An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (12 page)

“I
know you can do better than my sad story? Come on. Tell me some silly, secret
about you,” he says, perking up a little. That request gets me to calm down
right away, and Luca picks up on my mood swing. He crosses his arms and raises
his left eyebrow. Impressive. For some odd reason, I thought only girls could
do something like that.

“I
don’t have any,” I say quietly.

“Nonsense.
Everybody has secrets.”

“You’re
trying to get me to talk about something I’m not ready to mention. Mother’s
shrinks can’t even get me to open up. So good luck.”

“Your
mother’s shrinks aren’t as handsome as me.”

Smiling,
I scoff, “And here I thought Rafe was the one with the ego.”

“Come
on. You love my confidence. All women do. I know this.”

“Oh,
oh, oh. Is that right? I’ll have you know that I prefer the modest type.”

“You
mean boring,” he corrects.

“I
mean respectful, kind, loving,” I say, sighing as though I’m thinking of my
ideal man while I’m describing him, only because I know that doing so drives
Luca crazy. At the end of the day, he’s a designer, a man who doesn’t like
competition, probably more so than the normal guy. Tucking his lips, he narrows
his eyes and holds back a laugh. “Don’t even try laughing at me.”

He
explodes. “I already am. It’s a good laugh, though. You’re very adorable when
you make that fish face.”

“Whatever,”
I say, my cheeks flaming red, I’m sure. The silliness feels great after
experiencing so much confusion and heartache over the past few weeks. Ever
since Luca started working for Mother, things have been a bit out of control.

As
we talk and share more jokes and silly stories, I lose myself in the sound of
Luca’s laughter; it’s so easy to do. I don’t even mind that his phone has been
vibrating like crazy ever since he picked me up from my apartment. I’m sure his
harem of women is probably going nuts trying to figure out the reason he has
disappeared, and I’m not sure why, but just the thought of being the woman for
which he has chosen to scorn all his other “Juliettes” in order to spend time
with me feels fantastic.

We’ve
both settled on English as our choice of language because, well, my Italian
still isn’t the greatest and Luca won’t be majoring in Russian anytime soon.
Most of my friends speak English, and the girls at Aterballetto use a
combination of both Italian and English; a bit weird to hear, but a sign of the
progressively changing times. Plus, my American mother made sure she drilled
her love of quick wit and slang into my psyche even if she didn’t pass on much
else for lack of time on her part. I spent more summers in Texas than I did in
Moscow, and there’s something hypnotic about the way southern Americans speak. Luca
says he once taught a class on the structure of design at the Fashion Institute
of Technology, F.I.T., an American owned design school in Florence. Fluent
English became a necessity for him.

Eventually,
the sun lowers all the way into the sea, opening its arms in the form of colors
spread out across the water, or that’s what it seems like it’s doing as we
watch the sunset happen from this view of the wide open canal. I want to check
my phone again; I’ve already glanced at the screen a couple of times. No
whistling birds. No sexy texts. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I imagined the
ones I received from Mr. N just before I left Milan. Suddenly, Luca reaches
across the table, easing my phone out of my hand and setting it down. I give
him a hard look and prepare to blast him out. That is, until his face goes all
serious on me as he reaches over and caresses my cheek.

“I
can take it away. The pain. Heartache. Make it all better for you. Even if it’s
only for a short time,” he whispers, the sincerity in his eyes telling me that
he means every single word he’s saying. “Let me help you free your mind while
we are here. No expectations. Only one thing.” This twist in our conversation
takes me by surprise. Yet still, my heart speeds up and I’m taken aback by the
fire in Luca’s eyes.

“What’s
that?” I whisper back, holding his gaze, intrigued by what he’s about to say. I
don’t need him to elaborate on the thing, or rather the person he’d be trying
to make me forget.

“You
are mine. For just. One. Night,” he says, his eyes half lidded, giving him an
air of mystery that stirs something deep inside me. I raise my eyebrows and he
waves off the look I’m giving him. “Not in that way, little Maia. Not yet. But
I won’t deny I am hopeful.”

