Dear Julia: A Jazz Age Romance

by Romy Sommer

  Positano slept in the midday heat and she was blissfully alone, with nothing to disturb her solitude but the shriek of a lone kestrel soaring high above. She sat at the top of a broad flight of stone stairs overlooking the beach, where fishing boats, their hulls faded by the sun, lay upended on the dark sand, and revelled in the sun’s kiss, breathing in the heavy, briny air and the stillness.

  Thank heavens cousin Frances’ errand was taking so long. Isobel needed a respite from her overwhelming relatives. A week she’d been in Italy, staying with the American cousins she barely knew, and so far nothing had been as she’d expected. If Mother had known the sort of company they kept or the freedom the girls were allowed, Isobel doubted she’d have allowed her precious eldest daughter to make the trip.

  Even if the Honourable Christopher Barrett was a house guest.

  Isobel smiled. She had no intention of enlightening her mother. New as all these strange people and their even stranger mannerisms were to her, she was at least free here from the weight of Mother’s expectations for a few blissful weeks. Italy was a vast improvement on the damp wilds of Shropshire. Too soon the summer would be over and her Season debut launched. She sighed.

  Distant voices, carrying across the water, disturbed her reverie. A fishing boat tacked into the bay, growing from a speck against the bright silver of the waves to a distinct shape. As her eyes grew accustomed to the glare of sun on sea, she became aware that she was not alone in watching them.

  On the rough wooden pier stood a man as still and as silent as she. Isobel eyed him curiously. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, he seemed as exotic as an Arab from a paperback novel. Like many of the Italian peasants she’d seen, he wore shabby trousers and a dark blue pullover. Yet as he turned towards her, looking up to catch her stare, she knew there was something different about him that set him apart.

  Perhaps it was the lazy grin that dimpled his cheek, or the easy grace with which he raised a hand in salute to her. He moved with a lightness noticeably absent in the natives of Campania.

  Before she’d arrived in Naples, she’d had no idea how sheltered her life had been, how little she’d known of poverty and desperation. In one week she’d seen enough of both to fill her heart with tears.

  She turned quickly away from the stranger, looking up instead at the village that sheltered in the cleft of mountain, finding solace in the beauty and tranquillity of the landscape. Whatever hardships the locals faced, at least they lived in paradise.

  The majolica-tiled dome of the church glinted in the angling sunlight, rising above the jumbled buildings that seemed to be squeezed into every available space, rising in tiers up the steep slopes.

  By the time she looked back, the boat had pulled alongside the narrow jetty and prepared to dock. The stranger on the pier caught the rope cast to him by the fishermen on board, and fastened it with the quick skill of years of practice.

  Not wanting to be caught watching again, Isobel raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she pictured Positano as a painting, its vivid colours captured on canvas, golden sunlight infusing the scene with the same sensual heat she basked in now.

  Moments later a shadow fell across her. Frances at last.

  Except it wasn’t. He stood over her.

  Up close, he was magnificent, with eyes black as midnight, bright and expressive. But it was his dimpling smile that sent a shaft of unknown sensation shooting through her.

  He addressed her in barely-accented English. “Buon giorno. You are a tourist?”

  Even as she heard her mother’s reproving voice in her head, she couldn’t resist responding to that smile. “I’m staying with my cousins at the Villa del Monte.”

  “Ah, the Gallaghers. That villa has an unrivalled view.”

  “You know it?” But of course he did, this was a small community. After three summers her cousins would be well known here.

  “Si. Today you are alone?”

  “I’m here with my cousin Frances.” And where, oh where, was Frances now? Isobel squirmed, years of training warring with her instinctual feeling that she could trust this dark stranger. She should not be talking in this easy way to a common fisherman. Yet there was something in him too that compelled her to speak the truth. “She’s already been gone longer than she said. She should be back soon.”

  His generous mouth curved into a smile filled with such warmth and vitality she felt herself melt. The dimple flickered again.

  “I am Stefano.” He made a small, formal bow, a gallant gesture at odds with his casual workman’s attire.

  “My name is Isobel Harrington.”

  “Isabella.” He made her name sound like poetry, the kind of poetry that took her breath away. “While you wait for your cousin, may I invite you to join me at the taverna for a taste of our local speciality, limoncello?”

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at the shuttered taverna before turning back to him, eyebrow raised. He laughed, a deep sound that sent ripples of pleasure through her. It was an odd sensation, unlike any she’d experienced before. What was it about Italy that brought her body to life in the strangest ways?

  “I know the owner. He will open for us.” He held out a hand to her, and she stiffened, her whole body suddenly taut.

  “I shouldn’t …”

  But again he gave that irresistible smile. “No tourist to this coast should leave without sampling limoncello.”

  She shouldn’t. But why not?

  There was no-one here to see, no-one to report on her behaviour. She was in Italy to broaden her mind, and limoncello was as good a place to start as any. What harm could come to her in a public piazza within view of the fishermen unloading their catch onto the pier?

