Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream)

Guido la Vespa

Amore and Pinot Grigio – a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale

When Sigrid O'Herlihy and Sandro Totti meet a short time before Christmas—with the help of an injured cat and a pink Vespa—the last thing either wants is love. Sigrid can't forget the betrayal of her ex-fiance, and Sandro can't forget the Italian beauty who broke his heart. But the attraction between Sigrid and Sandro is sizzling, so they decide to give lust a try. Love, after all, is for the naive and Sigrid and Sandro, both in their thirties and both determined to avoid future pain, take a more practical approach. With the Eternal City as their playground, the pair enjoy their Vespas—and occasionally Sandro's fancy Italian sports car—fine wine, and helping homeless animals. A holiday visit to Sandro's family in Tuscany, however, threatens their no-strings agreement and forces the pair to face their feelings and their fears. Will a little Christmas spirit be enough to bring about a leap of faith? 

Genre:
Contemporary

Length:
30,824 words
 

Guido la Vespa

Veronica Bell

ROMANCE

www.BookStrand.com

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IMPRINT: Romance

AMORE AND PINOT GRIGIO – A GUIDO LA VESPA CHRISTMAS TALE

Copyright © 2013 by Veronica Bell

E-book ISBN: 978-1-62740-498-3

First E-book Publication: October 2013

Cover design by Christine Kirchoff

All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

PUBLISHER

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For animal lovers everywhere.

AMORE AND PINOT GRIGIO – A GUIDO LA VESPA CHRISTMAS TALE

Guido la Vespa

VERONICA BELL

Copyright © 2013

Marisa Palumbo Cantarelli locked and attached a nametag to her last suitcase and did some quick math to figure out exactly how many euros in excess baggage fees she was going to have to pay. Tomorrow she was leaving for New York City. New home, new country, new husband. Greg Cantarelli had come into her life only a year before in a way that wouldn’t exactly augur a lifelong commitment. The handsome Italian-American was studying architecture in Rome and was very nearly run over by Marisa when she turned a sharp corner and lost control of her Vespa in all its pink glory, near the Church of San Clemente.

The memory made Marisa smile, though at the time, she had been horrified at how close she had come to injuring someone. She had never before had an accident of any kind and considered herself responsible, never the type to show off or speed on her bike. Greg only suffered some scrapes and a tear to his jeans, but Marisa felt compelled to accompany him to a doctor and then after, to offer him lunch. And then, well, here she was, married and happier than she could ever have imagined.

Marisa and Greg had a private joke that the Vespa had deliberately swerved that day to bring them together. She had considered bringing it to New York with her, but Greg said it would cost so much to transport that it would be wiser to buy a new one, if she wished, in the States.

So the Vespa was staying put, at her parents’ Bed and Breakfast. “You can sell it, Papa,” she told her father. “If you wish. Maybe it will bring love to someone else.”

Sigrid rounded the corner of the Via della Propaganda. Italians gave their streets such great names, she had noticed. She continued up one of the smaller streets near the Piazza di Spagna till she found a spot near the restaurant to park Guido. Guido was what she called her Vespa. He was Guido la Vespa and he was male. She just knew it. He was, at least, a friendly and honest male who didn’t want anything from her other than good stewardship and safe parking spots.

She was determined to find that cat. It had been on her mind all day. In fact, it had been on her mind all day to the point that she could barely concentrate during the private English tutoring sessions she taught, work she had taken on even though supposedly she was on vacation in Italy.
At least being busy leaves me little time to think about my broken heart
.

And of course, without tutoring the Palumbos, she’d be without her Vespa, without means of private transport, and subject to the whims of Roman public transit. The latter was fine when it worked, but Italians did love their strikes.

The night before, she’d been out on the Vespa quite late and had spied the poor gray cat limping across some ruins. Goodness, those Romans had left a glorious mess behind when their empire crumbled. The cat had gone behind a restaurant, no doubt to see if any leftovers worthy of a Roman street feline could be found. Poor little guy. Or gal, thought Sigrid.

