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

by C.J Duggan

  I catapulted out of bed. I would have hit the floor harder but the sheet I was twisted in acted like a B-grade bungee cord, slowing my momentum towards the cold, tiled floor. Waking up to a naked man in my bed was not something that happened to me, well, ever.

  ‘Nate! Get out of my bed,’ I shouted, struggling to stand and save some dignity while fighting with the off-white sheet. Realising I was as fully clothed as I had been in the courtyard, and that I really didn’t want to find out why the sheet was now off-white, I refrained from tugging it further. Which was lucky, as it was still connected to Nate and was the only thing providing him with a modicum of modesty. Nate stretched, screeching and moaning, rubbing his hands over his eyes and up through his buzz cut. He rolled onto his side like a lazy tomcat languishing in the sun, then peered up at me with a slow-forming smile. ‘Your bed?’ he asked.

  ‘Well …’ I paused, glancing around the room that looked like a clothing bomb had exploded. Aside from the chaos and early-hour drunken antics, everyone had somehow managed to stumble into their own beds; well, Jodie had fallen into Johnny’s, her head snugly tucked on top of his shoulder, in a twisted mess of sheets and a whole lot of skin. I wondered if I had managed to sleep through an orgy. I quickly averted my eyes from the sated couple, casting over the mess to Bookworm Gary, who sat on the windowsill, sewing a hole in his sock with intense concentration, to the sleeping body of Harper passed out on the bed in the corner. I focused back on Nate, who now seemed wide awake and looked up at me with interest.

  ‘Um, so my bed is …?’

  Nate pointed upwards, to the bunk overhead.

  My shoulders slumped, not because I was wrong, but because the top bunk was the bain of my childhood. Being the youngest meant I always drew the short straw, and now, even on my independent, finally-becoming-an-adult holiday, here I was on the top bloody bunk again.

  As Nate flung himself back on his squeaky mattress, folding his hands behind his head, my despair didn’t go unnoticed. ‘What? Don’t you want to be on top?’ he said, wiggling his brows.

  I rolled my eyes, and without a word unravelled my toga-like attire and flung the sheets back over him, trying to step over the wayward shoes and boxer shorts, fighting my way towards the door.

  Pfft, top bunk.

  I held my head high, ignoring the laughter behind me, making my way to the door, where Kylie appeared, toiletries in hand, hair twisted up in a towel; her eyes seemed alight with the same taunting amusement as Nate when she spotted me, stepping to the side to let me through.

  Ugh, juveniles.

  ‘There she is! Have a good night, then?’ she asked, her smile impossibly white against her tan skin.

  Yes, ha-bloody-ha, I ended up in Nate’s bed; oh, how they must have laughed about that last night. Well, it wouldn’t be happening again, and I wanted to say as much, seeing her knowing eyes tick toward Nate, who shared the same smug look.

  ‘Not really,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘You sure about that?’ she mused.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because you look like the cat that got the cream,’ yawned Jodie, making everyone laugh.

  I turned towards her—she was sitting upright in Johnny’s Led Zeppelin T-shirt, combing her hands through her bed-hair and looking at me like she knew a secret.

  Whatever.

  I’d never been in any kind of clique; why begin now?

  ‘If anyone’s purring, it’s you,’ I said, curving my own brow in challenge and swinging away from Jodie’s death stare. I sauntered my way past Kylie and through the door. And though I could still hear their sniggers, I did feel kind of badass, having the final word then walking out. If you were going to survive in the pack you couldn’t show weakness, you had to hold your ground. And I had done that, yes, sir. I strode with a new kind of confidence into the communal bathroom down the hall, shutting the door and locking it behind me. I was soaring with self-importance, but all that came crashing down the moment I turned around and spied myself in the murky reflection of the mirror.

  ‘Oh, good God, no.’

  There, stuck partially to my forehead was a big white label with black scrawl.

  Marcello.

  I groaned, peeling it off and thinking back to last night. Marcello carrying me up the stairs, Marcello pressing his hand against my face to check my temperature.

  ‘Ha-fucking-ha!’

  Not so badass anymore.

