The Italian's Seduction Page 9
The problem was, she was always thinking of Massimo kissing her. Half an hour later she was climbing the hill to the villa and thinking about Massimo kissing her. She was going to his house because she’d been stupid enough to leave some clothes in the dryer when she had packed her things last week and she needed them. She really hoped she wasn’t going to run into him.
Please don’t let me run into him, she pleaded to whatever deity was willing to grant her the request. It was silly, really. Surely she could face him for a few minutes without any emotional drama and trauma?
Mimma was all smiles when Charli walked into the kitchen. Then Valentina sashayed in and Charli gaped at her.
“Valentina! I hardly recognized you!”
Valentina laughed. “Do you like it?” She twirled around to give Charli a full view of her now very short hairdo. Very short.
“You look great,” Charli said, which was the truth. Her luminous gray eyes looked bigger, the beautiful shape of her face and neck was more visible now and she looked altogether more sophisticated and…older.
“When did you get this done?”
“This morning. I was coming tomorrow to show you.” She bit her lip, her expression suddenly dark and stormy. She took Charli’s hand. “Come to my room, okay?”
“What’s wrong?” Charli asked after Valentina closed the bedroom door behind them.
“Massimo was furious when I came home this morning,” Valentina said, her eyes flashing with anger. “It’s my hair! I should be able to do with it what I want!”
Shades of Richard. What was wrong with these men? Why did they feel they had to control everything?
“You’d think I’d committed some crime the way he reacted,” Valentina went on. “I just don’t get it. He’s always giving me these lectures about honesty and integrity and moral values, but I don’t understand what my hair has to do with that.”
She opened the door to her clothes closet and pulled out a dress. “What do you think of this? I just bought it yesterday.” She held it in front of her. “I don’t wear dresses much, but I really liked it.”
“It’s great. I like the color.” It was periwinkle-blue and white and looked fresh and cool.
Valentina stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes unfocused. “You know, sometimes I think he’s afraid I’m going to become some sort of man-hunting witch, cheating men and lying to get what I want.”
Charli laughed. “Why in the world would he think that?”
Valentina shrugged helplessly and tossed the dress on the bed. “I have no idea. You wouldn’t believe what a boring good girl I am. I haven’t even had sex yet.”
“Wow. And you’re already seventeen?”
“Don’t laugh at me. I’m probably the only one in my whole school.”
“Probably not. And you’re smart to wait and you know it.”
Valentina sighed. “I know.” She sagged down on the side of the bed and frowned. “You know, I don’t know of any guy I even want to have sex with.”
“Fortunately you have plenty of time to find one.”
“And he’d better like my short hair.” She ran her hands through it and giggled. “I told Massimo if he didn’t shut up about my hair I’d dye half of it orange and the other half purple. You should have seen his face.”
Charli could well imagine.
Moments later the man in question stood towering in the doorway and Charli’s secret hope not to have to face Massimo vanished. His expression as he looked at her promised nothing good.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked with such cold arrogance she practically shivered.
“Go ahead,” she said, trying to look casual.
“In my office.”
She clenched her teeth. “Excuse me? Is that an order?”
His eyes narrowed. “In my office, please,” he said with exaggerated politeness.
She glanced at her watch. “I’m not sure I have time.” A lie, but she wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
“It will only be a moment.”
“That’s all I have, much as I would love to stay and chat.” She turned and looked at Valentina, giving her a quizzical shrug. “I suppose I’d better find out what crime I have committed. I’ll be right back.”
She followed him down the hall. “Massimo,” she said, taking the initiative as soon as they’d entered his office, “don’t tell me this is about Valentina’s hair.”
“Have a seat,” he said, waving at one of the chairs.
“I’m fine, thanks.” She frowned at him. “Why are you so upset? It’s only hair.”
“It’s not only hair.” Hands resting on his hips, he was standing in the middle of the room, his face expressionless.
She observed him for a moment, understanding dawning. “No, you’re right,” she said slowly, “it’s not only about hair. I think I know what it is, Massimo.”
“Really? And what is that?” His imperious expression grated on her nerves.
“You don’t like losing control. That’s part of it. And the other part is that you don’t like what you see when you look at her now. It frightens you.”
“Frightens me?” He gave a dry little laugh.
“She looks more grown-up, more sophisticated. Your little sister who always needed your protection is a young woman now who needs some freedom and independence and you don’t like it.” She paused for effect. “And yes, the men will be looking at her; they already were, I’m sure. She’s beautiful, but she will have to learn how to handle the attention. You need to advise her, not try to keep her protected.”
“Thank you for the lecture,” he said coolly, “but she’s my sister and as long as she is my responsibility she must listen to me. And I suggest you try not to influence her and encourage her in ways I do not approve of.” The arrogant tone of his voice was infuriating.
“Listen to yourself, Massimo! You sound like some kind of control freak! She’s seventeen years old and in your opinion she should need big brother’s approval about the way she has her hair?” Anger rushed hot through her blood. “Are you out of your mind? This is the twenty-first century!”
