by Kyle, Regina
“Strawberry?”
“Nicole was highly allergic. She went into anaphylactic shock almost immediately. I administered her EpiPen, but it wasn’t enough. By the time the paramedics got there, she was already gone.”
He looked at Zoe for the first time since they’d sat down on the steps. The deep, acute anguish in his eyes just about broke her.
“That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”
“Did I? I was supposed to protect her.”
His gaze drifted down to their hands, still joined. He started to pull back, but Zoe held fast, determined not to let him get away that easily.
“No, you were supposed to love her. And it sounds to me like you did a pretty good job of that.”
“Not good enough.”
Another vendor started to come up to them, but Zoe gave him an icy glare that made him change direction. When she turned back to Dante, his head was down and his eyes closed, shutting himself off in some private place, with only his grief and guilt to keep him company.
Zoe squeezed his hand, subtly letting him know he didn’t have to battle his demons alone. “Sometimes terrible things happen for no reason. No one is to blame.”
Dante shook his head. “I should have been more careful. Gone to the kitchen and talked directly to the chef.”
“No matter how careful we are, there are always things we can’t control,” she said gently. “You have to stop punishing yourself.”
His shoulders drooped lower. “I wish I knew how.”
“Talking about it is a good first step.” She scooted closer to him and dared to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for trusting me.”
He let out a quick, hollow laugh. “I didn’t have much choice.”
“Yes, you did. You could have stayed silent and let me walk away.”
“No. I couldn’t.”
He lifted his head. The pain in his eyes was still there, but now there was something more. A longing she hadn’t seen there before. It was real and raw, and it sent another sharp zing to her chest, but this time it was more awareness than sorrow.
The world around them seemed to stop. The moment felt important, pivotal. Like it marked a turning point in their relationship, moving it from something fast and fleeting to something deeper and intensely personal.
But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She was leaving. He was staying. How could their romance be anything more than a holiday fling?
She released his hand and wiped her palms on her dress, suddenly awkward and nervous. “It’s been a long night. I’d understand if you wanted to skip the opera.”
He checked his watch. “If we hurry, we can make the opening curtain.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. How else can I prove to you that Puccini’s soaring melodies are more ear-pleasing than Freddie Mercury’s caterwauling?” The hint of a smile that had started to play around the corners of his lips faded, and his teasing tone grew more serious. He put an arm around her, pulling her closer. “Please, carina. I don’t want this night to end. Not yet. Let me share this with you. I need to share this with you.”
That hopping, skipping, and jumping thing? Her heart was doing it, triple time. He’d shared so much of himself already. She had no right to want more, but she did.
“Freddie Mercury didn’t caterwaul,” she said, trying to follow his initial lead and add some lightness to what had been an emotionally exhausting evening. “But I’d be happy to—”
“Senta. Senta, scusi.” A police officer in a neon yellow vest ran up to them, blowing his whistle. “Stand up.”
Zoe blinked up at him. “I’m sorry, officer. Did we do something wrong?”
“Loitering on the steps is illegal.” He shook a finger at them, then took a pad and pen from his vest. “It will cost you two hundred and fifty euros. Each.”
Dante stood, holding out a hand to Zoe and pulling her up with him. “We were just leaving.”
“Too late. I’ve seen you. The crime has already been committed.” The officer flipped his pad open and started scribbling.
Dante glanced down at the Gucci slingbacks he’d bought just that morning for more money than Zoe wanted to remember, then whispered in her ear. “Can you run in those heels?”
She risked a glimpse at the officer, who was head down, still scrawling away. “I don’t know.”
“Are you willing to try?” Dante asked, his smile full-blown and the unhappiness in his eyes replaced by a mischievous glint.
She met his gaze, glad for the diversion. Like Dante, she didn’t want this night to end, either. Even if it meant trying to outrun the police in four-inch heels. “I’m game if you are.”
“On the count of three.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “One, two—”
“Three,” Zoe yelled.
And they took off down the stairs, giggling like the teenagers they pushed past as they made their way through the crowd, the officer’s muffled curses fading behind them in the warm September night.
Chapter Thirteen
Dante was right.
They had just enough time to make it to their box seats as the lights were going down. Of course, it didn’t hurt that they were running from the law. Even in her brand-new, not-yet-broken-in, too-high heels, Zoe figured they cut a good five minutes off the trek from Piazza di Spagna to the opera house.
Her phone buzzed. Again. It had been buzzing all night, but she’d dutifully ignored it. She knew who it was and what he wanted. She just wasn’t ready to answer him yet.
She fished her phone out of her purse to silence it, glancing at the latest text before shutting it off.
Yep. Just as she suspected. Her former boss’s boss. He’d been leaving voicemails and texts ever since the poker game yesterday. Apparently, Smarmy Marty wasn’t only a two-faced design stealer. He’d also been padding his expenses. He’d been found out and fired, and the firm was offering her his job—at almost twice her old salary.
