by Melody Grace
My heart is in my throat. Did she see me? Is she going to tell?
“Have a great day!” Lucia coos, and sashays away, leaving me in a cold sweat. I grab Karla. “Did you hear that? She knows!”
“No way.” Karla glares over at Lucia. “She’s jealous, for sure. If she’d seen you sneak out, she would have reported it right away.”
Not if she’s waiting to use it against you, a little voice murmurs in my head. Biding her time until it really matters.
“Relax,” Karla orders me. “Revel in your great victory.”
I smile. “I haven’t won that solo yet.”
But she’s right, I can’t let my fears ruin what was a great rehearsal. “Hey, you guys want to go somewhere and celebrate?” I ask. I remember Raphael’s parting words to me last night, about performing at the Piazza Navona this afternoon.
It wouldn’t hurt to drop by just to see...“We could find a cute square and get a drink, people-watch. It’s still early.”
“Sounds good to me,” Karla agrees. “Ros?”
“I don’t know ...” Rosalie checks her phone anxiously. “Mademoiselle said she might need me later.”
“Might,” Karla emphasizes. “C’mon ... You’ve been running around all day. We deserve a break!”
Rosalie breaks into a smile. “OK, I’m in.”
We make our way to the square and settle in at a sidewalk table, ordering cold drinks and taking in the view. The piazza is bustling in the afternoon sun with tourists and locals; the fountains sending up clear jets of water over the ancient stone statues.
Karla looks around with a grin. “Not too shabby for the girl voted ‘least likely to be anyone’ in high school,” she comments.
“That’s not true!” Rosalie protests. “You’re exaggerating.”
Karla rolls her eyes. “Close enough. If those bitches could see me now...” She leans back in her chair, happily surveying the foreign scene.
I sip my lemonade and keep an eye out for Raphael and his troupe. He did say this piazza, didn’t he? I check again, getting more nervous as the minutes tick past. Just the thought of seeing him again has set my nerves to life, an anxious, excited jitter in my veins.
That kiss...
God, that kiss.
“... Earth to Annalise!”
I snap back to reality to find Karla waving her arms in front of my face. “Wow, you really were a million miles away.” She laughs. “What’s up? Reliving your performance today in all its envy-inspiring glory?”
“I ... no. Just thinking,” I reply quickly, checking around the piazza again. I drum the tabletop, feeling my anticipation rise, until Karla stops me.
“Seriously, what is with you?” she demands.
Before I can reply, I hear the music start. I can’t stop a huge smile from spreading across my face. “Come see,” I say breathlessly, rising to my feet.
“See what?” Rosalie looks confused.
I scramble for my wallet and lay down a note to cover our drinks. “Trust me, come on!”
I hustle Rosalie and Karla through the crowd already gathering at the far end of the piazza. I push our way to the front, just as Raphael and Francesca step forward in the center of their marked-off dance floor.
My heart catches at the sight of him.
He’s dressed in a plain black T-shirt that hugs his muscular torso and tuxedo pants that fit like a glove. He strikes a pose, and I can tell he’s settling into the role, mentally taking himself out of this busy square, and into that place in his mind all dancers go, where nothing matters but the music.
I hear Karla let out a chuckle beside me. “Now I get it,” she murmurs, but my focus is on him.
Only him.
The first chords ring out through the piazza. The crowd is growing, passers-by drawn in by the sight of him, poised for action, and Francesca beside him, bent in a low curtseying pose. Even I can admit she’s show-stopping in a low-cut red dress that spills in a waterfall of ruffles. Somehow, she makes it look like high fashion, not some tacky costume, with her dark hair cascading down her back, and her eyes lined with dark kohl.
The music builds, and with it, my anticipation. Raphael’s face is a mask of concentration, but then, just as he reaches for Francesca for the first time, his eyes meet mine across the dance floor.
His expression changes. Just for a split second, but I see it: a rush of happiness flitting across his face. He sends me a smile, secret and private. Then the mask comes down again, and he starts to dance.
