Soon after graduation she’d accepted a position as a docent at Even Littler Italy, a museum and bistro located—conveniently and appropriately, she supposed—in the Little Italy district of New York.
And as much as she enjoyed maintaining and presenting exhibits of photos, posters, scale models, and audio visual presentations that dealt with various aspects of Italian life and culture, the job only made her more eager and anxious to experience a real life Italian adventure.
Then finally, the day arrived; the time when she realized that she had saved up the money and the vacation time to plan a luxurious one-week sojourn in the land of her fantasy.
“See ya, all!” she declared at one point, and with a hearty salute. “I am off to Italia!”
2
“Later, y’all. I’m headed back to Italy.”
When Naomi finally arrived at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, a grand total of 10 hours after she’d taken flight from JFK in NYC, she once again felt entranced in something of a dreamlike state; one very different from the vibrant rhapsody that had inspired her to make this trip in the first place.
Indeed, the only thing she dreamt of at that moment was a bed in which to dream. And collapse. And check out from any and all planes of reality as she tried to deal with the massive, near debilitating case of jet lag that threatened to knock her off her feet.
Dressed that day in a sweater and jeans that covered and flattered her rubenesque curves, she felt hotter than hot and just a bit sticky as she dragged her luggage through the airport’s airy, silvery corridors; in the process taking a mental catalogue of everything that she’d brought along for the trip.
Then she made another, far longer list of everything that she’d neglected to bring for the trip.
“Just how in the blazes do you ask, ‘Where can I buy toothpaste and antacid tablets?’ in Italian?” she pondered, adding with a noncommittal shrug, “The moment I get to my hotel room, I’ll look it up in my English to Italian translation guide -unless, of course, I left the guide behind at home. Oh, Jesus. I think I did.”
She shook her head with a sigh as she at least tried to conjure the Italian word for “Taxi!”; the word that would get her to the hotel where she had booked a suite for the week—and that, from what she understood, featured a bed where she could collapse and relax.
“What a novel feature for a hotel suite,” she snorted, finally clearing the expansive front entrance of Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. “I guess some things are universal.”
Her mood shifted the moment that she stepped outside; crossing the portal into the pure nature made glory that illuminated and defined the Roman landscape.
Immediately she felt warmed by the golden, radiant sun that lent light and bounty to this timeless landscape, which featured a hilly, mountain terrain that—in the illustrious city of Rome—bordered a unique cityscape featuring a diverse menagerie of ultra-modern office buildings and flawlessly preserved historical landmarks.
All of this beauty served as a glowing reminder of why she’d made that long, long (did she happen to mention it was long?) journey to the land of dreams. Jet lagged or otherwise.
“Yep,” she concluded, regaining the smile that had managed to elude her for the past 10 hours. “This is the place.”
And just then, she remembered the Italian word for taxi.
“Taxi!” she just barely managed between the pure peals of self-depreciating laughter that nearly claimed her whole.
This positive mood seemed reinforced moments later, as her driver delivered her to the crystalline, brass knobbed doors that fronted the Villagio; the four-star hotel that bore a closer resemblance to an Italian villa.
A lush pastiche of ivory, marble textured stone complete with arched windows kissed with stained glass, sloping roofs, and an overall look that bespoke and harkened the majesty of the old world, the hotel seemed like something from another time.
And if its stately arched entrance seemed like a portal to another place and era, the lobby likened the setting of countless romance novels that claimed Italy as its primary setting; tomes she’d read only for research purposes, of course.
Overlooked by a candle lined brass chandelier that illuminated the room beneath, the lobby area came bordered with cream hued walls topped by elegant crown moldings and lined by both brass bordered antique mirrors and examples of fine Italian artwork; including a high quality print of the one and only Mona Lisa.
“No wonder the chicksta grinned so much all the blasted time,” she mused, her gaze continuing to devour her new surroundings in a near ravenous manner. “She resides in style.”
