Читать книгу An American Girl in Italy: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance - Aubrie Dionne - Страница 11

Sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains, warming the back of Carly’s hand. She rubbed her eyes, half stuck in her dream surrounded by jesting and caressing lovers while she lectured Bach on the finer points of writing song lyrics. In German.

Carly propped her head on her elbow. I don’t speak German.

She reached out and pulled the curtains back, expecting her view of Boston’s Back Bay. Instead, the bustling streets of Italy sprawled before her, interspersed with red-orange roofs and ancient stone. The tour. Michelangelo.

Dammit.

She checked her phone. Seven forty-five. They were supposed to be on the bus by eight for the soundcheck at the Coliseum.

Hadn’t she set the alarm?

‘Alaina.’ She called over to the sleeping beauty in the bed beside her. ‘Alaina wake up.’

Alaina turned on to her other side, exposing the lacy back of her silk nightgown and grumbled under her breath. ‘More sleep.’

Carly sprang out of bed. ‘We have to be at the bus in ten minutes.’

Alaina waved her off. ‘They’ll wait for us.’

Carly picked up her toiletries and stumbled to the shower. Wolf had hired a crew to film this concert for the local TV stations. There was no way she was going with dirty hair. ‘I know I set my alarm.’

‘I shut it off.’ Alaina buried her head in her pillow.

‘You what?’ Carly stuck her head out from the bathroom door as the shower warmed up.

‘I shut it off. Who wants to get up at seven a.m.?’

Note to self: next time, lock your phone. ‘I do. That’s when I play my long tones.’ Even now she worried about how she’d reach high A without warming up.

Alaina held up a finger, the nail bright red. ‘Precisely why I shut it off.’

Carly couldn’t decide whether to jump in the shower or strangle the diva. Ultimately, clean hair was better than revenge. She tore off her pajamas and chose the shower.

Twenty minutes later, they approached the bus dragging Alaina’s garment bag with the two matching dresses behind them. Orchestra members filled the seats. Every face stared at them from the windows as they approached. Some of them already wore their concert black, making Carly feel as though such a slouch in her Women Reeds t-shirt and skinny jeans.

‘What happened to your limo?’ Shame-faced and frazzled—which seemed to be the theme of this trip—Carly shielded her eyes from the bus. She hoped Michelangelo was not there to witness this next great embarrassing moment in her life.

‘I fired him.’ Alaina strutted in her fuchsia heels as thought she was walking the runway in her metallic miniskirt and halter top. She gestured toward the bus. ‘See, I told you they’d wait for us.’

The doors to the bus unfolded.

Please, please, please let it be someone other than Michelangelo.

The Italian hottie jumped down the last two steps and smiled like he’d won a game. ‘There you two are. We were starting to worry.’

Carly considered blaming Alaina, but thought better of it. He already thought she was a bitch. Better not make that a mega bitch.

‘I’m sorry. We missed the alarm.’ Carly handed him the garment bag.

He offered his hand to her, and Alaina stepped between them and took it instead. ‘Thank you.’

‘Mio Dio, signorina.’ Michelangelo stepped back as if she’d attacked him. But, he recovered his charm quickly. ‘You must be eager to start your tour?’

‘Si.’ Alaina grinned. ‘But not without an escort.’

‘I can take care of that.’ Michelangelo escorted her up the steps.

Carly shook her head and followed behind them. Had she misinterpreted everything that had happened yesterday? Or was he just a big flirt?

As Alaina reached the top of the stairs, she waved to everyone on the bus as thought she was the Queen of England. Michelangelo glanced at Carly and winked.

Maybe he had thought of her after all. She noticed the front seat next to him wasn’t taken. Had he saved it for her?

‘I must ride in the front of the bus.’ Alaina placed her hand over her heart. ‘I suffer from severe motion sickness.’

Michelangelo paused, scanning the seats. His face tightened like a man who’d lost a hand of cards. ‘Of course.’

He turned to Carly. ‘My apologies, Ms. Davis. There is one seat open in the back if that will suit you.’

Severe disappointment flustered Carly and she pushed it back. Why the hell do I care if she sits next to the tour guide?

She pulled herself together as Ms. Maxhammer gave her a purposeful stare. Battling Alaina over a man wasn’t worth her principal oboe seat. Think of all the e-mails you’ll get to answer without him.

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Carly shuffled past them and walked down the aisle. Her gaze settled on the last empty seat, which was slam bam next to horny Al. He wore an old Bruins t-shirt with holes in the front. A Red Sox cap half-covered his oily hair.

He tapped the seat and grinned. ‘Hey, babe. Looks like you’re sitting with me.’

Carly resisted the urge to gag. Any man entertained by emptying his spit valve ranked a tad below the maturity line in her book. She tried anything to get away. ‘Where’s your trombone?’

He shrugged and pouted. ‘They made me put her under the bus for safekeeping.’

‘Bummer.’ For both of them.

He smirked. ‘I’d say there’s a silver lining.’

