Dear Reader,

About three years ago, when I was living in Irvine, California, I accepted a job at a high-tech company in San Diego, about one hundred miles away. I worked twelve hours on my first day, and for almost three months afterward I never had a day off. During that time I became a regular at the local hotels and motels, courtesy of my new employer. At one point, when I had stayed in San Diego longer than anticipated, I was stuck wearing the same outfit for three straight days. My company generously provided me with its very own top-of-the-line logo clothing: two blouses and an oversize sweatshirt.

When the chip finally taped out, the project team was treated to lunch at a trendy beachfront restaurant. I hitched a ride back to work with my boss in his black Lamborghini. And as the world sped by me, the idea for Stick Shift was born.

This is my first book, and I’m thrilled to be a part of the FLIPSIDE series. I so look forward to writing many more, because I now have the time—I don’t have that twelve-hours-a-day job anymore, and just between you and me, I burned the logo clothing.

Best wishes!

Mary Leo

“This food should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice growled beside her

It had been a miserable transatlantic flight, and now Mr. Charming Italian—who smelled deliciously of garlic—wanted to complain about his breakfast. He might be gorgeous, but Lucy wished he would just shut up.

Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheeselike substance, was rather tasty.

“How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic.”

Despite herself, Lucy had to answer him. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

He made a dismissive gesture and called for an attendant.

Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. Though parts of the omelette were beginning to taste like dishwater, she’d never say so out loud.

“Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” he said to the male flight attendant. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal and everyone turned to watch, even Lucy. “My shoe tastes better.” He took a bite.

Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his shoe.

Stick Shift
Mary Leo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stick Shift is Mary Leo’s debut novel. She's had careers as a salesgirl in Chicago, a cocktail waitress and keno runner in Las Vegas, a bartender in Silicon Valley and a production assistant in Hollywood. She has recently given up her career as an IC layout engineer to pursue her constant passion: writing romance.

Mary now lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and new puppy.

To my provocative husband, my three incredible children, RWASD, WA, Kathryn Lye, Janet Wellington and the hardworking women in electronics

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

1

LOVE WAS highly overrated, Lucy Mastronardo thought as she yawned and set her alarm clock for 5:00 a.m. All that spooning and mooning crap was for romance novels and love songs, not for real life.

She had always dreamed of the logical mate: a man who had the same goals as she did, a man who found happiness in schedule and conformity, a man who planned out every detail of his life, their life, a man who happily sent her off to another continent a week before their wedding because it was “good for your career.”

Yes, she could sleep quite soundly knowing that computers made the world go round, not love.

BY THE TIME Lucy awoke at six, having managed to sleep right through the alarm clock’s annoying buzz, she was already running late.

The drive on Interstate 280 out of San Jose, California was not what she had expected. Normally, on a Sunday morning it was an empty freeway, but there had been two minor accidents, turning the quick forty-five-minute jaunt into a tedious hour-and-a-half drive.

Then, as if that wasn’t frustrating enough, she needed to call her mother to tell her where she was going and why. But the thought of talking to her mother while she tried to maneuver a crowded freeway gave her an immediate stomachache. She decided to put the call off until later, way later, when she was stationary and had some control over her emotions. If she phoned now, she would probably end up causing accident number three and totally miss her flight. Definitely not an option.

Parking at San Francisco airport should have been a snap, but, of course, she had to circle and circle and circle the lot some more, driving up one aisle and down another, until she ended up following a middle-aged man and his white standard-sized poodle through the maze of cars as though she was on stalking detail for the FBI.

When the poodle-man finally found his vehicle, he messed around inside playing with his dog until Lucy was ready to get out and slug him.

Finally, she tapped her horn.

He turned around to look at her.

The poodle turned around to look at her.

They both gave her the evil eye before he drove away.

Fine, she thought, I’m starting my trip out with a curse from a guy and his dog.

The scene inside the airport wasn’t any better. From the moment she rolled her suitcase onto the speckled high-grade linoleum, it had been a test of will. Long lines choked the airport, turning the whole travel experience into a nightmare journey.

Fortunately, Alitalia’s line seemed to be shorter than the others, which was a good thing, considering she had less than an hour to board her flight to Rome.

While she stood in line with the hundreds of other harried souls in the crowded airport, trifling with the prospect of making that phone call to her mother, and once again deciding to do it later, a young girl in some kind of blue uniform handed out cookies from a silver tray. Like a cookie was somehow going to sooth nerves and make the wait a more pleasurable experience. On the other hand, Lucy mused, if cookie-girl were handing out day-long passes to a spa or vouchers for free housekeeping, now that would most definitely turn this wait into something worth waiting for.

Silly thoughts made the time pass quickly and after Lucy got her prized boarding pass, she had to sprint to the gate, nearly knocking down a few people along the way, until she caught up to a guy who stood in front of her on the moving walkway. He wouldn’t step to the right so she could get around him. An annoying guy, with a Giorgio Armani black suede jacket slung over his shoulder, carrying a totally “now” Louis Vuitton brown bag, wearing obviously Italian sandals. The man was an ad for high fashion, who remained ahead of her right before the X-ray line.

He took forever to put his things up on the conveyor belt, as if each item were something sacred, something precious.

Lucy thought about going to the other line, but it was even longer. She wondered why she had hesitated. Why she had stayed to watch when she was in such a hurry. She drew in a deep breath while leaning slightly forward and immediately knew the answer. It was his scent of garlic, not the kind that repelled, but the fresh kind. The aroma that permeates the air when you cut into a really sweet clove.

He went to the tray and removed a small ladle from his shirt pocket, a few dollar bills from another, a garlic press and a head of garlic from his jacket. The security guard immediately confiscated the garlic press.

Lucy stood right next to him while he emptied his pants pockets of change, car keys, a silver money-clip, a clump of fresh basil and a handful of pistachios.

After he finally walked through without a beep or a buzz, and the guards were satisfied that a garlic press couldn’t be used as a weapon, he stuffed everything back into his pockets, one item at a time. She never got a good look at him because he never quite turned around, but it didn’t matter. It was the familiar scent that had lured her—garlic, the scent of romantic dinners and passionate love.

Seth, her fiancé and soon-to-be husband, was allergic to garlic. It gave him diarrhea and cramps.

Frustrated with the whole spice adventure, Lucy flew past Garlic Man without so much as a question from the guards or a beep from the metal detector; she had been very careful packing.

Suddenly, there was less than ten minutes to catch her flight. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Garlic’s scent, and the fact that he looked oh-so-sweet from behind, she would have pushed him aside and yelled out her annoyance. Garlic mixed with a little basil were foods she had learned to live without. Like onions, all they did was give you bad breath and indigestion. But for a moment, a twinkle in time, she had enjoyed the ambiance.

She ran the rest of the way. Fortunately, the boarding gate wasn’t very far. Her momentary foolishness about a common herb had almost cost her the flight. She and someone running up behind her were the last two people to board the plane.

Lucy found her row and sat next to the window. Just as she secured her seatbelt and let out an I-made-it sigh, the Italian Garlic Show walked up, boarding pass in hand.

Before she had time to react to the amazing coincidence he said, “Scusi, signorina, but you are in my seat.”

She turned. “I don’t think so,” Lucy said, annoyed. “I always sit next to the window.”

“Yes. It helps from getting nauseous,” he said, standing in the aisle, looking down on her.

“No. I don’t get sick. I just like the view.”

