Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story (17 page)

When I woke up the next morning, the sun cutting in through the gap in the drapes, I was alone.

I
panicked, the surge of adrenaline coursing through me clearing away any hint of morning grogginess.

Even when I saw the note beside me on his pillow my anxiety only calmed somewhat. I snatched it so quickly that some muscle in my back still tight from sleep knotted painfully.

Grimacing against that pain, I folded the note open on his pillow. It was thick, rich paper with the letterhead of the Forums Hotel across the top in a faux ancient Latin font.

Liam's cursive was flowing, loopy, and easy to read. He definitely would not have succeeded as a doctor with handwriting like that.

Emma, something has come up to take me away from you. Please believe that it was important, and that it couldn't wait. I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye, but you looked far too peaceful to wake up. I hope you'll take a rain check on the breakfast (I swear I'll cook a frittata for you some morning soon!). I won't be back until early this evening. Please feel free to order room service. I will see you later. L.

I kept looking at the graceful loops that made up the single initial of his signature. Instinctively, I pulled the sheet up to cover myself, wishing that he'd been here to wrap his arms around me instead.

It wasn't the best start to the day that I could have had, and a glance at the clock told me that I still had plenty of time to get to my flat and then to class.

Of course, it was my class on Raphaelite painters. The one with Professor Di Cenzo, the man who'd given my A paper a D grade.

Is it even worth going?
I wondered. I found the complimentary slippers beside the bed and slipped my feet into them. They were big on me, clearly meant for Liam. So I shuffled over to the window and squinted out into the morning light.

The Forum spread out below me, the Coliseum not far beyond it. The marble hurt to look at. I let the drape fall shut, blowing out my lips in a sigh that quickly turned into a yawn.

Why go to a class that I wasn't going to be attending in two weeks' time? It was an exercise in futility.

Except I wanted to stay. Here in Rome, in school.

Early on in my tenure here, I'd begun calling the students at the university Saps (and I included myself among them). I thought it was clever, seeing as it was called Sapienza University. But it had also been derogatory and spiteful.

But I had been the biggest sap of them all. And now that I'd realized what it was I wanted, I couldn't have it.

Then Liam's whole thing about my integrity replayed itself in my mind's eye.
He's right
, I thought. I couldn't give into Dr. Aretino's perverse demands. But then I couldn't leave, either.

I couldn't let him chase me away. He'd be winning there, too. Not exactly the prize he was after, but a victory for him nonetheless, asserting his dominance and authority.

I can do it. I can find a way around this.
My heart surged at the idea as though already celebrating a triumph. It was fine and dandy and I liked the feeling, I knew, but it was no more real than the false warmth provided by alcohol to a freezing man.

"I'll do it," I said, glancing around when I realized that I'd spoken aloud.

I didn't order room service, but I did make a small pot of coffee. The aroma quickly filled the suite, waking up my senses. I'd flirted with the idea of putting the gleaming espresso maker (with integrated milk foamer!) to use, but I wanted to be awake and not vibrating fast enough to fall through the cracks between atoms.

From there, I got dressed and went to go puzzle out which busses I needed to take to get back to my flat.

Mrs. Rosselini saw me walking down the street. I'd done my best at Liam's to not look like a zombie, but it was clear that this wasn't the first day I'd worn these jeans and this shirt. The wrinkles, like Liam's eyes, didn't lie.

Mrs. Rosselini grabbed my arm as I approached her and looked at me, squinting against the morning sunlight glinting off the window to her shop. "You are certain he is a good boy?"

The concern in her voice made my heart swell again. It wilted when I thought that if I didn't come up with a solution soon that I'd be moving out. It just didn't seem like I'd had a full day if I didn't get the scent of fresh-baked bread coming in through my window.

"
Ci
," I replied, "He is a good man."

Her squint didn't waver, "Remember that there is a difference between a good man and a handsome man. Remember what I said about when the handsome is gone. Remember too that I have a nice rolling pin inside," she said, making a swinging motion with her other arm.

