When in Rome (A Heart of the City Romance Book 4)

by C.J Duggan

  Maria seemed even more confused, but I wasn’t. Instead I smiled. ‘That’s right, we go waaaay back.’

  The only real movement among the group was Nate chewing loudly on a piece of bread, and Jodie’s head snapping between the two of us as if she couldn’t believe we could possibly know each other.

  ‘Oh, Marcello, I can never tell if you are serious or not,’ scoffed Maria.

  Marcello.

  I looked at him again; for some strange reason, knowing his name completely transformed him. He wasn’t the dark, mysterious stranger from across the room, he was now very much a somebody. And that somebody was actually a part of this tour group? Now I was confused; why would a local need or want to do a Bellissimo trip? Maybe he had led a sheltered life, although this didn’t seem to be the case. He looked worldly, street smart, and held himself with confidence—basically the total opposite to me. If he wanted to see the sights, why on earth would he want to hang out with a motley crew like us, in a dive like this? It made no sense.

  Jodie laughed. ‘Why don’t you take a picture? It will last longer.’

  I snapped out of my trance. Oh, God, had I been staring? I had totally been staring. I blanched, quickly motioning for Nate to shift aside so I could move into the seat next to him and hopefully disappear.

  Don’t look at him, Sammi, just focus on Maria.

  Maria, who still stood at the end of the table holding court. ‘Now that you are all here, let’s raise a toast.’ She beamed, lifting her wine glass into the air; it took only a second for a glass of red wine to be passed to me, thanks to Johnny. He gave me a wink, as if to say ‘I have your back’.

  ‘Here’s to new friends!’ Maria toasted.

  Holding up our glasses, we toasted with a multitude of clinks.

  ‘To new friends!’ And I don’t know why, but my eyes moved exactly to the direction I promised they wouldn’t: straight to Marcello. Again his dark brown eyes caught mine and held me in place, but this time Marcello broke the trance simply by smiling and lifting his drink at the same time as I did, a mischievous curve to his brow. I laughed, actually laughed, then tilted my head in acknowledgement and lifted my glass in his direction.

  To new friends.

  Chapter Six

  Local red wine, empty stomach, jet lag and eight flights of stairs all made for a deadly combination.

  I was confident that the wine hadn’t gone straight to my head, but to my legs. I had excused myself from the meet-and-greet, muttering about going to find il bagno, while in reality I had every intention of sneaking up to my room, or dorm rather, and crashing into my questionably clean sheets and passing out. There certainly was an upside to drinking away your worries; with my fuzzy vision and the lights off, I could be sleeping at the Ritz for all I knew. According to Maria, who had outlined every minute detail of our Roman itinerary, the first day was a free day, meaning we could settle into our little rats’ nest, get acquainted with one another, recover from our travels/ hangovers and prepare ourselves for the following day of adventure. Cheers to that! Although now I was seriously regretting all those cheers.

  Cheers to new friends!

  Cheers to new adventures!

  Cheers to Rome!

  Cheers to a free day!

  Holding on to the banister, I slid around rather ungraciously and plonked myself onto the bottom step of the staircase. I wasn’t going anywhere just yet.

  ‘That’s okay, Sammi, we’ll just rest up here for a tick until the room stops spinning and then we’ll be up those steps in a blaze of glory,’ I said, hoping that the lies I was telling myself would give me enough encouragement to make it so. But despite the broken terracotta tile poking me in the butt, I felt strangely comfortable resting my temple against the cool iron of the banister.

  ‘Just a little bit longer,’ I muttered, my eyes feeling slightly heavy as I blinked slowly. Zoning out into a glorious haze until I heard footsteps.

  ‘Oh, shit, Maria.’ I sat up straight, but then it occurred to me that they didn’t sound like Maria’s steps—they weren’t short and sharp and clicky like hers were. These were slower, heavier and more determined. I peered through the gap in the banister, squinting through one eye in an attempt to focus, but there was no need to—I would have recognised him anywhere.

  Marcello walked like a jungle cat, stalking through reception, sliding on his coat, adjusting his collar and glancing back as if ensuring no one was seeing him go.