“And what a beautiful view it is,” he said, obviously flirting.

She blushed and pulled out her ticket. Sure enough, she was in the wrong seat. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

“An easy mistake,” he said and just stood there. Waiting.

She waited, thinking he would be the gentleman and tell her to stay where she was.

He didn’t.

“Please take your seats,” a male flight attendant said.

Mr. Garlic smiled.

Lucy smiled, but no one moved.

“Is there a problem?” the attendant asked.

“No. No problem,” Lucy said.

“We’ll be taking off shortly. Please be seated,” the attendant repeated.

“Certainly,” Mr. Garlic said, smiling. But he didn’t budge.

Finally, Lucy gave in with a huff. She gathered her belongings and moved out of the row.

“Grazie,” he said and climbed into his victory, sliding his bag under the seat in front of him and draping his jacket around his shoulders, then carefully fastening his seatbelt.

When he finally settled down, he turned and threw Lucy a contented smile, as if he wanted to start up a conversation on the virtues of correct seating or something.

She was so not in the mood for his smiling chatter.

Instead, she decided to ignore him for the rest of the trip. If she wanted to look out of the window she would gaze out of the opposite one. However, there were three rather large people sitting across the aisle from her, entirely blocking any hopes of seeing anything.

Fine, she thought. I’ll just work and sleep. I have a lot to do to prepare for my meeting. I don’t need a view.

But a curious thing happened once she strapped herself in and the plane shook with its thrust down the runway. Despite her circumstances and the weirdo sitting next to her, instead of apprehension and her usual flight-fright, Lucy felt excitement.

Joy, even.

What was that about? She blamed her lack of appropriate apprehensions on the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before and settled in with the latest copy of Complete Woman, turning to the article entitled, “Rule Your World: 10 Ways to Get Control When Life Feels Wacko.”

2

“THIS FOOD should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice beside her growled.

It had been a miserable, turbulent flight so far and now Garlic Guy wanted to complain about his breakfast. Lucy wished he would just shut up.

Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheese-like substance, was rather tasty.

She didn’t want to even look at him, even give him the slightest indication she recognized his presence, but he poked her in the arm to get her attention.

“How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic. That’s what it is, plastic food.”

Despite herself, Lucy had to answer. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

He made a dismissive gesture, and called for an attendant.

Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. She had to admit there were parts of the omelette that tasted like dishwater, but she would never say it out loud.

“Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” Garlic Guy said to the male flight attendant who stood in the aisle. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal. Everybody around him turned to watch, even Lucy. “This shoe, my shoe, tastes better.” He took a bite.

Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy sat there, gawking. The flight attendant, a tall Harry Potter look-alike, stood spellbound, until some kid said, “Gross!”

Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his own shoe.

Disgusting.

Fine, she thought, I’m destined to be tormented by this shoe-eating, garlic-toting idiot. I must have done something bad in a past life, or the current one, and he’s my punishment.

VITTORIO had to admit he amazed himself when a piece of leather came off in his mouth. He never actually meant to eat his own shoe, but there it was, sliding around, mixing with saliva, breaking into pieces. The taste was rather interesting, certainly better than the omelette. Would he actually swallow?

But the girl next to him was waiting. Watching. So, he swallowed. And just like that, Vittorio Bandini had eaten a piece of his own shoe.

“It is good,” he said, beaming.

“I’ll need you to calm down, sir. And if you want to eat your shoe, please wait until the plane has landed,” the attendant said as he removed the offending breakfast tray.

Vittorio put his shoe back on his foot, a concession he went along with because the leather had immediately upset his stomach. And if he didn’t relax he would vomit all over the pretty, brown-eyed beauty sitting next to him.

She was the type of girl Vittorio was attracted to, the type of girl who made his heart race; a beautiful, brown-haired Penelope Cruz type. His dream girl. He would not vomit on his dream girl.

He refused to believe it was the leather, the fine Italian leather, that made him sick, so he blamed it on the foul-smelling breakfast instead. The rotten eggs kept him from making a move on the Madonna next to him, not the shoe leather.

Vittorio unstrapped his seatbelt, pushed himself up from his seat, and stepped over the Madonna, squishing her toe as he climbed out.

“So sorry, signorina,” he mumbled about a dozen times. She shot him a nasty, pained look and he headed up the aisle toward the toilets.

Never again, Vittorio thought as his stomach churned and flipped. Never again would he eat shoe leather, even if it was Italian.

LIMPING UP the aisle, Lucy found another seat a few rows away from the shoe eater. She wondered what the hell was wrong with her? Why was she being so silly? Who makes yummy sounds over airplane food?

She couldn’t come up with an answer.

A young kid in the aisle seat concentrating on his electronic game paid absolutely no attention to Lucy as she crawled over him. He was the perfect traveling companion. She could do anything she wanted and he would never notice.

She popped a couple of Tums, tucked her sore foot up next to her butt and detached the phone in the seat ahead, to call Seth.

When he didn’t answer, she left a long-winded message about work and obligation and how much she missed him already and not to worry. She would be back in plenty of time for the wedding.

Their wedding…in exactly six days from that very moment. The vision made her smile: a church filled with family and friends, her dad walking her down the aisle, her white dress (the one her mother made her get…the one that looked like an exploded marshmallow, but she wasn’t going to dwell on negatives) shimmering in the sunlight that beamed in through the windows and fell on Seth’s face…dear Seth…dear, sweet Seth.

Okay, so he wasn’t exactly a “dear” or “sweet” kind of guy. He was more the logical Dilbert kind, who was absolutely perfect for her, if she overlooked his funky sex-only-on-Friday-night habit, and the fact that at twenty-seven she had never had an actual orgasm with him or any other guy for that matter, and the fact that he was obsessed with their careers in electronics.

Actually, she thought he was a lot like her dad—also a design engineer, who promoted working long hours and giving up personal time for the job. The dad-clone-thing traits were just what a girl wanted in a fiancé.

Weren’t they?

She dialed Seth’s cell phone this time, thinking she needed to apologize for last Friday night. She hadn’t been in the mood. “But it’s Friday. Sexday,” Seth had said, almost whining. Like, Saturday was actually Laundryday, and Sunday, Groceryday. Seth had worked out a daily schedule for his life, their life, but for some reason, lately, Lucy wasn’t able to keep up.

A perky blond flight attendant with a pasted-on smile interrupted the apology-call to offer her a cup of coffee.

Lucy snapped the phone into its holder.

“No, thanks,” Lucy said, thinking perhaps she’d make the call later, once she was settled in her room, once she could come up with a logical reason why packing had seemed like a better alternative to Sexday.

The shoe eater stood in the aisle directly behind the attendant, looking rather ill. He wasn’t particularly handsome, his nose was a little too long, his hair too shiny-black for his light olive skin, and he had the strangest colored eyes, some sort of a brown-hazel-green combination.

She couldn’t imagine what all the fuss had been about. Why she had to move in closer when she stood behind him in line. Why she had to watch him as he ate his shoe, or felt the need to tell him about her breakfast. He was just your typical, ordinary, unexceptional quirky guy.

Then he smiled. Smiled right at her.

A mischievous grin that required a return gesture. It was a natural reaction. A reflex. A totally spontaneous occurrence that gave her goose bumps and made her toes itch. The guy was so utterly charismatic. So completely awesome that she had no choice but to return his beam. With that smile, he looked like the type of guy who could have a hot babe draped on each arm.

