MATTEO
I watch her walk through the glass doors of the boarding gate and down the gangway until she disappears around a bend. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t look back.
I don’t know why her foul mouth and dismissive attitude please me so much, but they do.
Go fuck yourself, she told me.
No one has ever spoken to me with such disrespect in my life.
It matters little that she thought I was a paparazzo at the time. I could be the king of Spain in coronation robes for all she’d care.
Che palle. The balls on that woman. I know mafiosi more meek.
I didn’t know about the bad attitude when I first saw her, though. It wasn’t her smart mouth that had me sucking in a breath.
It was that hair. Black, thick, pin straight, cascading like a brushstroke over one shoulder. That mouth. Red as a fucking strawberry. That milk-pale skin. Her colors were so vivid. So much contrast. It took me a moment to take her all in.
Then she looked up, caught me staring, and pinned me in place with the force of her gaze.
I’ve never seen eyes like hers. Green as the finest jade and canted up at the corners, like a cat’s.
Yes, that’s it exactly. She reminds me of a Siamese cat. Sleek and haughty. A sinuous walk and needle-sharp nails and teeth made to crunch bones.
Which made the pain she was so obviously in that much more interesting.
I’m not a man drawn to damsels in distress. I find weak women supremely boring. But the combination of tough talk and soft underbelly gave me an erection the likes of which I haven’t had in years. Walking away from her at the bar after she told me to leave her alone was painful.
Literally. My cock throbbed so hard it felt like a medical emergency.
I imagined my hand was that strawberry mouth as I jerked myself to an unsatisfactory climax in the men’s room.
Assuming our brief encounter would be our last, I was thrilled to see her at the gate of my outbound flight. Then not so thrilled when I heard the desperation in her voice as she begged the scowling woman behind the counter for help.
“My father is dying. I have to be there for him. If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”
It was the last part that gripped my heart and made me offer my seat. Because if anyone knows the lingering shame of that particular situation, it’s me.
So I stepped in.
And she gave me those cat eyes again.
But this time she gave me something even more powerful.
Inspiration.
As the plane I was supposed to be on backs slowly away from the gate, I press a button on my cell phone. After a few rings, my right-hand man, Antonio, answers the phone at the atelier in Florence.
“Si.”
In Italian, I say, “I have good news.”
A relieved curse, followed by an exhalation. “You hired a new designer?”
I tap my finger against the cover of the sketch pad. A satisfied smile curves the corners of my mouth. The plane switches directions and pulls down the runway, picking up speed. “Something like that.”
Antonio’s silence echoes with questions, but he knows better than to ask if I don’t offer answers.
“Tell everyone to be ready to get to work as soon as I’m back. Ciao.”
I disconnect, then dial the number I’ve already memorized. Intending to leave a voice mail for my raven-haired siren to hear when she lands, I’m startled when the line is picked up by a man with a rough Brooklyn accent and a hacking cough.
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
I don’t like his voice. Or the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I snap, “This is Matteo, Signor Marchese Moretti. Who is this?”
A boozy cackle comes over the line. “Who, me? I’m the Baron von fuckin’ Trapp, bro.”
“Are you related to Miss Bobbitt?”
“Who?”
I grit my teeth. “Lorena Bobbitt. Does she live there?”
The man on the other end of the phone becomes belligerent. “Is this some kinda fuckin’ joke, bro? You makin’ a prank call? ’Cause I’ll put my fist right through this phone and rip off ya fuckin’—”
“Sir!” I snap, livid. “Do you know the lady or not?”
He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I know her. Everybody knows the broad who cut off her husband’s dick while he was sleepin’, bro. Hey—is this bein’ recorded? Am I on the radio?” He shouts into the background, “Angie, I’m on the radio!”
I hang up, so angry my ears are hot. I type the name Lorena Bobbitt into the web browser on my phone, then read the Wikipedia article in astonishment.
Apparently my Siamese cat has a very dark sense of humor to go along with her smart mouth.
After a moment of shock, I throw back my head and laugh out loud.
Then I book the next flight to Florence, excitement building, and try to put the alluring stranger I’ll never see again out of my mind. I’ve got the House of Moretti’s spring collection to start working on.
Stroking the cover of the sketch pad, I smile. And what a collection it will be.