  He was sneaking off too. Ha!

  It was then that I recognised the white paper strip with black scrawl was stuck onto the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Don’t forget your name badge,’ I called out, before cursing myself and clamping my hand over my big bloody mouth.

  Marcello came to a halt so abruptly that his shoes screeched on the floor, his head snapping in my direction as he squinted into the darkness, confused.

  I tried in vain to slide further into the shadows, but it was no use. I saw it the moment his brows lifted in recognition; he had spotted me. He slowly turned and started making his way over.

  Oh, shit-shit-shit.

  He came to stand before me, lifting his elbow to rest casually on the banister as he looked down with amused interest.

  I didn’t know what to say now he was here, and I was in no fit state to hold a conversation. I should have let him go on his merry little way right out the front door. Then my foggy brain slowly made a connection between Marcello and his planned exit.

  ‘You’re not staying here?’ I asked, mainly to myself, but he had a wry smile lining his face.

  ‘At Luce del Sole?’ he said, looking around facetiously, like it was some glorious kingdom.

  ‘Si,’ I said.

  He breathed out a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the banister. ‘No,’ he said.

  I nodded. Smart man.

  My next question was where he was staying, but I stopped myself quickly. I didn’t need or want to know. All I needed to worry about was where I was staying and how the hell I was going to get there.

  I willed myself to stand, pulling myself up in the most inelegant fashion. I probably wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for the firm grip of a warm hand on my upper arm.

  ‘I’m good,’ I lied, pulling away from his grasp and clutching to the banister with white-knuckled intensity. If I could anchor myself long enough for the room to stop spinning I could at least pretend I was okay; well, until Marcello walked off into the night. But, of course, he didn’t; he simply stood there on the lower step and slid his hands into his pockets, his dark, serious eyes ever watchful.

  ‘You don’t look so good,’ he said.

  I instinctively ran my hand over the top of my head. Oh, God, did I look like a cockatoo again?

  ‘This bloody Italian summer air will be the death of me.’ Oh, yes, curse my life. Standing before a gorgeous Italian man in Rome with a belly full of wine: how torturous.

  Sure, this isn’t the Taj Mahal, but get a grip, Sammi—you’re in Rome! Rome!

  I smiled, allowing myself to sway and get a little giddy with the sudden realisation. Maybe it was the wine kicking in, but all of a sudden I felt very free. I swung on the banister, a little too far, it seemed, as I lost my footing and crashed into Marcello so hard that I swear I knocked all the air out of his lungs.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ I stammered, trying to grab onto the railing again out of fear of falling once Marcello let me go. But he continued to hold on to my shoulders, glowering down on me with what I would have liked to think was concern, but looked more like anger. Sheesh, such a grumpy bum.

  ‘I’m. Fine,’ I said, trying to break free from his grasp, but this time he was more insistent.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just tired—jet lag.’

  ‘And wine,’ he corrected.

  ‘A little.’ I measured an inch with my fingers.

  Marcello rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thinner by the s
econd. ‘Where is your room?’

  ‘I’m not telling you that!’

  ‘Well, I hope your travel insurance covers a broken neck,’ he snapped.

  My mouth gaped. ‘Well, of course it …’ I stilled, a memory of John Buzzo giving me pause. He was wiping a jam stain from his tie and weighing up whether or not to put his doughnut aside to do it; multi-tasking was not his forte. I felt even less confident about what exactly I had signed up to.

  I bit my lip, my hateful mood back in full swing. ‘Well, maybe just a little help.’

  Marcello stifled his smile, measuring an inch with his fingers. ‘Maybe just a little.’

  Chapter Seven

  If only my parents knew. I was drunk in a dodgy hotel being escorted to my bedroom by a complete stranger. Maybe I had binge-watched far too many true-crime documentaries but by the sixth floor I decided to try to bring some safety into my plan.

  ‘Here I am!’ I lied, moving away from his protective hover to stand by a door. ‘Thanks for helping.’ I beamed, waiting for Marcello to descend the stairs.

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ I said, grabbing the door handle and waiting, but he was unmoving.