  Chapter Nine

  They say Rome wasn’t built in a day—well, clearly it couldn’t be seen in one either. Part of me wanted to plunge myself into the essence of Rome, but another part really wanted to escape all these people surrounding me. I figured I would have more than enough time to bond with them, and it wasn’t just because they had taunted me about my ‘Italian lover’ over breakfast, who they were convinced I had slipped away with for a secret rendezvous last night. I couldn’t blame them. I mean, I had been bloody stamped with pretty damning evidence. Oh, how wrong they were.

  I didn’t immediately contemplate a lone adventure. I thought it would probably help my reputation to hang out with them a bit, but overhearing Nate and Kylie’s conversation was the clincher.

  ‘Yeah, Colosseum, baby!’ Nate pointed to the coloured brochure from our welcome pack.

  ‘Oh my God, isn’t that where Russell Crowe was killed?’ gasped Kylie, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Nate nodded.

  I closed my eyes, praying for strength, while Johnny chuckled next to me. ‘Here endeth the history lesson,’ he said lowly, leaning into me.

  I breathed out a laugh—because if you couldn’t laugh what could you do?—only to meet the steely gaze of Jodie, the narrowness of her eyebrows warning ‘I will cut you’. I straightened, clearing my throat and reaching for my bag. Hopefully I could slip away without any fuss, but Nate noticed my retreat.

  ‘Meeting up with your lover?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Please, ain’t nobody got time for that.’

  ‘It’s rather funny really,’ said Jodie, leisurely examining her nails.

  I hooked the strap of my bag over my head and looked at her pointedly.

  ‘You just don’t seem like the kind that would snare someone like Marcello.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose. ‘Oh?’ I pressed, even though I knew better than to engage in such games.

  ‘Like, no offence, but Marcello could have anyone.’

  Something primal twisted inside my gut; it was a not-so-subtle way of saying he was out of my league. It was all I could do not to take the bait. Instead, I casually cleaned my sunglasses on my T-shirt. ‘And yet he chooses to have coffee with me,’ I lied, sliding on my shades and offering a sweet smile.

  ‘Aha! I knew it,’ said Nate, pointing at me. ‘Sammi and Marcello sitting in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g.’ He sung like he was in a school playground.

  It was so far from the truth it was ridiculous, but I kind of enjoyed their ulterior version of me: the lone-wolf Aussie that rocks up late to gatherings and woos sexy local men in the dead of night, instead of the girl who couldn’t handle her vino and needed the gallant Marcello to put her to bed.

  ‘Ciao,’ I said with affected confidence, praying that no one would follow, because I wasn’t meeting up with Marcello, and I had no idea where I was going.

  According to Claudio, a jolly, helpful man sitting outside of Hotel Luce del Sole, Rome is a city best savoured like a glass of red wine. I liked that, I liked that very much. And rather than being unnerved by the big unknown, I reminded myself to enjoy it. I had felt positively giddy about venturing out and leaving my group behind and, although it was never really possible to be alone in a city where people flocked for the history, culture and romance, there was something rather spectacular about plunging into the essence of Rome with only myself for company.

  I can do this!

  I just had to keep fed and hydrated, something I quickly learned would never be an issue in Rome. The city was overrun
with places to eat, crammed in the mazes of intercepting side streets tucked between Via del Corso and Piazza Novella.

  Every corner I took there was another charming building and, despite my bruised toe, I navigated the cobblestone streets like a true local, every step taking me further away from my hotel, utterly gripped and completely overwhelmed by the city. My wandering was interrupted by a familiar figure before me: a pair of brown eyes that sparkled in amusement. I wondered how long he had been watching this unworldly Aussie girl walk up the street like Bambi on ice, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  Wearing a blue linen shirt that was pressed to perfection, Marcello certainly didn’t have that living-out-of-a-crate-under-the-bed look about him; he looked as though he had enjoyed a luxurious eight-hour sleep and a long, cool shower that he didn’t have to share with anyone else. Just standing next to him made me feel sweaty and feral. Out of my depth and as clueless as any tourist.

