Roman Crazy (22 page)

“You feel soft. And warm. And . . . oh, Avery,” he murmured as I shifted in my chair, allowing him further access. Hidden under the tablecloth, he teased. And if it wasn't for the waiter bringing over glasses of Campari at that exact moment, I would've let him do more than tease.

“Did you ever think this would happen?”

“My hands in your panties in public? Well, almost in your panties.” He grinned. So dangerous.

I leaned in, took his face in my hands, and kissed him, wet and hard, biting his lower lip, holding on to it for a second longer than I probably should. When I was done, I sat back in my chair. I could be dangerous, too. “I meant, this, us, here, together, earlier, all of it. Did you ever think it would happen?”

He fell silent, thinking. When he finally spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “No, I did not. I never thought I would see you again.” When he saw my face fall, he reached out and tenderly, so tenderly, brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “I didn't say I didn't think about you. I have, many times through the years. I wondered, where is she? Is she happy? Is she in love? Is she painting?” The faintest hint of hope flashed through his face. “Does she have children?”

I was struck with a sudden vision, walking hand in hand down the same streets we'd walked tonight. His other arm cradled a sleeping toddler, a toddler with my curly hair and Marcello's warm
brown eyes. I walked beside his father, holding his hand, while the other rested on my belly, round and full. The force of this vision made me shiver, so fully formed and complete it was a wonder that my mind had never shared it with me before, keeping hidden the possibility of what my life might be like if this man, this right man for me, wandered back into it.

I hadn't let myself consider children again, not in years. What did it mean that I could envision it again, even for just a moment?

But before things could get too serious, that wolfish grin was back.

“I wondered if there was a man in your bed who could make you laugh right before he made you sigh.”

“No,” I answered honestly, laughing. Then sighing. To his great satisfaction. We finished our drink, asked for our meal to go, paid the man, and hurried home.

I
REMEMBER READING AN ARTICLE
in a cooking magazine once about the art of the Italian meal. Everyone had their special recipes tucked away, of course, usually handed down generation to generation, but that in summertime the heat would keep many out of their kitchens. Taking advantage of the wonderful markets around every corner, people would leave the cooking to the experts when the stifling summer temperatures hovered above eighty-six degrees, and today had been no exception.

So I did what all good Romans did. I opted to let someone else cook. I cruised the market on the way home, scooping up container after container of prepared salads, roasted vegetables, a few different kinds of beautiful cheese, and a box full of decadent pastries. Schlepping everything home on the bus had been an adventure, but I'd managed it without spilling one morsel. Proud of myself for navigating the city, with packages no less, I allowed myself a little extra strut as I made my way into the courtyard of Daisy's apartment building, greeting neighbors like I'd been doing it for years.

Marcello was coming. Also, he'd be having dinner . . .

THERE WAS A KNOCK
at the door a few minutes past seven, just as I was slipping into a fresh linen dress, sleeveless and airy. I tucked a few flyaway hairs back up into my messy bun and padded to the door. Taking a final look at everything I'd set out, I smiled and opened the door.

“
Tesoro,
I—” he started to say, but then stopped as the door widened further and he could peek inside. “
Tesoro,
” he said again, his slow smile matching my own.

I'd lit candles, candles, and more candles. I'd practically cleaned out a stall or two at the market. Tealights, tapers, tall and fat and short and stubby—I'd set candles on every flat surface in the entire apartment and the effect was exactly as intended. I'd created a little wonderland, and who didn't look extra sexy in a wonderland lit by candlelight?

“Come in,” I whispered, my pulse beginning to beat faster just for seeing him, my skin pebbling in anticipation of his touch.

“Beautiful,” he told me, looking all around at the flickering light but only speaking when his gaze came to rest back on me. And what's this?

“You brought me flowers,” I said as he handed me a nosegay of ruby-colored sweet peas and baby pink primrose, gathered with a bit of lace to hold them together. “You're spoiling me.”

“You are meant to be spoiled,” he replied, stepping into the apartment and closing the door. Reaching out, he gathered me into his arms, crushing me against his chest. “I missed you today.” He bent his head, nuzzling my neck and inhaling deeply.

“You did?” Sighing, I wrapped my arms around him, twisting my hands into his hair, feeling the silky strands between my fingers.

I could feel him nodding against my skin. He dropped kisses along the column of my throat and up to my jawline, moving back along toward my ear. “I missed this face.”

“This face?” I said, although to be fair it was more like a squeak. Now I could feel him smiling against my skin.

“This face,” he echoed, dropping kisses on both of my cheeks. He continued kissing whatever he'd missed. “This mouth” kiss, “this neck” kiss, “this shoulder” kiss. His hands that were tight on my hips now moved down, slipping across my bottom and giving it a squeeze. “This beautiful
sedere
.”

“Good God, did I miss listening to you speak Italian,” I murmured in his ear, nipping at the skin just below. “You could make me come apart just with your voice.”

Words, filthy words, words like
scopare
and
limonare
and
dolce figa
spoke to me in a voice that I'd dreamed of for years yet knew I'd likely never hear again outside of my own perfect memories. He kissed me stupid, pushing us, guiding us both back into the apartment and onto the couch, where my dress was promptly pulled up and my new lingerie was revealed.

“Woman, what are you wearing?”

I raised up on my elbows and looked at him innocently. “Oh, this?” I lifted my bottom and pulled the dress up and over my head, tossing it across the room so he could get the full effect.

