Her Italian Millionaire (2 page)

 She forgot her worries about losing her husband and finding Giovanni. She forgot she was on a schedule and just let herself float away on a cloud of fragrance and sensual pleasure. She'd never known how sensitive her head was until this woman took charge, with her magic hands and her potions. Every bone is her body had turned to jello; every remnant of the tension of the last twenty-four hours melted away. Anne Marie closed her eyes while the hands cut and shaped and blew her hair dry and then sprayed it.

“Prego, signora.”
The stylist lifted the smock off, and Anne Marie opened her eyes at last.

She blinked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was no longer dull brown with streaks of gray. It was the color of the hair in the magazine. It brushed against her cheekbones, making them look higher, giving her an exotic look she'd never had before. They'd misunderstood. She'd only wanted it cut. The entire staff of three women appeared behind her, beaming at her reflection with pride. They murmured things like
“bella
,” and “
grazioso
.” What could she say? She forced herself to smile and thank them.

 She paid a ridiculously small amount for such a total transformation and walked out into the afternoon sunlight, feeling its heat on her bare neck. She felt naked; she'd had long hair forever.

 If only Evie could see her now. “You have the perfect excuse for skipping Dan's wedding,” Evie had said. “You're no longer the pathetic ex-wife; you are a woman on a romantic tryst to meet her lover. Out of all the girls in our class who were in love with him, he chose you. He heard about the divorce. Now he wants you. He even sent you a ticket. First class.”

“Who's going to believe that?” Anne Marie scoffed, shaking her head.

“Okay,” Evie conceded. “Business class.”

So she'd borrowed the money, packed and left. She would have gone steerage class on the first boat. She would have mortgaged the house. Anything to escape the wedding of the year, when Dan married his dental hygienist with the perfect teeth and the perfect size eight figure. Since the divorce was so “amicable,” the whole town expected good old Anne Marie to show up with a smile on her face and a gift under her arm. Hah!

Instead, she was on her way to a rendezvous.

But what if Giovanni had changed? What if he weighed three-hundred pounds? What if he brought a wife and five children to meet her? What if he was single and wanted to marry her so he could get a green card? What if he wore his shirt unbuttoned to the navel and had four gold chains around his neck? She'd find out very soon; it was almost two-thirty.

Anne Marie found a taxi on the main street, across from the small sandy beach with bright blue and white beach umbrellas. As the well-aged Fiat with an equally well-aged driver made its way up into the hills above the town, her ears popped and she felt dizzy.

Finally they pulled into the circular driveway of the four-star Hotel Athena on the edge of the cliff.  It looked just like the picture on the Internet which was followed by rave reviews from previous guests.  

“Elegance and panoramic views.” “Great ambiance.” “Exceeded our expectations.”

She’d decided then and there to stop worrying about spending too much. After all, how many times did a person get to fulfill her wildest fantasy in a once-in-a-lifetime trip?

When she got out of the taxi, Anne Marie’s knees buckled. Nerves? Altitude? Vitamin deficiency? The driver set her bag at the hotel's open glass doors. She held out a handful of euros, and he carefully picked out what she hoped was the right amount.

For a long moment after the taxi had pulled away, she stood alone in the quiet tiled driveway, taking slow, deep breaths. When the world finally stopped spinning around, she felt almost normal.

There were no cars parked in the driveway. Through the open doors she peered into the cool, elegant lobby. There was no one there. No dashing Italian with a sexy grin. She reminded herself he was Italian and he'd be late.

Suddenly, she was aware she was not alone. The sensitive skin on the back of her neck felt as if someone had brushed it with a feather; she felt someone's eyes on her. She whirled around.

There he was, leaning against the brick wall that separated the street from the driveway. Tall, lean, and muscular, he was wearing wrap-around sunglasses, black jeans, and a blue shirt. It was not unbuttoned to the navel. He wore no gold chains. He was taller than she remembered. Harder, older. Well, what did she expect? She hadn't seen him in more than twenty years.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled.

“Giovanni?” she said walking slowly toward him.

He took off his sunglasses. There was a long silence. “No,” he said.

His gaze locked with hers. Her bare arms were covered with goose bumps. The air was warm but a chill ran up her spine. Of course it wasn't Giovanni. This man’s eyes were not black, they were a light brown or..or...green or something. She couldn't tell without getting closer, and there was no reason to get any closer. His face was all angles, with enough character lines to be interesting and squint marks at the corners of his eyes that showed how much time he'd spent in the Mediterranean sun. She stood rooted to the spot, while doves nesting in the cliffs above swooped and twittered.

She had to say something, or move or walk away. Anything to break the spell he'd cast on her. What must he think of her, standing there staring? An American woman desperately looking for an Italian to make her vacation dreams come true? How could he know how she'd been looking forward to this moment for the past twenty-three years but he wasn't the one she'd been waiting for?

Too bad
, a little voice inside her said.

“Welcome to San Gervase,” he said in Italian-accented English that made every word sound like a caress.

