VANCE: A Movie Star Romance

by Lucy Lambert

  I followed his look and discovered what he’d been trying to get at. I’d twisted my hands in his grip without realizing it so that I could hold onto his wrists as well. Now that I saw what I’d done, I couldn’t help but think about what I felt.

  The sleeves of his jacket and the cuffs of his shirt had ridden up, allowing bare, skin-to-skin contact. His pulse thumped strong and steady beneath the softness of his wrists. My own heart chattered against my ribs, and I realized that if I could feel his pulse, he must feel mine, too.

  I jerked my hands back out of his grip so hard I nearly lost my balance again. “Fine, I’m fine!”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. And then he stuffed those saving hands of his into his pockets, hooking his thumbs in a way that invited my eyes to explore that fine body of his further. Did he do that on purpose, or did he just like standing that way?

  He didn’t leave. Why isn’t he leaving? Still, that coy, boyish grin of his wasn’t the worst thing I’d seen that day. And it wasn’t an oily smile like Dr. Aretino’s.

  “You know, it’s rather unusual to find another American at an event like this,” Mr. Baby-Blues, as I began calling him in my mind, said.

  I crossed my arms. “Who said I was an American? I could be Canadian.” I didn’t know why I flirted with him like that. Moments, heartbeats earlier I’d wanted nothing more than to give Dr. Aretino a quick hello and beat a hasty retreat back to my flat.

  It was the eyes, I decided. Or rather the way they crinkled at me in amusement. And those saving hands of his. It took no effort at all to recall how warm those fingers felt against my bared wrists.

  Then he squinted those eyes at me, appraising. That small smile of his curved a little tighter. Something very low in my stomach tightened in response to that smile. I resisted the involuntary response, choosing instead to bristle in indignation.

  “No, you’re definitely not Canadian,” he said.

  I flicked my head to the side, tossing a few blonde curls off my forehead. “You can’t know that.”

  “Actually, I can,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. The movement wafted more of that light, expensive cologne my way.

  “Are you psychic, then? Because there’s no way you know anything aboot me, eh?” My lips, so used to a neutral expression, began a slow, creaking uptick into a smile.

  My Canadian caricature drew a raised eyebrow in response, once more drawing my attention to the laughing twinkle behind his eyes. I liked the way they met mine so calmly and confidently. This was a man used to flirting with women. Not the sort of man I normally liked to flirt with (I was more into the quiet, artsy type of guy, or so I thought).

  Yet flirt I did. And I liked it far too much. Definitely in a rut, I thought again. Were those baby blues of his my guiding lights, my twin lighthouses, out of that rut? A fleeting thought occurred that if I let him pull me out I might just land in a much deeper rut that I hadn’t yet seen.

  I began wondering what else he was good at with women, if he was so good at flirting. The thoughts had to be some defense mechanism on my part, I figured. Some way to take my mind off the way things were. But I welcomed the distraction. It wasn’t like it was difficult or forced. Returning that smile of his felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  He shook his head, that soft, black hair of his bouncing so gently and tantalizingly that my hands curled into fists against my waist. I’d never before experienced the urge to run my fingers through a stranger’s hair, but I definitely experienced it then.

  That urge, and others.

  “No,” he said, “Definitely American. Midwest I’d bet, were I a betting man. Wisconsin?”

  I tut-tutted him. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He’d gotten the state wrong, but the general area correct. I found myself wanting to know more about Mr. Baby-Blues.

  “It’s a good thing you aren’t a betting man, because you would have lost. Guess again.”

  This time both eyebrows ticked upward in the barest display of surprise. I guess Baby-Blues wasn’t used to being wrong. Something about being the one to foil him tickled my own sense of amusement, and my smile grew, the muscles in my cheeks twitching to accommodate the long-unknown expression.

  “What do I get I get if I guess correctly?” Baby-Blues said, cocking his head slightly.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead, instead enjoying some innocent flirting for once. “What do you want?”