She settled into her seat and whipped out her phone. Hopefully, Al would take the hint and leave her alone.

The bus started to move, and he turned to her. ‘Sleep well last night?’ The faint smell of cheap alcohol wafted from his lips.

Carly coughed a little in her throat. His question was innocent enough, but coming from him, it sounded sleazy—like he pictured her sleeping in the nude. She finished her e-mail before replying with the least-sexy answer possible. ‘Like a brick.’

His gaze held expectation, but she wasn’t going to ask about his nighttime escapades. Instead, she returned to her e-mails.

Al adjusted his baseball cap and leaned toward the window as though he got the picture.

Maybe he isn’t so dense after all.

Carly had a few moments of pure e-mail answering bliss before her skin prickled on the back of her neck. The distinct feeling someone was watching her came over her. She glanced over to Al. He’d propped his head against the window and was sleeping like an oversized baby on Nyquil. Probably too much late-night drinking with his brass buddies.

Carly rolled her eyes. If all men were so simple-minded and easily entertained, she’d have no problem focusing on her career for the rest of her life. Never mind the distraction of dating and the sticky business of falling in love. She placed her hand on her oboe case. You and me, girl. Foreva.

The prickling sensation returned, and Carly casually glanced around the bus, trying not to weird anyone out. What did her mom used to say? Something about if your necklace chain had turned around, someone was thinking about you. She touched the rhinestone G clef in the nape of her neck. The clasp had fallen to the front. Interesting.

Pretending to stretch her arms, Carly scanned the bus behind her. A few of the older violinists slept, the percussionist snapped pictures with his phone, and Melody and Wolf whispered in each other’s ears.

How sweet. She loved her friend but seriously, if she’d had time for breakfast, she’d be hurling it up. Romance was not for her.

Carly moved to turn back around, but Melody caught her gaze. Her friend widened her eyes in a WTF look and pointed to the front of the bus behind the seat in front of her, where no one else could see.

So she caught the culprit, eh? Carly turned around slowly, not wanting to give herself away. Alaina was chatting like an energizer bunny at the front of the bus. But Michelangelo wasn’t listening. Instead, he’d positioned his elbow over the seat, allowing him to turn in Carly’s direction. As their eyes met, he gave her another sultry wink.

Carly dropped her gaze immediately, her cheeks turning into tomatoes. Two winks in one day? Who did he think she was? His secret cohort?

Behind her, Melody giggled. Carly guessed it wasn’t something Wolf had said.

*****

Michelangelo prayed for the bus ride to end soon. Carly’s sassy banter and reluctance to open up had intrigued him, but this opera diva’s ongoing lecture about herself was as boring as a documentary on drainage pipes. Sure, Alaina Amaldi was magnificently pretty, but a challenging puzzle lured him more than a superficial prize.

‘When I was only fifteen, my parents drove me to Juilliard to study with the famous Edith Bers, who gave the US premiere of Schumann's Des Sängers Fluch. She said my talent rivaled some of the great opera singers of our time.’

Michelangelo wished he could sneak another peek at Carly, but Ms. Maxhammer had already caught him glancing in the same direction three times. Better to make the diva happy and bide my time. ‘Schumann, eh? Tell me more about your studies.’

Alaina took a deep breath as if she was about to hit a high note, and his phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Oh, one moment, per favore.’

She creased her perfectly sculpted eyebrows in consternation.

‘This may concern the concert.’

She shifted in her seat. ‘Oh, okay. Go ahead.’

He pulled out his phone and recognized the caller ID. Dread ate away at his boredom. Even though it wasn’t about the concert, he had to take it.

‘Pronto, Isabella. What can I do for you?’

‘The real-estate agents are here again.’ Her voice was hushed as if she muffled her mouth against the phone. ‘They’re eyeing the northern vineyards.’

Merda! Since the new American company took over their lease, all they’d ever wanted was to get them out of there. It seemed that condos overlooking a token vine patch in Tuscany were more profitable than a real winery. He balled his fist. ‘Tell them they’re going to have to talk to my lawyer.’

‘But, signore, you don’t have a lawyer.’

Oh right. That’s what happens when you can’t pay people anymore. As it was, he had no idea how long he could pay Isabella to manage the office. ‘They don’t know that. Tell them he’ll be in contact in the next week or so. It will buy us some time.’

‘Si, signore.’ She sounded defeated, resigned. The weight in her voice dropped like a bomb in his heart.

He changed the subject, trying to cheer her up. ‘How are the little ones?’

‘Good. Anna can say bubblegum now, so that’s all she talks about. Camelia’s fighting with her brother, like always, and the littlest one’s kicking like he’s on his way out!’

Michelangelo laughed, trying to imagine them all. ‘Hopefully he’ll wait another month, eh?’

‘You know I can’t control these things.’ She sighed.

‘And how’s Rodolfo?’

‘His back’s feeling better. He’s in the distillery moving crates now.’

