by Kyle, Regina
Zoe watched the bubbles on her phone as she waited for Fliss to text back. Fine, be that way. Joy sucker. U better bring me back something from Gucci. Or Fendi. I’m not picky.
Deal. She returned her phone to her pocket and stole one last glance toward the pool. Empty. Not a perfectly formed gluteus maximus in sight. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Relieved, she told herself. 100 percent relieved.
She went back inside, closing the sliding glass door behind her, and scanned her room for the elusive dictionary. She spotted one corner sticking out from under the bed and crouched down to grab it. Then she shoved it into her backpack, slung the bag over her shoulder, and headed back downstairs to the garage, mentally crossing her fingers that she wouldn’t run into Dante on the way.
She got as far as the foyer before her luck ran out.
“Back so soon?” he asked, taking the towel from around his neck and wiping his face, running it over his aristocratic cheekbones and strong jaw. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t get used to driving on the other side of the road?”
She huffed out a breath. “We drive on the right, too, you know. I came back because I forgot my wallet. Can’t get food without euros.”
She patted her backpack, as if to make sure the money was still there. No way was she admitting she couldn’t manage a simple shopping trip without a dictionary.
One corner of his lip curled, making it clear he didn’t believe one word of her spur-of-the-moment explanation. “You’d better hurry. The market closes at noon for riposa.”
“Riposa?”
“Like a siesta. Businesses shut down for a few hours so people can enjoy a long lunch or a nap when the day is at its hottest.”
Right. She definitely wasn’t in the States anymore. She couldn’t imagine her complete dick of an ex-boss letting her goof off in the middle of the day. Unless he wanted her out of his way so he could rifle through her desk or hack into her computer and snoop through her files.
She shook off thoughts of Smarmy Marty and his dirty tricks and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “Everything shuts down?”
“Pretty much.”
She bit her lip as she studied him, his arms folded across his broad chest, bare feet planted firmly apart on the smooth tiles. Every inch of him, every pore, seemed to radiate a kind of restless energy, like a racehorse at the starting gate. “Somehow I can’t picture you loitering over lunch or napping during daylight hours.”
“Can’t you? I’m Italian. I like a good meal as much as the next guy. And naps are underrated, especially with a partner.”
His lip curved higher, and her stupid heart stuttered.
Okay. Time to go. Past time. She hiked up her bag, which had slipped down her arm. “I’m out of here. Don’t want to miss the market.”
“Watch out for Giuseppe,” he called after her as she turned for the door. “He makes the best limoncello in Campania, but he likes to gouge foreigners. Don’t pay more than ten euros for a two-liter bottle.”
Now that he mentioned it, picking up some adult beverages sounded like a damn good idea. “Got it. No more than ten euros for Giuseppe’s limoncello.”
Zoe swung the door open and made the colossal mistake of glancing back over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold. Dante’s storm-cloud eyes appraised her, trailing down her back, over her ass, to her legs. Goose bumps prickled on the smooth skin exposed by her denim cutoffs. She whipped her head around and closed the door quickly behind her, the barrier between them doing nothing to settle the mutant moths flapping around in her stomach.
Giuseppe wasn’t the only one she had to watch out for.
…
Dante paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening for signs of life above.
Nothing but silence.
He checked his watch—the Rolex Yacht-Master Nicole had given him for his thirtieth birthday a few months before she died—and made a quick mental calculation. It had been over an hour since Zoe announced she was turning in for the night. She was most likely asleep. Or maybe reading the romance novel he’d caught her with by the pool. The one with the headless, half-naked man on the cover she’d tried to hide under her towel.
Time for phase one of Operation Felix.
He slipped off his loafers, allowing him to move noiselessly across the tile floor, and made his way to the sunken living room. He picked up a remote control from the coffee table and pointed it at the state-of-the-art entertainment system on the far wall. The opening notes of Puccini’s La Bohème filled the room, and he relaxed into an overstuffed chair, stretching out his long legs and closing his eyes as he let the music cascade over him.
Luca hated opera. It was a painful reminder of their mother. But for Dante, it was the only connection he had to the woman who had left them in Nonna’s care when they were seven, only to die two years later in a car accident.
Puccini had been her best-loved composer and La Bohème her favorite of his works. She’d wanted to be an opera singer before an unplanned pregnancy left her with not one but two babies. Still, parenthood hadn’t dulled her admiration for the art form. One of Dante’s most treasured memories was of the late nights when he’d creep from his bed, lured by the sounds of Tosca or La Traviata or, when his mother was feeling adventurous, something in German or French, like Bizet’s Carmen, and curl up in her lap as she rocked him, singing, her soprano as vibrant and clear as any of the professionals on the recordings.
He pointed the remote at the stereo again and hit the arrow to increase the volume. Once, twice, three times until the music was so loud he could feel the vibrations through the floor. Then he took a cigar from a wooden box on the side table—Cuban, of course—cut it, and lit it. Lifting it to his lips, he took a puff and savored the flavor, sweet and fruity, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, while he waited for the inevitable.
It didn’t take long.