Cufflinks, Sinatra used to say.

She smiled right back at him, a wide, toothy Julia Roberts grin.

Don’t stare, she told herself as he tried to make his way past the attendant, but Lucy was powerless. There was something about him.

Something in the way he moved.

She noticed his hands first, the long fingers with the manicured nails that grabbed at the backs of the seats for balance as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. She wondered what they would feel like against her skin—soft and smooth or rough with calluses?

She liked the way his deep-green sweater clung to his trim body. Liked the way it made his skin seem to glisten. She even liked the way he wore his hair, cropped short, almost old-Roman style, but with skinny sideburns.

A great look, she thought. Seductive.

Lucy continued to stare as he walked right past her without a word. Without so much as a nod of recognition, as though he had been smiling at air.

She sighed and turned toward the window. Bright blue. Miles and miles of bright blue. As if the plane wasn’t moving at all. As if she were caught in a blue capsule, suspended in the middle of forever. The thought made her stomach roll as she searched inside her purse for a tranquilizer.

AS IT TURNED OUT, the shoe leather settled nicely inside Vittorio’s stomach and the walk to the toilets cleared away any lingering nausea. Perhaps it wasn’t the walk at all, Vittorio thought, but the bella signorina staring up at him. The girl he had been sitting next to, wearing a beautiful white pant suit with her shoulders wrapped in a red scarf. Now that he had dared to get a good look at her, he never wanted to look at another. Que bella!

He could not leave the airplane without officially meeting her.

By the time he decided to turn around with his new mission, a serving cart blocked any hope he had of meeting the beauty in red.

Attendants busied themselves with morning liquids, forcing him to wait.

Vittorio had come from Italia to San Francisco to attend a culinary conference at the Masconi Convention Center. Ever since he was a young boy, he had wanted to see San Francisco. It was only in the last year, when his small restaurant in Napoli had become a hit, that he could afford the trip. La Bella Note was a huge success due to Vittorio’s scrumptious recipes.

The conference had proved to be disappointing for Vittorio. He’d thought he would learn something new, something exciting, but instead he had taught the teachers. One man, who called himself an Italian chef, tried to make a pistachio pesto with nuts that came from North Carolina.

Vittorio didn’t exactly know where North Carolina was located in the United States, but he did know it wasn’t anywhere near Sicily. Anyone who called himself an Italian chef would know there were no other pistachios in the entire world to compare with the flavor of the Sicilian pistachio. Its silky herbal oil, and its vibrant green color exuded an incomparable flavor experience. Vittorio had brought a bag with him and had remade the pesto sauce for the ricotta ravioli. The chef couldn’t believe the difference in taste and invited Vittorio to cook with him on his TV show the next time he came to America.

But it would probably never happen because Vittorio hated to fly. To him, it was like being trapped inside a moving tin can without any room for mingling.

It amazed him that people flew so often they actually accumulated enough miles to fly for free. A car was better, or a ship. At least he could meet people along the way, and meeting people, especially women, was something Vittorio made a career of, like the Madonna sitting alone in the last row of the plane.

“Can you believe this?” he asked the long-legged blonde reading a Dean Koontz thriller. “I pay all the money and I cannot sit in my own seat.”

“Please,” she said with a sultry, deep voice. “There are plenty of seats in this row. Be my guest.”

Vittorio smiled and sat down right next to his latest dream girl.

WHEN THE PLANE landed in Rome on Monday morning, Lucy let out a sigh of relief. She had been busy on her laptop writing memos and creating charts for work. She had also made up a list of last-minute wedding details she would e-mail her mother later. Now she genuinely looked forward to the three-hour drive to Naples. She would listen to some local music, drink in the atmosphere, and grab a sandwich somewhere along the way because she honestly hadn’t been able to eat another airplane omelette.

Lucy actually toyed with the idea of postponing the eleven-thirty meeting with Giovanni, the lead engineer at Subito, the satellite for B-Logic, her Silicon-Valley-based electronics company. What she wanted more than anything else at that precise moment was a hot bath in her sure-to-be-fabulous room at the Santa Maria, but the chip had to tape out in a week to come out of fabrication in time for a demo at the Design Automation Conference in August. B-Logic could not afford to miss the show. Perhaps if she made a beeline to the car-rental counter she could make up some time on the road and get that bath before the meeting. A girl can only hope, she thought.

But she still had one major problem to take care of…her mother. Lucy hadn’t had the courage to make the call on Friday afternoon when she’d first found out that her promotion depended on this last-minute trip to Italy. And on Saturday she was busy packing, and she most definitely couldn’t call on the freeway and SFO was just too hectic. The real reason she hadn’t called was pure terror. Her mother would probably pop a vein over this whole thing, and Lucy wanted to be as far away as possible. She flipped opened her cell phone and pressed 9.

It only rang once.

“It’s late. What’s wrong?” her mother demanded.

The woman had a sixth sense. “Is that any way to answer your phone?”

“I knew it was you. Something’s wrong. My feet are burning.”

“It’s a hot flash.”

“I don’t have those anymore. Not since I got on the hormones. My feet only burn when there’s something wrong with my daughter.”

“Go soak your feet. There’s nothing wrong.”

“You’re not telling me the truth.”

Lucy sighed and leaned up against a wall. “Okay, you’re right. I’m on my way to Naples for work.”

“Now you go to Italy? I could never get you to go to Italy and for work you can go a week before your own wedding?”

“Mom, calm down.”

“Where are you?”

“In Rome.”

“I knew there was something wrong all night with you. I kept dreaming about garlic. How’s what’s-his-name taking this?”

“His name is Seth. Shouldn’t you try to remember it if he’s going to be your son-in-law?”

“It’s a hard name to remember.”

“It’s four letters.”

“Not enough. If it were more, I could remember. Four is too few.”

“My name has four letters.”

“Lucia has five. It’s better.”

“Mom!” Lucy said, exasperated. Her mother had a way of making the simplest things into a major deal.

“You’re gonna miss the wedding. Your mother is gonna be ashamed because her only daughter is gonna miss her own wedding. I won’t be able to go out in public.”

“I’ll be back on Friday.”

“I know in my heart that you like to shame me, so there I’ll be, standing in church, in front of God, with your father in an expensive rented suit, a hundred angry guests and no daughter. I knew when you were born this day would come.”

“Mom, I can’t talk to you anymore. I have to go.”

“Bring back some good prosciutto. I got a taste for some prosciutto from Napoli.”

“I’ll see if I have time.”

“Oh, for strangers you have plenty of time, but for your mother you’ll see?”

“You know, this is why children never call their parents.”

“Be safe, and always keep your purse close to you. Those Neapolitans are crooks and thieves.”

“Dad’s family is from Naples.”

“I know what I’m talking about. Tie a bell on your toe in case you sleepwalk.”

“The bell never worked. Besides, I don’t do that anymore.”

“How can you know? You’re asleep.”

Lucy could feel the agitation building. Could feel the back of her neck tense until she could barely move it. “All right!” she said. “I’ll get a bell.”

“Why you want to yell at your mother like that? I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

Lucy sighed again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Your father wants to say something.”

Lucy waited with her eyes closed while they argued over what he was going to say. Her mother kept telling him not to talk too long because this was costing Lucia money. In the meantime, Lucy stood there waiting, calling, “Mom! Just let him talk. Mom!”

