Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story (23 page)

"It's a colossus. Oceanus, I think," I said, staring at a massive foot broken off at the ankle that looked about as long as I was tall. It was hard to grasp the full magnitude of what the statue would have looked like, fully assembled. Though I remembered seeing drawings in some textbook or other.

"Must be a pain to shop for shoes," Liam said.

"Ha-ha. Funny."

"Who said it was a joke?" he replied, nudging me.

Still hand-in-hand, we reached the exhibit that was one of the centerpieces of the museum. It was a bronze statue of a wolf, two small boys suckling at it from beneath.

"Romulus and Remus," Liam said, naming the two mythical founders of Rome.

Again I was impressed. It kept slipping my mind that Liam knew his stuff when it came to this city.

"I think I'd like to be the curator of a museum," I said, examining the burnished head of the she-wolf, seeing the ferocious and protective look in her eyes.

"Whatever happened to the Roamin' Roman cafe?" Liam said.

That brought the heat to my cheeks. "I can't believe I told you that. I also can't believe you remember!"

"It was important to you. I knew how much that memory of your father meant to you. So it's important to me, too."

I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him close. I could feel the firmness of his abs through the thin material of the polo shirt.

It's okay to ask for help,
Isabella said. I knew right away why I'd chosen to remember that at that moment. I knew that Liam wasn't going to look down on me for asking for help.

I took a deep breath, getting myself ready. Here goes.

"Liam, I wanted to ask you something..."

"I think we've seen just about everything," he broke in, "Unless there's something else you can think of?"

"No, I don't think so. Like I was trying to say, there's something..."

"Great! We can get to part two of the date now."

What is he playing at?
"That's nice, but this is hard for me. Just let me get it out. So..."

His arm, already across my shoulders, squeezed me closer so that the fresh scent of his aftershave tickled at my nose. "I think I have some idea of what you're getting at. If it is what I think it is, then we should probably talk about it over supper."

"Supper?" I said.

"Yes. That meal that comes after lunch. Usually between five and seven in the evening."

I hit him in the ribs with my elbow. "I know what it is."

"Good. Then you should join me for some."

I started to object, but then my stomach made its presence known with a growl that Liam pretended to ignore. I'd been so caught up with the museum, and with everything happening at school, that I'd forgotten about food.

But now that I had remembered, my appetite returned with a vengeance. That cinnamon cookie at lunch had been my last bit of solid food for the day. Far too little, as made abundantly clear by the gurgles that I thought for certain echoed throughout the whole floor.

And of course Liam had known. That man was magic, or psychic. Something, anyway.

"Okay, but after we eat there won't be any more..."

"Interruptions? No," he grinned at me. "Don't worry, the place is pretty close by."

***

T
here was a small corner restaurant just at the bottom of the hill that he took me to. As soon as he opened the door the smell wafting me out had the saliva squirting into my mouth.

"Pizza," Liam said, "Italian pizza. The real deal. I'm going to assume that you haven't actually had any since coming here. Which is, in my book at least, a sin."

As with so many of the little restaurants and cafes throughout the city, this place preferred those round little bistro tables suitable for no more than two. Unlike many of the other places, the tables in this place had white tablecloths draped over them, their skirts inches from the floor.

Liam and I took our seats at one near the window, which looked back up the hill towards the museums that now seemed to glow with the last rays of evening light washing over them.

It was a dark place, but in a warm and comfortable way. That warmth and comfort emanated chiefly from the old-style wood-burning oven in the back. I could smell melted cheese, fresh basil. The richness of homemade tomato sauce.

The man who came out to take our order wore an enormous black mustache below his nose and one of those floppy white chef's hats on his head. Flour patterned his apron and made me think of Mrs. Rosselini.

"Pizza Margherita," Liam said, holding up two fingers, "
Due
."

The man nodded and then went back to his prep table, which was visible to us. Making pizza in Italy was an art unto itself, it seemed. He rolled and kneaded the dough balls into relatively flat sheets.