  Looking at Marcello now, for the first time in natural light, I couldn’t help but think Jodie was right: someone like this would never entertain someone like me. I was gangly, with brown curly hair that deserved its own postcode. I was more athletic than graceful, more at ease with basketball than dancing. I tanned nicely, sure, but with my brown hair and brown eyes, I was really just brown. No alluring features, no stand-out, head-turning attributes; I was just me. I was fine with being just me, until I shifted under Marcello’s silent scrutiny.

  ‘How’s the toe?’

  I blinked. ‘Oh, um, fine. Well, clearly, as I’m wearing heels.’ I’d chosen wedges in an attempt to feel feminine and sexy, but had sadly fallen short.

  Marcello raised his brows as he examined my footwear; clearly he had as much confidence in me as I had.

  ‘So, you headed somewhere?’ I asked, quickly diverting the attention from my feet.

  ‘Si, to the Hotel Luce del Sole, to see if they need any assistance.’ Marcello stopped, watching me curiously, as the gravity of my predicament sunk in.

  Not only had I alluded to sharing a smoking-hot night with Marcello, I had out-and-out lied to my tour group about going on a date with the very man in front of me. If he dropped in on them, it would make me look like an idiot, and a bunny-boiling psycho—not exactly the image to ingratiate me with my fellow travellers.

  ‘What is it?’ Marcello asked, no doubt wondering at my impression of a deer in headlights.

  ‘No, no, nothing.’ I laughed it off. ‘I really was just thinking about changing my footwear. Hey, listen,’ I said, moving to guide Marcello in the opposite direction from the hotel, ‘everyone is out. I think they’ve all booked a tour to the Colosseum or something.’

  Marcello seemed confused. ‘Isn’t that a part of your itinerary?’

  ‘I know, right, they’re seriously keen, but, yeah, I just didn’t want you to trek all the way up there and find that no one was about.’ I cringed, hoping my performance had been believable. Marcello’s dark eyes dropped to his arm, where I had a hold of him to guide him away. I quickly let go, innocently tucking a stray hair behind my ear with a sweet smile.

  I kept the smile plastered to my face, even under the deep-set scrutiny of Marcello’s dark stare, the one that said he didn’t believe a word I was saying, even as his own sickly sweet smile spread across his face. To anyone looking on, we must have looked like the village idiots, or a pair of serial killers.

  I laughed, he laughed—it was all so utterly fake.

  Marcello folded his arms, taking a step closer to me. He tapped thoughtfully on his chin as if pondering something.

  ‘Why did you not go with them?’

  ‘Oh, you know, I just needed some downtime. I thought I would just wander the streets and see what I could see.’ I shrugged; I was not going to win an acting award anytime soon. There was something so unnerving about the way Marcello looked at me. He wasn’t looking down at me; my height was somewhat of a curse when it came to dating—being 5’11’ and all legs could really limit the playing field. But Marcello and I were eye to eye, and it felt incredibly intimate, as if we were enclosed in our own private space and not a bustling backstreet in Rome. A tiny part of me wanted to step back, but only a very tiny part.

  Marcello rubbed the light dusting of stubble on his jaw as if tortured by an inner decision.

  ‘Still, I’d better call into Hotel Luce de Sole. I’ll leave a note for anyone who might need help later on tonight,’ he said, stepping away.

  ‘No, wait, stop!’ I shouted, reaching out to him once more, grabbing onto his arm. ‘I need you!’ I said, far too panicked and way too crazy.

  Marcello slowly turned to me, smug, his eyes dropping to my hand. I did let go, but a little more slowly this time, afraid he might turn and leg it down the street, and I really didn’t want to run after him in wedges.

  He curved his dark brow; I swore he was loving every minute of this. ‘You need me, do you?’

  I balled my hands at my side so tightly my knuckles turned white, fighting not to cringe at my own stupidity and my big mouth.

  I smiled sweetly once more, tilting my head. ‘Desperately,’ I said, my voice dripping with so much sarcasm that I hoped he wouldn’t turn and walk away, but my pride had to have some kind of victory.

  Marcello shrugged one shoulder lazily. ‘You are only human—how can I help?’ he asked, turning his full attention back to me.