"I won't forget," I said, already feeling better about my day, "And I know the difference."

She squinted at me for a while longer, trying to suss out a lie, making sure that I actually understood what she meant.

Mrs. Rosselini refused to let me go up to my flat without first pressing some fresh rolls into my hands. She nodded approvingly when I finished them. A good breakfast. The coffee hadn't been sitting right on my empty stomach.

Then I changed into some clean clothes upstairs, read the readings for that day's lecture, and headed to class.

Just outside the classroom, I stopped by the wall and took my phone out. I sent a quick message to Liam.

Hey. I'll let you take a rain check this time ;). Hope things are going good with you. See you later, maybe?

Then I watched the little digital clock at the top of my screen count minute after minute. My classmates started filing into the auditorium, a few waving at me to come with them.

I waved back, but didn't go in until the last moment. Liam hadn't responded, and Professor Di Cenzo didn't allow cell phones in class. If he saw you using yours, he'd take it away and he'd only give it back during office hours. Which could be a few days later, depending on his schedule.

I'd liked him before the Romano Incident, as I'd begun calling the thing with my essay grade in my head. Once at the beginning of the semester a rich Italian girl named either Catarina or Teresa had ignored his no cell rule and paid the price.

He'd plucked the phone out of her hand and then promptly engaged in a heated debate with the person (I always assumed the girl's mother for whatever reason) on the other end of the line regarding proper time management at school.

That memory used to be good for a giggle or an amused smile, but now it only gave me a case of the butterflies. For some reason I really wanted to get a message back from Liam, and now I'd have to resist checking my phone for the next hour and half.

Hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.

You're a big girl
, I thought, setting my phone to silent and stuffing it into my pocket,
Deal with it like one
.

I took my seat, squeezing between the backs of the chairs in front of me and the little folding desks behind me. Three rows from the front, dead center.

I'd remembered some Yahoo! news article I'd read a while back saying that, statistically speaking, the most successful students always sat in the first few rows. It couldn't hurt to try, I figured.

Dr. Giovanni Di Cenzo was the perfect specimen of an older Italian gentlemen. A proud patrician's nose that could have been at home in a piece of classical Greco-Roman art divided two deep-set eyes. Hair black like jet, only now graying at the temples, framed his strong face. And where Dr. Aretino was short, Professor Di Cenzo was tall. Nearly as tall as Liam.

He glanced up from studying his notes on the lectern as though he could feel my eyes on him. He swept the filling classroom with a quick gaze. I told myself that that gaze didn't linger on me momentarily, but I knew that it had.

If I'd been a superstitious person, I would have taken that as a bad omen.

Then he thumbed the power button on the projector and his usual PowerPoint template popped up.

My heart made a popping motion, too, when I saw that today's lecture was on Giulio Romano.

This is it
, I thought. It was my chance to show him that I really did know what I was talking about. I'd prove it to him, and then maybe I'd impress him enough to give my essay another look.

I hadn't made a mistake like that since 9th grade, when I'd told me best friend at the time, Tina Clarke, that I had a crush on a boy named Ben James, thinking I could trust her with sacred knowledge like that.

She'd had a crush on him, too, it turned out. Before the end of the day, she'd had what seemed my entire middle school singing, "Emma and Ben sittin’ in a tree..."

Professor Di Cenzo also encouraged a more interactive classroom. It was some Socratic, European thing. Except he almost never gave me the chance to interact, calling other students ahead of me even when I'd raised my hand well before them.

Even my classmates had begun to exchange glances.

And when I did get to say my piece, he destroyed my answer. And by destroyed I mean annihilated. Even though I was right. It quickly led into a personal attack on my apparent inability to do even the barest of research on my chosen topic.

When he finished the rant, his arms waving like he was about to take off, he stared me down just to make sure I wouldn't gainsay him.