Sure, she was happy that good won out and the bad guy got what he deserved. But she didn’t want to think about what was waiting for her back in San Francisco. She wanted to live in the moment, in the fairy tale, for as long as it lasted. And the fairy tale was in Rome, with Dante, the man who had just bared his soul to her.
“That’s Mimi,” he whispered, pointing to a stunning brunette in a simple, pale blue gown. “See how her candle is out? She’s asking Rudolfo to light it for her.”
“Right,” Zoe said, remembering Dante’s late-night opera tutorial at Bella Vista. She slipped her aching feet out of her shoes and tucked them underneath her. One advantage of being secluded in a box. “And then she’s going to faint and he’s going go all Christian Grey on her and steal her key.”
Dante chuckled. “Close enough.”
“What’s he saying now?” Zoe asked a few minutes later when Rudolfo took Mimi’s hand and began to sing.
“‘Che gelida manina.’” Dante copied Rudolfo, taking Zoe’s hand and turning it over to trace her life line. “It means, ‘What a cold little hand.’ He’s telling her he’s a poet and asking her more about her life. He wants to know everything about her. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her fears.”
Zoe’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if Dante was still talking about Mimi and Rudolfo or if he was talking about them.
“Listen, carina.” Dante’s low whisper tickled her cheek and ruffled the hair behind her ear. “Now they’re singing together, confessing their love for one another. He says she’s a dream come to life, a dream he prays always to dream. She calls him her beloved and tells him he alone commands her heart.”
Game, set, match to Dante. Zoe had no idea opera could be so beautiful. So moving. So—okay, he was right—romantic. By the end of the fourth act, when Rudolfo rushed to Mimi’s bedside only to find her dead from consumption or s
ome other old-timey disease that made you cough a lot, Zoe was sobbing right along with him.
“Here.” Dante handed her his handkerchief. So that was why men carried them.
“Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes, trying not to ruin her makeup even though that ship had probably sailed. If she had a mirror on her, she’d no doubt see her not-so-waterproof mascara running down her face. It had been an emotionally draining night all around.
“What did you think?” he asked, squeezing her hand, which he was still holding. “Better than your Freddie Mercury?”
“I stand by my opinion that Freddie is a musical genius, and ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is a masterpiece.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “But this was pretty great, too. Thank you for taking me. Even after—everything.”
He stood, pulling her up with him. “I have one more surprise for you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate surprises.”
“I know.” His hand went to the small of her back, steering her through the crowd toward the exit. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”
“The grumpy, reclusive millionaire who answers the door in his birthday suit knows what fun is?”
“Of course I know what fun is.” He guided her down the front steps of the opera house and off to one side, out of the flow of traffic, so he could stop and plant a soft, heart-tugging kiss on her forehead. “And I did not answer my door naked. You interrupted my morning swim.”
“Right,” she drawled. “You remember it your way, I’ll remember it mine.”
A Mercedes S-Class sedan was waiting for them, but Dante waved off the driver.
“It’s a nice night,” he said. “I thought we could walk some more.”
“As long as it’s not too far. I’m not sure I’ll last much longer in these heels. They’re beautiful, but you know what they say. Beauty is pain. Especially on cobblestones.”
“Don’t worry, carina.” He brushed her hair to one side and kissed her again, this time on her temple. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”
Okay, then. There went her ovaries. His pretty words. That damn accent. They never stood a chance.
She was half tempted to fake an injury just to hold him to his word, but she managed to stay upright for the entire fifteen minutes it took for them to reach their destination.
“Trevi Fountain,” she said. The immense structure loomed in front of them at the end of the Aqua Virgo, one of Rome’s earliest aqueducts. “I read about it in my guidebook.” But the book hadn’t done it justice. Normally crowded with tourists during the day, there were only a handful of people strolling the piazza in the moonlight. The marble statues glowed under the streetlamps, and the basin of the fountain reflected the night sky, setting the stage for the perfect romantic moment.
And she’d thought the opera had her all lovey-dovey and starry-eyed.
“Yes.” Dante reached into his pocket. “But did you read about the three coins?”
“Three coins?”
“Legend has it that if you turn your back to the fountain and toss in a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder, you will return to Rome.”
He pressed a euro into her palm.
“Throw a second coin”—he added another euro—“and you’ll fall in love with an Italian.”
A third euro landed in her hand with a clink. “The last coin guarantees that you and your new love will marry.”
She peered up at him through her lashes, fairly certain her heart had stopped beating and she was going to need CPR any minute. Was he saying—? Was he asking—?
“How many should I throw?” Her tongue felt thick and heavy, and her voice sounded far away and not at all like normal.
He lifted her hand, gently folding her fingers around the coins. A faint smile lifted the corners of his perfect mouth. “That’s up to you, carina.”