I lose myself in watching him all over again: the power, the control, the grace of his movements. But this time, it’s deeper, because I know what it’s like to be there, pressed against his body, feeling every step as if it were my own.
I hug my arms around myself, caught up in the performance—and my memory of those hands on my own body, hip to hip, skin on skin.
Finally, the music ends, and applause comes crashing back into my dream world.
“Easy, girl.” Karla laughs, patting me on the head. “You’re practically drooling.”
I wipe the smile off my face, terrified my feelings will be obvious for anyone to see.
Karla laughs again. “Now you look like you want to drown in the fountain. Relax,” she tells me, “just play it cool, and—hey!” she exclaims, looking behind me. “Great show.”
I spin around. It’s Raphael, his hair slightly damp with sweat, curling darkly over his tanned face.
“You came,” he says quietly, giving me another smile. This one sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
My skin prickles, like I’ve been shocked. The effect is instant. Hot. Hard.
“Sure,” I try to play nonchalant like Karla said. “We were in the neighborhood, so we figured we’d come check you out. It out,” I correct myself quickly. “The show, I mean!”
Way to go, Annalise. Real cool!
Raphael’s gaze goes to my friends. “We haven’t been introduced,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “At least, not properly. You were in a rush last time,” he adds, to Karla. “Raphael Gibraldi.”
“Oh, sorry!” I yelp. “This is Karla, and Rosalie. They’re at the company with me.”
“A pleasure.” Raphael’s gaze turns back to me, like I’m the only person in the world. “Are you free now?”
He rests a hand gently on my arm. His touch sears through me. I catch my breath.
“She’s free.”
I feel a shove against my back, and I stumble, off balance, towards Raphael. Karla beams at him. “Just have her back before dinner.” She looks down and does a double take at the time. “Look at that!” she cries. “We have to get going, don’t we, Ros?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Rosalie nods enthusiastically. “We have to go see a guy, about a thing!”
“See you later!” Karla cries, and then the two of them are gone, giggling together as they dash away across the square.
I brace myself and turn back to Raphael. His eyes blaze into me. My heart catches in my throat.
Dear God, he’s mesmerizing.
“So…” I blush, awkward. “What do you want to do now?”
His mouth curls in a smoldering grin. He quirks his eyebrow. “What do you think?”
I gulp. Holy shit. “I, um,” I stutter, my mind blank. All I can think about his is lips, his hands, his body…
“Let’s take a walk.” Raphael puts me out of my misery, looking amused. “I love this neighborhood, there are so many old churches and monuments.”
Strolling. OK, that I can do.
“Great!” I exclaim, too loud. “I mean, lead on.”
But as I hitch my purse up my shoulder, Raphael leans in. His lips rasp against my earlobe, his breath is hot against my skin.
“But trust me, mia cara. Your next lesson will be soon.”
Thirteen.
I fall into step beside Raphael as we stroll to the edge of the piazza. This is where we first met, I remember, when he chased the pickpocket down into these alleyways.
“It’s like everywhere I look, it’s from a painting or postcard,” I babble nervously as Raphael turns down one of the winding narrow streets. The walls of the buildings are a faded rosy terra cotta, and many of the doorways have ornate arches, or vibrant window-boxes vying for attention.
Raphael smiles. “When I first moved here, I would take my camera everywhere. I took so many photographs, just of the buildings, the people ... All the history.”
“There’s a lot of history,” I agree with a wry smile. “And we saw about a thousand years’ worth on our tour.”
“Ah, you’ve been to all the tourist sites then.” Raphael laughs. “They’re great, but you also need to see the real Rome, away from all the activity. Like, here, for example.” He nods to a bench down the street, where three old Italian women are sitting, chatting. Their wrinkled faces are lit up and animated, and they laugh loudly as we pass. “I bet those women have been meeting there to gossip every week for forty years.” Raphael grins, glancing back.