“And I am responsible for her.”
“Yes, she’s still dependent on you as her guardian, but she needs to learn to make independent decisions. What kind of woman do you want her to be? Someone who waits for her husband to make all the decisions? Tell her what to wear, tell her how to have her hair. What to eat in a restaurant? Who to vote for?”
She couldn’t stop herself. She saw his face, the surprise in his eyes, yet she raged on about the evils of controlling men and the damage he would cause his sister with his behavior.
“Pretty soon she’ll be wearing only what he wants her to wear. Next he’ll be telling her what to think and how to behave and not go out with her friends and every time she has an original thought he’ll tell her she’s being ridiculous or she makes no sense…” Her voice shook, her eyes burned with tears. “Don’t do this to her, Massimo!”
She stopped herself, could not believe what had come over her. Massimo looked at her silently, his expression unreadable.
She turned on her heel and rushed out of his office, tried to calm herself as she walked back to Valentina’s room to get her purse and the clothes she’d left behind.
She had to get away.
Fortunately Valentina was not in her room. Charli gathered her things and fled. She’d call Valentina later.
As she climbed down the stone steps back to town, all she could think of was how lucky she was to have her own apartment. How very happy she was not to have to spend time with Massimo anymore.
The Piazza di San Bonaventura was an interesting place to watch the world go by. Charli was sitting at the outdoor coffee shop with her mid-morning cappuccino and sfogliatella pastry, watching the people, one of her favorite pastimes. Three fashionably dressed young women sat at the next table, smoking, drinking coffee and working their cellphones. Beautiful nails, beautiful hair, beautiful clothes.
I
t was a glorious day, and she was feeling wonderful. She’d been up early and had worked on her balcony on the laptop for four hours, as was her habit since moving into the apartment, and, as was her habit, she was now sitting here at the outdoor coffee shop soaking up things Italian.
Her cellphone rang and she fished it out of her handbag. “Hello?” she offered.
“Hello, Charli.”
Massimo. Her heart lurched on its own accord, which did not please her. Their conversation of a few days ago was still fresh in her mind.
“Hello, Massimo. Did I do something else wrong?”
“I know you do not feel particularly charitable toward me,” he said wearily, “but I need your help.”
“Really?” she asked coolly. “What’s the matter? Did Valentina run away?”
“No,” he said, “and she won’t be able to for a while.”
“What did you do? Lock her up in her room? Afraid she’ll dye her hair orange or get a ring through her nose?”
“I didn’t hear about the ring through her nose.”
“I made that up. But you never know. And then there are the tattoos, of course.”
“Thank you, I feel better now. And, to answer your question, no, I have not locked her up in her room. It was not necessary. She managed to get herself imprisoned in the house without any help from me.” He paused, probably to give her a moment to consider the meaning of his words.
They made no sense to her at all.
“If this is a riddle, I don’t get it.”
“She broke her leg yesterday. The cast is up to the middle of her thigh, and—”
“Oh, no, that’s terrible!” Alarm and pity filled her. She’d never had a broken bone herself, but it sounded excruciating. “What happened? Is she all right? Is she in pain?”
“She will live, she tells me. She’s not in a lot of pain, but she’s in a horrible humor—mood. She’s not going back to school next week. For the next six weeks she will not be roaming far.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll call her. Can I come to see her this afternoon?”
“Of course. She’ll be happy to see you.” He paused. “Charli, I need your help.”
An ambulance turned into the piazza, lights flashing, sirens shrieking. Charli covered her right ear with her hand.
“Yes, sure, what can I do?”
“Move back here. Keep Valentina company.” He went on saying something about Rome and trips, but she didn’t hear it.
Move back into the villa?
Charli stared at the ambulance moving across the piazza, scattering pigeons and pedestrians, shredding the peace with its siren, warning of danger and disaster.
Somebody besides her was in big trouble.
CHAPTER NINE
“CHARLI? Is that a siren? Did you hear me?”
She swallowed, felt panic rising. “Yes, I heard you.” Her voice squeaked with nervousness. She couldn’t do it. It was too dangerous to spend time with him in the same place, to see him every day and battle her attraction for him. Massimo was all wrong for her. She couldn’t afford to fall for him. The siren shrieked and shrieked. Her head began to pound.
“Valentina is driving me crazy, Charli. I need your help. Please, come back and stay at the house.”
The ambulance came to a stop in front of the Santa Lucia Pizzeria and the siren halted in mid-shriek, the abrupt silence almost ominous.
“Yes, yes, of course I’ll come,” she heard herself say.
From her balcony, an hour later, Charli surveyed the other balconies across the courtyard. On one a young woman watered her plants. On another a dog lay asleep, one leg poking outside the railing. From the open windows of the apartment above came cooking noises—the clattering of pots and pans, water running. She smelled the fragrance of garlic and herbs and tomatoes cooking.
Her lunch plate held fresh bread she’d bought in the panetteria on the way back from the coffee shop, provolone cheese, a ripe red tomato, fresh green sage leaves. A yellow bowl of purple grapes was dessert. Together it looked like a colorful painting, a piece of edible art.