  Baby-Blues squinted briefly at a bearded bust of Constantine the Great that sat on a pedestal a few feet to my right, examining the marbled curls of his beard and his eternally opened eyes. “Your name.”

  I wondered if he knew who the bust had been sculpted after.

  “And I suppose I get yours if you miss the mark again?” I replied.

  He nodded. “That sounds like a fair deal to me.” I got the impression that he found something about our little interaction refreshing. I wasn’t really sure why. Maybe some subtle, unconscious stress he’d put on the words fair deal.

  Just who are you, Baby-Blues? I wondered. I began to get the feeling that there was more to this guy than a flirtatious smile, nice hair, and an expensive suit. I then found myself hoping he would lose our little game so that I could get a name out of him.

  So I let my hands slide down to my hips and cocked my head to the side as though the answer to my origins lay somewhere on my body, perhaps on a badly concealed tag on my red dress, or a telling tattoo normally hidden (I have no tattoos, but I wondered if he had any hidden under that Armani of his).

  Except Baby-Blues didn’t accept my unspoken invitation to let his baby blues range over my body for the answer. They stayed locked on my eyes in the most disconcerting way. It was about this point I noticed that the elevator car of my anxiety had crashed in some unused sub-basement of my psyche, the cool ball it normally left in my stomach completely absent.

  “Missouri,” he said, “I’m going with either Springfield or St. Louis. Which is it?”

  For a moment I could do nothing but keep my jaw from dropping open in shock. I bristled again, more at myself than at him. Because I had a decision: I could lie and say he was wrong again, getting his name. Or I could concede and give him his prize.

  As I considered how much I valued my honesty and integrity a few more well-dressed Italian couples sauntered into the foyer, shooting glances at the tall American man who blocked their path and forced them to move forward towards the main hall in single-file.

  “You know, the longer you pause, the more I know I’m right. So which is it, Springfield or St. Louis?”

  My smile turned tight-lipped. He looked so smug and secure in his knowledge. I just had to get rid of that smugness. But I couldn’t let myself lie to do it.

  “Guess which,” I said, “Double or nothing.”

  He brought one hand out of his pocket and used his thumb and forefinger to stroke gently at the stubble along his jaw line. He prodded at his dimpled chin in the most endearing way. I almost gave in and spilled the beans… (Do as the Romans, I admonished myself with growing amusement) rather, spilled the… what? Tomatoes? Grapes? It was a question for another time.

  “Double what?” he asked.

  I shrugged, giving him a taste of his own medicine with a coy grin. “First name and last.”

  He balked playfully, “You mean you were only going to tell me your first name before?”

  This I answered with another shrug and a wink to top it off. I really was enjoying this flirtation a little too much. I really need to get out more.

  “Fine then,” he said. Again he resumed his inspecting squint, his eyes glaring into mine as though he could somehow probe the mind that lay behind them. I swallowed, realizing that the feeling in the pit of my stomach was suspense.

  “It’s St. Louis,” he said finally.

  This time my mouth did drop open. I’d been certain he’d guess Springfield. Certain.

  “Fess up,” he said, pausing a polite moment
to let my obvious shock pass.

  “Wait… How did you? There’s no way you could… Are you stalking me or something?” I kept sputtering. It was the only rational answer I could come up with at that moment.

  “Of course not,” he said, looking so genuinely shocked at the accusation that I couldn’t help but believe him, “Let’s leave it at reading people is a requisite for my job. So do I get my prize?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m…” My throat tightened up, residual anxiety rising up from my stomach again. This is your last chance, something told me. But my last chance for what? To escape, to get away clean from my charming expat flirt here, I supposed.

  The thing was, I didn’t want to escape. Well, that wasn’t true. I wanted to escape my life, escape Rome. But maybe, just maybe, I could escape into him? Into Baby-Blues’ baby blues?

  Yes, I decided. Escape was just what I needed.

