CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

If I could have burned people with my eyes, Salvatore would have third-degree burns on the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades by now.

Maybe ice powers would have been better. I could have turned him into an ice statue.

It should have been fine, really. I was excited to meet him for breakfast and talk about the day ahead of us. It was listed as a picnic day with the option of going to the beach, and then at night it was supposed to be a night on the town. We could go in groups or in pairs, and he’d asked me last night if I would have a night on the town with him. I’d agreed, of course, but he hadn’t said anything about what we would be doing, nor did he want to brainstorm any ideas.

Then he’d kissed me senseless at the threshold of my room and left me there, a steaming puddle of goo.

I had half a mind to slap him for that now, but at the time it had been quite delightful.

Now all I could think about was slapping him.

Hard.

There were more people at breakfast than normal, mostly because plans had been set for the day and people were anxious to get started with whatever they were doing. They were all chatty and excited, but as I was feeling excited myself, I wasn’t irritated by it.

Until I saw the way the girls were watching him.

He came into the room looking perfect, as he usually did, with just the barest hint of scruff, a pale green button-up hanging open to a white tank beneath, where his chest and abs were impressively visible, and tan Bermuda shorts housing his tanned and toned legs. He went over to the breakfast buffet, smiling his perfect smile, and I counted at least four girls checking him out and sighing.

To his credit, he didn’t pay attention to any of them.

Except Thalia.

She was sitting at a table near the buffet and looked too perfect this morning in denim cutoffs and a wide-necked baggy coral shirt that showed one perfect shoulder and collar bone.

I wasn’t sure that I’d hated anyone more than her in that moment when she had said something to Salvatore, tossing her dark and naturally wavy hair behind her, and he had talked with her for a few moments before smiling at her. The sort of smile that makes people think things. That melts various body parts.

A smile that made someone hope.

And made others extremely jealous.

And then… he winked at her.

I’d had enough. I got up from my table and left to go find something else to do. If he wanted to spend the day with me, he could find me. If he wanted to spend it being the plaything for all the other women in the house, he could do that. It made absolutely no difference to me.

Who knew what he had done with his time when he wasn’t with me? What if he had broken his streak, ended his dry spell, and had found someone more willing than me to entertain him after hours? I would never know, he would have no cause to tell me, and whoever she was, or they were, would know it was just a one-time thing and have zero expectations.

Expectation. The root of all heartache. Or something.

Served me right. I expected it.

So yeah, turning him into an ice statue would have been nice, or raising some third-degree burns on his perfect body.

But he could just enjoy the frigidness that came with my very cold shoulder for a while.

See what random Italian nonsense he would ramble after that.

I situated myself on the stairs by the pool, staring off into the morning sun and raising all of my walls again. I was going to need them.

“Fatina, you left half of your muffin on the table. Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, holding the plate out to me.

I took it from him, set it down next to me, and pointedly ignored that too. I folded my arms over my knees and rested my chin on them. There was no need to reply. If I wanted to eat the muffin, I would eat the muffin.

And I didn’t want to.

“I thought I might surprise you today,” Salvatore said, sitting down beside me and completely missing the hints.

I snorted softly. “I can see that.”

“I’ve already made some arrangements.”

“I bet you have.”

“And tonight, of course, is set.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want to come back here and change or take our eveningwear with us?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

He paused a moment. “Ah ha. And would you rather eat lemons or limes today?”

I looked at him as if he were the epitome of an idiot, which he might have been. “Excuse me?”

He indicated my face. “You are being a sourpuss. Lemons or limes?”

“Neither,” I spat, looking back out over the pool.

“What have I done now?” he asked with a heavy sigh.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Do you want to come with me today?”

Again I shrugged. “That is up to you.”

“Your wanting to come is not up to me.”

“You get the idea.”

He muttered something under his breath in Italian, and I almost kicked his shins for it. “Fine. Meet me out in front of the house in fifteen minutes. Bring your eveningwear. And some sexy, towering heels.” He stormed away, and I smirked to myself at his departure.

But somewhere inside me, something really liked his angry, commanding tone.

I shut her up instantly. There was no room for her today.

Fifteen minutes later, I strolled out to the front of the villa with my change of clothes in a tote slung over one shoulder, blank expression fixed in place. I didn’t know what he had planned for us, so I’d gone with my denim capris and a burgundy sleeveless top with a jacket in the tote just in case, and Thalia had told me I looked adorable.

Somehow I avoided snarling at her for flirting with my…

Well, he wasn’t my anything.