Finally, her father got on. “Lucy, honey, have a productive trip. Don’t be afraid to show those people who’s boss.”

She pictured her dad holding on to the phone, her mother standing next to him counting the seconds. Her dad would be wearing his Sunday outfit. He believed in uniforms and wore the same thing every day. The color of the shirt varied, but the pants were always black Dockers, except on casual Friday, then the Dockers would be changed for his one pair of Levi’s. “I’ll try, Dad.”

“That’s all anyone needs to succeed, the right attitude and you’ve got it made. Go get ’em.”

Her mother told him, “that’s enough,” so he said his goodbyes and her mom got back on the phone.

“I want you to look up the Donicos while you’re there. I hear the boy is a big shot.”

“Mom, I really don’t think I’ll have any free time.”

“Is this how I raised you? To be so selfish to your own mother?”

Lucy gave up. She couldn’t argue anymore. “Okay, I’ll look up the Donicos. I’ll find a bell. I’ll keep my purse close, and I’ll get the pound of prosciutto. Can I please go now?”

“You should have gone a long time ago. What do you think? I got all night to be on the phone with you? I got things I gotta do for the wedding. I gotta order some nice red carnations for the altar. Love you,” she said, kissed the air two times and hung up. Lucy collapsed in a nearby chair.

When she finally regained her composure about fifteen minutes later, she was gliding down the crowded escalator in Leonardo da Vinci airport, spotting Eurocars International and a feeling of accomplishment swept over her. Even with her phone call to her mother, she was ahead of her own schedule.

Then she saw the line of people standing in front of the counter. It was all that secretary’s fault at the Italian office. She had made the travel arrangements. Lucy had told the girl that she wanted to fly directly into Naples, but the girl, probably an airhead, couldn’t get her on a connecting flight. She could book it on the return, but not on the arrival. So this was the result.

Sigh.

San Francisco and Leonardo da Vinci airports might have different names and be on different continents, but the lines were all the same. Long.

So much for hot baths and sandwiches.

It was a beautiful morning, from what she could see out the huge windows surrounding her, but each person in line had to quibble with the staff behind the counter over silly things like the color of the car, or the quality of the radio or the size of the engine. Lucy thought it was insane. Rome waited a few steps outside these walls and all anybody seemed to care about was the color of paint.

She let out a series of yawns. Her ears crackled, then popped. She could hear again. The crowded airport was unexpectedly loud, and the people in front of her seemed to be setting the pitch.

She had to restrain herself from jumping into the fray, from yelling out her own innocuous frustrations, like a cranky kid unhappy about a purple sucker when she wanted a green one.

Was it something about Italy? About the culture? It seemed as though when a non-Italian arrived, and there were plenty of non-Italians standing in front of her, they suddenly developed the Italian instinct to argue. Your normal, average, calm Brit or Spaniard or Frenchman abruptly found themselves whining over every last detail. Every minute inconvenience. And the irony was, everyone seemed to enjoy the banter. She thought there was something wonderfully liberating about public bickering and no one noticing.

When it was finally her turn, Lucy wheeled her suitcase up to the counter, calmly reached into her purse, took out her driver’s license and smiled at the chubby, short woman standing behind the gray counter. “Hello,” said Lucy. “I have a reservation for a compact, automatic.”

“No automatic. Stick,” the woman said as she reached for Lucy’s driver’s licence and read her name out loud. “Signorina Lucia, only stick.”

“I can’t drive a stick shift. I’m sure the reservation was for an automatic,” Lucy replied in a calm, clear voice.

The woman’s voice went up an octave. “We no got no automatic. Just stick. You want or not?”

Lucy spoke in Italian. “I want the car I ordered.”

The woman responded in Italian, “I’m sorry, miss, but they’re all gone. If you want a car, you’ll have to take a stick. That’s all I have.”

“You’re not listening. I can’t drive a standard. I need an automatic. Surely you can understand—”

“You want a car? I give you a car. So you have to learn something new. So what!”

Lucy hesitated, counted to ten and thought of Sister Gregory; stern, unemotional Sister Gregory from ninth grade. It’s time you learned something new, young lady. Time you learned how to swim. Lucy remembered the shock as she hit the cold water and the silence as she sank to the bottom of the pool like a schoolhouse desk. The only good memory of that day was Sister Gregory, brown habit and all, jumping in after her.

“Look, I have to drive all the way to Naples and I don’t have the faintest idea—”

“I can drive you,” someone said in English. It came from behind her. Lucy turned to see none other than Mr. Garlic.

“Not you again,” she said, dismissing his offer.

“Perdona, but have we met?”

Lucy realized just how rude she must have sounded, and how unimportant she must have been to him because he didn’t even remember her. She softened her voice. “No, we haven’t actually met. Not officially, but I remember you from the flight. I was in your seat and you ate my shoe…your shoe. You ate your shoe, not mine…I mean.”

“Ah, I am famous!” he said, full of himself.

“For fifteen minutes.”

He smiled, and once again Lucy felt the heat of his attraction. Her toes itched. She wiggled them inside her shoes, trying to get the itch to stop, but it wouldn’t, not as long as he stood in front of her, smiling.

He was taller than she had first thought, at least six feet, but then she had never been this close to him, at least not facing him. And the scent of garlic was gone, replaced now with the scent of basil. How odd, she thought, for someone to smell of herbs.

“Thank you for the offer, but I can drive myself,” she said.

“Nobody with a brain wants a car in Napoli,” he answered.

She didn’t like the implication. “You have a car. What does that make you?”

“No brains. My mamma, she always say I got no brains, so I buy a car. Please, allow me to drive you to Napoli in my brainless car.”

Lucy had to smile at his innocent chivalry.

“You want the car or not, miss?” the woman roared.

Lucy stood unnerved in the midst of airport chaos and tried to decide what to do with his offer. If this were the U.S. and some eccentric guy volunteered a ride, she would absolutely refuse. He could be some crazed killer. But this was Italy.

Her Italy.

Her heritage.

And for the most part, Italian men were romantics, lovers…she noticed the head of garlic sticking out of his shirt pocket.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she said thinking this man was some kind of food-kook.

“Buona fortuna!” he said and turned abruptly away. She watched as he joined the mix of travelers roaming through the airport. He stopped to wave goodbye as if they were old friends and he was leaving on some trip. She wiggled her toes and caught herself waving back, feeling sad. There was something intoxicating about him, but she couldn’t think about that now. There wasn’t any time to question her emotions. She’d think about it later, while she was soaking in a hot tub, scrubbing her toes.

For an instant, she regretted never having taken the time to visit Italy, but she was always so busy with work, and before that there was college, then grad school. Not that she didn’t love Italy. She did. She loved hearing stories about it, reading about it, learning the language, but she could never justify an actual visit, and yet here she was. Alone. On a business trip. A week before her wedding. At least she could enjoy the scenery from the car, even if she would have to learn how to drive along the way.

“I’ll take the car,” Lucy told the woman behind the counter.

The woman looked at her and spat, “Sorry, I gave your car away. No more cars.”

“What? You must have misunderstood. I’ll take the car now.”

“All rented. No more cars, miss. Come back tomorrow. I can get you an automatic tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! What do you mean tomorrow?” Lucy’s voice went up an octave, but she caught herself. She refused to get into a shouting match. “Thank you,” she said in a tight, subdued tone. “I’m sure you did your best.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t reply as Lucy ran off after Mr. Garlic, hoping his offer was still good, when suddenly she realized she didn’t know his name.

