For a second, Fabian’s face lit with an emotion that resembled hunger. Then his eyes went to my throat, and surprise and then revulsion replaced the hunger. His powerful reaction hit me like a punch to my stomach and left me breathless. I blinked in shock, and he was gone; the window that had framed him like a painting was closed. He had even drawn the shutters together. It had felt better when he scared me. Tears welled up again in my eyes. The jerk.
His actions upset me, and I couldn’t understand why. One moment I was terrified by Fabian Laurentis, the next I wanted to be ravished by him. What was wrong with me? And it wasn’t like we knew each other. He was a famous actor and a vampire, and I was plain old, uninteresting Stella, but shutting his window to avoid having to look at me seemed extreme.
I sunk my face into my pillow, wiping the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, even if the last thing I wanted was to cry for an idiot with too much fame and money to care about my hurt feelings.
And suddenly, my current situation came back front and center, and my scattered thoughts refocused on Paolo and the fact I was about to be homeless. One glance at the clock on my nightstand—the only object that I hadn’t displaced in my sleep—told me that I had several hours to kill before I could visit Paolo. The polyclinic would open at ten, and there was nothing I could do now to increase my cash flow but work on Violetta’s shadow boxes.
The idea of creating a vampire-themed vignette made me feel nauseous. Yet, due to a perverse reflex, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the closed window. It might have been a trick of the light cutting through the panes behind the shutters, but I thought I caught movement. My imagination running wild, my heart somersaulted against my ribs. The giggles and throaty moans I heard a moment later were loud enough to squash any budding hope that the vampire was even remotely thinking of me.
Heavy thoughts made me sink lower into the mattress. What was I doing, wasting time with silly dreams, when my life was falling apart? Had my desperation fried the last of my neurons?
I better pull myself together and fast. Today is Friday already. By Sunday, I will be out of my ancestral home. I should begin searching for a place. I should be looking for another job. I should be working on the blasted shadow boxes. I should cover the antiques with the dust sheets Aunt Marella used when we left for summer vacations—where are they?
My mind spun. So much to do, and my brain didn’t seem to catch up fast enough.
Two hours later, I had managed to take a shower and dress, but that was the extent of my accomplishments for the day. A shadow box lay on the desk, miniatures were scattered all over, filaments of glue dangled from the glue gun that was still attached to the plug, and the scissors were hidden under a mound of paper rectangles that should have created the flooring and walls of the vignette. On my way out, I unplugged the glue gun, then hurried to take the bus at the corner of Stamperia Street farther away from the vampire’s building. I’d had enough of chance encounters for the week. The bus was crowded, and I hated every second of the forty-five-minute ride to the San Lorenzo neighborhood, but I didn’t trust myself to ride my bicycle on maybe two hours of slumber and an empty stomach. Lately, I couldn’t sleep or eat, and that had to change or I would consume myself before I could find a solution to my problems.
I ran from the bus stop to the Umberto Primo Hospital’s marble steps. Without slowing down, I climbed the stairs to the cardiology ward, and headed to the front desk where I asked for Paolo. I was out of breath and had to repeat my question twice before a young nurse told me to slow down and repeat the name of the patient.
“I’m sorry, Paolo Montecalvo has not been transferred to cardiology,” the nurse said after checking on her computer.
“Is he still in intensive care?” My hands trembled as much as my voice did.
The woman lowered her eyes to the screen, and a moment later looked back up and shook her head. “No, he isn’t in intensive care any longer.”
“Where is he?” Now my entire body shook.
“I can’t access that information from here, but you can ask downstairs at the information desk.”
I nodded and ran back to the ground floor. The lady I talked to yesterday wasn’t working today. An older gentleman was answering a phone call when I approached the high desk. He smiled at me and mouthed, “One moment.”
When he hung up, I asked about Paolo. “Please, I need to know where he is now,” I pleaded.
“Let me see.” He lowered the glasses resting on his bald head to the tip of his nose, then tinkered with the keyboard in front of him, and finally said, “The patient was transported to the Transplant Center in Pisa last night.”
“In Pisa?” So far away from Rome. “Why?”
“There were complications and his next of kin was contacted—”
“Can you give me the next of kin’s number? Please?”
The man looked at me, his gentle countenance changing to reflect sadness. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything else.”
“Please—” I hated myself for crying, but I couldn’t help it.
He shook his head. “I can only tell you that he is your friend’s brother. You might try calling the Transplant Center, but they will probably only confirm the patient is there.”
I did as the man suggested, and he was right; the information center of the hospital in Pisa couldn’t divulge Paolo’s information to anyone who wasn’t family.
I left Umberto Primo in tears. It seemed that once I started, there was no stopping my emotional reaction. People looked at me as I hurried down the street with no clear aim of where to go or what to do with myself.
My universe was crumbling, one brick at a time.
Chapter Eight
I wandered through Rome for several hours.
Eventually, I took a bus and went back home. No vampire witnessed my sorrow this time, and for that I was grateful. Once in my room, I closed my window while avoiding looking at the building in front, then lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The light that filtered through the shutters told me the passing of time, and when the golden beams turned a colder tinge and finally colored the room in silver, I stood and changed for my shift at the bar.
