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“So tasty,” he mumbled around my finger. Fuck but he was so sexy. We’d just fucked like rabbits but seeing him with something of mine in his mouth was making my dick twitch already. “I wish I could stay here in bed with you tonight.”
I saw my opening, no pun intended. “Do you hate your jobs?”
He looked at me as if I had asked if he disliked being stung on the balls by a jellyfish. “Well, I mean, you might not hate them, right?”
“They are menial jobs. Yes, I hate them. I want to row, but that is not happening anymore.” He crawled over me to exit the bed. I moved to the side, sitting on the edge, as he stalked to the tiny bathroom to wash up. When he was at the itty-bitty sink, I went to stand behind him, easing my arms around his middle and then pressing kisses along the bumps of his spine. I heard his sigh as he splashed water on his face, neck, and chest. “I’m sorry for being shit. I’m just…tired of being so poor that I cannot ever see a way out of this place.”
“You could get a different job,” I offered, rubbing my cheek against his back.
“Arlo, a job for a man with no college is just a job. There is no dreaming in it. You wake up, you work, you sleep. You do this over and over until you die.” He straightened, peeled me off him, and turned to look down at me. “You cannot understand.”
“Oh please.” He waved a hand at me as if that gesture would silence me. Surely he knew better than that by now. “Don’t wave a hand at me. I perfected that move, bitch. Also, I do understand!”
“No, Arlo, you do not. You play at being a working man but you and me we both know your poppa talks big games but in the end, he is not making you mow grass or wash dishes.”
Well, shit, he had me there. “Okay, that’s probably true, but I could help you get away from lawnmowers and dirty dishes. My father offered me the senior manager position at farm 20.” His eyes flared wide as hubcaps.
“My point is made,” he finally said.
“Fine, my family is rich. They won’t let me starve, and I highly doubt yours would either. That’s not the point here, though.”
“What is the point you are making?” he barked as he walked out of the bath, clearly in a mood but taking care not to jostle his shoulder into me to make room. Gah, this man was too sweet even when pissy. “If you are going to offer me cash then do not. Please do not offer me money. I will not take it from you or your aunt.”
“I’m not offering you a handout. I’m offering you a job.” That brought him to a fast halt beside the fan. The blades whirred. He stared at me. I padded out to stand before him, chin up, hands coming to rest on his damp chest. “A good job, one with benefits, and a retirement plan. One that would mean you could spend time training, buy a new scull, invest in your dream, and then go for the gold.”
“What would the job be?”
Yes, I had him interested. I smiled up at him, his heart pounding under my hand. “A new broom sweeps clean as they say.”
“You want me to sweep an olive orchard?”
“No, I mean that when the old manager leaves so will some of his staff, I assume. My father says Signor Piravino is old school, so the people who work under him probably are too. I don’t know yet, maybe I’m just talking shit, but we can find you a position, I’m sure of it.”
“Are you going to take the manager job?”
“I’m thinking about it, but only if I can still see you.” I rose to my toes to drop a kiss on his puffy lips and then linked my hands behind his neck. “I will not leave Florence if you’re not going too. This relationship is too important to me.”
His long lashes lowered as he placed his brow on mine. “You are important to me too. I must think about all this, yes?”
“Yes, yes, think. I’m thinking about it too.” He stole a kiss, sadly just a tiny one, and then had to dash to his job serving meals to hungry tourists. I slipped out of his apartment after taking a shower, locking the door behind me, and easing behind the wheel of my darling little Bianchina. I cranked her over and sat there waiting for a break in the traffic so I could attempt to pull from the curb.
“Well, we’ll see what happens. We might be moving to the country,” I told the car. She backfired in reply and stalled. I called her a bad name in Italian, one of many curses Donvino had taught me, and she seemed to understand that better. She zipped out in front of a yellow Fiat with all kinds of attitude. I got another honk with a hand gesture that I returned with a comment about his mother and a goat. The guy laughed madly. Okay, maybe I had said I fucked a goat and not his mother. I did need to spend more time with my tutor. Maybe she could fit me in now.