Champagne-colored bra and panty set. Lacey. Ruffled. A little bit see-through in some places. A lot bit see-through in other places. Tasteful with a touch of cheeky. Exactly how Marcello liked me.

He licked his lips, eyes hungry. Just before he leaned down, he caught sight of the dining room table, set with plates and glasses, and the bottle of wine I had chilling in an ice bucket. He looked at me, then back at the table, then back at me again.

“
Tesoro,
you cooked, shouldn't we—”

“I didn't cook. I bought. I assembled. It can wait. Believe me, it can all wait.”

“Ah yes, but . . .” At war, he continued to look back and forth until I uncrossed my legs and showed him the part that was exceptionally see-through.

“Marcello?”

His eyes never even flickered up to my face. I don't think he even tried, as a courtesy. “
Si?
”

“Wouldn't you love dessert first for a change?”

Turns out he did. And he had it three times before dinner . . .

“THE ARTICHOKES,
they are very good.”

“Right? I sampled a bit here and there, and these were too good to pass up.” I passed a plate. “Try the green beans, they're fantastic.”

“Mmm.”

I loved hearing him make that sound. He'd made it only moments before, when he'd laid his head across my naked breasts, wrapping his arms around me tightly and sighing contentedly as I stroked his hair. All while he was still inside me.
Mmm
indeed.

After our impromptu “dessert” on the couch, we'd moved into the dining room for dinner. Wearing the button-down shirt he'd worn to work that day, I'd moved around the kitchen quickly, placing bowls and plates on the table filled with all the tidbits I'd picked up at the market. Marcello, blessedly naked from the waist up, opened a bottle of Gavi, filling our glasses and pausing only to drop a kiss on my collarbone as I passed by with a plate of vegetables. Or on my wrist as I set a wedge of pecorino down in front of him.

Or the space high on the back of my thigh just before it became my bottom when I bent over to retrieve a spoon I'd dropped.

Famished, we tucked into our assembled meal, sated . . . for now. That was the thing about Marcello and me, it was never enough. We could have sex for hours and hours, seemingly endless orgasms that stretched on an entire night and well into the morning. But when we woke? Hands were groping and hips were thrusting and it all began again. I was a different woman around this man. I
felt
more like a woman around this man, powerful and sexual and raw and wild. And as he licked a bit of lemon zest from his lower lip, crunching down on a green bean, I saw his eyes begin to darken once more. I knew this meal would be over quickly . . .

I ate with gusto, knowing I'd need the energy tonight.

IT'S AMAZING, WHEN YOU'RE IMMERSED
in a new place, how quickly you begin to pick up the little things that make you a part of the scenery, rather than just observing it. When I arrived in Rome, I still craved a more American breakfast (eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc.), but now I ate my bit of pastry and drank my strong, nearly naked espresso standing up at the little bar in the window of a tiny shop with all the other Romans on their way to work.

To my relief, hearing and seeing the Italian language on a daily basis was beginning to pay off, and I found myself reading,
more or less, the thousands of fliers that were posted all over town for various concerts, parties, exhibits, and countless other summertime activities.

And it was one of these fliers that I found myself reading while waiting for the bus one afternoon after work. Advertising a concert series for the International Ensemble Chamber Music Festival at the Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza, a famous baroque church in the historic center, it appeared to be a popular evening activity for anyone who liked their music with a stunning courtyard backdrop.

I wanted to go. And I wanted to take Marcello.

“To a chamber music concert?”

I'd called him one night after work, thinking ahead to the weekend. Although originally I was hired to work only a few days a week, the frescoes were proving more difficult to restore than initially thought and I was putting in some serious overtime this week to bring the project in on time. Something that I was anxious to do, considering this was my first gig. By Friday night, the idea of relaxing under the stars and listening to some beautiful music while sitting next to a beautiful Italian man sounded like heaven.

I curled my knees under me as I sank onto the couch, exhausted after a long day but glad I could just pick up the phone and call Marcello like it wasn't a huge deal. “Sure, we used to go to concerts all the time in Barcelona. I thought it'd be fun. Looks like this Friday night it's a salute to Gershwin.”

“And you are craving something extra American for some reason?” he teased, and it made me smile.

“You're not seriously picking on Gershwin, are you? And while I'm loving Roman life big time, I wouldn't say no to a Nathan's hot dog if someone put it in front of me.” It was summertime, and I hadn't been to a summer society soiree at the club or the annual lobster bake and barbecue. Not complaining, but it was a different kind of summer for so many reasons. “Just say you'll go.”

“Then we will go,” he said, laughing. “Friday night?”

“It's a date.”

THAT FRIDAY I SPENT THE
day with my frescoes. I was coming to know them so intimately.

Although from an artistic standpoint, they'd be categorized as “average,” from my standpoint they were priceless. They spread across the interior as the basic wall covering. Depicting scenes from daily life in the eighteenth century, the murals were agrarian in nature: water wheels, olive trees, shepherds and their sheep.

And the colors! Rich golds, bright greens, blues the color of the Aegean—below the kitchen grease and candle smoke, the colors I was recovering were as vibrant as the day they were painted.

And here and there I'd find a flourish, not quite a signature, but a certain swirl that I was beginning to recognize as the scenes flowed one into the next. Had it been an artist, there may have been an actual signature, but back then this kind of work, beautiful and technically sound as it may be, would have been the work of a tradesman. Someone who wouldn't have been afforded the luxury of an actual commission, but certainly an artist in his own right, whoever he'd been. Hence, the flourish. I'd found it on day one while restoring a particularly festive scene of a butcher and his wares.