In the corner of the lobby stood a stone cast fireplace that came complete with scrolled engravings and a blazing fire within; a blaze that lent a radiant cast to the brilliant red jacquard chairs that flanked this beautiful luminary.
“And those chairs even have clawed feet,” she said aloud. “Christ. I never thought that actual real life furniture came with clawed feet included. I’m impressed!”
She started as these absently spoken words were met with a deep, sonorous round of smooth masculine laughter; one that resounded from just beside her as she tore her gaze from the chair.
Within moments this gaze landed on yet another beautiful vision; this one boasting radiance that far surpassed anything and everything she’d seen before it.
The man before her stood tall and statuesque beside the fireplace; and although dressed in a sharp cut suit resplendent in a tone of ruby red velvet, his bronzed muscularity managing to dwarf his delicate, ethereal surroundings.
“Of course, he just happens to be pretty darned ethereal himself,” she mused, grinning in spite of herself as she answered in silence—thankfully, “They sure do grow ‘em good over here.”
Indeed, the man before her boasted a radiant silken fall of jet-black hair that flowed nearly to his waist; framing a bronzed, chiseled face that featured full, moist lips, carved cheekbones, a noble cleft chin, and wide dark eyes.
Eyes that now probed her with an intense stare as he chuckled outright at her unique use of verbiage.
“Clawed feet,” he repeated, releasing his words in a thick Italian accent that sent quivers down her spine.
Naomi grinned.
“Yeah, aren’t they cool?” she asked, making a broad gesture toward the engraved accents that defined and finished the chairs before them.
She arched her eyebrows as the man before her made no verbal response to her question; only regarded her with an intense, unyielding gaze and a warm, sensual smile.
As she continued to drink in his surreal masculine beauty and the warm aura of mystery inherent in his eyes, Naomi felt at once unsettled, intrigued…and just a tad annoyed. Why wouldn’t this dude talk, she wondered?
Indeed, aside from making no further comment about the amazing clawed feet that graced the chairs in the lobby, he just wasn’t saying much at all. He just continued to stare at her with bare, unnerving intensity as he pinned her with a dazzling, white-toothed smile.
“So basically he and I are just standing here, grinning like fools at each other as our eyeballs—cue the music of the immortal Barry White—make mad, passionate love,” she scoffed in silence—again, thankfully. “That would be good and fine if we were stuck between the covers of some bloody romance novel, but—blast it—this is real life. So why won’t this seemingly silver tongued devil actually talk?”
“Um,” she said aloud, for once fumbling for the right words. “Do you happen to know the Italian word for toothpaste?”
Well there then, she’d said it. The most nonsensical, inane phrase she could possibly give voice to, had just passed the lips of her cherry red mouth.
Still, as she’d realized at the airport earlier that day, this was something that she did indeed need to know at this point. It also qualified as a simple, basic question that he should be able to answer.
“I mean, judging by that accent—which is dead cute and uniquely rhythmic,
by the way—you are indeed Italian,” she said aloud, adding with a shrug, “I have some Italian blood and studied the language a bit in college—still I must be a little rusty, as I seem to be forgetting some very basic words and phrases. So could you please tell me, how do you say the word toothpaste in Italian?”
The man stared at her for a long, quiet moment, mouthing the word ‘toothpaste’ to adorable effect.
“Si, toothpaste,” Naomi replied with a gentle grin. “That stuff you apply to your teeth to clean it once in a while, that is so supremely sticky you don’t want to attempt to conduct a conversation throughout the course of its use but it also can taste quite yummy—depending on its flavor.”
The stranger guffawed outright.
“Toothpaste!” he affirmed, sturdy fist held triumphant in the air as he finally seemed to comprehend her words.
“Yeah!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in a show of victory. “So, could you enlighten me as to the Italian term for this amazing little wonder substance that we all use each day—twice a day, preferably and for the benefit of everyone who comes into contact with us?”
The man continued to chuckle as he affirmed, “Toothpaste. Dentifricio.”