  ‘You best get inside, lock the door behind you. I’ll wait until you’re in and safe.’ There was some kind of glimmer in his eyes, something that said he saw right through me, and he was loving every minute of catching me out in my lie. I stared him down.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I am quite safe.’ And with that the door whipped open, and I was suddenly face-to-hairy-chest with a furious-looking man, a towel wrapped under his big belly.

  I wasn’t sure what he was shouting, but it surely wasn’t friendly as the force of his rage had me stepping back until I hit a wall—the living, breathing wall of Marcello. I heard him chuckle against my back. Was he seriously laughing?

  ‘A friend of yours?’ he murmured into my ear. I spun around, cutting him down with a hard look.

  ‘Some help you are,’ I snapped, before quickly sidestepping away from the still-shouting man. The adrenaline from the incident sobered me, and with a new determination of getting distance between myself, the sixth floor and Marcello, I bolted up the last two flights, breathless, but almost home-free. The end was in sight and I could see my door—right before I tripped, stubbing my toe and faceplanting hard. A flash of pain struck me with such intensity that I swear the Pope heard my scream from the Vatican.

  While earlier I had been preoccupied with the filth of the place, I sure as hell didn’t care about it now as I rolled around on the grimy floor, clutching my toe and crying.

  ‘I hate it here,’ I sobbed, feeling utterly defeated. The stubbed toe was the final straw in what had been an horrific journey thus far. The gravity of my misery was magnified the moment Marcello trotted up the last of the steps, his easygoing nature and humour falling away when he looked down at me in agony.

  ‘You clearly cannot be left alone.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ I groaned. The last thing I needed was his smartarse comments, no matter how cool everything sounded in his creamy, rich accent. Or the fact that when he smiled it transformed his entire face. But lucky for him he wasn’t smiling now; he simply sighed, moving to sit on the top step near me.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, motioning for me to show him my toe.

  ‘I think I broke it clean off—can you see a pinky lying around somewhere?’ I gritted.

  ‘I hope I didn’t step on it on the way up,’ he joked, looking down the stairs, then around him.

  ‘It hurts so bad,’ I said between sobs. I didn’t have the energy to resist as Marcello gently lifted my foot onto his lap, watching my face for signs of additional pain. I breathed out, trying to control myself as Marcello brought his attention to my foot.

  ‘Please don’t touch it.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m just looking,’ he said, softly touching the ankle and turning it to the side.

  ‘How on earth am I going to stump my way around the cobblestone streets of Rome with a bung toe?’

  ‘Well, tomorrow is a free day, so you can rest up,’ Marcello said, while I tried to ignore the fact that him massaging my inner sole felt so incredibly good.

  I thought about being stuck in the hotel, lying on a bunk bed with the mould and bed bugs, and I swear the pain faded instantly. ‘I can think of nothing worse than being bedridden in here.’

  The throbbing wasn’t so bad right now, but I wasn’t ready to tell Marcello that; maybe just a little more foot caressing.

  He twisted his face, deep in thought. ‘More wine?’

  ‘Ugh, no more wine,’ I pleaded. The combination of the fall and the flee from the psycho on the sixth floor had me fatigued, and the lazy circles Marcello’s clever fingers drew on my foot were working wonders. Despite the misadventures of the day, sitting next to Marcello, my eyes bloodshot from tears and too much wine, I felt oddly safe. His skin was touching my skin, warm with the friction of his caress, and as I looked up and caught his eyes they sparkled with an old familiarity, which was absurd considering he was a complete stranger to me. But when we looked at each other in a silence stretching beyond any normal measure, there wasn’t anything strange or awkward about it. From the very first time we made eye contact at reception, there was no urgency—we were just two people existing in the moment; whatever that moment was, I couldn’t say. My eyes broke from his and I glanced up the hall, mentally calculating the steps, or hops, I would need to get to my door. I breathed out a laugh, rubbing my eyes and wishing so badly this day would come to an end.

  Marcello squeezed my foot gently with a little smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. ‘What?’ he asked.

  My shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I’m going to need your help.’