  So I fixed my broken smile and turned it on him. “Emma. Weston,” I said, pausing between my first and last names like some robotic phone operator. “Emma Weston,” I tried again, my name suddenly sounding foreign and strange to me.

  “That’s a nice name. I like it,” Baby-Blues said.

  “Glad you approve,” I said, my nerves retreating enough to allow some wit. “And you are?”

  He gave a wink that infuriated and exhilarated me simultaneously. “You lost fair and square. I’m under no obligation to tell you anything.”

  “‘Under no obligation?’ What is this? A contract?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” he spread his hands in mock supplication, “I’m Liam.”

  “Liam…?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him in invitation to fill the blank space.

  “Just Liam for now. Maybe you’ll get the chance to learn my last name later on,” he said, pushing his fingers into his pockets and hooking his thumbs again.

  My mouth went dry and an incredible tingle that couldn’t be ignored ran up my back. It had to be my dirty mind reading into something that wasn’t there. He couldn’t possibly have been implying what I thought he was implying, could he have been?

  I was sure that Liam could have his pick of any Italian belle of this particular ball, whether they were married or not. Whether their husbands were present or not. That charming smile and that mischievous twinkle in his baby blues were completely irresistible. And I knew that Liam knew that, too.

  So why was he flirting with me? Not that I minded that much. Stuck in my rut as I had been, going from class to bed and bed to class and eating sometimes in between, I’d declined all forms of male advances.

  Maybe I should stop doing that, I thought, feeling the pull of his charm. After all, it had been so long. Maybe I really did need to shake things up in a big way if I wanted to change my course.

  I realized I’d been standing in front of Liam chewing all this over in my head. “Liam is a nice name, too.” Liam is a nice name, too!? What kind of reply is that? I berated myself.

  I wouldn’t have blamed him for smiling politely, taking his leave, and disappearing into the sea of people to neither be seen nor heard from again. Perhaps just the barest glimpse of him climbing into a flaming red Lamborghini with a smoldering Italian beauty to match hanging from his arm.

  I mean, I was just Emma Weston from St. Louis. Who was I to him? Nobody, that was who.

  “Come on, let’s get this party started,” Liam said. He offered me one of those warm hands of his, palm up so I could see the creases of the lines crossing it as though I could tell his future from them.

  You’re going to flirt with a clumsy, directionless American girl at a posh party in Rome… I started, unable to help it. I beat back against my self-deprecatory urge. He’s your way out of this rut, take it! Climb on up!

  “Climb on up what?” Liam said.

  My breath hitched in my throat. I’d said that last bit out loud! I couldn’t believe how far gone I was. Maybe Liam was just what I needed.

  “Nothing at all, forget it. Let’s get to party starting.” I took his hand. He squeezed my fingers for a moment, then gently guided my hand up to the crook of his elbow and began escorting me into the party proper.

  It was a beautiful hall. Guests spoke and laughed and sipped drinks on the marble-banistered mezzanine, which they reached by means of an ornate grand staircase. Looking up, I saw some expert artist had reproduced Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting, Adam lifting a lackadaisical finger towards God’s outstretched, straining digit.

  Liam didn’t let me linger long, sweeping me towards the dance floor, the quartet’s instruments clear and melodious this close to the source of the music.

  Except someone intercepted him.

  Chapter 2

  I’d been so caught up in Liam’s spell that I’d almost completely forgotten about the reason for my being at this party.

  I say almost forgot because the reason for my coming planted himself in front of the two of us, using his body as a barrier that would need to be conquered if we wanted to pass it.

  “Emma! Ah, yes, I have found you.” Unlike Liam, he didn’t stop his eyes from wandering up and down my body. I could feel his gaze sliding down from my face, catching for a few moments on various parts of my body before continuing down like an obscene game of Plinko.

  Professor Giuseppe Aretino stood before the two of us, his arms outstretched as though he meant to catch me up in an enormous hug. He was maybe a couple inches taller than I was. Which is actually one of the main reasons I chose to wear flats to the party rather than any sort of heel. Dr. Aretino could be somewhat touchy about his height (or lack thereof). He would take offense if I was taller.