“Thank you,” she managed. “Are you...?” He must be somebody, something...Chamber of Commerce? Bureau of Tourism?

“No,” he said again.

Okay, it was time to stop staring. She gave him a brief smile, turned around and crossed the driveway and tripped on a crack in the tile. But she wasn't overly excited or nervous, just because a sexy Italian man had looked at her with interest and spoken to her. She'd been in this country for only a day and already knew Italian men were like that. It didn't mean anything.

 She picked up her suitcase and looked over her shoulder before she carried it inside. Just one more look, to make sure he wasn't a figment of her over-active imagination. The man was still standing there, draped against the stone wall as if he were part of the scenery. Like an extra in an Italian movie, the quintessential Italian stud, hired to give the place ambiance or give tourists a photo opportunity.

Inside the lobby Anne Marie filled out the registration forms, handed over her passport, and asked the clerk if anyone had asked for her. He shook his head and summoned a boy to carry her bag up to her room for her. Before she followed him to the elevator, she took one more peek out the front door. He was still there. She turned quickly, as if she hadn't seen him, but her heart was racing. He'd been staring at her.

At the door to her room she gave the boy a tip. By the look on his face and his exuberant “
grazie
,” she must have given him too much. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. She had to get out her currency converter and figure out the exchange rate. But not now.

She kicked off her sandals and opened the doors to the balcony...and her mouth fell open. There it was. Everything she'd dreamed of, everything she'd imagined. The bougainvillea tumbling over the hillside, the red roofs of the houses that clung precariously to the cliffs, the sun glinting on the dazzling blue-green sea below. It was worth every penny it cost her if she never took another vacation in her life. This was the stuff memories were made of.

She gripped the edge of the railing and looked down at the turquoise swimming pool three stories directly beneath her, surrounded by semi-naked bronzed bodies. She breathed in the perfumed air, felt the sea breeze on her face, the cool tiles under her bare feet.

As pleasant as the room was with its white-washed walls and spare, elegant furniture, she had to go downstairs. She had to be ready to greet Giovanni. She changed into a dark calf-length skirt that clung to her hips and thighs and a simple white tank top with a vest Evie had assured her looked youthful but not desperately so, and gave herself a critical look in the mirror. She topped it all with a straw hat, then took it off. She was afraid Giovanni wouldn't recognize her, since she barely recognized herself above the neck. Especially with that hat.

There was no more time to dwell on her appearance. She slipped on a pair of espadrilles she hoped made her look like she belonged in Europe instead of small-town USA and went back to the lobby. He was an hour late, which was nothing by Giovanni time. He'd always been late for class. The teachers just shook their heads. After all, he was Italian, he was Giovanni - charming, easy, lovable, and their star soccer player. She glanced out the front entrance. The man was still there.  She took another look. Yes, it was  him. Same pose, sunglasses back in place. Damn. What was he waiting for? Who was he waiting for? Whoever it was, it wasn't her.

She chose a comfortable, rattan chair in the corner of the lobby where she could see the entrance, but not the man outside. But that didn't stop her from thinking about him; from wondering what he was doing there and what color his eyes really were.  

She opened a guidebook called Archeological Sites of Italy and tried to read about the places she planned to go to. An hour later, she had only read one page. Her eyelids were heavy, closing against her will. It must be about midnight California time. Every time the phone rang at the desk her eyes flew open and she looked up expectantly, but the clerk never even looked her way. Another hour after that, she closed her guide book with a loud snap. It was one thing to operate on Italian time; it was another to make her come all this way and not show up at all.

She yawned and stood up as the man who was not Giovanni sauntered into the lobby. Was that a coincidence or had he been waiting for her? She wiped her damp palms against her skirt.

“You're waiting for someone, for this Giovanni?” he asked. It was uncanny how much like Giovanni he sounded.

“Yes, why?”

He flipped his cell phone closed and put it in his pocket. “He won't be coming today.”

She stepped back, startled and annoyed. “How do you know?”

 “It's obvious, it's too late. But I'm a tour guide. I can show you around, wherever you want to go. It will be my pleasure.”

“Thank you, but... Just because he's late, doesn't mean he isn't coming at all.” Even if Giovanni didn't show up, she would manage on her own. She hadn't come all this way to be taken in by a tour guide, if that's really what the man was. For all she knew, he was a con man or a gigolo. She blinked back tears of disappointment and fatigue.

His eyes widened at the sight of her tears. Automatically he handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

She took it automatically and wished she hadn't. “If Gio...my friend wasn't going to meet me, he would call me or leave a message. So thank you for the offer, but I don't need a guide.”

Giovanni would surely show up, if not to show her around, at least to pick up his yearbook. In his note, he'd seemed pleased and touched that she was bringing it.

 “What will you do now?” he asked.

“Why? Why do you want to know? What do you want?” Her voice rose and she glanced pointedly at the clerk behind the desk, wondering if she should complain she was being harassed. The desk clerk glanced up and then back down at his desk. He couldn't have been less interested. She took a deep breath and looked the stranger in the eye. “Who are you?” she asked.