Her Italian Millionaire Read online

  But she wasn't Italian, she had no husband, and this wasn't her house.

  After making sure no one was watching, she reached over the fence to pluck a tiny red tomato still warm from the sun. The taste of summer itself burst onto her taste buds. So this was what tomatoes were supposed to taste like. She stood for a long moment, licking her lips and savoring the taste that lingered in her mouth. That alone was worth the price of the plane ticket. She reached for another.

  Before she could pull her hand back, the front door opened and an old woman in a black dress stepped out on the porch. She had bright black eyes and round, apple-red cheeks. She said something in Italian. She didn't sound angry. She sounded curious.

  “I...I'm sorry,” Anne Marie said. “I just...your tomatoes are delicious...delizioso.” She had no idea if that was really a word. It must have been, because the old lady clapped her hands together and repeated it.

  “Delizioso!” she said. Then she waved her hand in a sweeping gesture as if she was royalty and Anne Marie was a peasant caught poaching. “Prego,” she said. Anne Marie thought she meant help yourself.

  So she did. She smiled and put another tomato in her mouth. It was wonderful. It was tart and sweet at the same time. Along with her new Italian style house back home, she would have an Italian style garden filled with tomatoes and eggplant and basil and lemons and olive trees. She could still can tomatoes and make savory sauces.

  “Grazie,” Anne Marie said to the woman who continued to watch her with a kind of wide-eyed amazement on her lined face.

  The old woman inclined her head that meant you're welcome and it's my pleasure all at once. Anne Marie left with a warm feeling around her heart. That would never have happened at home. It would never have happened if she'd come to Italy with Dan. He would never have approved of her stealing tomatoes from someone's garden.

  She still had an hour before dinner. She heard church bells and decided to follow the sound. When she found the small church made of cream-colored travertine, with its twin spires and its old bell tower, there was a crowd out in front, the men in dark suits, the women in dresses and the kind of high heels Anne Marie had never worn in her life - butter-soft leather with lots of straps and impossibly high heels.

  She looked down at her canvas espadrilles and vowed she'd buy herself a pair of real leather sexy Italian shoes while she was here. Even if she never wore them anywhere but in her own living room, she'd take them home, remove them from the box and walk back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the way they looked, and she'd remember Italy. While she watched from across the street, a bridal couple came out the double doors of the church and everyone clapped and oohed and ahhed and threw rice at them.

  The very pretty, very young bride wore a white lace dress and a veil that covered her long, dark hair. The groom was tall and thin. His black tie was askew and he was smiling nervously. He reached for his bride's hand and they looked at each other with such an intense look of love, Anne Marie had to turn away. It was too private a moment for an outsider to intrude on.

  The church and the wedding and the bells and the organ music that flowed out the front doors of the church all combined to remind her of another wedding, across an ocean, in another time zone. With a glance at her watch, she realized that her ex-husband was getting married at that very moment to a woman a little more than half his age who he thought would cure him of his mid-life crisis. Anne Marie almost doubled up from the pain in her heart.

  She hadn't thought it would bother her that much, but it did. It was not the loss of Dan; she'd come to realize that they'd grown apart years ago. Even if he changed his mind or if his fiancée walked out on him, she and her ex-husband were no longer soul mates, nor had they ever been. No, it was the loss of her marriage that hurt. Of an institution she believed in, of a dream she'd once had. It was a reminder that she'd failed at one of the most important things in her life.

  Did anyone in that church across the ocean wonder where she was? She hoped so. She hoped they found out, too, because she was having the time of her life. Yes, she was.

  She forced her feet to move away from the church, away from the unhappy vision of another church in another town with another bride. She walked through the streets without knowing where she was going for a while, then stopped at a small square and pulled out her map.

  By chance, she had arrived at the Vista Dei Mare, pleased to see it was right where it was supposed to be, tucked away between two low-rise apartment buildings with a small sign on the door. When she opened the door, she smelled rich tomato sauce simmering and olive oil. She was fifteen minutes late, but they seated her right away at a small table with her back to the wall so she could look at the other customers who were all Italian. She ordered minestrone and a pasta arrabbiata with no idea of what it was, and a glass of house wine. At least that's what she hoped she'd ordered; the waiter spoke no English.

  A young boy came out of the kitchen, poured her wine and set a plate of toasted bread on her table. Then he rubbed fresh garlic on it.

  “But I didn't order this,” she protested. He smiled and went back to the kitchen. This was the kind of place the guidebooks said to look for, she thought with satisfaction. Family restaurants where the locals ate. She nibbled at the bread, trying to get the image of the California wedding out of her mind. She knew how the church would look with the plain wooden pews and the dark red carpet. She knew the flowers would smell sweet and cloying. She knew the organist would play the traditional march and the music would float out the front doors open to the early autumn sunshine.

  She knew, because that's exactly what happened when she was married there. How dare Dan have his second marriage there, too? Couldn't he have come up with something more original? All he was doing was repeating what he'd done twenty years ago. And he thought she was boring! No, he was the one who was boring. Funny she'd never seen it before. She felt her throat clog with angry tears.

