When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  “Problem?”

  Domenic’s voice yanks me from my center of concentration. Shoving away from my workstation, I spin the chair to face him. His expression shifts from benign curiosity to one of autocratic concern when he sees my frown.

  He’s in charge. I have to remember that. With a word, he can send me home on the next flight to New York. I don’t want to embarrass myself—or let Beth down—by being dismissed.

  But my professional dander is up, and Domenic senses it. He draws a deep breath and folds his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing in a subtle challenge. The pose accentuates his height, especially from my seated position. Taking a breath of my own, I stand, literally rising to meet that challenge.

  “The backgrounds don’t look right.” Hopefully, this will come across as a commentary on the skills of the interns, rather than my general inexperience with green screens. “It’ll take some serious digital editing to keep them from looking flat behind the models.”

  “That’s what Lauren and her team are here to do.”

  My next step will probably piss him off, but I have to state my case. I fold my own arms over my chest, mirroring his posture. “We should consider matching the hair and makeup to the wardrobe. Soft and sensual doesn’t match the contemporary styles, and vice versa.”

  One brow arches, emerald sparks flashing in his eyes. Now his professional dander is up. “Are you criticizing Corrine’s work?”

  Careful, Kate. “No. She’s brilliant with what she’s doing.”

  “The clients want the dichotomy.”

  Another deep breath to steel myself. “Maybe so. But it doesn’t work.”

  Domenic looks over my head, and I glance over my shoulder as well. Most of the production crew is on lunch break, except for the eternally bogged-down interns. Still, he steps closer and lowers his voice. “Even if I agreed with you, it’s not what’s going to happen on this shoot.”

  I turn back to him and have to look up to meet his eyes. The proximity sends a riot of goosebumps up the back of my neck and along my scalp, but I don’t step away. “I know Miranda’s working on location permits. But until those come through, there’s a lot I can do if you let me work with Corrine to—”

  “Corrine doesn’t need style advice from a wedding photographer.”

  The bite in his reprimand cuts clear to my bones, as he intended. I could bite right back, tell him about the slew of art and photography classes I passed with flying colors at NYU, about the high-profile weddings I shot three years ago that put my business on the map. But I don’t say any of it. Anger burns behind my eyes and rips at my core. None of those things mattered to my family, so why should they matter to Domenic Varezzi?

  Rather than lash out and risk getting fired, I spin away and grab my camera off the desk and my jacket off the back of my chair.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Lunch,” I fire back as I stomp past him. “Consider me off the clock for the next two hours.”

  Chapter 7

  Truce

  An hour of walking around the neighborhood near the studio cools my temper, as does a lunch of fresh bread and cheese purchased from a small market. I wish I had more time to wander, but the side streets offer enough light play and glimpses into Roman life to let me soothe myself with artistic shots as I stroll. By the time I return to work, most everyone is engrossed in their own elements. No one notices my quiet entrance, though Domenic does glance my way while I’m tethering my camera to the computer.

  The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. I make a point of not packing up my gear until everyone else is walking out the door, including Domenic and Joe, and head back to the hotel on my own. Lauren catches up with me on the way to my room and invites me out to dinner with her, Rafe, and Dave, but I decline, pleading a headache.

  It’s not a total lie, but now that the working day is over, the lingering irritation from my spat with Domenic swamps over me. A little quiet time will restore my mental balance.

  Twilight drops over the city when I venture out of my room again, laptop and personal SD card in hand. I make for the breakfast room and its open-air terrace, which is vacant except for a pair of sleek cats that must belong to the hotel’s owners. The cafe tables with their cushioned chairs beckon, and with a sigh, I claim one in the corner farthest from the door and boot up my laptop, ready to play with the pictures I took today on my lunch break.

  I’ve barely scanned half of the photos before movement in the terrace doorway catches my attention. Dragging my eyes from the computer screen, I almost jump to my feet when Domenic saunters over, an uncorked bottle of wine in one hand and two stemmed glasses in the other. He stops a few paces away, then gestures to the empty seat at my table with the bottle. “May I?”

  For a second or two, I consider the wisdom of letting him join me. But the arrogance he usually wears like a second skin seems to have disappeared. Nodding, I scoot my chair to the right to make more room for him to sit down.

  I regret this decision the instant he sets the wine and glasses on the table, plops into the chair, and turns my laptop toward him. Words of reprimand leap to the tip of my tongue, but they die as he props one elbow on the table and clicks through my photos with small sounds of approval.

  “These are good,” he murmurs. “You take these this afternoon?”

  Throat dry, I nod again.

  He points to the screen, angling the computer so I can see the image he’s studying. “I like how you captured the streaks of light that slipped past the canopy over the doorway, just as those women were exiting. Like they’re stepping into possibilities.”

  “Thanks,” I croak.