3

THE GIRL in the red scarf had so intrigued Vittorio that once the plane had landed in Rome he followed her to the car-rental counter. Fortunately, they were going to the same city, but the beguiling Madonna had turned out to be an elitist.

Her misfortune, Vittorio thought as he waved his goodbye. He was not the type of man to pursue a woman with her nose stuck up in the air when there were so many unspoiled women to choose from, like the girl serving him the cappuccino from behind the coffee bar. The girl with the beautiful, full breasts and round hips who leaned toward him just enough so he could peek down her open blouse.

“Just right,” Vittorio told her as she moved in even closer, smiling over at him when she put the cup, with the billows of steamed milk, down in front of him. “Like a pillow,” he teased and picked up the cup to take a sip. She giggled and her breasts bounced ever so slightly under the thin cotton of her floral blouse.

Vittorio appreciated the moment and was just about to start some heavy flirting when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, tap-tap-tapping while he tried desperately to get his peek at what had to be the most perfect breasts in all of Italy.

“Go away. I am busy,” he said as he turned around, annoyed by the incessant pecking on his shoulder.

It was she, the elitist in the red scarf. Her hair had come undone from its clip and surrounded her face with its rich luster. Streaks of sunlight sparkled through the warm brown of thick silk.

Vittorio could only smile at his fortune. To be enveloped by two such beauties was indeed a great moment to be savored.

“Ah, it is you, signorina. Let me buy you a cappuccino,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks,” Lucy said, “but I thought you were driving to Napoli.”

“Yes, but first I drink coffee. Please, you will feel better after.” He turned to the beauty leaning on the counter. “Prego, un cappuccino.”

Lucy hesitated, but then agreed, rolled her suitcase in close, and secured her purse on her shoulder. The girl behind the counter continued to flirt with Vittorio as she made the cappuccino for Lucy.

The girl and Vittorio spoke to each other in Italian.

“Is this your lover?” she asked Vittorio.

“What kind of question—”

“Just making sure,” she said.

When she had finished making the cappuccino, she slammed it down in front of Lucy, spilling the coffee on the counter and on Lucy’s white jacket.

“Thanks a lot,” Lucy said and reached for a napkin.

Undaunted, the girl walked back to Vittorio and leaned in as far as she could. This time Vittorio got the full view.

“Oh, brother,” Lucy murmured and turned away.

“I get off work in an hour,” the girl purred.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Lucy said, as she picked up her things and walked away.

Vittorio called after her. “No. Wait.” He pulled some money out of his pocket, put it down on the counter, smiled and whispered, “Some other time, perhaps.”

“Some other time,” the coffee girl repeated, with fire in her eyes.

LUCY COULDN’T BELIEVE she had decided to hitch a ride from such a…a lush, a sleaze, a guy with absolutely no scruples. To flirt with one girl, while another waits for you, was just…well, it was disgusting. Downright disgusting!

But then it was the nature of the Italian man to flirt. Her very own father was a flirt. Somehow, her mother never cared. She would say, “Better that he looks at the menu than eat the food.”

Disgusting!

If the earth opened up at that very moment and swallowed the whole group of them, she would be happy. Jubilant! Filled with jubil.

As she walked through the airport, pondering her new descriptive phrase, envisioning a huge crack down the middle of Italy where thousands of smirking Italian men, dressed in trendy suits and black sandals lined up to jump into the abyss, she felt a tap, tap, tap on her shoulder and turned.

“Scusi, signorina. Please, my car, she waits,” he said, bowing.

Lucy stood there, staring at him while she did a mental rewind of the smile they’d exchanged on the plane.

“Then, let’s go,” she said.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and reached for her suitcase, but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her give it up.

“Please,” he said. “Allow me.”

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly able to pull my own bag.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “But why, when I am willing to pull it for you?”

She couldn’t think of a quick response, so she gave him the suitcase, but it somehow didn’t seem right. She walked alongside him with her arms folded across her chest. Lucy believed in equality, women’s rights, NOW, and didn’t particularly like it when a man showed any degree of old-world chivalry. She wanted to give him a lecture on how things were in her world, but decided this was his world so she would let it go…for now.

They walked for what seemed like forever. After hopping on at least three trams, they finally found his car in the multi-story carpark. It was a bright-red, classic, convertible Alfa Romeo Spider about the size of a tight shoe.

Lucy wondered where inside this tiny flash on wheels was the luggage going to fit. He opened her door, of course, making sure she was comfortable before he crammed the luggage into the itty-bitty trunk.

When he got in and shut his door, Lucy realized just how close they were. She could actually hear him breathing.

Help!

Suddenly, she thought of Seth. Longed for Seth. Longed for his arms around her. His face next to hers. His body so close they were one. To be cuddling with him as they watched an old movie, or lingered over a spectacular sunset—even though they’d never watched an old movie or lingered over a sunset, she was sure they would once they were married.

“I’ve got to make a phone call,” she blurted and jumped out of the car. She didn’t care that Seth was on his workday-sleeping schedule and was probably tucked in for the night. She only cared about one thing…hearing his reassuring voice.

At first she couldn’t get through, then Seth’s phone began to ring.

“Hello,” he said into her ear. It felt great to hear his voice. Made her think everything was going to be fine. That this trip was worth the effort.

“Hi, Seth. Just wanted to tell you that I’m here,” she told him.

Just at that moment, the red sportscar roared to life. “I can’t hear you. You’ll have to shout,” Seth said. “Where are you?”

“In Rome.”

“I thought you were going to Naples.”

“I’m driving. Well, I’m not driving but…I met someone who—”

“You’re breaking up. All I got was something about you…meeting someone.”

“What? I can barely hear you.” She tried to shout louder over the revving engine, but the noise only grew worse.

She thought she could hear Seth as he yawned into the phone. “Everything’s under control here, so don’t worry. Just concentrate on work. Your mother phoned. She’s taking over the wedding. Ordering more flowers. Carnations. Red ones.” He yawned again. “Call me when you get to your room.”

“But you were supposed to handle all the last-minute stuff for me, not my mother. She’ll turn it into an Italian festival. I hate red carnations!”

“Don’t worry so much. It’ll be fine. I have to go to sleep now, or I won’t get my eight hours. You know I’m lousy without my eight.”

“Seth, I—”

“Bye,” he said before she could get another word out. Before she had a chance to tell him she loved him. Before he could tell her he loved her. Not that they had said it very often, twice to be exact, twice in the year and a half they had been dating, but it was an overused word anyway.

Wasn’t it?

The phone went dead.

For an instant Lucy thought she should call him back. Tell him it was some guy she met on the plane, some weird guy who eats his shoes and smells of garlic. She was getting a ride from a complete stranger who had an unhealthy fascination with garlic and leather. Someone who carries her luggage, opens her car door and flirts with every woman he sees.

Someone who makes her toes itch.

She wanted to tell Seth everything, wanted him to get angry, jealous, enraged, but instead she opened the car door and slid into the seat next to…oh my God, she still didn’t know his name.

4

“THE FASTEST WAY to Naples is the Autostrada del Sole,” Lucy ordered even before she closed her door, as if he were a taxi driver and she were the passenger. She was staring at her glossy map that she had purchased at Barnes and Noble the minute she found out she would be going to Italy. “You can drop me off at the Santa Maria. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” he calmly said. “A beautiful hotel.”