The night was busy and without Carlo’s help I couldn’t have managed. I left as soon as the clock on the wall chimed two in the morning before Carlo could ask me any questions. Closing the lapels of my jean jacket tighter to the cold breeze, I pedaled through streets that were still crowded despite the late hour.
All around me, people looked happy, and I wondered if I would ever feel that way ever again.
After yet another fitful night, Saturday morning arrived.
Eyes red and puffy, I sniffed and pushed out of my bed. I strolled through my house, dragging my feet step after step as if my slippers were made of lead instead of soft leather. Trailing my hands over furniture, I ended up in the library my aunt had always kept dust-free.
“You must hate me, Auntie,” I said, looking at the dark mahogany bookshelf that covered an entire wall of the room. I collapsed on the comfortable loveseat facing the bookshelf. A puff of dust rose when I sunk onto the cushion. “In only a matter of months, I’ve managed to run down the house you kept together for so long.”
Reclining my head against the backrest, I closed my eyes. Memories of happier times played in my mind. I saw my mother perusing the books as my father smiled at her from the desk in the corner. The desk wasn’t there any longer but I had clung to the memory because it was one of the last ones I had of my parents.
Soon, all my life in this house would be a memory.
Even though I should have started looking for a room to rent, I spent the morning looking for the dust sheets instead. My aunt had stored those cloths away a few months before dying, and it was of the utmost importance to me that I cover the furniture before leaving my house. By the time I found them folded inside one of the chests in the attic, it was already one in the afternoon, and I’d had only a cup of espresso after waking. Faint
ing from exhaustion wouldn’t help my cause, and I rummaged the cupboard, looking for anything I could eat. Crackers and a can of tuna sprinkled with olive oil were my lunch, which I washed down with a can of warm soda I didn’t even remember buying.
It was midafternoon when I entered my bedroom again to charge my cell phone. Searching my messenger bag for the charging station, I found Violetta’s business card and remembered I was supposed to deliver three shadow boxes to her place today. I had all but forgotten my commitment.
Hurrying through the process of packing the boxes, it still took me half an hour to get presentable. With only forty minutes to spare, I would never make it to the Spanish Steps by five o’clock if I rode my bike, and I would be equally late if I waited for the bus. I didn’t like the idea of spending money on a cab ride, but I didn’t have a choice. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang, announcing my taxi had arrived.
While I walked to my orange cab, I noticed the black Ferrari parked on the other side of the street. The driver’s door opened, and Fabian exited the luxurious car. He walked to the passenger’s door and helped a voluptuous brunette out of it. While holding her hand, he frowned and tilted his head toward me, his eyes locking with mine.
Forcing myself to break the spell of his stare, I gulped down, lowered the cardboard box containing the miniatures to the cab’s seat, and entered the cabin, pushing the container away from me. With more force than necessary, I dropped my open messenger bag beside me, and Violetta’s business card fell out of one of the internal pockets. When I leaned to pick up the card, a strong gust of wind knocked it from my hand. The rectangle of paper was vacuumed through the open window and out in the street. Fortunately, I didn’t need it; the madam’s address was easy to remember, and it wasn’t like the cab could drive me directly to her place.
“Where to, miss?” the cab driver asked, turning from the front seat to look at me.
“Spanish Steps.” I sat back and tried to relax. Only I couldn’t stop thinking of those green eyes that seemed to see through me.
“Was that Fabian Laurentis?” the driver asked, jaw slacked in awe, and I groaned a yes.
“You must see lots of paparazzi, ah?” He gave me a glance from the rearview mirror.
His question took me by surprise. “Not many, actually.”
“Well, that’s fortunate for you and the rest of the people in this street. I once picked up a client from a Parioli address where Mariano Marxi lives, and it was a freaking zoo of flashes at three in the morning.”
“That sounds awful.”
The man’s comment brought forward bits and pieces of a conversation my aunt had with Mrs. Laura several years back. Fabian Laurentis had just bought Casa Borghese, and Marella and Laura were concerned about the flock of reporters that would soon swamp Stamperia Street once the rumor spread that a celebrity had moved into the empty building. They had been pleasantly surprised when their prediction didn’t become a reality, but soon after, the parties started, and their opinion of the heathen vampire reverted to their original belief.
“The client told me he was thinking of selling his apartment because he couldn’t stand the constant harassment any longer,” the driver continued.
I wondered why the same bedlam didn’t afflict our street. Fabian Laurentis was a world-renowned movie star and a vampire. Mariano Marxi was a famous singer but not as famous as Fabian was. What kept the media sharks at bay?
“Did you see many blood courtesans?”
“Hmm?” His question interrupted my wondering.
“Blood courtesans,” the driver said. “You know those women that—”
“I know who they are, but even if the actor uses them—” Why would someone like Fabian Laurentis pay for blood or sex? The man had only to snap his fingers and women, and men, would offer their throats in exchange for sex with him. “—I wouldn’t recognize one from any of the models and bimbos frequenting his house.” I sounded like my aunt.
“Oh man, I can only imagine what his lineup looks like.”