“Wow!
Don’t hold anything back, okay?”

Luca
smiles and gives me time to process what he just said before he continues,
“What I mean to say is this beautiful mind of yours will be mine. No sadness
allowed on this gig. No checking phones every two seconds. You chose to come
here with my family. I am the one who will brighten those eyes while you’re on
my time.” He runs his finger along my jawline, down to my collarbone, and
through the space between my breasts; his touch is light, but suggestive in the
way he hovers over me. My thighs heat up in the fire riding behind his words. I
know what he means, but I don’t care. What he doesn’t know is that we both want
the same thing just for different reasons. Lis and Jojo are so going to lose
our bet.

“I
promise that’s all we both will need.” A frown screws up his face and he
swallows hard as he glances down. He’s lost in a deep thought, and this time,
I’m the one left wondering what’s behind the man with the expressive blue eyes
who chooses to drift off in some deep memory when he doesn’t think I’m paying
any attention.

“What
about your gig with Mother? I thought you were worried about getting fired.”
I’m terrified of what Alek would do to Luca if he ever discovered I made some
kind of secret sex deal—although Luca denies that’s what we’re doing—with the
owner of the design house we hired. And will Mr. N keep my trip a secret?
Luca’s still alive. Mother’s not blowing up my line. There’s no fuming Alek
stalking our hotel room. Therefore, I’m assuming he has decided to work with
me, which hurts in a way because that means he’s serious about the things he
told me just before I left.

Luca
gives me a lazy smile and says, “I can handle the Dostovskys. You stirred
something inside me with that first kiss at the pool. And, Mio Dio, I do
believe I sold my soul to the devil after the one you gave me today.”

“I’m
sorry that I’ve damned you.”

“Don’t
be. What do you say?” He has the persistence of the Roman gods, too.

“I
say I have my own rules slash questions.”

“Of
course. Ask them.” His shoulders slump and he looks a bit disappointed. Good.
He needs to understand I won’t be giving in to his every whim so easily.

“Am
I expected to become a Juliette?”

Rolling
his eyes, he answers, “No. We’ve covered this before.”

“Just
making sure.”

“Next,”
he urges, waving his hand to emphasize his eagerness.

“You
have to show me your Harry Potter collection. I’m a huge Hermione fan. Plus,
you have to promise not to cast any love spells on me, or anything.” My lips
fight a smile.

“Now
you are teasing me. You broke your promise,” he says, leaning toward me. “You
know what that means, right?”

“I
have no idea. Will you turn me into a kitten or something?” I ask, feeling
relieved to be able to play around after the story I just heard about his
father. The way he’s inching toward me with narrowed eyes and a sneaky
expression on his handsome face tells me I’m in trouble, and too late, I figure
out what he plans to do. At once, he stands, lifts me up by the waist, and
slings me over his shoulder. After carrying me back into the bedroom, he drops
me down on the bed, and instantly goes for my sides, the place where mostly all
females are ticklish. I’m caught up in the moment, the laughter coming out in
waves that hurt me. “All right, all right. Please stop. I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry.”

“What?
I can’t hear you. You’re laughing too hard,” he says without easing up on his
assault.

“I
said I’m sorry!” I yell, managing to squirm out from under his body.

“Guess
I heard you that time,” he says, allowing me to escape. My hair comes loose and
falls down my back. Sitting up, Luca helps me straighten out the straps on my
tank top, our laughter fading as we glance at each other.

“My
offer. What do you say?” he repeats.
Stubborn Italian man.

Sighing,
I think of Meggie and her priest, Ralph. I really don’t want to wind up being a
woman who spends the rest of her life trying to tame a man, who has made it
pretty darn clear he’s not interested in being tied down to anything, and
especially not another thorn bird.

I
stare into Luca’s eyes, inhale deeply, and say, “Okay. Deal.”