  And boy, didn’t he love me saying that.

  At least twenty-three hops would do it, but I needn’t have worried. After helping me to stand, Marcello swiftly lifted me over his shoulder as if I weighed no more than a feather. I squealed at the unexpectedness of it, but the sound quickly died as all the air was pushed out of my lungs, his long strides moving down the hall. Soon Marcello had managed to open the door and dump me on the springy mattress, eliciting a belly laugh from me that seemed to be catching. I heard his laugh for the first time, not his low chuckle from the sixth floor, but a real hearty laugh, the warmth of it hitting my cheeks as his hands grasped my shoulders while he looked down at me, gaining his balance. I couldn’t see his face in the dark room, only the fuzzy silhouette of his thick, curly hair from the hall light that glowed behind him, but I could totally imagine what his eyes might have looked like, and I wasn’t laughing anymore. The smile slowly slid from my face and I was holding onto his forearms like some kind of anchor. I felt dizzy in a way that I knew had nothing to do with the wine, and breathless from something other than pain. My cheeks were burning, and I didn’t realise I had voiced the feeling until Marcello reached out and cupped my cheek.

  ‘You’re a little warm, but it is summertime.’

  ‘True,’ I said, feeling my bones melt into the mattress. I couldn’t quite believe I could feel so at ease with a man lingering over me, his arms caging me in, no less, but I didn’t feel threatened; in fact, I didn’t want him to go, which meant he absolutely must.

  ‘Goodnight!’ I squeaked abruptly, and perhaps a little too loudly. It was not a subtle hint, and Marcello didn’t have to be told twice. He edged away and I peeled back the blankets and hopped underneath, lifting the sheet up to my chin as a protective barrier.

  ‘Have a good night,’ I said, cringing as the words tumbled out of my mouth.

  Have a good night? Seriously, Sammi?

  Marcello laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’ He leant down, pressing his hand to my forehead.

  ‘Absolutely, I’ll be pounding the pavement by morning,’ I said.

  Ugh, seriously, Sammi, stop talking!

  Marcello stepped away. ‘Very good,’ he said. I may not have been able to see his face, but I could
tell from his voice he was smiling. ‘Buona notte, Samantha.’

  He was saying goodnight, and nothing sounded sweeter, but there was one small thing I had to say before he left.

  ‘Marcello?’

  He paused at the door and turned to me, half his face illuminated by the light from the hall.

  I smiled, even though I knew he couldn’t see it, but maybe he too would hear it in my voice when I told him, ‘Call me Sammi.’

  And with the twist of his mouth I was so glad I could see, and a quick nod of understanding, he slowly stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  The depths of the night were sliced with light and laughter, stumbling, cursing and the springs of my bed groaning as a figure fell onto the mattress at the foot of my bed.

  ‘Oops,’ the voice said, followed by a telltale hiccup.

  I groaned, turning away from the sounds and the assault of fluorescent, flickering globes, pulling the sheet with me in an effort to shield myself from them. My roommates were talking to me but I didn’t care. I just had to not think, not move until my head stopped pounding and my gut stopped churning. I wanted no part of this reality: drunk, screeching girls and jostling jocks who said ‘Dude’ a lot. I hoped Maria would appear to chastise them like a boarding school marm, but this wasn’t school. No, this was the epitome of freedom, and although I had thought it was what I wanted, at 3 a.m. I wanted no part of it. I cocooned my ears with my arms and focused desperately on drifting back to sleep, and it almost worked, until another form of light streamed across my face. Warm and intense, it stirred me from my dream of wandering the cobbled streets of Rome in a flowing skirt, large sunhat and glasses, eating gelato without a care in the world. It had seemed so real. The warmth of the sun on my face as I lifted it to the sky, the hot, thick air that smelt like … cheese?

  Cheese?

  My eyes slowly peeled open, blinking, confused, until I spied my less-than-thrilling reality in the form of a big hairy toe. My eyes widened, refocusing on the toe that was attached to a huge foot suffering from a severe case of sock tan, leading up to a kneecap, a thigh and a … oh, Jesus!