“Complaining about their husbands,” I laugh in agreement.
“And how their kids don’t call as often as they should.”
I begin to relax, his footsteps steady beside me. This isn’t so scary, I reassure myself, taking a deep breath. Just pretend he’s a friend.
A six-foot, ripped, gorgeous friend, who a few hours ago had me moaning up against a wall with my shirt around my waist.
My cheeks burn hot at the memory. God, it felt so good.
I sneak a look at him, the strong line of his jaw, the tousled dark hair just begging to be touched.
I want more. I want to know everything about him.
“So what brought you to Rome?” I ask. “You said you moved here a few years ago?”
Raphael nods. “When I was eighteen. I was supposed to go to college,” he continues. “Study to be a lawyer. My parents ...” He hesitates, giving me a sideways glance. “They don’t understand, about my dance. They never did.”
“That’s tough.” I sympathize.
“I was expected to graduate, and get a good job,” Raphael tells me. “Something respectable. Not make a fool of myself in the streets like a common beggar.” His voice twists, and I know those words aren’t his own.
I reach out and touch him gently on the arm. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He seems to snap out of it, and smiles again, banishing the brief darkness from his eyes. “But I had to dance, there was no other way for me.” He shrugs. “So, I left home and moved here instead. I took whatever work I could find, bartending, labor, and spent my free time dancing, learning everything I could.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, imagining the courage it would take to leave his family behind and strike out on his own like that. “I could never be so brave.”
“No?” Raphael looks puzzled. “But here you are, an ocean away from home, pursuing your passion.”
“It’s not like you,” I shrug. “I’m here with the company, everything is arranged for us.”
Raphael gives me a look, like he knows something I don’t. “You shouldn’t put yourself down, Annalise,” he tells me. “You’re stronger than you think.”
The moment stretches, and the intensity in his gaze shocks me right to my core. My head spins. How does it feel like I’ve known him forever, when it’s been no time at all?
His stare turns smoldering. I look away, and quickly change the subject. “Where are we right now? I don’t recognize any of these streets.”
“This is the Pantheon district.” Raphael switches into tour-guide mode, pointing out the ancient details on the buildings, and little cafes crammed between older squares. “Home to many ancient churches, many great restaurants, and a special surprise for you.”
“What?” I turn, self-conscious.
“Just up here.” Raphael points to a striped awning on one of the shops. There’s a line snaking outside the door, and people emerging with cones of ice cream.
“Oh.” I stop dead, my heart falling.
Raphael grins, not noticing my reaction. “I told you, Italian gelato has to be tasted to be believed. This is one of the best places in the city.”
“Sure. That sounds... great,” I murmur, lying. He seems so enthusiastic, I can’t tell him that gelato is most definitely not on my diet list.
I panic, mentally counting the calories that must be packed into one tiny scoop of the treat. It’s probably more than my whole daily allowance!
He walks on ahead, so I follow him to take our place in the line, my mind racing for an excuse. I should have told him something the very first time he mentioned it—that I was allergic, or lactose-intolerant. Anything to avoid the truth.
“When I found this place, I came every day for a week to try their flavors.” Raphael confides. He leans his arm against the wall beside my head, propped just inches away from me. I breathe in the clean, fresh scent of him and try to stay calm. I’ll explain about my diet, about the training. He’ll understand.
Or he’ll think you’re crazy, and run like hell in the opposite direction.
“Are you OK?” Raphael looks down at me with concern. “You look kind of pale.”
“No!” I yelp. “Fine. I mean, I feel great.”
We reach the front of the line. The freezer cabinets are glass-fronted, filled with delicious cartons of a rainbow of flavors. They look amazing, and just the scent is enough to make my mouth water—and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in a cold, sweaty panic.
“She’ll get the hazelnut,” Raphael tells the assistant, once we make it inside the tiny store. “And the pistachio, too.” He turns to me. “They’re the best.”