I spent the remainder of that lecture staring down at my notebook, fighting back against the pressure behind my eyes.

Mercifully, the lecture ended. I pushed my way to the front of the throng heading for the door and didn't stop until I'd gotten to the bus loop.

Then I tried Liam again.

Are you there? I really need to see you.

Five minutes passed without an answer. Then ten.

All I really wanted was some comfort, but he wasn't there to provide any. I sat on a bench in the bus loop, watching students pile on and pile off their respective busses.

It was like I'd been stopped dead, life moving on around me and my unable to do anything but observe.

Although I could look down at my phone. Which I did often.
Why isn't he answering?

I knew that I should be able to sooth myself here, but it was just so easy having Liam there, always ready to listen and understand and empathize.

What happened to the new you? The girl ready to take on the department at school? The one Liam sees when he looks at you?

It was a voice I wanted to tell to shut up, but I couldn't because it was right.

Then I saw the pair walking towards me. A pretty, dark-haired young woman and an equally handsome guy. They both smiled and laughed. They both spooned ice cream from cups into their mouths.

Not ice cream, I knew. Gelato. That gave me the idea. If I could have Liam himself, I'd go someplace where I could at least feel the memory of him nearby.

From there it was just a matter of finding the correct busses, then trusting my memory to lead me down the narrow road.

Despite the lateness of the season, that day had been pretty hot. So when the sign for Fratelli's Confectionary swung and creaked in the breeze not far ahead, my pace quickened.

Then I noticed the grey BMW sedan parked just down the road.

He's here!
I thought. My excitement at the surprise momentarily obscured my instinctual suspicion.

I saw him. Rather, I saw the back of him. He faced away from me. He sat at the same table we'd been at.

I smiled, the relief at seeing him palpable. It was only when I moved to knock on the window that I saw the other person. The other woman.

I stopped, hand half-raised in my aborted attempt to catch his attention.

She was beautiful. I only ever saw him with beautiful women. Dark hair loose about her shoulders, the ends rustling against her business jacket.

She was in that ageless phase some women slipped into where she could have been anywhere from 21 to 35. And from the way she leaned in, I knew what she thought of Liam.

He leaned back away from her, the back of his jacket ruffled from pressing into the backrest of the chair, his hands clasped firmly on the table.

It was then I took a deep breath and told myself this wasn't what it looked like. The leather folders and manila envelopes scattered across their table supported this conclusion.

This had to be the business thing he'd left early for.

It was clear that he knew her game, too. Every time her hand strayed towards his, every time he handed her a piece of paper, he was careful not to touch her. This was strictly professional. My initial worry and jealousy deflated.

I stood there, trying to figure out what to do, until someone tapped my shoulder. "Emma?"

I recognized the voice. I turned and saw Abigail. The secretary. She smiled, the too-red lipstick she wore giving the expression a particularly bloodthirsty aspect.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"My job. You?" She wore the same outfit as she'd had on when we'd met at my flat. This time, she toted a small black briefcase with her.

"Liam took me here for gelato. It was good, so I thought I'd come back," I said, giving my head a little toss to get rid of a few strands of hair that threatened to fall into my eyes.

Why is she here, too? Why doesn't she go away?
The answer was, of course, her job. That didn't make me wish that she'd been anywhere else but here, though.

She noticed my discomfort and took pleasure in it. "And I guess you didn't expect to see Mr. Montgomery here, did you? Especially not with her."

She leaned to the side to get a better view around me. "Liam has that sort of effect on women. I'm sure you've noticed. Look at the way she's smiling. Look at the way she's leaning in like that, like she wants to leap across the table at him."

I noticed that already, thanks
. I didn't want to give her that satisfaction, too. "So what?" I said, flipping my hair again, "He's obviously not interested in her at all."

Abigail shrugged. "No, I suppose not. I guess he's still infatuated with you. For now." Her eyes crawled over me, appraising, disapproving. I had the urge to stand up straighter.