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

by C.J Duggan

  ‘After you.’

  By the top of the however-many steps, I was breathless; I wish I could have given credit to the view but the cause was my fitness, or lack thereof. Hours spent eating supermarket-bought pizza and watching Buffy had in no way prepared me for this very real adventure. One that had me standing by a very handsome Italian man overlooking the magnificent panorama of St Peter’s Basilica and Vatican City.

  Still catching my breath, I pointed down the street beyond the old boat fountain. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Ah, Via dei Condotti, one of the most luxurious shopping streets in all of Rome; lots of high-end fashion labels. But you probably don’t want to go down there.’ Marcello shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning against the terrace. ‘I mean, you’re probably tired.’

  I suddenly straightened, a newfound invigoration setting in. ‘What kind of shops?’

  ‘Oh, Dior, Gucci, Louis Vuitton.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ I set off, ready to descend the steps.

  ‘I just thought—’

  I stopped, turning. ‘Marcello, I’m a girl, and we have needs, even if we can’t afford them,’ I said, annoyed that we were wasting time.

  Marcello, surprised by my second wind, followed behind as I dodged and weaved through the tourists and vendors. My formerly quiet tour guide proved to be incredibly helpful in turning away unwanted sellers of roses or selfie sticks, answering with a firm ‘No’ on my behalf. But when I had reached the piazza, the promise of retail bliss powering my steps, Marcello had lagged behind, and my soft, touristy heart was snared by a man from Tunisia and his trinkets. By the time Marcello reached me it was too late; a cheap little bracelet was already half woven in yarn, in the colours of Italy.

  ‘Sammi,’ Marcello said in a chastising tone.

  ‘Oh, relax; besides, this is more in my budget than Dior.’

  ‘Do you still want to look?’

  ‘Absolutely, it never hurts to look,’ I said, glancing quickly at his matching dimples.

  The man braided the bracelet with expert speed. ‘Once it breaks, you will have fortune in luck, love and work.’

  ‘Really?’ I beamed, examining the thread more intently.

  ‘How convenient,’ Marcello scoffed. My eyes flashed up to his, annoyed he had tainted my hope that something, even something as silly as a piece of thread, could bring me good fortune in areas that had not had the greatest of beginnings.

  Marcello must have heeded my warning as he rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, giving the man two euros for his efforts. The man seemed just as surprised as I was.

  ‘Grazie,’ he beamed, nodding his head several times.

  I turned toward Marcello, peering at him. ‘Thanks. My shout for gelato, then.’

  Marcello’s sternness melted away as we moved in step towards Via dei Condotti.

  Chapter Eleven

  I felt completely out of place among the wealthy fashionable locals with their blazer jackets, designer glasses and cravats; I didn’t dare step my Converse sneaker inside any fashion label. I, on the other hand, in my tan shorts and army-green singlet top, was a bumbag away from ‘tourist chic’. Luckily, there were plenty of other questionable fashions darting about to make me feel more at home. Standing next to Marcello was enough to make anyone feel self-conscious, however; he could easily be used as a muse to be carved out of marble and sat in the middle of a piazza to be admired by the masses. I was admiring him way too much—I’d be caught in the act if I didn’t cut it out. I averted my gaze to the impossibly priced handbag on display, which worked in distracting me until I glimpsed Marcello’s reflection in the glass.

  And moving on …

  Looking around, this city was a lesson in contrasts: the stark yellow exterior of Louis Vuitton nestled opposite a corner flower vendor, the high-pitched buzz of passing Vespas echoing off centuries-old arched doorways, quaint narrow streets flowing with conversations in a dozen different languages. And I was free to lose myself in it all, knowing Marcello would lead me back to my hotel. There was no way I could have navigated my way around without wrestling with a map and anxiously trying to ask other clueless tourists where I was. Marcello had proven his worth.

  Last night’s wine and lack of sleep, combined with the remnants of jet lag, were beginning to take their toll, and I felt the sudden need to replenish myself with some serious carbs.

  ‘Marcello, is there some place we can eat?’

  ‘Si.’ He laughed, pointing to a gelato stand.

  ‘No, not gelato, I mean something with substance.’