“Uh huh.” I can feel my throat constrict, but I try to stay calm. It’s crazy, I know, freaking out over one tiny ice cream, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent years counting every precious morsel I allow between my lips, calculating calories and fat units, knowing that the slightest slip-up will edge me further and further away from my goal weight.
Raphael pays, and we stroll outside. Across the street is a tiny park. Raphael takes me to a bench, and we sit. “For you.” He presents my gelato to me with a funny little bow. It’s huge: a towering cone, with two massive scoops on top.
I gulp. I can only imagine what my mom would say if she saw me eating this, or even Mademoiselle.
But even so, I feel a prickle of rebellion. God, how long has it even been since I tasted ice cream? Real ice cream, not that fat-free, taste-free frozen yogurt we keep in the freezer at home for a treat.
Years. It’s got to be years.
“I...” I open my mouth to tell him everything, but at that moment, a drip of gelato melts down the cone and rolls down onto my wrist. Without thinking, I lift my hand to my mouth to lick it off.
I stop dead, feeling the cool sensation slide down my throat, tasting the dense, nutty sweetness of the hazelnut, rich and delicious, an explosion of pleasure on my tongue. I take another lick and moan out loud. “God, this is so good!”
I devour the gelato, savoring the sweetness and creamy cool. When I finish, I look up. Raphael is watching me hungrily – an expression that has nothing to do with food.
I freeze, blood suddenly pounding in my ears.
Slowly, he reaches over, and wipes a smear from the corner of my lips. He takes his thumb back to his mouth and sucks, his eyes never leaving mine.
Liquid heat rushes through me, pooling tight between my thighs.
Oh my God.
Still holding my gaze, Raphael scoops a smear of chocolate from his cone and holds his finger out to me. “Taste,” he orders softly.
My stomach turns a slow somersault. I can’t look away, totally caught in his hot, fevered gaze as I close my lips around his finger and suck.
It’s the most erotic moment of my life. We’re in the middle of the park, in broad daylight, fully-clothed, but somehow I feel like we’re naked as I slowly lick my tongue against the
rough skin of his finger, sucking every taste of velvety chocolate gelato clean.
Raphael makes a noise that’s partway between a low groan and a growl.
It makes the ache in my core clench and tighten. To know he feels this too, that he’s just as affected by our crazy chemistry as I am.
“I want to know how you taste,” he tells me, his eyes flashing. He slides his finger out of my mouth, and leans in closer. “I will drink you up, mia cara, every drop.”
His mouth closes over mine as I realize what he means.
Oh!
It’s too late to exclaim, his lips claiming mine. He caresses my cheek with his hand and slides his tongue deep into my mouth.
I shiver, melting against him. His lips move masterfully over mine. I fall into the kiss, tasting the chocolate sweetness, feeling his touch everywhere.
Heat and sensation. Desire and need.
Raphael draws back. “Delicious,” he murmurs, with a tempting smile. “I’ll save the rest for later.”
I’m blushing hotly when I leap up to put my paper wrappers in the trash. I need a moment to recover from the kiss – and his sinful promise.
I clear my throat. “So you were right about the gelato, it’s amazing!”
Raphael smiles. “I have a passion for food,” he admits. “Luca’s family owns a restaurant, so it’s in his blood. We both work shifts there, sometimes. You should taste his Nona’s cooking.” He brings his fingertips together and kisses them, a funny gesture of delight. “Her pasta ... and her gnocchi! It’s a traditional Italian dish,” he adds, explaining.
“That sounds great,” I say wistfully, thinking of an alternate reality where I can actually eat that stuff.
“I could take you now.” Raphael meets my eyes with a question. “If you’d like.”
I swallow. Something tells me it’s not just the dinner date he’s asking me about.
Suddenly, panic crashes through me. Am I ready for this? What am I doing?!
I have my audition tomorrow. I should be back practicing right now, not walking the streets of Rome, having X-rated thoughts about a complete stranger.