“And don’t get any ideas. I’m getting married on Saturday.”

“This Saturday?” he asked.

“Yes, this Saturday. Is there something wrong with Saturday?”

“No. What could be wrong? If you say you’re getting married on Saturday, then you’re getting married.”

“On Saturday,” she repeated.

“This Saturday,” he said, but there was something in his voice that drove her nuts. Some bit of sarcasm or skepticism that made her want to scream. She folded her arms across her chest.

They were silent as he backed the car out of the parking spot. The quiet made her tense. Agitated. She felt as if he were judging her.

“It’s not like it’s a big wedding. Just a hundred or so people. My fiancé is handling everything. And my mother is ordering more flowers, a girl can never have too many flowers…red carnations. I love red carnations.”

Okay, so she lied, but she was going for some kind of response here. She didn’t exactly know why, but she wanted a response.

Still nothing.

He drove the car around the parking lot, squealing through the turns, then slowing on the next guy’s bumper. He drove like a maniac.

Nutso.

He finally said, “I got to make a couple stops. We take Appia, you will like it better. I am Vittorio, Vittorio Bandini.”

“Lucy Mastronardo,” she told him, tensing as he hit the brakes, almost hitting the yellow Mini in front of them.

He turned to look at her. “Then, you are Italian!”

“Only by blood. I was born in America,” she said.

“You don’t like your blood?”

“No…yes. It’s fine blood. What I mean is, I’m marrying an American.”

“That’s nice, but you will still be Italian.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Perhaps, but you cannot change who you are by marrying someone you are not.”

She stared at him for a moment, then at her map and said, “The Appia will take too long. I can’t afford the time.”

“Lucia, this is Italia and you are Italian. All you got is time.” He shifted gears and drove the car out into the morning sun.

Lucy could never understand the fascination men had with a stick shift, all that movement, up and down, back and forth. It seemed like such a waste of energy and time. Such a dated way to drive a car. Maybe you had to have a penis to understand the connection.

“I have to attend a meeting at a company,” she told him while fastening her seatbelt. She had to admit that the interior of the car was lush and comfortable compared to her Camry. This whole thing was beginning to get to her. She folded her map and shoved it into her brown Coach purse.

“Ah, Lucia, you think they care if you are late? If you stop to enjoy the ambiance of Italia? No. I do not think so. Maybe in America you must not be late, but Americans are silly people. They work too much. Can’t enjoy life.”

“Isn’t there a train I can take? Maybe you should drop me off at a train station.”

“Sure. There are trains, but why take a train when you can take me?” he said, smiling. “I am better than a train. No?”

Okay, so he’s better than a train, she thought. Better than almost anything, with that candy-talk and enticing smile, but she came to Italy for work, not play. And, she was getting married on Saturday.

This Saturday.

She took out her phone and called Subito. No one answered. She hung up and dialed again, thinking she had pressed the wrong number. Still no answer. She didn’t understand. The project had to go out in a week. There were customers and demos, and money to be made. They should be practically living at work, sleeping under their desks on futons, showering only when absolutely necessary and ordering in.

As Vittorio drove away from the airport, he said, “See, I was right. You should listen to me, Lucia.”

Lucy left a message for Giovanni, excusing herself for missing the morning meeting. Then she ordered a mandatory meeting for the entire team at one o’clock sharp, thinking that would give her plenty of time to arrive. She wanted everyone to be ready for a “show-and-tell,” complete with pen plots, schematics, and simulation results for every block on the communications chip. “Plan on an all-nighter,” she said into the phone. “Have your secretary order a couple pizzas.”

She snapped shut her phone and sank into the comfortable seat and tried to enjoy the view—the countryside, not Vittorio.

Once they were on the road to Naples, Lucy relaxed and let her mind wander to what she had learned about Italy, her Italy. As they drove, windows down, wind caressing her body, she knew she was finally home.

The view was spectacular, more breathtaking than she had ever thought it could be—the expanse of sea to her right and the terraced hills to her left. The air, clean and sweet.

Lucy’s mother had wanted to return to Italy several times, but her dad always came up with an excuse why they shouldn’t. Besides, high-school summers needed to be spent taking extra classes, preparing for college.

Her dad, who was a third-generation Italian and had no bond to Europe, had taught her about getting ahead in the world, about working hard for what you wanted, and about keeping one’s voice at a calm, low pitch.

“Lucia,” Vittorio said. “You like Italia?”

She nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about it. My mother’s from Positano.”

“Que bella! A beautiful town by the sea. And your mamma, her family, they still live in Positano?”

“No. When my grandparents died everyone moved away. I guess I’d like to see it someday.”

“You want, we can go. Positano is no far from Napoli. I know where to buy homemade Limoncello. The best!”

Lucy didn’t like his intrusion into her personal life, as if he had some kind of right because they were both Italian.

“No, thanks,” she said, trying to dismiss the conversation, but his words kept nagging at her, making her feel guilty, the way her mother always did. She didn’t have time to visit ancient villages. She had a chip to get out. Maybe some other visit, like for her first wedding anniversary. Maybe then, she and Seth would come back for a real honeymoon since there was no time for one now. They had planned a weekend in San Francisco, but Monday morning was work as usual. They were both on hot projects.

Perfect, she thought. She would return to Italy for their first anniversary and visit her mom’s hometown.

Definitely maybe, if there wasn’t a project in the way.

“Then, why are you here?”

“For business,” she said, and sat upright in the seat, hoping he would get the body language and turn off the fountain of questions.

“You make lots of money in this business?”

She shot him a look, then realized it was just an innocent question.

“I’m comfortable,” she looked over at him as he drove, shifting gears to slow down behind a bus, then shifting again to speed up to get around. It looked easy enough. She thought she probably should have taken the rental car right off. She just had a momentary panic, that’s all. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

“You no look so comfortable. You look, how you say? Tense,” he said, looking over at her.

“It was a long flight,” she mumbled.

Vittorio drove the car off an exit. Lucy asked, “Why are we getting off? We still have a long way to go.”

“We are in Frascati. The white wine is like nowhere else in Italia. Delizioso!” he drew his fingers together and kissed them. Lucy hadn’t seen that gesture for so long she had forgotten all about it. And there it was again. Vittorio had a way of making it look sultry, sexy, as if he were kissing a woman’s lips. “Sweet and exciting,” he said.

“I bet,” Lucy answered, smiling in spite of herself.

He parked his car behind a row of colorful stucco buildings: green, yellow, pink and blue. He walked over to her side of the car and opened the door before she had time to unfasten her seatbelt.

“Thank you, but I can get my own door,” she told him. He dismissed her comment.

Lucy stepped out of the car onto the cobblestone street and felt as if she had been swept away in a fairy-tale. At once she could hear the village as it came to life around her. She didn’t know how anyone might have ignored the sounds of Italy.

As she stood up and looked out over the hills behind the car, she could see the steeples and rooftops of Rome and the dome of Saint Peter’s Cathedral. The ancient city had a pink glow all its own. The vast expanse of architectural and artistic masterpieces took her breath away and brought a momentary rush of excitement.

“Magnifico, no?” Vittorio said, as he gazed at the unbelievable view.

“Yes,” was all Lucy could manage to say as she turned away from the spectacle of Rome and walked toward the colorful buildings of Frascati, a village she had never heard of.

“You will feel better after a little wine, some bread, a little prosciutto.”