  Pushing my laptop away, he picks up the wine bottle and pours a glass. He offers it, but before I decide whether or not to accept, he says, “I know you’re more than a wedding photographer.”

  I study his face, the frankness of his gaze touching my skepticism. His simple statement is as close to an apology as I’ll likely get from him.

  My fingers brush his as I take the wine. A shiver of electricity jolts down my arm, and I close my other hand around the bowl of the glass before I drop it.

  Domenic watches me take a tentative sip while he pours a glass for himself. “Your friend Beth sent me a link to your online portfolio when she suggested you for this job. You earned your spot on your own merit.”

  “But what I do while we’re in Rome is what will help me keep my spot,” I remind him.

  He takes a sip, regarding me over the rim of his glass. “Let’s just say you’re well on your way to keeping it.”

  “Good to know.”

  “People expect certain things from me during a shoot,” he continues, swirling the wine in his glass. “I was sold on your talent as soon as I saw the sample shots on your website, and that’s saying a lot. I don’t let just anybody join my team. You’ve won Joe over, but everybody else is still skeptical. They’re a little . . . gun shy.”

  The wine makes me bold enough to ask. “Riley?”

  Domenic’s lips tighten slightly, but then his usual nonchalance falls back into place. “If it seems like I’m being a hard ass over your work, just think of it as a performance for their sake. I have to keep up my reputation.”

  I smirk. “I know all about that.”

  “I smell a story.”

  “Let’s just say I’m known for being a bit of a snarky bitch.”

  A hearty laugh breaks from him, the sound full as if it erupted all the way from his toes. He tips his head back with the force of it, and I can’t help but chuckle a little myself.

  He regains his composure. “Being a snarky bitch can serve you well in this business, if you use the tendency the right way.”

  My own laughter lingers on my lips. “Maybe, but it doesn’t serve me well in most other areas
of life.”

  “Again, I smell a story.”

  I lift my wine glass. “Not one that’s any of your business.”

  “Then let me ask a question that is.” He sets his glass down and leans forward, resting one forearm on the table. “You’re a wedding and portrait photographer by trade. What compelled you to jump headlong into a fashion gig?”

  Photography seems a safe enough topic of conversation. “The money’s better.”

  “Anything you do purely for money ceases to be a profession in short order. What’s the real reason?”

  I recall the conversation I had with Joe earlier this week and my assumptions about Domenic getting burned in the past by those seeking to ride his coattails. Focusing on the glints of the streetlights in my red wine, I answer with caution. “I’ve always wanted some recognition on a wider stage. Professionally and artistically. This seemed like a good opportunity to get my name out there, toss my hat into a different ring, so to speak.”

  There. That didn’t sound too much like I’m hoping Domenic’s coattails will be my ticket to fame.

  “Your passion doesn’t appear to lay in fashion,” he replies. “You got more hyped up over the background images and overall scheme of the shoot than about the individual wardrobe selections.”

  “I mentioned that it felt like things didn’t match.”

  “But you were talking about the overall feel of what you were photographing. Not Corrine’s choices in particular.” He shifts in his chair to face me more directly. “What’s your dream? The vision for yourself that led you into photography in the first place? This is a challenging way to make a living unless you’re either prolific or well-known.”

  The question strikes me as veering too sharply into personal territory. “Which are you? Prolific or well-known?”

  “Both,” he says with a wide grin. “But we aren’t talking about me.”

  “I could be prolific.”

  He shrugs. “You’re evasive, if nothing else.”

  Bolstered by the friendly banter, I relax back in my seat. “I love shooting landscapes and architecture, and capturing the candid small moments of real life. I’d love to see my work in a widely regarded art opening, something that will pave the way to a career in fine art photography.”

  “To become well-known, if not prolific.”

  I grin. “I guess we can’t all be both.”

  Domenic smiles back and lifts his glass again. Quiet drops over the terrace, and we sip wine to the music filtering up from a dance club down the street and the distant, distinctive wail of a siren somewhere to the south. After a while, he straightens and turns to me.

  “You know I expect a lot from the people on my team,” he says. “And I have a certain way of doing things. But if you think you can give me what I need from this shoot, I can make what you want happen. Maybe not right away. But I can give you the credit you need to step out on your own and establish a solid reputation as an artist.”

  Frowning, I peer at him. “You hardly know me.”

  “True,” he concedes. “But I know what it’s like to be in your shoes. You’re smart and ambitious, and I like that. You could’ve cowered earlier today, but you stood your ground instead.”

  “Until you insulted me.”

  His face darkens, a telltale flush of embarrassment in the dim light.

  I hurry to keep our conversation flowing in a positive direction. “But I forgive you.”

  The smirk returns. “Guess I chose the right peace offering.”