Zoe turned her back to the fountain and closed her eyes. Her heart, which she was sure had stopped a moment ago, was now beating like a hummingbird’s, fast and furious, threatening to break free from her rib cage.
She had so many questions. What was he trying to say? Was this his way of telling her he didn’t want things to end between them when she went back home? Or was she reading way too much into a silly superstition?
Eyes still closed, she felt Dante’s hot breath on her cheek. “Are you ready?”
No. She was definitely not ready. She was the furthest possible thing from ready. But she could start by throwing the first coin. The return to Rome one. That one was safe, right? And it would buy her a few extra seconds to figure out what to do with coins two and three. Unless she was supposed to throw all three in at once…
She shook her head, dismissing that idea. She was doing this her way. Taking a deep breath, she shifted two euros to her left hand and raised her right arm to throw the remaining one.
“Dio mio. Dante, is that you?”
Dante swore softly. At least Zoe was pretty sure what he said was a swear. A month in Italy had improved her language skills, but there was still a lot she missed. And Italians had a lot of creative curse words.
She let her arm fall and opened her eyes. A reedy, middle-aged woman in an emerald-green designer suit and matching broad-brimmed hat was striding across the piazza toward them, a handsome, equally, if more subtly well-dressed man trailing a few steps behind her.
“It is you,” the woman said as they got closer. Zoe could have sworn she saw tears in her eyes. “Aldo. Look who’s here. It’s Dante.”
Dante made sort of a strangled groan, and Zoe looked at him for the first time since opening her eyes. In the short time they were closed, he’d gone from happy-go-lucky to as pale as Moby Dick. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Who were these people to him?
“Ah, vita mia.” The woman threw her arms around Dante. He stiffened, then reluctantly returned the gesture, awkwardly patting her back.
When she finally released him, her companion stuck out his hand. “It’s good to see you, mio figlio.”
Dante bristled at the last word, whatever it was, but managed to compose himself enough to shake the man’s hand. “Aldo. Flavia, what a surprise to see you in Rome.”
Zoe shifted from one foot to the other. And it wasn’t because her shoes hurt. It was the strange, uncomfortable current swirling around them since Aldo and Flavia’s arrival. Zoe wondered again who they were and how Dante knew them. Watching them interact was cringe-inducing. Like watching a car crash. Excruciating and tragic, but impossible to look away.
“We’re here for the Roma-Lazio football game.” Aldo addressed Dante, still clinging tightly to his wife’s hand. “I’m equally surprised to see you here. Carmella told us you were on the coast.”
“Yes.” Dante nodded. “But I had business to attend to in the city. I arrived a few days ago.”
“And who is your friend?” Flavia, who seemed to have composed herself enough to remember her manners, asked. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Dante turned to Zoe with a confused, painfully twisted half smile, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. “This is Zoe. She’s renting the villa in Positano.”
“Isn’t that where you’ve been staying?” Aldo asked.
“The villa is more than big enough for two.” Dante’s voice was flat. Clipped. And his face had gone even more pale, if that was possible. “We barely saw each other.”
Zoe reeled back. His words were like a slap in the face. A dose of ice-cold reality. The trio talked a few minutes more, but Zoe didn’t hear a word that was said. Instead, she stood there awkwardly, feeling like a third—or fourth—wheel, and quietly slipped the coins into her purse. No point throwing them now.
The fairy tale was over.
…
Dante had almost forgotten how life could change in the blink of an eye. A freak accident. A sudden loss. A chance encou
nter with the parents of his dead fiancée.
Barely an hour ago, somewhere in the middle of Mimi and Rudolfo’s final duet, as he watched Zoe cry along with the doomed lovers, he’d half convinced himself that his friends and his brother were right. That Nicole’s death wasn’t his fault and that she would want him to find love again. That loving someone was worth the risk of losing them. That maybe, with Zoe’s help, he could be brave enough to take that plunge.
Those thoughts vanished the second he heard Flavia’s voice. All the guilt and self-doubt and fear he’d felt since Nicole’s death came flooding back, paralyzing him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We should head back to the apartment. I’m sure Houdini is tired of being in his crate and in need of a walk.”
Zoe drew herself up to her full height—about five-eight in those killer heels, he estimated—and glared at him, hands balled into fists on her hips. It reminded him of the first time he saw her, standing in his foyer, unwilling to back down even when faced with him at his most intimidating. And his most naked.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
“It was nothing,” he lied, avoiding her eyes.
“Whatever that was”—she waved a hand in the direction Flavia and Aldo had gone—“it was not nothing.”
“It’s not your concern,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Not my concern?” She practically spat his words back at him as she hunted for something in her purse. “I’ll tell you what’s my concern. You all but ignored me.”
She threw a coin at him. So that’s what she was searching for. It bounced off his chest and pinged against the cobblestones.
“I’m pretty sure you forgot I was even here.”
A second coin whizzed by his ear.