  She picked up the postcards that lay discarded beside her, and slowly, not entirely reluctantly, held out her other hand to accept his. His fingers were rough against hers, strong and supple. His hand enveloped hers with unexpected tenderness.

  She’d never held a man’s hand before, not like this. Dozens of faceless footmen didn’t count. This man, so warm, so alive, was a different creature altogether.

  She allowed him to pull her to her feet and lead her across the piazza to the taverna. He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked, nor did she pull away as she should have. The warmth that radiated through her from his touch was as sensual as the sunshine had been only moments before.

  Stefano knocked on the door of the taverna, the sound echoing off the neighbouring buildings. Footsteps sounded within and the door swung open to reveal the owner, a stout man with a thick mop of dark hair and a scowl that turned to a smile as he saw Stefano. He broke into voluble Italian that Isobel had no hope of following.

  The owner seated them at a table on the verandah, beneath a fragrant canopy of honeysuckle. The limoncello was served chilled, in small ceramic cups.

  Then they were left alone.

  Isobel’s chest tightened. Not the tightening of fear at being alone in the presence of a strange man, but a strange breathy sensation she couldn’t name.

  “Is limoncello like lemonade?” she asked.

  “Si. It is made from lemons.” Stefano’s eyes gleamed wickedly and he grinned as he watched her take a deep sip. She spluttered as the strong taste burned her throat.

  “This is alcohol!” she gasped.

  “Italian lemonade with a twist.” Then concerned, “you are not used to alcohol?”

  She wasn’t used to much of anything. Neither a prestigious English boarding school nor a French finishing school had prepared her for this new world she was uncovering. But she didn’t want him to know how ignorant she was. She wanted this man to think well of her. She wanted him to look at her as a woman of eighteen, not as the silly schoolgirl she felt herself to be. The admission tightened the knot in her chest.

  Tentatively, she took another sip.

  “Not so bad?” he asked.

  “I like it.”

  “Good. There is much in Italy to like.”


  She smiled. “I love it here.”

  “Then you should find yourself a nice Italian husband and stay.” He was teasing her, and even though she knew it, something rather like hope flared in her.

  She bit her lip, a sharp reminder of her reality. “That’s not possible.”

  “Anything is possible. If you want it enough.”

  She shook her head. “My parents wouldn’t approve.”

  Stefano leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands as he contemplated her. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze.

  “And you do everything your parents wish?”

  “Of course. Don’t Italian girls obey their parents?”

  He laughed, the sound like the sunlight on the waves. “Not always. But you are right, we expect our daughters to behave with modesty and obedience. I thought that English girls were different. For example, you have no chaperone with you.”

  Her back stiffened. Being unchaperoned was a new sensation, and suddenly the freedom she’d relished a half hour ago loomed terrifying. Was this why he was being so friendly – he thought English girls were easy? Just because Frances had abandoned her did not mean he could assume she was wanton. And where was Frances anyway?

  She set her glass down on the table, prepared to do battle to defend her reputation. But Stefano only leaned back in his chair and smiled disarmingly. “I have offended you. I apologise. I did not mean to suggest that English girls do not behave with propriety. Only that they have more freedom than Italian girls.”

  She sighed, letting go of the momentary anger. The anger wasn’t for him, anyway, but for all the strictures that had kept her from experiencing life for so long. “You are right. In England young women have more freedom than ever before. But that doesn’t mean we can do as we please. Most of us still choose to fulfil our family’s expectations.”

  “What does your family expect of you?” His soft voice embraced her, as intimate as the questions he asked.

  She should end this now. This was not a conversation to have with a stranger. A man in rough clothing with eyes as deep as night.

  Yet something inside her wanted to answer him, and to answer honestly. Maybe it was those penetrating eyes. Maybe it was exactly because he was a stranger, a man whose judgment didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

  She took another sip of the golden liquid, to brace herself. “My mother would like me to marry a man from a good family and with a good fortune.” Preferably a man with a pedigree dating back to the Conquest, as Mother herself had done.

  “And your father?”

  “Father would like me to be happy. But he has little say in these matters. Mother always gets what she wants.” And right now what she wanted was Christopher Barrett, heir to a Viscountcy and sufficiently wealthy to meet Mother’s other requirement.

  “What do you want?”

  Isobel sipped at the limoncello. Slumberous warmth radiated through her limbs. What did she want? She didn’t know.

  The only thing she was sure of was that, awkward though her stay with the Gallaghers had been, she was not yet ready to return to England. Her gut wrenched at the thought. Her return would herald her social debut. The expense of it, the new clothes, the house in London that had to be hired. And Mother’s constant reminders that it was her responsibility to repay the debt by marrying well. And she hadn’t even had the chance yet to discover what she wanted. Who she was.

  She smiled at Stefano. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  He returned her smile with one so dazzling her limbs turned to jelly. Though that might also have been the effect of the limoncello.

  Then he downed his drink and rose. “I must leave you. Please feel free to wait here for your cousin and enjoy the beautiful day.”

  She suppressed a stab of disappointment.