“I can’t drink this early in the day.”

“There is no right time for wine. Wine keeps your blood flowing.”

“My blood flows just fine, thank you.”

“A small glass of wine and a little food, perhaps,” he said, tilting his head, smiling at her.

She caved. “Okay. Maybe a tiny glass, but only because my internal clock is messed up anyway. But I’m not the least bit hungry,” she said, lying, wishing again she had rented the stick shift when it was first offered, thinking that by now she would have mastered the damn thing and been halfway to Naples, alone, thinking about work rather than a Roman holiday.

“Whatever you want,” he said, smiling.

Sigh.

Vittorio came up behind her and guided her through the back door of Cantina Fienza, a dark, musky-smelling winery with three walls covered in wine barrels stacked on wooden shelves. There were a few small tables clustered in the center of the room, and wine-making tools littered the floor. The ceiling, a fresco, depicted naked men and round naked women clutching bunches of purple grapes in evocative positions. She wondered if the artist had used live models.

For some reason, Lucy blushed.

A short, roly-poly man came toward them, smiling. He yelled out Vittorio’s name with his arms outstretched and a look of delight on his deeply tanned face.

They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks and spoke in Italian. “Vittorio, my nephew, it’s been a long time,” the man said as he stepped back from him.

“Ah, Antonio, it’s good to see you,” Vittorio answered.

“And who is this beautiful woman?” Antonio asked.

Vittorio spoke in English. “This is Lucia. My friend.”

Antonio leaned in and hugged Lucy. Her tiny body pressed up against his soft chest. For an instant, she felt safe, warm, welcomed, but the moment passed and she pulled away. She was getting far too sentimental.

“Come, sit down and taste my wine,” he said.

She followed his directions and sat at a small, round table with Vittorio. There were a few other people in the cantina, drinking espresso mostly, laughing and talking with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if the place were crowded, but it wasn’t. Most of the tables were empty.

Soon there were several glasses in front of them filled with different shades of white wine, an assortment of cold meats, cheese and olives.

“First, you try the golden wine.” Vittorio slid a glass toward her. “It cleans the tongue.”

Lucy was a little hesitant thinking about the tranquilizer she had taken. Vittorio insisted. She took a sip—a musky-tasting wine, dry, with an almond aftertaste.

She liked it and took another drink, a big one.

“Perfecto, no?” Vittorio beamed. He handed her a slice of prosciutto wrapped around a piece of melon. She took a bite. Totally terrific.

“Perfecto! Yes,” she declared, beaming.

Somewhere, music played, mixed with laughter. Lucy liked the way the place made her feel. Festive, she thought as she wrapped her red Chanel scarf around her shoulders.

Next, she tried the more yellow wine, crisp, clean, the kind of wine that warmed the palate. She tore off a chunk of bread and ate a few green olives.

“Have some cheese. It’s good for you. Makes your bones strong,” Vittorio said, cutting off a chunk big enough for a family of four. But it was wickedly creamy and melted in her mouth.

More wine. She needed more wine.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said after she downed another glass. When they’d finished off the two white wines, she decided to try the blush. It was sweet, a little floral tasting and went down easily along with the cappocolo, one of her favorite Italian sliced meats. She carefully folded each tender slice inside a crust of bread, spread open a couple olives and removed the pits, then placed the olives on top of the meat, then a drizzle of olive oil, a thick slice of cheese, another gulp of wine and Lucy had reached cuisine bliss.

“It’s good to watch you eat. I like it,” Vittorio said sitting back in his chair, swirling his wine in his glass. “As if you cannot get enough.”

Lucy felt red heat spread across her face. She tried to calm herself as she wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin.

She had forgotten how incredible Italian food could taste. Most of the time she ate out of the vending machines at work. Chef Boyardee was one of her closest friends.

She had also forgotten how fantastic a torn piece of bread could be when its crust was sweet and warm from the oven, and the meat, sharp with spices, the melon, perfectly ripe and luscious, the olives, pungent with garlic.

Lucy had eaten everything and drunk all the wine until she felt so full she had to unbutton the top button of her pants.

She sat back. “I must have been hungry.”

“You are starving,” he said, and stared at her.

Lucy suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though he could hear her inner thoughts. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.

Antonio walked over. “The wine is ready, Vittorio.”

“Scusi,” Vittorio said to Lucy and got up from the table, picked up a box of wine and walked it out the back door. When he returned, it was time for farewell kisses and hugs.

“That was fantastic,” Lucy told Vittorio when they were back in his car driving down the narrow motor-way, her feet resting on the box of wine. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” he said with a little bow.

Lucy sat back in her seat and immediately fell asleep.

It didn’t take long before Vittorio made another stop.

This time he made his way through a tiny village to a farm where two ostriches stared at them from behind a tall wire fence and water buffalos poked their heads through wooden rails painted pure white, and a proud rooster spread its colorful head feathers in welcome.

“What now?” Lucy asked, all dreamy-eyed as Vittorio pulled the car up in front of a stone farmhouse. She was at once angry over another stop and fascinated by the farm surroundings.

“Garlic and mozzarella. The best! Wait ’til you taste the mozzarella. Fresh from early this morning. Sweet like mother’s milk,” he said and kissed his fingers again. This time Lucy smiled over at him as he made his way around the car to get her door. She waited, feeling a little woozy. She wanted to get mad because of the second delay, but all she could think of was the fresh mozzarella. The very thought of the creamy soft cheese made her mouth water in anticipation.

Inside the farmhouse, which turned out to be a busy restaurant, Lucy and Vittorio were greeted by a crusty middle-aged man with rough hands and a mustache that curled up at the ends. “Vittorio! Ciao! Come va?” the man asked as they hugged and kissed.

“Lucia, this is my cousin, Philippi.” Philippi turned and hugged and kissed Lucy as if they were old friends. His mustache tickled and she saw a sly sparkle in his bright blue eyes. She thought this was getting too weird, like some episode of The Sopranos. All she needed now was for James Gandolfini to walk out of the back room pointing a gun at Vittorio and she’d know this was one of her sleepwalking episodes.

But he didn’t.

Instead, she and Vittorio were escorted to a table next to a window with a view of the surrounding lush green hills. Black goats and white sheep grazed on the slopes, along with a few speckled cows.

Lucy wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning to see goats and cows out your back window instead of miles of beige stucco.

“Scusi, Lucia. I will return in a moment.”

“More wine?”

“Fresh garlic. Mozzarella.”

“You have a big family or something?”

“The biggest!”

Vittorio left her alone at the table. She refused to eat. Absolutely refused, except for maybe a small piece of fresh mozzarella, and a mushroom or two.

And maybe a vegetable and a chunk of bread.

But that was it.

“Just a taste,” she told the waitress.

Lucy tried to refuse the large plate of food the waitress brought over, until she saw what was on it—sliced tomatoes and fresh milky-white mozzarella drizzled with olive oil and herbs, grilled zucchini, mushrooms and eggplant. She couldn’t resist. A loaf of bread appeared, and a carafe of red wine.

She thought she would simply taste the mozzarella and leave the rest, but once the sweet, rich cheese hit her tastebuds the battle was over. She took another bite and another until once again, she couldn’t stop. She ate everything.

Meanwhile, she watched as Vittorio carried cartons of cheese out to the car.

When he joined her, Philippi appeared with two bowls of ravioli filled with goat’s milk ricotta and artichoke hearts, smothered in a thick red sauce.