And I didn’t snarl, so it was fine.

Salvatore was waiting for me with a scooter, of all things, and a bag of his own strapped to the back.

I frowned at him. “A scooter?”

He gave me the sort of sneer I used to receive from him all the time. “A motorcycle is loud and inappropriate for our surroundings. If you want to spend the day with me, get on the scooter.”

I hesitated, wanting to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

The sneer turned into a warning look that sent a jolt into my stomach. “Vieni qui, donna infuriante!” he barked suddenly.

I narrowed my eyes at him, then trudged over. “I don’t even know what you said.”

“You get the idea.” He handed me a helmet, which I grudgingly took as I situated myself behind him. “Hold on to me.”

It was childish, but I sullenly linked my arms around him loosely. “Fine.”

“Fine.” He started the bike and we were off with a sudden lurch that had me tightening my hold on him.

I could only imagine how he smiled about that.

We rode away from the villa without speaking, but I would have been lying if I didn’t admit how great it felt to ride with him in the warm summer sun with my arms tightly around him. I tried to ignore how amazing he smelled, how his muscles seemed to flex with the smallest movement of the scooter, and how much I wanted to just lay my head on his broad back and shoulders. I wanted to not be angry with him. I wanted to not resent him.

But I was me. And I was angry and resentful.

I wasn’t even paying attention to where we were going, blocking Florence and Tuscany out to protect myself from forgetting that I was bitter and irritable until we came to a stop. I looked up and gaped.

Salvatore took off his helmet and looked back at me, raising a brow. “What?”

“The Galleria dell’Accademia?” I squeaked.

He grinned swiftly and unfastened my helmet for me. “Si, fatina. I thought you might like it.”

Forget being angry with him. I grinned back and scrambled off the bike. “Let’s go! How do you say that in Italian?”

He chuckled. “Andiamo.”

“Andiamo!” I repeated with gusto, turning for the museum and walking quickly.

Salvatore caught up with me a few seconds later and tried to take my hand, but I yanked it away. I wasn’t that excited.

“I would have thought you would have been here before,” he commented as we entered.

“I have. I was seven and we were here on holiday. Or I thought we were, it turned out my father had business.” I shrugged and felt the same childlike wonder that had filled me then as I took in all that surrounded me. “The nanny brought Olivia and I here, and I was in heaven.”

“You seem to be there now.”

I ignored that. I had to. “Olivia was bored out of her mind. There’s a gift shop if you are, too.”

“I’m not bored. And I don’t anticipate getting so.”

We wandered through the gallery at an easy pace, and I found myself talking about the art a lot. Artists and pieces that I had studied at university and had never been able to talk about, pieces that moved me, sculptures that impressed me, and to Salvatore’s credit, he listened to every word I said as if he were my student. He asked me about specific techniques, helped me with pronunciation of my weak Italian, and was even able to track down some knowledgeable gallery employees for more details on specific pieces.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot to be angry and irritated. I was too caught up in the beauty and majesty of what I was seeing to care about anything else, and he was not taking any pains to remind me.

Then, at last, we came to the most famous piece in the gallery: Michelangelo’s David.

The crowds were thick around the figure, but I didn’t mind so much. I walked the same slow circle in the atrium in which he was placed as all the rest, gazing up in admiration and wonder. The skill and passion was evident in every angle, and it seemed impossible that such a thing could have been formed by hand.

I knew all about this piece. It was studied over and over again in classes all over the world. But seeing it now, knowing what I did, having turned amateur artist myself, a heaviness settled in my chest and my eyes burned.

“Claire,” Salvatore murmured in a hushed tone, his hand coming to my back.

I shook my head, willing the tears away. “It’s a masterpiece,” I told him, my voice still rough. “Absolute brilliance. Did you know it was first placed in the Piazza della Signorina? In 1504, in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. Prime location, as I understand it. Botticelli and Da Vinci helped decide that. Can you imagine? Botticelli and Da Vinci looking at this brilliance on the part of Michelangelo and having a say in where it went. Geniuses in their own right. And then it was moved here in 1873. The Galleria dell’Accademia.” I sighed heavily and took one last look up at it. “Iconic.”

Salvatore hadn’t said anything, and I looked up at him to see him staring at me with a sort of bewilderment.

“What?” I asked as we walked away. “I know things.”

“I know you know things,” he replied, smiling at last. “I know you know a lot of things. I just didn’t know how good it would sound to hear you say things in Italian.”

There was a definite smolder in his eyes, and I was not ready to deal with that.