  An issue which became apparent a moment later, when he looked up into Liam’s face.

  They examined each other quickly, in that way men sometimes do. Sizing each other up. Liam in his dark Armani that accented his body and Giuseppe in a grey three piece that had probably cost a quarter the price despite his somewhat prestigious position at the university.

  They both had black hair, yes. But where Liam’s was soft and glossy Giuseppe’s was oily and slicked so that I could see the shiny expanse of his forehead. A forehead gaining wrinkles with increasing speed as the smaller Italian man found the scales swinging against him in this particular weigh-in.

  Giuseppe was also considerably older. He was in his late forties while I doubted Liam had even seen thirty yet.

  Anyway, all this arithmetic added up to one rather annoyed Italian professor of art history. An Italian professor of art history who had it within his power to fail me in his course, bringing my average down to an unacceptable level to continue my stay at Sapienza.

  It was an old story: the professor uses his position of power to try and take advantage of his student. Except in my case I had stuck a bookmark before the part where the student gives in or falls prey to his wiles and did my best to put the story to bed. I didn’t intend on reading any farther than I had to.

  I’m not stupid. I knew the game he wanted to play, and I did my best to keep myself benched, figuring (hoping) he would get the hint and stop.

  I think he’d gotten it into his head that tonight was finally going to be the night when he’d win me over to his charms. In reality, I’d only really come to try and stay as much on his good side as I could.

  And by showing up arm-in-arm with Liam here I’d just managed to jeopardize the whole shebang.

  “Ragazza d’oro, who is this man? Please, you must introduce us immediately!” Giuseppe said, irritation flashing in his eyes for a moment before he could cover it up with a smile that showed far too many teeth. That smile had always set me on edge.

  It was either wolfish or shark-like; I couldn’t decide which simile was better. Either way, it was a predator’s grin.

  I must have given the crook of Liam’s arm a squeeze. Or maybe he really was as good at reading people as he said, because he picked up on my nerves.

  Dr. Aretino looked at me expectantly, clearly wanting me to give a brief introduction an
d then send Liam packing so that he could take me out on the dance floor and tell me that my grades were slipping (I knew that already) and that he knew a way I could bring them back up (like hell).

  I swallowed heavily, my good, flirtatious mood washing away like so much water down the Roman aqueducts. Then I tried to smile. “Liam, this is Dr. Giuseppe Aretino, my professor of classical art history at Sapienza…”

  Giuseppe gave a little bow, his chest puffing out at the same time.

  “Dr. Aretino...” I continued before I was cut off.

  “Giuseppe! How many times must I tell you it is Giuseppe! Dr. Aretino is so formal. Am I really so formal? No! So Giuseppe, if you please.”

  I squeezed Liam’s arm again, the remaining muscles in my body following suit as though by clenching they could armor me against Dr. Aretino.

  I started again, but Liam interrupted. Which was good, since I remembered that he hadn’t told me his last name, and I have no doubts the good professor would have had some lecture ready about being a young woman out and about in Rome meeting strange, handsome men.

  Liam smiled, offering his hand, which Dr. Aretino accepted. “The Dr. Aretino? I have heard of your work. The university must think highly of you, asking you to appear at this fundraiser to court all the wealthy benefactors here tonight. Very important business.”

  Giuseppe puffed up in pride to such a degree I thought there might actually have been enough hot air in him for him to lift up off the floor like a balloon. “You flatter me. I am but a modest professor… But yes, I am here to raise funds for the program. And you are…?”

  Liam gave the slightest bow of his head, barely disturbing the expertly tufted black hair on his head. Again, I had the urge to run my fingers through it. I wondered if it smelled as good as his cologne.

  All this wondering created a warm, excited tingle along the front of my stomach that I did my best to ignore. Why did Dr. Aretino have to be here, ruining this?

  “I am Emma’s dance teacher, Dr. Aretino.”