  Help from Domenic Varezzi, a world-renowned photographer, would go a long way in breaking out of portrait work and into the art world. But the opportunity coupled with the wine makes me wonder if peace offering is the right term for what he’s doing. “Maybe call it a gesture of truce instead.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I lean forward to pick up the wine bottle, refilling his glass and mine before continuing. “I told you. I’m a snarky bitch. Sometimes the snark slips out before I realize it.”

  His eyes narrow. “So what’s your gesture of truce?”

  “I’ll do my best to keep my temper and tongue under control, provided you make good on your offer to give me a little free reign to do what I do best.”

  The space of three heartbeats passes before he sets his glass down on the table and extends his hand. “All right. Truce.”

  “Truce.”

  I accept the handshake. But a split second into it, as our gazes lock, his grip softens around mine. A slow warmth seeps down my arm and melts into my chest. My lungs seize, and Domenic’s throat works briefly as if he can’t quite swallow.

  This is not what I signed on for.

  Panic sets in. I slide my hand from his and cup it around the bowl of my glass. The wine burns a little as I take too big a gulp, but I manage not to cough. Domenic, too, has retreated into his glass, but whatever just passed in that handshake hangs over us.

  “So,” I say in a voice too close to a whisper, sending a sidelong glance his way, “do you always wander around hotels at night with two glasses and a bottle of wine?”

  “Only when there’s a chance I might run into a pretty girl.”

  I snort into my glass, relieved that the spell seems to be broken.

  Domenic’s grin returns. “Why is that funny?”

  “The last person to call me a pretty girl was my great-uncle, and I think I was ten years old at the time.”

  He chuckles. “Beautiful woman, then.”

  The unexpected compliment sets off a flurry of butterflies deep in my stomach. Suddenly breathless, I drain my glass and set it down, then reach for my laptop and close the screen. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  Chair legs scrape as we both push away from the table, me ready to bolt, him rising to placate me before I can. We stand facing each other, nearly as close as we were in the studio this afternoon. Taking a deep breath, I stare at his chest for a minute. Once my wild heartbeat and those damn butterflies settle, I tip my head back to meet his gaze.

  “What are you doing on Sunday?” he asks before I can speak.

  I stutter for a minute, unable to look away from his eyes. “Sightseeing, probably. We have the whole day off.”

  “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  My throat feels tight again. Nodding, I skirt around him, choking out something that sounds like, “Good night.”

  His fingers touch my arm as I pass. “Good night, Kate.”

  Head spinning, I clutch my laptop against my chest and rush to the terrace doors. I look back when I reach the doorway, only to find him watching me, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and a half-smirk on his face.

  A face I find too handsome for my own good.

  Still, I wave at him, wiggling my fingers like a silly teenager who sees her crush across the cafeteria. My face burns as I whirl, practically sprinting across the dark breakfast room to the hallway and stairwell.

  Sunday morning rolls around, and I keep an eye out for Domenic, just in case he was serious about joining me for some sightseeing. He never shows in the breakfast room, so I end up tagging along with Lauren, Joe, and Miranda when they head out.

  We take the Metro line down to the center of Ancient Rome and spend most of the day wandering around the Coliseum, the Roman Forum, and Palatine Hill. Joe sticks close by Miranda’s side, while Lauren and I trail behind them. At one point, Joe slips his arm around Miranda’s waist and tucks her close to his side. The gesture lasts less than half a minute, but it makes me pull Lauren close to hiss in her ear.

  “Are they an item? I’d kind of assumed Joe was married.”

  Lauren glances at Joe and Miranda before answering. “He is. To Miranda.”

  My gaze shoots back to the coup
le strolling a few yards ahead. Of all the people in the world I’d pictured Joe with, Miranda is not one of them. The disbelief must be blazing on my face, because Lauren giggles and pokes me in the arm.

  “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?” she says. “It was sort of an opposites attract thing. They’ve been together about three years now, but they’ve worked with Domenic for years.”

  “You wouldn’t think the pressures of this kind of work would be good for a marriage.” I fiddle with the strap of my camera, studying the brief look of happiness Joe gives Miranda as she pauses to point something out in the ruins up ahead. “Always traveling, never getting much time to do things in private. It’s kind of odd to see them engage in PDA like that.”

  “It’s the backdrop of Italy. Europeans are a little freer in general about public displays of affection. There are times you see a couple going at it like they need a hotel room. Miranda and Joe don’t usually go to that extreme, but I guess their philosophy is when in Rome.”

  I glance at her. “When in Rome what?”

  “You know the saying. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Lauren sighs, a touch of envy in her grin. “They figure out ways to keep it fresh, I guess. You’ve gotta figure, the travel takes us to a lot of exotic locales. And Domenic tries to give us plenty of opportunities for downtime when we’re on an international shoot so we can see the sites. For Joe and Miranda, that means quality couple time.”

  Doubt lingers, despite Lauren’s seeming assurance. “I’m surprised no one mentioned they were married before this.”