Then she took in her breath as, continuing to stare deep into her eyes, the marvel before her took her hand in his and lifted it to his full, moist lips; gracing her with a gentlemanly kiss as their gazes met and locked.
Her breath suspended outright as suddenly she lost herself in the spectacle of his beauty; devouring a gaze as warm and steamy as her favorite hot cocoa, as well as the sweet but provocative upturn of those thick, sumptuous lips.
“Bellissimo,” he intoned, voice released in a scintillating purr as their eyes locked.
She said nothing, only shared his secret smile as their public surroundings dissolved around them and a mysterious bond seemed to form between them.
Finally, and with a devastating smile he turned away from her; teasing her with a playful wink as he swept with a smooth flourish up a nearby staircase with a scrolled iron railway.
“And it is most interesting to watch him sweep,” she mused, pursing her lips in a show of keen admiration as she admired the fall of his long, silky dark hair down the length of his planed back, the firm and strong muscled set of his hips and shoulders, as well as certain other attributes.
“Mighty nice derriere, I must say,” she thought with eyebrows arched, pondering the complete and utter ridiculousness of using a distinctly French phrase to describe a distinctly Italian man.
And pondering in far more depth the intimate introduction that had just stole her breath and set her heart racing.
“I have to find out his name,” she mused, biting her lip as she immediately and inexplicably missed a man she barely knew, a foreign beauty who barely even seemed able to speak her own language. “I have to know this man.”
“Miss? Are you quite bene? That is to say, are you all right?”
Her rhapsodic meditation was disrupted by the sound of a soft, feminine voice, one that managed to penetrate her dreamlike haze and turn her in the direction of its soothing source.
She raised her head to come face and face with a lithe, petite Italian beauty that stood behind the long, brass bordered mahogany desk that formed a far corner of the hotel lobby.
“Bene?” The woman, who boasted a luxurious fall of midnight black hair and skin of rich cinnamon, widened her ebony eyes in Naomi’s direction as she repeated her question.
“Yep, I’m all good and bene,” Naomi affirmed, herself not so sure of this fact as she dragged her suitcases in the direction of the registration desk. “I also happen to be very thankful to meet someone who speaks more than a world or two of English. At any rate, I just arrived here from New York and need to check in to the suite I reserved here.”
The clerk nodded.
“And what is your name?” she asked, her manicured, ruby red fingernails flipping through the pages of her black, pleather bound ledger.
“Naomi Baker, very nice to meet you,” she declared with a smile. “I reserved a one-bedroom suite for the duration of the week.”
The woman bowed her head low above her ledger, her wide dark eyes squinting in concentration as one of those immaculately groomed fingernails traced the line of names imprinted down the length of that day’s reservation page.
“Ah yes, Ms. Baker. Here you are,” she confirmed, greeting her newest guest with a brilliant white-toothed smile as she retrieved and handed over a crème colored card, “Here is your room key. I hope that you enjoy your stay here. Tell me, is there anything special you need, that will make your stay more comfortable?”
Naomi nodded.
“Actually I need two things, thanks for asking,” she told her, adding as she held up two fingers for emphasis. “No. 1, I need bellissimo—I mean to say, I need dentifricio—I think.”
The clerk chuckled.
“You need toothpaste,” she corrected her in a gentle tone, adding with eyebrows arched, “No problemo. And what, may I ask, is the second thing you need?”
Naomi grinned.
“Oh, it’s not a big request,” she assured her, adding as she made a broad gesture in the direction of the corner staircase, “As it turns out, though, aside from my much needed tube of Sparkly Gums I also happen to need that man that just walked up that staircase. No - correction. I happen to need that man that just floated up the staircase. I swear the man does not walk, at least not in the manner that we mortal humans do. He also does not happen to speak much English, blast him, which means that I never was able to ascertain his name. Or, for that matter, his room number.”
The clerk guffawed outright.