  The waiter brought her a huge bowl of soup and sprinkled cheese on top of it. Steam rose from the bowl and brought the smell of broth and herbs, beans and vegetables to her nose. She tried to concentrate on the food. On Italy and not California. She crumpled her napkin in her hand and looked around the room. She was the only one there alone. Everyone else had come with someone else. The couple in the corner, the family at the table by the door. The men at the bar. Everyone had someone. But it didn't matter. It did not matter.

  She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She tried to think of anything but Dan's wedding. She thought about Giovanni, she thought about the Greek temples she was going to see, and she thought about her library and the patrons who would ask about her and miss her when she wasn't there. But none of those thoughts were strong enough to erase the image of the end of her marriage. It was one thing to get a divorce, to divide up the assets and sign the papers. But to know that your husband was marrying someone else made it seem even more final and made her feel more alone than she ever had. Her sinuses hurt; her throat ached, and she could no longer hold back the tears. They rolled down her cheeks and into her minestrone. The waiter stopped abruptly on his way to another table with a platter of mussels in white wine sauce held high in one hand and stared at her.

  “Signora, cosa succede?” he said.

  She couldn't speak. She didn't know what he said, but even if she did, she couldn't answer. She could only shake her head. The tears continued to pour out of her eyes and down her face. Now other people were looking at her. The old couple that had just sat down at the next table both turned around to see what was wrong.

  Oh, God, she didn't know what to do. She wanted to fall through a trap door and disappear. She could get up and leave, but she didn't think her legs would hold her.

  The waiter disappeared into the kitchen and the cook appeared at her table, his white apron smeared with sauce and a worried frown on his face.

  “Che cosa ha magiato?” he asked. He pointed to the soup. “La ministra?”

  She
looked up at him, but the concern on his face only made her cry harder. They were joined by a woman in an apron.

  “Indigestione?” she asked.

  Anne Marie shook her head.

  The woman turned around and beckoned frantically. “Marco,” she called to a man in the corner who was eating with a dark-haired, statuesque Italian woman in a red dress. “Lei viene. La signora ave bisogno de traduzione en inglesi.”

  The next thing she knew Marco, who was the same Marco from the hotel, and the woman who looked like an Italian movie star were standing at her table looking down at her.

  “What's wrong?” he asked. “Is it the soup?”

  “No, no,” she said, blotting the tears on her face with her napkin. “It's fine. It's nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “You have upset the whole restaurant with your crying. The cook thinks you don't like his soup. And he takes this very personally.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said. She pushed her chair back and started to get up. “Maybe I'd better go.”

  “Go? You can't go now. Unless you're sick.”

  “I'm not sick. I'm fine. I just don't want to cause any more trouble.”

  “Then sit down and eat your dinner. And stop crying.” He handed her his handkerchief.

  Anne Marie dabbed at her cheeks, then stuffed his handkerchief into her bag and looked from his stern face to the woman who now had her arms crossed under her sizable breasts and was glaring at her.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I'll do that.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the soup. She looked up. He was still standing there with the very attractive, very annoyed woman. “You can go now,” she said. Please go. Please everyone, stop staring and leave me alone.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Before Anne Marie could answer, the woman turned to Marco and began to speak loudly in Italian. Anne Marie didn't know what she was saying, she only knew she was angry about something. She just hoped it didn't have anything to do with her. But it must have, because she kept gesturing toward her and raising her voice. Marco said a few words and the woman slapped him across the face, spun around on the high heels of her open-toed sandals and walked out of the restaurant, her head held high, her nose in the air.

  For a moment no one spoke. No one moved. The whole restaurant fell silent. If Anne Marie thought such things happened often between volatile Italians, she must be mistaken. Everyone else seemed just as shocked as she was. Then just as suddenly, the scene came to life again. The cooks returned to the kitchen, the waiter began serving food, and the customers resumed talking, laughing and eating.

  Only Marco stayed where he was, standing motionless next to her table. She looked up, her eyes dry, her self pity forgotten. There was a red mark on his cheek, and she almost felt sorry for him, until he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. He turned an empty wine glass right-side up and beckoned to the waiter. She put her spoon down and gazed into those green-brown eyes.

  “Surely, even in Italy,” she said as coolly as possible, “you are supposed to ask if you can join me.”

  “Would you have said yes?” he asked.

  “No.” How could she eat with this Italian exuding machismo across from her?

  “Then why bother to ask?” he said.

  Chapter Three

  The waiter brought a candle to the table and the flickering light softened the hard planes of Marco's face. Next he filled Marco's wine glass and set his plate of pasta in front of him. Everything was done so calmly, so smoothly, it was as if customers had shouting matches and then changed tables every night. Maybe they did. Maybe this was quintessential Italy at dinner hour. If so, she’d better get used to it. Marco turned his attention from her to his food. He ate with such gusto he must have forgotten the violent incident with his date. Maybe they argued often, flew into rages, stormed out of restaurants and got it out of their system.