Lucy cringed.

“I can’t eat anymore. I’m going to burst,” she told Vittorio.

“You have to taste the ricotta. It is like nowhere else in the world,” Vittorio said as he sliced open one of the round pillows of pasta revealing the soft cheese tucked inside. He poked one half of the pillow with his fork and held it up, cupping his other hand under the fork while the sauce dripped to his fingers.

“Come on,” he urged, with a tilt of his head. Lucy leaned in and wrapped her lips around the ravioli, slowly pulling back to let the warm pasta with the luscious sauce fall into her mouth. Sauce dripped from her lips and onto Vittorio’s fingers. He pulled his hand back and licked off the drops of sauce.

Lucy flushed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What you think? Buono?” Vittorio sat back and watched as she ate, obviously enjoying the look of satisfaction on her face.

“Too good,” she whispered under her breath.

5

“I THINK I’m going to be sick,” Lucy said as Vittorio pulled her suitcase through the plush lobby of the Santa Maria hotel, a lavishly decked-out retreat with huge vases filled with fresh flowers, French gold-leafed tables and chairs. Red rugs with intricate colorful patterns running through thick fibers covered the brown-tiled floor, and marble pillars touched an ornate ceiling. A gigantic crystal chandelier hung right in the middle, shooting its rainbow of colors throughout the entire room.

The lobby was positively spectacular, and Lucy was positively mortified.

“What do you mean, sick?” he asked.

“I mean sick, like, I’m going to vomit. I have to get out of here,” she whispered.

“No. Wait. We find a toilet,” he said, but Lucy was on her way out the front door where she stopped to throw up…in front of the doorman…in front of a woman wearing a pink silk suit, and pink Christian Dior heels.

“Dio mio!” the woman yelled and took a step back. But it was too late. Lucy had let go with such a force that it splattered on the woman’s dress and on her shoes.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy murmured when it was all over, but the woman was so utterly disgusted she wouldn’t even look up. The doorman ordered Lucy to leave as he ushered the screaming woman inside the lobby, away from Lucy who was now on a wobbly retreat. Fortunately the Alfa Romeo was parked right in front of the hotel. Completely humiliated, she got into the car, grateful that Vittorio had left it open.

“Ah yes, that kind of sick,” Vittorio said. He returned her suitcase to the trunk and got in beside her. “You want I should get you some Briosci?”

“God! Can we just get out of here?” Lucy said as she slid down in her seat.

“But your room—”

Lucy looked at him, pleading. “I can’t go in there now. Not after I just puked my guts out on some lady’s shoes. And they were such pretty shoes.”

Vittorio started the car and pulled away from the hotel.

Lucy’s whole world spun around in a wild, mind-numbing tumble. She felt so thoroughly out of control she couldn’t center on what she should do next, let alone where she should go. She desperately wanted to get away from Vittorio, but she couldn’t quite focus on the how.

Fatigue engulfed her. If she could just close her eyes for a minute, maybe the world would stop spinning.

LUCY AWOKE like a kitten waking from a nap in the sun. She yawned and stretched as sunlight played in colored shapes on the windows and dashboard. She had a slight headache, but mostly felt completely at ease and at peace with herself as she looked around for what caused the sunlight to dance, but she couldn’t find it. Perhaps the rental had come with a crystal, she thought. How fabulous.

She hadn’t slept as well or as soundly in a very long time and she relished the moment. Only, something was wrong. She was sitting in the passenger side of the car and not the driver’s side. How odd. And, she could smell coffee. How could that be? And onions. She could actually smell onions frying.

“What time is it?” she said, and moved out of her almost fetal position to look at her watch.

As she moved, her eyes shut with a deep yawn, her arms encircled the man sleeping next to her, warm and responsive. Maybe she wasn’t awake, after all, she mused. She felt him pull her in closer. She liked the way he made her feel when her body touched his. Liked the smell of him, the warmth. She especially liked the way his arms felt around her. “Lucia,” he said in a low voice as his lips lingered next to hers for a moment before sending a sensual shiver through her entire body. His breath warm on her throat…

“It’s you,” she yelled, eyes now wide open.

With all the strength in her legs and arms, she pushed Vittorio right out of the open car door and onto the street. He landed next to a fruit stand and tomatoes cascaded onto his head. Lucy jumped out of the car.

Total panic swept over her, causing her head to throb and her stomach to ache as she stood next to the car and realized she had no idea where she was.

“You are the lowest of the low. Pond scum, that’s what you are. Pond scum,” Lucy said as she struggled to get her things out of the car. The street was crowded with people, so Lucy tried to keep her voice down.

“Lucia, what is wrong? I did nothing,” Vittorio said as he gingerly stood, avoiding the tomatoes.

They stared at each other from either side of the sports car. The hood glistened in the sunshine, giving everything a sort of red glow. Lucy said, “You were about to kiss me.”

“Yes.”

“What else happened while I was sleeping? Wait…I don’t want to know. Yes. I do. No. I don’t.” Total panic sent her spinning out of control.

“Lucia, nothing happened. You have my word.”

“Your word! Is that supposed to mean something? Do we have some sort of history I can pin that statement on to?”

“Lucia, of course you know me. We just slept together,” he said, grinning.

“We did not sleep together. That was a rest, a nap, nothing more.”

“But Lucia, you are so beautiful when you are in my arms.”

“You are the most despicable, contemptible…there are no words to describe you. You’re beyond words. You’re a thing. A slimy, green thing.”

“Please. Be calm. What could I do? Your jacket was wet, and stained.”

Her jacket? What jacket? Lucy suddenly realized she wasn’t wearing her white jacket. Things were digressing rapidly. Somehow in her fog, she remembered vomiting on some woman’s shoes. Embarrassment washed over her like a mud bath, thick and warm, but she was determined not to let the pond scum know. Not now. Not in the middle of an argument.

“Okay, so what! You took advantage of me and I can’t even remember all that we did, or if we did. Did we?”

He made a gesture indicating that she was being ridiculous. “Lucia, please,” then he reached into the car, pulled out her jacket and scarf and handed them to her across the roof.

She ripped them out of his hands. The jacket stunk, and was covered in red wine stains. “You’re so typical.”

“Lucia, do not be like this. Everything is fine.”

Lucy seriously doubted that. What she needed was a restroom so she could clean herself up and leave. “I need a ladies’ room,” she said.

“Scusi?” He didn’t understand her.

“A toilet. I need a public toilet,” she explained.

“But my mamma’s villa is not far. I have a nice room. We go there. You will be more comfortable.”

Lucy had read somewhere that many Italian young men liked to live at home with their mothers, who doted on them as if they were still little boys, rather than moving out on their own. The Italians called them mammisimos, mamma’s boys. She wondered if Vittorio was a mammisimo.

Probably, she thought. He has that mamma’s-boy look.

Lucy spotted a public toilet sign down the street. “Can I please have my luggage out of the trunk? I need to get to Subito, like, now.” She glanced at her watch. It was already one o’clock. “Damn, I’m late.” He unloaded her luggage.

“Scusi, you gotta get to Subito?” Vittorio asked, slowly, as if he didn’t believe what she had just said.

He was really an aggravating man. Did he know something about Subito?

Well, even if he did, she didn’t care.

“Yes, and I’m going to be late for my own meeting.”

“Subito. Your business is Subito?” Vittorio laughed.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.