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I felt a swoon coming on. He cleared the pergola and his gaze met mine. Dark, dark eyes framed with thick lashes. Yep, a swoon was imminent.
“Catch me, kitty,” I whispered.
The cat just continued to sunbathe as if Neptune’s hot son wasn’t smiling up at me.
“Buongiorno!” he called, stopping beside a potted lemon tree, his hand coming up in a wave, showing me a thick arm with a nice thatch of black hair. What a manly man he was.
“Good morning,” I replied, easing to the rail and then grabbing it with my free hand.
“Good morning,” he said once more, his sneakers moving him slowly over the small flat stones on the garden path. “You must be Signor Arlo. It’s a pleasure to see you. I’m Donvino, Giada and Alessio’s grandson. I bring up your bags for you last night.”
“Oh, that was you. Thank you. That was ever so kind.” I batted my lashes, went to my toes, and leaned over even further. “Your English is quite good.”
“Grazie. Thank you. I work in a restaurant for some nights with many tourists, so it is important to speak English good.” Lord he was charming. And big. So big and strong. I could eat him up with a spoon just like a serving of tiramisu. “The bags are inside your door,” he said as he dabbed at his face with the edges of his lime green tank top. Yum, yum, yum.
“Yes, I know. I saw them,” I called down as the cat began to circle my ankles.
“Ah good. Good. Then you are finding your clothes soon?”
Caught up in the heavy flirt I was tossing out like confetti, I heard his words, but they took a moment to sink in. When they did, I gasped, blushed, and threw my hands down to cover my junk. God above I was in my skimpy pink thong.
“Oh shit!” I cried out, spun, and dashed inside before his grandmother or—god forbid—Aunt Ginerva, should decide to enter the back garden. I heard soft, deep laughter floating into my room. Nice. He had a sense of humor. And pecs. Lots of pecs. And abs. I dashed around gathering my things then flew into the bath which was another study in elegance with white tiles splashed with sunflower yellow, a shower with a rainfall showerhead that could easily hold two men—or one svelte man and one river God—and a sparkling white bidet and toilet. One small window beside the sink had lacy yellow sheers, allowing the sweet smell of herbs to blow in on a warm breeze.
I lingered just a bit in the shower, scrubbing at my skin with my favorite patchouli and lavender shower gel, eager to get dressed and bolt downstairs to continue my flirt with Donvino. I lathered my hair, rinsed, and leapt out of the shower, dribbling water as I ran into my room, towel in hand, to rifle through my clothing. Water ran down my nose as I dug about in several bags, leaving the bits of underwear where they lay. Someone would tidy up things…they always did. Actually, it was odd that Giada hadn’t unpacked my things for me. Probably she didn’t want to disturb me. I liked her. And her husband. And lord did I covet her grandson.
Emerging from my room thirty minutes later in a summery outfit that consisted of a linen vest over a sheer blue shirt, shorts, and sandals, I hurried down the stairs. Giada was dusting in one of the ornate rooms—a library by the looks of the books lining the walls—and so I darted in to ask about breakfast.
“Sorry, Signor Arlo, but Signora Bonetti say to clean it up after she eats without you.” I stared at the woman hiding her face behind her feather duster.
“But I’ve not eaten since I don’t know when.” My stomach chose that time to rumble as if to back up what I was saying.
“I can find something fast. You missing dinner made signora very upset last night. She say if you no come to breakfast at good time then it is gone.”
“Oh honestly,” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling as if the chubby angels chilling up there could whip up a damn bagel. “I was exhausted. Does the woman have no sympathy?!”
“I have sympathy for those who need it,” Ginerva said from the doorway. I spun so fast my head got loopy. Probably from lack of food. My aunt stood in the hallway, spine stiff, wearing a pale pink dress with a white belt, pearls, and tiny black flats. It was like looking at Jackie Kennedy when she was the first lady. Damn it, I really did not want to love her retro look, but I couldn’t help myself. “You do not. Please join me in the rear garden. Giada will bring refreshments. Lunch is still a few hours off.”
“Thank you,” I whispered to Giada after my aunt walked off without another word. I fell in behind Ginerva, inhaling her perfume, Chanel No. 5, if my nose knew the scent and it did. Rather well. I once dated a man who wore it all the time. My aunt’s shoes clacked on the terracotta tiles, her head held high, me on her heels, tail tucked, like a puppy that had just piddled on the Isfahan silk carpet.
My sight flew about when we entered the rear garden, but sadly my lusty peepers could find no trace of Donvino Marini. What a pity. I suspected that my great-aunt would not appreciate the flair of my hair or the way I’d applied some light lip gloss.
“We will sit here,” Ginerva announced, taking a seat at the table in a small, round area with short rose bushes, tiny clumps of white flowers, and a charming stone birdbath that was getting lots of action. Doves of some sort splashed about in the marble bath while gulls cried out from the river. The wind was gentle back here along the far wall that hid the house and garden from the waterway. Ginerva seated herself as if she were a queen. Legs together and bent to the side, hands in her lap, chin up. She placed her glasses on her nose. Her sight pinned me to the white cast iron bistro chair that faced the wide door leading to the dock. The door was now open, probably to allow Donvino the freedom to go swimming or whatever demigods did to get all wet and scrumptious. “I was disappointed in you not showing up for dinner.”
I placed my phone on the table that matched the chairs. A honeybee flitted around a vase of gladiolas and tiny bits of baby breath.
“I was exhausted. I did say I might sleep,” I reminded her. She stared at me as if I had a troupe of tap dancing beavers on my head. “Do you have the internet password handy?” I tapped my phone. Her silver eyebrow rose. The gold chains on her glasses swayed gently when she lowered her head to give me a firm look.
“The internet is a privilege that you must earn.”
“I’m sorry, but what?” I asked, sticking my pinkie into my left ear to clear what must be a blockage.
“Your father informs me that you are addicted to social media, and that is part of your lack of responsibility. So, you must earn internet time.” She stared at me down that long, regal nose.
I might have come a little undone. There was some yelling, some waving of hands, and some tears. Ginerva sat through the tirade with her hands in her lap, as cold as a block of ice, and said nothing until I was properly vented. “I have not seen a tantrum like that since you were a tiny boy.”
“I’m not a tiny boy. I’m a pissed off man!” I barked, but the outrage had run its course.
“No? That certainly looked like a bambino throwing himself. Now, if you are ready…ah, Giada, place the food and drink on the table and then inform Alessio that I will be leaving for the library meeting in thirty minutes.”