“Well unfortunately, as a responsible employee of this hotel I am not at liberty to divulge the gentleman’s room number to you,” she revealed with a regretful pout, adding quickly, “but seeing as though he is something of a local celebrity, and especially given the way that he was looking at you just now, I suppose that I could tell you his name. He is Angelo Romano, a celebrated Italian male model who is shooting a big print ad for us this week. Isn’t he cute?”
Naomi snorted.
“Cute?” she repeated, adding as she raised a definitive finger for emphasis, “Girl, in the words of the immortal Joan Rivers, can we talk? Michelangelo’s Statue of David is cute. That man is a verified stunner.”
She and the clerk exchanged a festive high five as both women burst out in a hearty round of robust sisterly laughter.
“I quite agree,” the clerk declared with a nod. “And, if all goes well, perhaps you can get to know the stunner later on this week.”
Naomi nodded.
“All things considered, Miss, I’d far rather that we meet again sooner,” she quipped, “as opposed to later. Get my drift?”
3
These words echoed in Naomi’s mind a few moments later, as she stood facing the second most beautiful, ebullient vision she’d witnessed that day.
Designed in what the desk clerk described as classic Tuscan style, her deluxe suite radiated in tones of ivory, scarlet and greatest gold, with these lovely hues expressing themselves in the woods and fabrics that blended to create this dream of a suite.
The room’s centerpiece, a canopied four poster bed, came swathed in reams of lush red jacquard; an elite fabric that formed the textured comforter covering its surface, as well as serving to cover the canopy and throw pillows that completed the look of this elaborate resting place.
Just briefly Naomi’s rebellious mind conjured an unbidden image, one that placed the stunning Angelo square at the center of this luxurious bed, beckoning to her in a blatant invitation for her to join him between the sheets.
“I tell ya one thing. That man would not have to beckon or invite for long,” she mused with a grin, her wandering gaze taking in the shiny limestone columns, the marble walls and plush ivory carpeting, the sparkling gold leaf chandelier that lent a luminous cast to the entire suite.
“Bel
lissimo,” she whispered, her eyes finally coming to rest on yet another splendorous accent of this deluxe boudoir.
Displayed with grace on the engraved sandal wood table that bordered her bed, the bouquet of dew glistened, ruby red roses added another welcome accent of old world glamour to her intoxicating new atmosphere. Situated in a vase of gold hued jade and surrounded by sprigs of soft ivory baby’s breath, this lustrous bouquet brought light and luminescence to her already vibrant surroundings.
“It certainly is the most beautiful bouquet I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Naomi gushed, adding as she reached for the gold toned room phone that lay just beside the bouquet, “Of course, considering that my last bouquet came in the form of a weak sprig of three day old wildflowers, purchased at the gas station conveniently located next to my ex-boyfriend’s apartment complex, just about any bouquet that fails to feature poison ivy as a primary ingredient is pretty darned impressive.”
“Hello?” The same soft voice that had welcomed her to the hotel now resounded loud and clear at the other end of the line. “This is Rosanna at the front desk, how may I help you?”
“Hi Rosanna, it’s Naomi in room 10,” she greeted the clerk in a warm, cherry tone. “This room is beautiful and impeccably clean—you folks do a great job here! And the roses are such a nice extra touch—one I certainly was not expecting.”
Rosanna chuckled.
“Actually, Naomi, our staff didn’t send you the flowers. Angelo did.”
Naomi froze.
“Well that was sweet,” Naomi allowed, adding with a broad shrug, “but how on earth did he send flowers to a woman whose name he doesn’t know—and who, as an added bonus, doesn’t even speak his language? I AM SO CONFUSED.”
Rosanna laughed.
“Well as it turns out, your fantasy man returned to the lobby moments after you left,” she revealed, adding in a lowered, confidential tone, “He ordered a bouquet from our lobby gift shop and requested that it be sent to your room—along with a special card.”
ENSLAVED BY SHIFTERS Page 83
