonderment battling through her.
“How are you here?” She cupped his face in her palms, running her hands down his broad, strong shoulders.
“Only for a bit, my beautiful Bella. Just a few hours of leave.” They waltzed back into the shadowy, cool darkness of the cave before he kissed her, deep and possessive. He cupped her breast through the thin night rail, causing her nipple to bud and press against his palm. “Bella, do you think . . . I know the banns have not been read . . . but . . .” Here he stopped to kiss her again before tearing his mouth away. “Would Father Torricelli marry us anyway? Now? Today?”
“We can ask,” Bella smiled at him, happiness bursting through her like the sun through the clouds. “But first, kiss me again.”
Their reunion was as passionate, crazed with need and lust and love and longing, fast and furious. Afterwards, they lay next to each other, on their backs, near the front of the cave, as the fluffy clouds slipped across the morning sky.
“I brought you something, my love. I could not find a ring but perhaps this will do?” She sat up next to him as he clasped a necklace around her neck. “The locket is engraved with angel’s wings. When I saw it, it reminded me of you.”
The Lost Art of Second Chances Page 8