Tall, lithe, long hair, elegantly dressed, impeccable manicure. Everything I was not.
The driver shook his head, and a huge grin spread across his youthful face that soon took on a faraway expression. He probably imagined himself in the vampire’s stead.
I wanted to vomit. Fortunately, the driver was too busy daydreaming and stopped asking me about the marvelous life of the rich, famous, and undead. Like most of Rome’s historic center, Piazza di Spagna was closed to traffic, so he left me at the beginning of Via Condotti, and I hiked all the way to the Spanish Steps. Although miniatures, the three shadow boxes still weighed a lot inside the cardboard container I held in front of me with extreme caution. A river of people flowed on both sides of the street, entering and exiting the posh stores I once bought from myself. My mother and Marella’s favorite designers had ateliers in Via Condotti. When I was a kid, they took me along for their seasonal shopping spree—when my family had a glamorous social life that required a complete change of wardrobe every year. Once, I had a photo shoot with the British Royal kids; we had that kind of glittery existence.
Crossing Piazza di Spagna, my eyes were drawn to the left corner were Babington’s Tea Room reminded me of many birthdays celebrated Victorian-style. I hurriedly walked past the Barcaccia Fountain where a frustrated cop was sending away tourists who thought that refreshing their feet in the fountain’s water was a good idea. I veered toward the right corner of the Spanish Steps where the Keats and Shelley Museum was, and continued to the next building, where a discreet black sign sported an ornate “V.”
The door to the Renaissance house was made of polished dark wood and stained glass. Soon after I rang the bell, a tall girl appeared behind the panels.
“Delivery for Mrs. Violetta,” I said, but the girl had already opened the door for me.
“Please.” The woman gestured for me to enter, exposing teeth that sparkled white when she smiled. From her high heels to her understated coiffure, everything spoke of sophisticated elegance. Even her accent was a cultivated Roman of the kind only anchorwomen and actresses had. “I am Francesca, Madame’s secretary.” She offered me her meticulously manicured hand.
“Stella Colonna.” I usually dropped my second last name, Bramante, but maybe I should have used it in this circumstance. Relocating the weight of the box on my bent arm, I accepted her hand and stepped inside a foyer that sparkled like her million-euro smile.
The room was decorated with polished cherry wood trim moldings, white and black marbles, more stained glass, a few antique pieces, and two Herend vases that reached my waist and held a triumph of fresh cut gardenias and hydrangeas. I would bet all my money the crystals on the coffee tables were Moser—they certainly looked like antiques.
“Please, take a seat. Madame will see you shortly.” Francesca disappeared behind one of the three doors that opened into the foyer.
I placed the box on the coffee table closer to the entrance, then sat on a beautifully-carved but rigid-looking chair and tried to calm my rising nerves. I hated waiting, but I wasn’t left alone for long because the entrance door opened and three girls entered amid a bubble of laughter and designer bags.
“Hello.” I waved at them, and they said their “Hi” with big smiles before moving through the foyer like a flock of exotic birds.
Among the three model-looking girls, I counted at least fifteen, maybe twenty bags marked with logos like Armani, Valentino—and not from the generic stores, but from the more prestigious and unapproachable ateliers—Prada, La Perla, even smaller bags from Bulgari. Of course, if you bought high couture gowns, you needed jewelry that would match the tone accordingly. One day’s worth of shopping for those girls equaled a year—or two, depending on the content of the Bulgari’s bags—of my combined earnings. With that kind of cash, I could rebuild Casa Colonna from the ground up, and even repossess some of the furniture Aunt Marella had to pawn.
An idea struck me: if I were a blood courtesan, I could sav
e my house. My heartbeat quickened and my stomach clenched.
I didn’t have time to ponder the outlandish thought because as the trio took the door on the right, Francesca came back and told me to follow her. We walked the entire length of a hallway that bordered an interior courtyard, then rounded a corner and stopped before a French door. The secretary knocked on the wooden frame.
“Come in,” Violetta called from the other side of the etched panels.
Francesca held the door for me, and I entered, turning sideways and balancing the box so that it wouldn’t hit the glass.
“Stella,” Violetta greeted me from behind a desk made of steel and glass.
“Mrs. Violetta,” I said back, not sure if I needed to show more respect to the woman.
She rose from her designer chair that swiveled as she stepped out from the table. “I can’t wait to showcase your miniatures.” She stopped in front of a sleek bookshelf and pointed at a large empty spot at its center. Spotlights would have lit the three boxes perfectly.
I couldn’t help but smile. My little creations had found the perfect home. Violetta engaged me in pleasant chit chat as I placed the shadow boxes on the shelf, and moved them around to find the ideal spot.
“How are the vampire vignettes coming along?” Mrs. Violetta asked.
I sighed. “I’m slightly behind, but the shadow boxes will be ready by the time you need them. I promise.”
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Everything’s fine,” I answered automatically.
The madam tilted her chin, studying me. “Your aura tells me differently.”
Maybe my poker face wasn’t as strong as I had thought. “I—”
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want. But in case you want to talk, I am a good listener.”
Desired: A Vampire Blood Courtesans Romance Page 4