These he then tossed into the air, spinning them in circles as expertly as an NBA player can spin a basketball on his fingertip.

The centrifugal forces made the pies thin in the middle and thicker towards the crust.

These shells he slathered with that fresh tomato sauce, a deep red, then shredded mozzarella cheese, a creamy white, and finally a few fresh sprigs of basil, deep green.

He then took a broad tray with a handle on it and loaded the pies into the oven. Soon the restaurant filled with the delicious aromas of baking pizza underscored by wood smoke. Flickering orange light spilled out through the oven's open door before he closed it up again.

"The colors of the flag, that's what the toppings meant," Liam filled in for me, noticing the rapt attention I paid to the process.

I'd wanted to talk to him right away about dealing with Dr. Aretino, but I couldn't. I was physically incapable of doing so until I'd had a taste of that pizza.

It was an aching wait for those pizzas. And when he finally put them on the table in front of us I barely remembered that here they ate their pizza with a fork and a knife.

I sawed off a portion and stuffed it into my mouth. Liam had done it again. First the gelato place, now the pizza place. The man knew his Italian foods.

It was rich tasting, as flavorful as it had been aromatic. Different, yet similar to the pizza back home in St. Louis. Though you could tell not a single ingredient in this pizza had come from a can or a freezer.

"Wow," I said.

"Glad you approve," he said, slicing off a piece of his own and plopping it into his mouth.

We didn't speak again until we'd cleared every morsel from our plates. It wasn't until the chef had put two tiny white mugs full of espresso down on the table that I marshaled the nerve to try and bring it up again.

"What do you think I should do about Dr. Aretino? Something that keeps me from sinking to his level. I'm not asking you to fix this for me. Only what you think," I said. I had to make that distinction clear.

My heart started pounding, and since all my blood was in my stomach in the first place, it gave me a dreamy, lightheaded sensation.

Liam sighed, then took a sip of his espresso. He stared back at the oven without really seeing it.

"I've dealt with lots of men like Aretino," Liam said, "There's not much that will get through to them. You have to beat him at his own game, use it against him somehow. That's the only way."

"But what about not wanting to be like him?"

He nodded at my concern, recognizing it. I loved that I didn't have to tell him, that he could just know me like that. No one, especially no guy, had ever been like that with me before.

"They sometimes fight forest fires by burning the trees before the fire can get to them. Stops it in its tracks."

"What if I don't want to burn myself in the process?"

"Look at it this way: if you stand up to him, put him in his place, then maybe he won't try this again with someone else."

That did make sense, but it still didn't feel entirely good. Two wrongs not adding up.

He saw my hesitation. "He's not going to understand anything else, Emma. It sounds to me like he has everything tied in a neat little bow, or at least he thinks he does. He thinks he's untouchable at the university. And he may be right."

"A vote of confidence if I ever heard one," I said. I wished then that there was more pizza.

It was no wonder some people liked to eat through their worries. Eating was easy and comforting (and tasty, you can't forget tasty) and perhaps most of all it was something you could accomplish. Something you can start and finish.

Instead, I took a sip of my espresso. It was powerful, bitter, and incredibly smooth. Sleep was something I wouldn't be doing that night if I drank much more of it.

"My point is that you attack him right where he thinks he's most invulnerable."

"I'll get right on that, right after I climb Everest and explore the Marianas Trench."

Liam lifted one hand and spread his fingers. "There's something, if you look hard enough. There always is. For instance, there was another fundraiser invitation for the Arts faculty left for me at the hotel. I'm sure Aretino will be there."

It was too frustrating. I didn't want to think anymore. In fact, mostly I could just think about dessert, and what I wanted for it. I'll give you a hint: it starts with L, ends with M, and has eyes the same blue as a midmorning sky.

And I wanted to enjoy my dessert all night long, which I fully intended to do.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

We did. I couldn't resist kissing him, and he kissing me right back, along our return trip to where he'd parked the BMW.