  It was then I knew I had won … for now.

  ‘I’ll help you—on one very important condition.’

  Oh no.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Marcello took his sunglasses from his top pocket, flicking them open and placing them on with a wry smile. ‘You are going to have to change your shoes.’

  Chapter Ten

  After I quickly donned more comfortable footwear, Marcello, my rather silent and useless guide, walked by my side, dodging and weaving through the hordes of tourists and locals zigzagging across our paths. If I had wanted to wander aimlessly around Rome I could have done so myself; beyond pointing towards a corner to take, or curve to veer down, Marcello said nothing, and I wasn’t entirely sure he knew where we were going. It seemed like we walked for an eternity, strolling past charming tancoloured buildings with intimate balconies brightened with vibrant petunias. As I strained my neck to see the ornate facade of an apartment building framed with shuttered windows and covered with ivy, it occurred to me that it didn’t really matter where we were going; each twist and turn brought new variants of colour and scale in this incredibly ancient yet dynamic place.

  This was exactly how any free day should be spent.

  So enraptured was I that the smell of pizza drifting past me almost had me blindly following, until a firm grip on my arm pulled me in the opposite direction, yanking me reluctantly from my stupor. I was kind of annoyed until we exited the narrow little street to find a promenade where the large crowds milled about in interest.

  ‘Scallina Spagna, also known as—’

  ‘The Spanish Steps.’ I cut Marcello off, much to his surprise. I may not have been able to speak the language but I knew exactly where we were. It was where Audrey Hepburn bumped into Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, though Marcello didn’t need to know my knowledge was thanks to a midday movie binge, especially since he looked a little impressed.

  We made our way up the wide, irregular steps, which were a mix of curves, straight flights, vistas and terraces. Without a word to each other, we found a tiny break in the groups of like-minded travellers to rest for a moment and soak up the atmosphere and city views. Marcello leant towards me, almost yelling to be heard over the chattering of the crowd; it was almost as if his inner travel guide kicked in as he educated me on how the steps connected to the lower Piazza di Spagna and the upper Piazza Trinita dei Monti behind us, with its beautiful twin tower church dominating the skyline.

  ‘Aside from all the tourists, beyond all this craziness, the design of these steps has made it popular for artists, painters and poets. The presence of artists attracted m
any beautiful women to the area, hoping to be taken as models. This then attracted rich Romans and tourists, and over time the steps have attracted all kinds of people from all walks of life; the tradition of the Spanish Steps has lived on ever since.’

  ‘It kind of feels like a massive lounge room.’

  Something sparked in Marcello’s eyes. ‘Piazzas have been serving the community since ancient times, with their broad inviting steps; the fountain is like a neighbourhood sofa.’ He pointed below.

  I shielded my eyes from the sun, squinting towards the fountain at the base of the stairs. Before I could even ask the significance, Marcello continued; long gone was the silent bystander pointing and pulling me in different directions. As we sat on the Spanish Steps in the sun a new person emerged, a smile adorning his face so warm and bright I could see the two pockets of his dimples on either side of his cheeks; they almost made me forget entirely about the fountain.

  ‘It’s called Fontana della Barcaccia, or Fountain of the Old Boat. See how the fountain has the form of a sinking ship? It is said to be based upon a folk legend.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said with interest, trying not to look at his distracting dimples.

  ‘The legend tells that a fishing boat was carried all the way to this exact spot during a massive flood of the Tiber River in the sixteenth century.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, trying not to openly stare at his profile. I seemed unable to take in these truly fascinating history lessons due to my awareness of Marcello’s jean-clad leg pressed up against mine. I wasn’t entirely sure it was the Italian sunshine that had me suddenly feeling all hot and bothered.

  ‘Should we go up?’ I said.

  ‘Si,’ he said, standing up, momentarily blocking the sun and offering to help me stand. I took his hand, which seemed strangely intimate, but I knew he was just being nice.

  ‘Grazie,’ I said in my painfully Aussie accent; my attempt at the local lingo wasn’t lost on Marcello, who laughed and swept his arm in front of him.