  ‘You have not tried this gelato.’

  ‘Noooo.’ I whined like a petulant child. ‘I mean I need to put on twenty kilos and feel the burn of a really good wine down my throat.’

  ‘I promise you will have your fill, but first we walk.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  My steps were heavy and I was on the verge of chucking an almighty tantrum. Going hungry in Rome was not something I thought I would have to worry about. The busy area just south of the Spanish Steps had been full of culinary choices, not to mention the mazes of side streets where people sat feasting on simple, fresh food, discussing their plans for the evening. I was envious of them all as I dragged my feet along. But my hunger soon abated when I noticed the thickening of the crowd. I glanced at Marcello, giddy with excitement; he simply raised his brows as he jostled forward. At first I heard the gushing water, growing more constant and intense until reaching the square, then I was met with a truly breathtaking sight. The famous Trevi Fountain, a jewel of water and stone, nestled in the historic centre of the city. And it finally hit me: this was Rome, and I was here—like, really, really here. Nothing could ruin this moment, not even the hordes of jostling tourists vying for optimum selfie positions or desperately shuffling to get nearer to the star attraction. Marcello, so close that I could feel the vibration of his voice on my earlobe, spoke of the significance of the intense and spectacular scene before us. I had known it already, but I was happy enough for Marcello to explain it to me now.

  ‘It is the largest Baroque fountain in the city, and one of the most beautiful in the world. Behind is the Palazzo Poli, a palace that held many lavish parties in the 1830s.’

  ‘Quite the party venue. What about those?’ I pointed at the imposing fountain sculptures.

  ‘The Tritons are guiding Oceanus’ shell chariot, and attempting to tame the winged hippocamps.’

  ‘Hippocamps?’

  Marcello smiled. ‘Seahorses.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right, hippocamps—horses with wings, got it.’

  ‘It is said that if you throw a coin over your shoulder into the water, you will be sure to return to Rome.’

  I sighed, not for the whimsical, romantic notion, but for the reality in front of me; getting close enough to the fountain to toss a coin would be nigh on impossible.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think we are going to get anywhere near there.’

  Marcello seemed disappointed. Yep, I was officially a shit tourist.

  ‘It’s just that …’

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, canting his head to the side and urging me to follow.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that the tour has us coming back here—I’ll throw a coin in then,’ I said, struggling to weave and keep up.

  ‘If you’re sure. Okay, then, come on. So many gods, so little time,’ he said with a wink, leading me in yet another direction, littered with more men selling roses and trinkets. This time I was a hardened tourist, turning down each and every one myself.

  Marcello flashed a smile at me as if impressed, then continued on.

  It was becoming clearer and clearer to me that Rome was like no other place, with its ancient cobblestone streets worn down by centuries of celebration and sorrow. Fountains filled with cool water sat against the backdrops of the white and pink buildings, some glowing in the summer sun, others shaded, affording us refuge from the heat of the day. Souvenir shops with postcards and T-shirts were as common as
flower vendors and magazine stands; a car alarm sounding in a distant street seemed to fit in with the chaos that surrounded us for street after street. We wandered into a side alley, where for a fleeting moment it felt like we were the only ones around, until the sound of a motorbike flying up behind us broke the peace. As we moved over to the side and then walked out into another piazza, my stomach reminded me lunch was well overdue.

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to torture me?’

  ‘Just a little further,’ he said, leading me into yet another narrow street filled with ravenous tourists in little cafes, taunting me with their delicious bowls of pasta and seafood.

  We entered a stretch of stalls featuring jewellers and handmade objects and paintings, artists drawing caricatures of giggling travellers, and row upon row of fake designer handbags. A culmination of hunger and intrigue caught me as I sipped on my lukewarm water bottle and blindly followed Marcello, only to stop so suddenly I banged straight into the back of him. Hot, sweaty and hungry, I scowled at the spilt water on my shoe. When I finally looked up, my annoyance was forgotten as my eyes widened in awe at the sight in front of me.

  ‘Pantheon.’ Marcello’s dimples were in full force now as he turned around to look at me. ‘This is one of my favourite places in Rome,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘It’s so incredibly well preserved, one of the best in all of ancient Rome, largely due to its continuous use throughout history. Since the seventh century it has been used as a church, dedicated to St Mary and the Martyrs.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed out.