It looked as though the cat’s front right leg was broken. Though the fact that it was eating gave Sigrid hope, as it indicated it likely did not have an internal injury. It was early December, the start of winter in Rome, and though nothing like the winters back home, it was still cold, and cats had a way of trying to warm themselves by huddling under cars. She had seen it more times than she cared to recall.

The problem was that if the driver didn’t see them and got back into the car and drove off, sleeping kitties that didn’t move quickly enough could end up with a broken limb or worse.

The restaurant was closed, like so many places in Italy on a Sunday. There was something sweet and old-fashioned about that. In Toronto, everything was open all the time: twenty-four-hour grocery stores and pharmacies and seven-day-a-week everything. All. The. Time. Why the frantic pace? It was one of the things she hoped to achieve in Italy—the ability to relax.

Still, she felt anything but relaxed as she approached the back of the restaurant, the spot where she had last seen the cat. She was nervous but prepared to practice her mediocre Italian if any restaurant staff happened to be on hand. “Yes, hello, I’m a crazy foreign cat lady, trying to rescue an injured Italian cat.”

She was almost relieved that no one appeared to be on the property: the lights inside were out, as far as she could tell. She grabbed the tin of stinky sardines she had brought with her, as well as the flexible, cloth cat carrier she had attached to Guido la Vespa.

Unfortunately, the restaurant’s back patio was enclosed by a high, wooden fence, and there was no way to open it.
Thank heavens I’m tall
. She stood on tiptoes and peeked over the fence. Running, or rather limping, under that fence was where she had last seen kitty. If there was a food source, it wouldn’t go far, particularly if injured. But she could see no movement, nothing in the darkness. She popped open the sardines and got up on tiptoes again.

And there it was. A gray blur with shining eyes. Kitty was under one of the tables. “Hi, baby,” she cooed. Oh, maybe I should speak to it in Italian, she thought.

“
Salve, micio
,” she said. She had recently learned that “micio” was the Italian word for “kitty.” It looked out from under the table. It was crouched and holding up the injured front right leg. The smell of the sardines was getting to the cat, but not enough, as it didn’t appear interested in leaving the patio and coming out the way it got in.
Cats never do make things easy for us
.

She sighed. Growing up with a bunch of brothers was now going to come in handy. Tagging along after her brothers and climbing fences had been a treasured part of childhood, a way into parks and soccer fields and even the backyards of unsuspecting neighbours to play tricks or to take cover during marathon games of hide-and-seek.

Here we go
. She hoisted herself up and pulled her body over the fence, right leg first, left leg and then a leap to the ground. Easy peasy, she thought, though she felt as though she were pulling a branch or something else with her on the way down, as though her foot had pressed on something, a definite feeling of pressure.
Maybe a branch or a vine snapped under me
. Surely there was no reason for worry.

Once over the fence, getting the cat into the carrier was mercifully easy. Kitty was hungry and kitty also seemed to know that help was at hand. Sigrid headed back to the fence, wondering this time how on earth she would scale it with a squirming, meowing kitty in one hand and a half-empty tin of sardines in the other. She decided to move one of the patio chairs next to the fence. At least that way she would have a leg up, so to speak.

She put kitty down and turned toward the decorated-for-Christmas patio only to find a light had turned on and someone was in her path. She screamed, “Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask the same thing,” was the answer, spoken in the lowest, sexiest voice she had heard in a long time. Ever, actually.

Sigrid looked up. The voice belonged to someone taller than her five feet ten inches by about four inches. He had black hair that tumbled halfway down his neck, the darkest almond eyes, and a nose that looked as though it had been broken. Was that what they called a Roman nose, she wondered, momentarily distracted from her fear of the towering figure. He looked so very grim about the mouth. He was dressed all in black but for a nattily-tied, light-blue cashmere scarf.
What was it with Italian men and their scarves?
Even in summer, they wore scarves—summer scarves, naturally—and they always tied them perfectly, elegantly and seemingly effortlessly.