  Maybe it was a better way to deal with disagreements than years of silence, of bottled up resentments and hard feelings until it was too late to salvage a relationship. She stole a glance across the table, watching with admiration as he expertly twirled the pasta around his fork. But if Marco intended to eat in silence, why had he bothered to sit with her? Was it because it was improper for a woman to eat alone?

  Whatever his reason, it was such a relief to have the attention shift away from her, she was almost able to forget the scene she'd made, which seemed minor compared to the one he and his companion had made, and eat her soup and the pasta that followed. After all, if he could do it, she could too. But she wondered who was the woman he was eating with? What was the argument about? Why did she leave?

  Maybe it was something serious. Perhaps Marco had broken up with her or she with him. Maybe she wanted him to give up his job and stop showing foreign women the sights of Italy and devote himself to her. With her looks, she could be a model or a movie star who needed him to be her permanent escort. Or maybe she was just an ordinary woman who was madly in love with him and he'd cheated on her. She'd just found out tonight at dinner, which was why she'd slapped him and stormed out.

  From time to time Marco refilled Anne Marie's wine glass from the carafe on the table. From time to time she glanced over at him. Once he caught her eye and their glances held for a long moment. That was the time to ask the questions, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out. They remained unspoken. The waiter came with some grated cheese for her pasta and the brief moment was over.

  When he finished eating, Marco leaned back in his chair and observed her carefully. “No more tears,” he said with satisfaction. “No more sadness.”

  “No,” she said, but the vision of her husband's wedding across the ocean pushed its way back into her mind and her attempt at a smile failed miserably. He noticed.

  “I know what will cheer you up,” he said when she'd finished her dinner and he'd laid a pile of bills on the table. “Come with me.” He took her arm and before she could dig into her money belt and insist on paying for her own dinner, they were out on the street, his hand still wrapped tightly around her arm.

  “You don't mind walking?” he asked with a glance at her low-heeled shoes. She knew what he must be thinking - so American, so sensible, so unflattering to the leg, compared to the high heels she'd been admiring on the local women. “It's not far.”

  “Of course not.” The streets were full of people, strolling arm in arm. The “passegiata” was the ritual evening stroll she could get used to. It was a time for Italians to see and be seen. Certainly Marco was seen. Many people greeted him enthusiastically, hugging him, stopping to talk and eyeing her with curiosity. But Marco didn't linger or introduce her to any of them. She didn't blame him. After all, she was nobody - just a tourist who'd be gone tomorrow. But she wondered about the several women who stopped to kiss him on the cheek and smile flirtatiously.

  “We're going to the square, along with everyone else in San Gervase,” he said, his hand on Anne Marie's elbow as he guided her down the narrow streets. “There's a concert tonight. You'll like it.”

  She liked it before they even got there. The sounds of a violin, an accordion, and the rich voice of an Italian tenor wafted through the warm night air. Anne Marie inhaled deeply, wishing she could capture the moment on film or at least in her memory forever. It was just the way she'd imagined it. The only flaw in the picture was that Giovanni wasn't there to share it with her. Would he be upset when he learned a stranger was showing her his town instead of him or would he be grateful someone else had relieved him of the obligation?

  They went to a cafe that faced the small raised platform in the middle of the cobblestone square. Marco ordered a bottle of wine though Anne Marie was sure she'd had plenty at dinner. He said this one was made from local grapes and she must taste it. When it came, he filled their glasses and lifted his glass to hers.

  “To your journey,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “Wherever it may lead.”
/>   She searched her mind for the appropriate response. “Alla Salute,” she said. “To your health. And to your country.” She tapped her glass against his and drank some wine.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “I love it. The flowers, the smells, the sights, the food, the wine...”

  Obligingly he refilled her glass. “What about the men?”

  “The men? Well, they're fine, just a little...uh, over the top.”

  His forehead creased in a frown. “What does that mean? Is it a compliment?”

  “It's just an expression,” she said. “It means, oh, it means that the men are very friendly, very friendly. But then, I don't know any but you and Giovanni, and of course I haven't seen him in a very long time. “

  “You keep in touch, you and your friend, yes?”

  “Not really. Not until now. I wrote to say I was coming to Italy and he....we arranged a meeting.”

  A small, dark-skinned woman in a long skirt with a braid down the middle of her back came to their table selling candy in a basket. Marco fished for some change in his pocket and gave it to her. She stood at the table, looking down at Anne Marie with her steady, black-eyed gaze, then took her hand in hers and spread her palm out flat. The woman frowned and said something in rapid Italian to Marco.

  “She wants to tell your fortune,” he said.

  “All right, but I know what she's going to say. There's an ocean voyage in my future, I'll have a long life, and meet a tall dark stranger.”

  “What a cynic, you are, Ana Maria,” Marco, shaking his head sadly. “Shall I tell her to go away?”

  “No, tell her to go ahead. Maybe Italian fortune tellers are more original than the ones in my country.” Besides the woman didn't look like she had any intention of going away, no matter what anyone said. She sat down and rubbed Anne Marie's palm with her finger, muttering to herself.