  Marcello seemed like a small boy, gushing with pride. ‘Wait until you see inside.’

  Behind a steady queue of people, we made our way through the imposing columns and in through the large bronzed doors, our eyes trailing up to the dome-shaped ceiling with mouths agape—well, mine was, anyway. Even in the great vastness of this room, Marcello stayed close to me. It seemed the best way to speak; even in the fray he wanted to tell me things about this city, his city, as if it was meant only for me to know.

  ‘See above us: there is a perfectly circular opening,’ he said softly. Marcello pointed upwards, just in case I might have missed what he was talking about, though it was the first thing I had seen when we walked in. ‘Rainwater comes down through the opening onto the marble floors.’ My eyes trailed down with interest as we walked around the perimeter. ‘And around the edges, you can see an actual drainage system that helps get rid of the water.’ I shook my head, realising that I hadn’t said one word since stepping inside. Being inside the Pantheon seemed to rob me of speech; I felt so small, insignificant,

  We made our way to stand before Raphael’s tomb, reading the tiny plaque about the great Renaissance artist, and silently paid our respects before leaving through the giant metal doors. I felt completely reenergised, ready to keep exploring this magnificent city, but Marcello had other ideas, stopping right before the Fontana del Pantheon. I stared at the fountain, wondering the particular significance.

  Marcello chuckled, seemingly delighted in my confusion as he spun me around and pointed.

  ‘Lunch!’

  Chapter Twelve

  It all made sense now. Lunch was easy enough to find, but it all depended on what view you wanted. Seated outside the Hostaria Pantheon with its white-and-red checked tablecloths, freshly poured white wine with a front-row seat to the Pantheon, my guide had chosen well. Marcello raised his glass to me.

  ‘Salute.’

  I brought mine up to clink against his and we drank in unison. I placed my glass back on the table, melting back into my chair and taking it all in. While there was always a consistent hum around us, a new silence fell between us, and then it occurred to me how strange this all was. I had jokingly alluded to a hot date in front of the others, and now this felt strangely like one.

  I shook the thought from my mind.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sammi, let’s just refuel the tank and …

  ‘Oh, wow.’

  Marcello topped my glass, his brows raised in question.

  ‘Spaghetti alle vongole veraci, the risotto alla crema di scampi, the fettuccine mari e monti,’ I read aloud in what was no doubt the worst Italian accent ever, but the choices were just too much. I had died and gone to food heaven.

  Marcello read his own selection of the menu.

  ‘Rigatoni alla carbonara, abbacchio alla scottadito, coratella con ai carciofi.’

  I had absolutely no idea what any of it meant, but I really wanted him to say it again; the way he rolled his tongue around the words was more soothing than the sound of water over marble in la Fontana di Trevi. I shifted in my seat and took a deep swig of my wine.

  I cleared my throat and placed my napkin in my lap.

  ‘So are you coming out with us tomorrow? Day one of official Bellissimo tour shenanigans.’

  Marcello reclined in his chair, sliding his sunglasses off his face and into the thick fold of his dark hair.

  ‘No,’ he said simply, and I felt a surge of disappointment inside me. Then I wondered what exactly Marcello had to do with the tour group. Apart from attending the meet-and-greet, and his apparent interest to help show the group around in our downtime, he seemed to have no official role within Bellissimo Tours. Was he Maria’s wingman, her business partner, her lover? I didn’t sense a romantic vibe between them.

  I straightened in my chair, looking at Marcello with a long, assessing stare. He didn’t flinch.

  ‘How exactly are you affiliated with the tour?’

  Marcello shrugged. ‘I’m not.’

  My brows rose, pausing for my next hard-hitting question.

  Wait a minute.

  Troubling thoughts ran through my mind: if he wasn’t affiliated, what the hell was I doing with him? Walking the streets, seeing the sights, wining and dining with him. He could be a con man, racking up a huge bill for having taken me around the city for the day; he could be spiking my drink and placing me in the boot of a car after lunch, never to be seen again.