From somewhere the voice of a woman called out across the courtyard and another one answered, laughing.
She loved this place, all the life going on for her to observe. Laundry hung out to dry—sheets and old-lady underwear on one balcony, sexy tops and lacy bras on another. Through open windows came the sounds of babies crying, phones ringing, soap opera stars weeping on TV.
Massimo had asked her to come back and stay at the villa and she’d said yes.
She was trying hard not to panic, not to feel that this was a terrible mistake. She knew what frightened her most and it wasn’t Massimo. It was herself. She was afraid of her own feelings for him. Afraid of doing something stupid, like falling in love with him.
She thought of Valentina, now confined to the sofa with her leg in a cast and her friends in school again next week. Even Gina, her friend from her elementary school days, would move away. Nothing to do but read and watch TV and do whatever homework the school in Rome would send her.
How could she have possibly said no to Massimo’s request?
“Don’t you worry I’ll be a bad influence on her?” she’d asked him, unable to resist the impulse to put him on the defensive. Not high-minded of her, but there it was. She’d still been sitting on the piazza watching the medics take a man on a stretcher into the ambulance.
“She likes you, Charli,” he’d said, “and I want her happy, and I’m sorry I offended you.”
Making nice, now that you need me, are you? she’d almost asked, but contained the childish impulse. Surely she owed him a favor in spite of what he’d said to her. He’d helped her when she’d needed help, had rescued her from sleeping in the street when she couldn’t get into the apartment.
And Valentina…she’d do a lot for Valentina. She’d already talked to her on the phone, heard the whole sorry tale about how she had made one silly little misstep, tripped and tumbled down a set of marble steps and landed in a most unfortunate bodily position. Her right leg had objected in dramatic fashion. “I heard it crack, Charli!” Valentina had wailed, which wasn’t a detail Charli relished thinking about.
In the apartment above the baby cried. Charli heard the soothing sounds of the mother comforting the child. She couldn’t hear the words, but the tone of her voice was universal. She’d seen the two on a couple of occasions when they’d gone out for a walk. The baby was picture-perfect cute with huge brown eyes and dark curly hair and a toothless smile that could melt a heart of stone.
She felt a sudden yearning to hold a baby, have one of her own, feel its soft warm weight in her arms. The strength of the feeling surprised her and she grew still, savoring the moment, aware of a delicious sense of freedom: I can have a baby if I want to.
She’d told herself for so long she didn’t want children that all those maternal feelings had gone underground. And now, suddenly, here they were again, liberated, joyous.
Richard had had their life together already planned out, with no assistance from her. A plan that included a big house in the suburbs, two children and trips to Europe to get cultured.
She remembered being furious, and frightened. Not because there had been anything wrong with his plan apart from his snobbish desire to get “cultured”, but because he’d apparently considered her presence in his life as something he could simply steer and direct. As if she were an appliance with buttons and dials. She’d felt frightened because she’d felt a loss of control.
“I’m not sure I want children at all,” she’d said, in an intuitive impulse to resist his controlling attitude. Of course, he’d not taken her seriously. He’d smiled indulgently, taken her in his arms and said that of course she wanted children later.
And so, subconsciously, she’d set out to prove him wrong. She could see that now. She listened to the mother singing a lullaby in Italian, sweet and soothing.
She wanted babies. She wanted a husband. Probably not in that order.
She found her old room at the villa filled with the fragrance of flowers. A luxuriant arrangement gloried on a glass-topped table. Blooms of all sorts were gathered together in a stunning combination of colors and sizes—birds of paradise, orchids, roses, lilies and other exotic flowers she could not name.
A small card was tucked inside the greenery, almost hidden.
Please accept these as a token of my gratitude. Grazie mille! Massimo.
“I didn’t think you would come,” Massimo said to Charli later that evening, wondering why he had admitted his uncertainty to her. She was sitting across from him at the dinner table on the terrace and looked delicious in an apricot-colored shirt, her curls doing a shimmering dance whenever she moved a little, her voice sing-song seduction as she spoke. He didn’t want to notice these things, but he did.
“I’m a sucker for the sick and suffering, that’s why,” she said with a touch of humor. The suffering Valentina had just been helped to her room. She had refused dessert, afraid she was going to grow fat being more or less immobile for the next six weeks or so.
Charli never refused dessert. He watched her as she slipped a spoonful of the creamy zabaione into her mouth, noticed how she savored it.
“I want to ask you a question,” he said. “About the hair incident.”
“You’re not still mad about that, are you?” Her blue eyes challenged him.
“No, but I’m curious why you were so angry—that was not only about my reaction to Valentina’s hair, was it?”
“It wasn’t?” She didn’t look at him, took another spoonful of zabaione.
“It was about you.”
She grimaced. “Are you going to play psychoanalyst now?”
“Am I right?”
“Yes. And I apologize for my outburst. This is so delicious, especially with the berries on it. What is it called?”