Luca

The next morning, I wake up with a crick in my neck. “Fucking
couch,” I bark to no one in particular as I lift up, roll my head a few times,
and stare around the living room of my home for the next five days, my stomach
growling. I also have the worst case of morning wood that I’ve had in a long
time. Suddenly, I recall my insanity from the previous evening, the deal I made
to be friends with a gorgeous woman without trying to have sex with her. Si, it
is confirmed. I have lost my mind. I’m almost certain my little Maia is a
virgin. I have never spent a night with a woman who didn’t try to make a move
on me if I didn’t initiate the game first.

I am impressed, intrigued, horny, and can’t think of anything
except how I’m going to make well on my promise to show Adriana Dostovsky the
best time of her life while she’s here in Venice.

“Good morning, sleepy bed head guy,” Adriana says as she
strolls into the living room, ruffles my hair, and sits on the couch opposite
from me, her gorgeous blue eyes checking me out. She’s already dressed in a
light brown skater’s dress that makes her look ravishing, her well-toned calves
and arms fully exposed with her hair pulled up in the knot thing she prefers. A
few loose hairs flow around her head, making me want to reach out and touch
them ever so gently just before I take that little body of hers and work it
into all kinds of positions I have no doubt she could easily handle.

Look at you, already going back on your word. What in the
hell possessed me, making me think I could forego chasing a woman as addictive
as my little Maia? She’ll be my doom, if I’m not hers. Her family will probably
have my balls on a plate. It won’t be the first time I’ve had someone’s family
threaten to castrate me. I suspect, but I’m not entirely certain, that this one
could be the last though.

What’s done is done. I can’t turn back, couldn’t stay away
from her now if I tried. So, I deal with it. A mystery behind those blue eyes
of hers waits to be solved, and I fully intend to be the one to do so. Plus,
she has now given me permission.

“That is what you’re wearing today?” I ask, glancing at her
shoes, a pair of imitation ballet slippers, the dress, the whole package:
innocent, but insanely sexy. I’ll be beating the shit out of horny Venetian men
all day long if she goes out in this number.

“Sure. What’s wrong with it?” she asks, shrugging.

“It doesn’t look comfortable. We’ll be walking the streets
without a car, not using a chauffeur,” I reply with a little more irritation in
my voice than I intended. I’m hot, bothered, and having a hard time
understanding what’s going on with me right now. None of that is Maia’s fault.
I need to calm my shit down. Softening my tone, I say, “
Mi Spiace
.
Remind me to have Carla give you a properly designed pair of slippers.”

Her face lights up and my cock hardens. Her skin has a bronze
tint and a dewy sheen. She looks about as edible as a Sangiovese grape. “You
mean like one of those fancy pairs from your Gothic Ballerina line? Aw, man, I
love the idea. You’re a genius. Wait. I probably don’t need to be inflating
that head any more than I already have.”

I act shocked by her statement, complete with the O-face that
makes me famous among our circle of designers in Milan, the one that has made
some members of the media question my sexuality which is fine by me. I thrive
on shocking the shit out of people. “Careful, Maia. Somebody might think I’m
growing on you. And I can’t take the credit for the Gothic Ballerina line. Erin
Angelo’s our girl. That is her baby. I simply sign the paycheck,” I say,
rolling my head a few more times.

The pain waving through my neck hurts like hell. Between
dealing with Rafe and his criticism about the way I’ve been handling Black
Butterfly’s expenses—as in, I spend whatever amount is necessary to get a line
done—and my hard on that I don’t think will be easing up anytime soon, I
already know this day will be a challenge to get through.

“Couch neck?” Adriana asks.

“Maybe a little bit, yes.”

“Okay. Stiff body parts are my specialty. Or at least, that’s
what the other girls at work say about my massages.” She stands up and shoves
me down on my stomach, my face slamming into the couch.

I turn my head to the side and say, “Easy, little Maia. I’m
fragile.”

“There’s not a single breakable thing in your body, Luca
Martuccio. You like it rough. Don’t even try denying it,” she whispers, her
breath grazing my ear.