  ‘Are you affiliated with the hotel?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

  Marcello leant his elbows casually on the tabletop, looking directly at me in that way he had. ‘No.’

  I wanted to press further but our waiter was at our table now, smiling and charming. I pointed at a random item on the menu and fixed my eyes back on Marcello, who ordered with far more thought.

  ‘More wine?’ the waiter posed.

  My eyes darted to the near-on empty bottle. Christ, I had to slow down; legless in Rome for a second night was not going to happen.

  I smiled and covered my glass and the waiter looked at me as if I was a lunatic, like he had never seen such an action before. From an outsider’s perspective, Marcello and I must have looked a sight: the paranoid and slightly clammy girl interrogating an Italian runway model. No wonder he looked bemused.

  ‘Sooo, what is it that you do exactly, Marcello?’

  Scam vulnerable tourists.

  Marcello topped up his own glass. ‘Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. What is it that brings you to Rome?’

  ‘Oh no-no-no, I asked first. I have spent far more time with you than anyone else in my entire group, and I already know way too much about them and absolutely nothing about you.’

  ‘Well, I know nothing about you either.’ He smiled, satisfied, like we had reached a stalemate, but unlike him I had nothing to hide.

  ‘Okay, well, I am a twenty-two-year-old Gemini who took a gap year three years ago from a Bachelor of Arts course at uni, thinking I would use that one year to work and “find myself”, before inevitably re-enrolling, though this time to major in history with the plan to become a high-school teacher because, let’s face it, apart from that very splendid path my parents had picked out for me, I really didn’t have a bloody clue what I wanted to do with my life or where I was going, and still don’t, so in order to pretend like I am living some kind of life I booked a rather haphazard trip with a dodgy-ass travel agent and now I am st
uck with a group of people that I really don’t like, and all that keeps me from booking an early ticket back home is my pride and the fettucine carbonara that I may have just ordered.’

  I sat there for a long, drawn-out moment as Marcello simply looked at me, a little alarmed, perhaps wondering if I planned to drug him and put him in the boot of a car. I rested my hands on the table. Wow, I had never said any of those things out loud, and saying them only made me feel more shit. If I couldn’t make something of this holiday then what was going to become of me? I would be back home, broke, living at Mum and Dad’s house and even more clueless than before.

  If blurting out my rather uninspiring story was meant to encourage Marcello to open up, it was a failure. Instead, he silently topped up my glass and this time I didn’t object, quickly taking a deep swig in the hope it would cool my pink cheeks, which were currently burning with mortification.

  ‘I’ve been working on something new.’ Marcello’s words stopped me from taking another sip. I slowly placed the glass down, afraid that if I moved he might stop.

  ‘I work with Maria on occasion, but I don’t think it’s going to work, not this time. The group is too … young.’

  I nodded my head. ‘I’m pretty sure they’re drunk most of the time, too.’

  Marcello laughed, a welcome reprieve from the gloomy turn our afternoon had taken, though I cursed myself for interrupting his story.

  Marcello shrugged. ‘You win some, you lose some. Tell me, Sammi, what are you doing on this tour? It seems so …’

  ‘Not my scene?’ I laughed.

  Marcello smiled, turning the base of the wine glass from side to side, his eyes moving from the glass to me.

  ‘You seem different,’ he said, seriously.

  I smiled. ‘Well, Marcello,’ I said, lifting my glass up for another sip, ‘I will take that as an absolute compliment.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  When you’re headed into the unknown it always takes forever; with the promise of an exciting adventure you can never quite get there fast enough. Heading back is always a much quicker journey. I didn’t want to get back to the hotel just yet; sure, my pinky toe throbbed, and I had a matching blister forming on my other foot, but I didn’t want the day to end. I stalled as much as I could and, as far as distractions go, a stopover to Giolotti—Rome’s most famous gelateria—was a pretty damn good one. As promised at the Spanish Steps, I paid for our iced treats, though Marcello had insisted he pay for lunch; it definitely felt like some bizarre date. In retrospect, I hadn’t exactly lied to the others about my plans for the day. The fact that it also included Marcello’s raspberry and chocolate gelato, and my pistachio one, well, that was just an added bonus.