At the next red light I called and was informed that yes, Señorina Capello was home and would see me for an evening session but not to make a habit of dropping by without an appointment.
Fair enough. I half expected to be told to leave my calling card or something properly Bridgerton. Gods I love that show. The clothes! The hair! The men! I was still drooling over the Duke when I wiggled my little green-and-white car into a space that left about an inch between my front bumper and the rear bumper of a gold Dacia. The dogs met me at the door, both in bright yellow sweaters with red stripes. As if the little bald buggers needed to stand out even more. Signora Britta gathered them up under her arms as if they were yapping footballs and then stepped back to allow me to enter.
“Señorina Capello is in her bath. Please wait for her in the puzzle room,” the harried woman in the black dress said before turning on her flat rubber heel to take the dogs somewhere. Their barks grew fainter and fainter as I headed toward the stairs. I knew exactly where the puzzle room was, as about half of my lessons took place there. The other half had been held in a large airy room with plenty of sun and several oil paintings on easels. My great-aunt’s friend enjoyed painting and was quite good at it, even if her fingers were now bent from age. Feeling bouncy and filled with hope even though Donvino had not said yes to my offer, I slowly climbed the stairs, pausing as I did every time I visited to enjoy the framed oils lining the wall. Most I had enjoyed previously. The colors were so warm, the small couple in each one making me smile as I sought them out. About halfway up I noted a new oil had been hung, this one a rectangle in a dark cherry frame. I stopped mid-flight, surprised to see the back garden of my aunt’s villa presented in glorious detail. The pergola, the plants, the flowers. Even the bird baths and Lucia were present. Off to the left were the couple, but in this painting they were bigger, both women wearing huge hats that dipped to cover their faces. One in robin’s egg blue and one wearing a safflower, both in day gowns. They were seated on a white wrought-iron bench, one that I’d rested on a few times while speaking with Ginerva. Vittoria had done a wonderful job of placing her imaginary ladies into this modern garden. I smiled at the shyness of the imagery of the two grand dames, perhaps whispering to each other as they held each other’s hands. Then I looked closer, tipping my head to see under the wide brim of one of the women. My eyes rounded. There was just the faintest hint of a cheek, smooth as a peach, and a pink set of lips touching that cheek.
I blinked. Oh well, now this might not be just two Victorian ladies secretly passing along the latest gossip of the ton. I truly did need to get the Duke out of my head. Perhaps this was a clandestine moment between two lovers. Oh yes, I did like that idea much better! With that in mind, I jogged down the stairs to find the couple in all the paintings.
Now that I had a new perspective on them, I found that they were always presented together, close to each other, one gay feathery hat touching the other. Were they kissing under those flamboyant bonnets? I wanted to think they were. There was no way to truly know, of course, but I liked my scenario. When I was back mid-flight, I gave the larger oil a final perusal, my eyes picking at the finer details such as a small bird amid the bushes or the stream of sun striking the shoulder of the fine lady in blue. It was enjoyable to get lost in a painting. I scanned the sleeves of the gowns, the pale forearms, and then the petite hands that were almost touching but not quite. A glint of gold had been dropped on the right hand of the lady in blue. I leaned in closer, hands clasped behind my back, to study the signet ring. It was nearly impossible to have fine detail obviously, but the closer my nose went to the canvas, the clearer a large B on that ring became.
My eyes rounded. That was the Bonetti signet. It had to be. And if that ring rested on the finger of the lady in blue who was being kissed by…that meant…
“No shit,” I gasped as I stared at the two women sharing an intimate moment in my aunt’s garden. Was this just an imaginary moment, or did this actually take place? My curious mind needed answers, and it needed them right now!
I ran as if the hounds of hell were on my heels to find Señorina Capello and try to wriggle some juicy tidbits from her.