I cleared my throat and indicated the other marble pieces in the hall. “See these? These are also by Michelangelo. Not finished, though. I wonder why.”

I paused in front of one, staring up into the face of a half-encased figure, a statement from a professor from years ago echoing in my mind.

Salvatore hadn’t stopped, and now noticed that I had. He came over to me slowly, looking up at the piece with me, no doubt trying to see what I saw.

I couldn’t have said what it was that I saw exactly. But I saw it.

“A professor at university talked about these pieces,” I murmured. “He said Michelangelo once said something about being able to see the figures in the stone and when he was carving, he was simply letting them out.”

“A true artist, then,” Salvatore replied, setting his hand on my back again.

I nodded, swallowing with some difficulty. “I can see them.”

My voice had been a whisper, rough and vulnerable, and I hated myself for it.

The pressure at my back increased, but he said nothing more, for which I was grateful.

Eventually, we made our way out of the gallery and back to the scooter. I prepared to sit down when Salvatore shook his head.

“No?” I asked, frowning in confusion. “Are we staying here?”

He shook his head once more. “We have much more to do. But I am not going anywhere until you tell me why you are angry with me.”

I rolled my eyes. I was not going into this now. “Just take me wherever we’re going.”

He folded his arms and stared at me, saying nothing.

“It’s fine,” I huffed. “It’s just the way you are with women, and it irks me. That’s all.”

His brow furrowed slightly, his head cocking to one side. “When was the last time you saw me with another woman, Claire?”

I looked away towards a group of tourists attempting to fit into one photo. “At breakfast this morning.”

“And who was that?” he asked, his voice filled with infinite patience.

The desire to snarl roared to life once more. “Thalia Lymond.”

“And what did I do?”

Now I looked down at my feet, wishing I’d thought to get a fresh pedicure. “Smile and wink.”

“And do you know why?” His tone was now fairly patronizing, and I was not going to let that stand.

I lifted my eyes and stared directly at him. “Because she is a gorgeous woman with towering legs and you’re going to rendezvous with her tonight.”

To my surprise, Salvatore smiled. “First wrong point: her legs are scrawny. Second wrong point: the only rendezvous is with you, and you won’t let me past your threshold. And thirdly…”

“Thirdly?” I prodded, holding my breath.

He shrugged, making a face. “You are gorgeous. She is merely pretty.”

She was… And I was…

Oh.

I had to take a moment as that sunk in, my indignation having vanished at some point without me noticing. “Why did you smile and wink?” I asked with a bit of a wince.

There was another winning smile that made my kneecaps melt. “She asked me what I had planned for you tonight. She seems to like you well enough, so I thought I would give her something to talk about.”

Well, there it was. I had made a right mess of things, and royally so, and all that was left was for the streets of Florence to engulf me whole and spare me further embarrassment. I looked up at the sky and wished I were anywhere else.

“Claire…”

His voice forced me to look back at him, and I actually wished I were crying, for whatever reason.

He came closer, stopping right in front of me and putting his hands on my shoulders. “I need you to not expect me to be the worst version of myself. I need you to trust that I will always come back to you.”

“But back from where?” I exhaled sharply and let myself actually show the vulnerability I was feeling. “I know who you’ve been. And I don’t know how to believe this version of you. I trust in what I know.”

“Not what you feel?” he asked, cupping my cheek with one hand.

I shook my head. “That’s never helped me before. It’s unreliable.”

His hand went back to my shoulder and his expression hardened. “Like me.”

The harsh tone hurt and I gave him an apologetic look. “I didn't mean that.”

His dark eyes searched mine for a long time, and then he sighed as well. “Time will give you the proof you need. So today you are spending time with me. No one else. All day, just you and me.”

I nodded obediently, not because he’d said so, but because I wanted to. I wanted to be with him all day. Him and no one else.

But…

“I need us to be friends today,” I said quickly. “Not… anything else.”

Salvatore gave me a brisk nod, smiling brightly. “I can do that. But first…”

He cupped my face and kissed me hard, almost insistently, and despite the desperate nature of my words, I kissed him back. Just as I began to soften, he pulled back.

“There. Now we can be friends.” He winked and got onto the scooter, putting on his helmet as if he were as cool as the shade.

I… took a bit longer. A shiver rippled through me, warning me to be careful, and I listened, climbing onto the scooter behind him. I put the helmet on, held onto Salvatore, and let him drive on to wherever we were headed next.

Friends. Friends were safe, right?

I got another whiff of his cologne and I almost groaned.

Safe from him or safe from myself?