“Do you know what time it is?” Zoe shouted over the music, hands on her hips as she glared at him from the step leading into the recessed room. “Turn that racket down.”
“It’s Puccini.”
“I don’t care if it’s Elvis Presley risen from the grave. It’s after midnight, and decent people are trying to sleep.”
“Are you saying I’m not decent?” He glanced down at his outfit—crisp white T-shirt and dark jeans—then raised his eyes to hers. “I’m fully clothed.”
“This time,” she snapped. The hands at her hips balled into fists. “Are you going to turn the music down or not?”
He took a long draw on his cigar, blowing the smoke out in a long, thin stream. “I hear the rooms at Hotel Montemare are soundproof.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
As if to prove her point, she flounced into the living room and planted herself on the armchair opposite him.
“Have it your way.” He surreptitiously lowered the volume a hair. The mother of all headaches was building behind his temples. He wasn’t used to listening to opera at full blast.
“So, Puccini, huh?” She tucked her legs underneath her and settled deeper into the cushions, making her look like a lost little girl. “Who’s he?”
“You’re kidding, right?” What was she doing? She was supposed to be running for the hills, not hanging around questioning him about his taste in music.
She adjusted the overlong T-shirt that apparently doubled as pajamas so it covered her knees. “I’m more of a hard rock kind of gal than an opera fan.”
“At least you recognize an opera when you hear one.”
“Is Puccini the guy singing?” she asked, absently twirling a long, blond ringlet around one finger.
“No.” Did she have to do that? It was damn distracting. Made him want to bury his hands in her thick curls to see if they were as soft and springy as they seemed. Instead, he satisfied himself with p
uffing on his cigar. “He’s the composer. The singer is Jose Carreras.”
“What language is he singing in? Italian?”
“Naturally.” Dante rested his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the table beside him and crossed an ankle over his knee. “All of the greatest operas are in Italian.”
They listened in silence for a few minutes before Zoe spoke again. “He sounds sad.”
“He’s in love. With Mimi, a beautiful seamstress who shows up on his doorstep asking him to light her candle. Then she faints and drops her key.”
Zoe snickered. “You mean like how I showed up on your doorstep and tossed my cookies in your downstairs bathroom?”
“Tossed your cookies?”
“An American expression. It means—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “I think I can work out what it means.”
“Please tell me he doesn’t open the door buck naked.”
Dante fought off a smile. She had guts. And grit. He couldn’t help thinking how much his grandmother would like her.
“Hardly,” he drawled. “This is opera, not a cheap porno.”
“So this Mimi takes one look at—what’s this dude’s name?”
“Rudolfo.”
“She takes one look at Rudolfo and passes out.” Zoe rolled her expressive champagne eyes. “Very romantic.”
“It is.” Opera didn’t get more romantic than Rudolfo and Mimi’s sweeping arias in the first act of La Bohème. The instant crackle of attraction the moment they see each other. Rudolfo taking Mimi’s cold hand in his and declaring that his heart has been stolen by a beautiful pair of eyes.
It had been that way with Nicole the first time Dante had seen her. He’d been dealing with a particularly difficult customer—some foreign diplomat who thought his perfectly cooked fettuccini alfredo was too al dente—when she walked into his restaurant in Rome, laughing and shaking out her long, auburn curls, wet from a sudden summer storm. He’d known right then and there that she was the one. People said there was no such thing as love at first sight, but first-hand experience told him otherwise.
Of course, people also said everyone had only one, true soul mate. Their anima gemella. And that he believed, with all his heart. He’d found—and lost—his.
He swallowed to get past the lump in his throat. “Their candles go out, and they search for her key in the dark. Their hands touch, and Rodolfo sings, telling her how beautiful she is. When he finds the key, he pockets it so he can spend more time with her.”
“Isn’t that sort of stalker-y? Very Christian Grey of him.”
“You’re not a big believer in love, are you?”
“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt and burned it.” She unfolded her legs from underneath her and slung them over the arm of the chair. “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”
How in the hell had they gotten into this deep discussion? And how was he going to get out of it? “That’s a bit personal from someone who’s known me all of forty-eight hours.”
“You started it, Mr. Romantic-Italian-Opera.” She studied him, swinging one foot distractedly, the pale purple polish on her toenails catching the light from the recessed ceiling lamps.
“What can I say?” He snuffed out his cigar. No use wasting a perfectly good Cuban. “I’m a man of many contradictions.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” She stood and crossed to the bar cart.
“What are you doing?”
“Pouring myself a drink.” She examined the bottles one by one, finally selecting what looked like sambuca. “I’m up, so I might as well make the most of it.”
“By all means.” Sarcasm dripped from his words like gelato on a summer afternoon. “Make yourself at home.”
The last strains of “Che gelida manina”—“What a cold little hand”—faded away. Mimi’s aria was next, but Dante picked up the remote and pressed the off button. The music had served his purpose, and his heart wasn’t in it anymore. The music or the purpose.
For tonight, Operation Felix was a bust.