We got closer to the Capitoline Hill and its museums, stopping at a corner to let a little red Fiat run through the intersection without so much as a perfunctory tap to the breaks, right through a stop sign.

"Awesome driving," I said.

"The camera got him," Liam said, pointing up at said camera where it stood mounted to the top of a tall poll. There was another one on the other side of the intersection to catch bad drivers coming from the opposite direction.

Cameras
, I thought. I remembered our little tryst in the staircase, noticing the camera watching us there. I remembered the way Liam said he didn't have anything to hide. And I knew he didn't.

But Dr. Aretino did, I was sure of that. It was only a matter of exposing it to the right people.

"You're a genius," I said, kissing Liam when he started to try and cross the street.

T
he following day, I took the bus back from Liam's hotel to my little flat above Mrs. Rosselini's bakery.

He'd offered me a ride back, of course, but I didn't take him up on it. Even though we were entering into Rome's rather rainy fall, the day had started off beautifully. Skies so clear and blue that you could see the moon hanging over the earth.

I thought that if Liam took me up in another hot air balloon that I'd be able to see the ancient volcano Mount Vesuvius brooding and ominous far to the south, it was so crystal clear that day.

The city looked golden and bright and somehow quaint and old fashioned in that light. I watched the sidewalks go by as the bus swayed gently beneath me, hardly even noticing the hard "padding" and the way it failed to cushion me.

I touched the thin wall of glass separating me from the golden world. Despite the apparent warmth of the sun, it was cool and smooth against my fingertips.

Though I do have to say that I had some difficulty concentrating on the present moment when the recent past had been so very pleasant.

A blush rose into my cheeks when I thought about it. I even crossed my legs and glanced around at the other passengers on the bus as though they could somehow sense my thoughts.

It took no effort at all to remember the way Liam's hands had felt on me. He'd had them on my bare waist, our bodies glistening in the dim light coming in through the cracks in the drapes. 

No, it took no effort at all to recall how I'd gripped the headboard while I lifted my hips and then drove our bodies together, again and again until neither of us could take it anymore.

In fact, a warm tingle started racing up the front of my stomach at the memory.

Then there was falling asleep in his arms. I thought that I could fall asleep on a cold slab of concrete if I had his arms around me and the steady rhythm of his heart to soothe me while I rested my head on his chest.

And that those were the memories I used to strengthen my resolve when I thought about what I wanted to do that day.

Because it hadn't been the whole truth when I told Liam that I wanted to see the city in this golden morning light. I'd also wanted to steer clear of that psychic way he had with me.

He'd suss out what I meant to do, and he'd probably try and stop me. And since I knew he'd probably succeed (when didn't he?) I knew the best way to avoid that solution was to cut him from the equation.

I meant to go see Dr. Aretino at his office hours today. I wanted to give him one last chance before I put match to kindling and stopped his fire in its tracks.

Liam would tell me that it was pointless. Dr. Aretino wouldn't budge. And I had the strong inkling that he was right. But I still had to try, if only for the sake of my conscience.

Though when Liam had caught me up and gave me a long, deep kiss goodbye I thought he suspected my true reasons.

Maybe he knew it was something I had to do.

And that made me wish all this drama was all over so that I could get down to the real business of being with him.
Soon
, I told myself.
Soon
.

From there, I took a quick stop at my flat to pull on some clothes that weren't wrinkled and then it was another bus ride to the Sapienza campus.

I arrived outside Dr. Aretino's office in time to see a young woman step out. I recognized her from class. Angelina or Annalisa, I couldn't remember which. She was normally quiet in class, but when she did speak she always had something insightful to say.

And she was quite pretty. Dark hair that spilled in springy ringlets to her shoulders, doe eyes and full lips accentuating her heart-shaped face.

"Hey!" I said.

She either didn't notice me or deliberately ignored me, quickly disappearing down a bend in the hall. I frowned after her.