“Damn. Methinks she has discovered my secret.” She sits her
little body on top of my back, and I thank whatever gods might be watching over
me for putting me in the position where I’m at, on my stomach. Morning wood
doesn’t go so well with my aspirations to win the good-guy of the week award.
The hard on I have is almost painful, but it doesn’t take long before the
memory of anything torturous fades into the way her tiny hands massaging the
muscles in my neck makes me feel. She wasn’t joking around when she said she
was good at these things. I wonder what else she’s good at. That’s an
understatement. I would kill or jump off the tower of Pisa to find out what
goes on inside that gorgeous head of hers.

“God, I love this tattoo.” She’s running her hands along the
ink that spreads across my abdomen and up the left side of my back, a set of
tribal tattoos with a design that means warrior and spirit of the earth. Soft
hands make a way from the sensitive part of my lower back and up my left
shoulder blade, where the pattern ends. This is not helping to relieve my hard
on. Now both my neck and my cock are stiff. “The design reminds me of something
you’d see in one of those post-apocalyptic movies. You know, the ones where the
archangels come down and take over the Earth?”

“
The Prophecy
, you mean?” I say in between moans. She
shifts a little each time I make one and I’m about to ask her about it.

“That’s the one.”

“You think I’m a celestial being? That why you started this
conversation?” I ask.

“Yes, I do think you’re an angel.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. The angels weren’t good boys in that movie,” she
reminds, pressing into a section of my lower back. I release another groan to
help keep myself under control. Unfortunately, that technique isn’t working.

“I’m still flattered.”

“Why?”

“The angels, although bad, got to have sex with all the
pretty women.” She smacks my ass. “Ouch. What’s that for?” That was a pretty
impressive spank for such a tiny girl.

“You should know that there was only one angel who had sexual
privileges, and he was only allowed to have sex with one chosen woman. One!”

“Oh shit. That sounds depressing.”

“Does not. They ended up having a beautiful child together,
and that kid could zap all the other angels onto their asses if he needed to.”

Our conversation about kids strikes a nerve in me, a memory,
and my muscles tighten. I choose not to add anything else to the discussion,
and instead, focus on the massage I’m getting. The strain that comes from
behaving instead of flipping her over and taking her right now fights a battle
inside my body with the self-control living inside my head.
Mio Dio.
I
release a groan before I can stop myself.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” she says without easing up on her
assault. I’m afraid if I try to speak the unthinkable will escape my lips, so I
moan again. I almost don’t want to get up and face the day. I’d rather stay
inside and watch the sun rise over the Grand Canal, my badass ballerina sitting
beside me as we fuck each other senseless and then lose ourselves inside the
way the ribbons of blush, gold, and slits of blue rise from the waves until the
sun is a fiery god sitting inside his throne up in the sky. What the hell is
wrong with me? I lie still for another ten minutes or so, losing myself,
pondering my actions. If I’m not careful, then I’ll turn into a romantic, a
mush.

Against my body’s wishes, the willpower driven by my racing
mind wins out. I lift my head and say, “Now, if the lady doesn’t mind, Mr. Sexy
Bed Head is dismissing himself. He has a date with the bathroom down the hall.”

“Uh-huh. I don’t remember adding the sexy to it,” she teases,
lifting herself off my back to sit on the couch. She folds her arms and smirks,
her blue eyes shimmering underneath her bangs.

Standing, I remove my tank top and give her a close up view
of my best assets. She makes her own tiny version of a shocked face as her eyes
rake over my tattoo, devouring every detail of the words etched into my skin
with a hunger that makes me want to lock our door and rip every piece of that
sexy dress she’s wearing off that tight little body. Then, I can give her a
real time example of the nickname I’ve been given ...
La Dolce Vita.
She
licks her bottom lip. An innocent gesture, but I can tell she has no idea that
she’s fucking me with her eyes. I almost lose my shit on her right then.

“Didn’t I mention it last night? Harry Potter also knew a
psychic spell. Meaning, I can tell what you really want to say,” I call out
over my shoulder as I head toward the back, anxious to shower and get rid of my
messy hair, amongst other things on my body. It has been a long time since I
slept on a couch. I’m looking forward to a freezing cold shower to hopefully
loosen up more than just the muscles in my neck.