“I will. For the next twenty-eight days.” Zoe finished pouring her drink and looked up at him. “Want anything?”
He should say no. It was late. It would be easy to excuse himself and hide out in safety in his room.
“Scotch. Neat.”
“Good, because the ice bucket is empty and I don’t feel like hauling my sorry, dragged-out-of-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night ass into the kitchen.”
She searched through the bottles until she found the Glenlivet 18 and sloshed some into a tumbler. Then she picked up both glasses and crossed to him, handing him his.
“Cheers.” She lifted her glass.
He raised his, slowly, and clinked it with hers. “Saluti.”
She sat back down, tucking her legs underneath her again and sipping her sambuca. “Is this opera thing going to be a nightly ritual? I’m not going to be blasted out of bed by Puccini on a regular basis, am I?”
“If you have a problem with Puccini, I can mix it up a bit. Maybe throw in some Verdi. A little Mozart. Even Wagner, if that’s your thing.”
“I told you, hard rock’s more my speed. Pearl Jam. Metallica. Radiohead.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and sipped again. “Not that I didn’t enjoy learning all about Mimi and Rudolfo. You sure know your opera.”
“It’s a passion of mine.” One he hadn’t had anyone to share with since Nicole’s death. Luca was out. Ditto Miguel and Xander, who thought opera was all fat ladies in Viking helmets. Nonna paid for a box at the Real Teatro di San Carlo in Naples—he had his own at the Teatri dell’opera di Roma—and she even went with him on occasion, but that was more so she could entertain business associates or fix him up with one of her perpetual string of wannabe Mrs. Dante Sabbatinis than because she was an opera devotee.
Maybe that was why he jumped at the chance to talk La Bohème with his house guest. To fill yet another void Nicole had left when she died.
He felt a sudden, sharp stab of disloyalty to his fiancée. He tossed back what remained of his scotch and stood. “This has been entertaining, but it’s time for me to say good night.”
“So soon?” Zoe peered at him over the rim of her glass. “I thought we could listen to some Queen. I’ve got ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on my iPhone. It’s almost six minutes long. That should give me plenty of time to tell you all about the life and times of Freddie Mercury.”
Six minutes? Hell no. “Another time.”
“Did you know his real name was Farrokh Bulsara and he was born in Zanzibar, now part of Tanzania? But he spent most of his childhood in India.”
“Fascinating.” He feigned an exaggerated yawn.
“Fine, be that way.” She waved him away. “There’s always tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.”
He turned to leave, not bothering to respond. Phase one of Operation Felix might have been a dismal failure. But Zoe was right—tomorrow was another day. And Operation Felix was just getting started.
Chapter Four
Zoe wasn’t a morning person under the best circumstances, and her present circumstances were far from the best.
She buried her head in her pillow to muffle the shrill, incessant beeping of her cell phone and stuck one arm out, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. After a few seconds of frustrated fumbling, her fingers folded around it, and she swiped the screen with her thumb.
Silence. Blessed silence.
She rolled over and cracked one eye open. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, sending pale streaks of light through the sheer curtains across the sliding glass doors.
5:03.
What on earth had possessed her to set her alarm this early? It had been after one when Dante called their impromptu opera tutoring session to a halt. Then there had been another hour of tossing and turning before she’d managed
to fall asleep. Meaning she’d gotten a whopping total of three hours of sleep. Nowhere near enough for her to function as a normal human being.
Zoe groaned into her pillow. She hated to admit it, but listening to Dante pontificate about Puccini had been more fun than she’d expected. It had started innocently enough. She had wanted to mess with his head, show him it was going to take more than a little loud music to scare her off.
But she’d quickly gone from jerking his chain to enjoying his company, which made her uneasy. She didn’t want to like the guy. What did it say about her that she was falling for someone who wanted nothing to do with her? Was it some kind of reverse Stockholm syndrome?
Nope, non, nein, and no in every other language on the face of the Earth. She wasn’t falling—would not fall—for Dante Sabbatini. She hadn’t come to Italy for love. Or lust. Or whatever it was she was feeling. She’d been burned twice—by her boss and her boyfriend. And unlike the old saying, the third time would definitely not be the charm.
With a tired sigh, Zoe forced her other eye open and rolled over, spying her yoga mat rolled up in the corner.
Riiiight. It was all coming back to her now. Sunrise yoga. Brilliant idea.
It had been tough squeezing the mat into her suitcase, but the thought of going a month without her go-to stress reliever had been too much to take. Normally, she liked her exercise after sunrise, preferably with at least one cup of coffee in her stomach. But turnabout was fair play. If Dante could persecute her with Puccini in the dead of night, she could do her morning meditation a little earlier than usual—right under his balcony.
She threw on some workout clothes—a hot pink sports bra and a pair of neon green lululemon leggings she’d splurged on before getting unceremoniously shitcanned from her job—grabbed her phone, and stuck the yoga mat under her arm. Then she headed downstairs, padding on bare feet through the foyer, out the sliding glass doors, and onto the terrace, pushing aside memories of Dante beautifully buck naked and dripping onto the very stones where she was standing.