  He took her hand in his and bent to kiss her fingers. His lips brushed her skin, sending tingles through her. “Arrivederci, Isabella.”

  Until we meet again. Not likely.

  She watched him walk away, admiring the assured confidence with which he carried himself. Not an ordinary fisherman, that was certain. Fishermen did not speak such beautiful English.

  She sipped the last of her limoncello and had to admit the taste was appealing, full of the intoxicating richness and vibrancy of Italy itself.

  Beside the quay, the fishermen finished unloading their boat and disappeared up the narrow streets, leaving her alone at the waterfront. Gentle waves lapped against the pier and the honeysuckle wove mesmerising patterns about her, so that when Frances at last appeared she wondered for a moment if she had dreamed Stefano.

  Frances fanned her flushed face, breathless with apologies. “I am so sorry I left you alone for so long, darling. I hope you don’t mind awfully.”

  “Of course not,” Isobel replied politely. Especially not since it had given her the opportunity of so much more than a breather from her boisterous cousins.

  Frances glanced up the hillside, to the Villa del Monte above the town, conspicuous on its rocky outcrop. “The siesta will be over soon. We need to get back.”

  Isobel rose and followed in Frances’ wake, inordinately grateful that her cousin had not noticed the two empty cups on the table. She clutched her postcards close to her chest as she trailed Frances up through the twisting narrow alleys of the town.

  This news, the best news of all, could not be written. She would have to commit the memory of a pair of laughing eyes to memory another way.

  An Innocent Abroad is available from all Amazon Kindle stores.

  Read on for an opening sample of Waking up in Vegas, the first in Romy Sommer’s contemporary fairy tale Westerwald series.

  Opening Sample of Waking up in Vegas

  I wish I were dead. Phoenix moaned and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the blinding light and the clamour of rain. If only her head would just explode and get it over with.

  At least the pillow seemed softer this morning. And it smelled nicer than normal too. A fresh citrus scent that quickened her blood.

  Hang on a minute. Rain? In Vegas?

  She peeked out from under the pillow. Oh my…

  Not her room.

  This room was at least twice the size of her entire motel apartment, and way better furnished. Correction: this wasn’t just a room; it was a palatial hotel suite. Through the double doors she spied a living room.

  She sank back on the pillows, which seemed to be dusted in gold glitter. Perhaps she’d already died and this was heaven. Though she highly doubted heaven would want Phoenix Montgomery. Not that she’d been a particularly bad girl, but she’d never made much effort to be particularly good either.

  And she’d certainly seen and done a few things a more conventional person might quail at. This being one of them.

  She covered her eyes. Blocking the sunlight streaming in through tall windows at least helped the ache in her head.

  Sunlight? Then that wasn’t rain…

  Instantly awake, she turned her head and identified the source of the sound of running water: not rain, but a shower running.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Terror clutching her heart, she lifted the crisply starched sheet. Oh hell…

  Beneath the sheet, she was stark naked, aside from yet more gold glitter. And not alone, in a room she didn’t recognize.

  What the hell had happened last night?

  Through the aching blur, she fumbled for memories. She and Khara had got off work not long before dawn, and they’d gone out for a drink as they often did at the end of a shift. They’d chosen a pool hall away from The Strip, the kind of place that wasn’t in any tourist brochure. With the sedatives the doctor had prescribed to help her sleep, Phoenix hadn’t had that much to drink. Besides, she could handle alcohol. Unless...

  There was only one thing that could get her drunk.

  She closed her eyes, grasping for the memories. They’d danced to music from an old-fashioned juke box an
d played a couple of games of pool. She’d even won a little money off a guy with tattooed arms who couldn’t believe he’d been bested by a girl.

  And then there’d been a man who bought her a drink…

  The bathroom door opened. Phoenix sucked in a breath and opened her eyes.

  Yeah, that man.

  God, but he was drool worthy. Especially wearing nothing but a fluffy white towel wrapped around his hips. He definitely worked out. Until now she’d believed six packs like that were the results of air brushing in magazine spreads. This set of abs was one

  hundred per cent real.

  She forced her gaze higher, over the tanned chest, broad shoulders, up to meet a pair of startling blue eyes in a face framed by overlong fair hair.

  “You’re awake. Good. I’ve ordered breakfast.”

  She was so not hanging around for breakfast. She cleared her throat. “Where are my clothes?”

  He pointed toward the living room. Clothes lay strewn across the floor and, yep, there it was, the only thing that could get her truly and embarrassingly drunk… a bottle of champagne, empty and lying on its side on the floor.

  “How are you feeling?” The demi-god’s voice matched his face; deep, masculine, with a hint of amusement and a faint Germanic trace.

  He perched on the edge of the bed. He smelled as good as he looked, clean and slightly lemony. Just like the pillow. Her blood all rushed south again.

  She could only imagine how much fun he’d been up close and personal. Pity she had absolutely no memory of it.

  “Did we really…?” She waved a hand at the bed, and her naked body beneath the sheet that she now held clutched to her breasts.

  And her heart stopped.

  Was that a ring on her finger? On her left hand?