‘Good. Glad to hear it.’ Isabella’s family had been working for the vineyard even since he was a little boy. He needed to give her some hope she wouldn’t have to relocate. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks, and I’ll have more than enough to keep the real-estate sharks at bay for a while. Then I can figure out how to purchase the whole property so this won’t happen again.’

Sure, it’s as simple as a few thousand euros. That’s all.

‘Va bene, signore.’ Isabella’s sweet voice rung a little more cheerfully.

‘Hang in there. Send my well wishes to Rodolfo.’ He hung up, feeling as though the weight of the bus rested on his shoulders. So many workers relied on him, and he couldn’t disappoint his father, may he rest in peace.

Michelangelo buried his face in his hands and massaged his forehead with his fingers.

‘What was all that about?’ Alaina’s penetrating voice woke him up. He’d forgotten all about her.

Mio Dio. Would I have to explain all my problems to her? Not that she’d listen. Then, he realized the whole conversation had been in Italian. So many Americans only spoke English. However, Ms. Amaldi was a vocalist, trained to sing in multiple languages. He appraised her. ‘Are you fluent in Italian, signorina?’

She squirmed in her seat as if he’d asked her what her grades were in trigonometry. ‘German and French are my specialties.’

She must suck at Italian. Thank God.

He waved it off. ‘Just something about a family matter. It’s not important.’

‘Well, as I was saying…’ She continued as if she’d already forgotten about his call. ‘After high school, I was accepted at both Juilliard and the New England Conservatory. Let me tell you, that was a tough decision.’

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the stone arches of the Coliseum and breathed with relief. ‘Oh look! What do you know? We’re here already!’

As the members of the orchestra stood and took pictures, Michelangelo consulted his notes. The conversation with Isabella had shaken him, and he had trouble focusing on all of the details. Sure, he knew some things from his schooling, but exact dates and names stayed in the murky area of his memory. He’d much rather be pruning his grapevines.

Ms. Maxhammer gave him an encouraging look, and he nodded and turned on the intercom. ‘The Coliseum was built in—’ he coughed, ‘AD 72 under the emperor…Vespasian and was completed in AD 80 under Titus.’

Isn’t there something in my notes about the original name?

He glanced at Ms. Maxhammer, who watched him with interest. He couldn’t sneak another peak at his notes, so he bought some time with what he did know. ‘Contrary to popular thought, the movie Gladiator was not filmed here. Most of those images were computer-generated.’

A few members of the orchestra chuckled, enjoying his momentary excursion into popular culture, but Ms. Maxhammer pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the top of the bus seat. She had probably never seen it. He should have made reference to 1950s movies like Julius Caesar and Cleopatra.

Then his memory came back to him in a rush of relief. ‘Originally called the Flavian amphitheatre, it is the largest ever built in the Roman Empire, made of concrete and stone. Capable of seating fifty thousand spectators, it is considered one of the greatest works of Roman architecture.’

The doors opened, and Michelangelo jumped out to help unload the larger instruments from the storage space underneath the bus. Hopefully, they’d arrived intact. He’d sworn his life away convincing the musicians to store them there in the first place. One dent and he’d have a problem for the rest of the trip.

He opened the storage compartment and prayed. Cases had shifted during the short ride to the center of town, but nothing looked damaged or out of place. As the orchestra members filed off the bus, he started with the cellos first.

He had to pull things together. He’d be a pretty lousy tour guide if his vineyard troubled him too much to recount the exact dates and details from his notes. If he couldn’t think straight enough to conduct the tour, than he wouldn’t get the big check at the end.

After he set up the orchestra and made sure everyone was happy, he’d consult his program notes. As translator, he’d have to announce the Easthampton Civic Symphony in both Italian and English, and he wanted to make an impression on Ms. Maxhammer.

He checked the compartment. Three instruments were left, along with some percussion equipment. He brought out two violins and turned to see Carly waiting for him.

‘Signorina! I trust you had a pleasant ride?’ Even though he flashed his most charming smile, he went into panic mode. There were no oboes under the bus. Had he lost her instrument?

Carly placed a hand on her hip. ‘I got a lot done, but I wouldn’t exactly call it pleasant.’

He glanced back at the almost-empty storage compartment and his stomach hollowed. Why else would she come to him if she already had her instrument? ‘It seems your oboe is…’

‘Right here.’ She turned to the side, showing off her square black bag.

Relief trickled over him. ‘Snuck it on, did you?’

She grinned, looking like a mischievous pixie as the sunlight brought out the freckles on her nose. ‘I have my ways.’

So, if she wasn’t here for her instrument, what was she here for? Michelangelo leaned toward her, wondering if his flirtatious tactics had worked. ‘I wonder what those are.’

She stepped back, her face turning into a professional mask. ‘I’m picking up a trombone for Al Greenwood. The case should be black.’

Was that the man she’d sat next to? A current of jealousy rippled through him, even though he had no claim on her at all. Seems he had some competition. ‘He can’t pick it up for himself?’ What was with these American men? Was there no sense of chivalry?

Carly scratched her forehead above her left eye as if considering what to say, which only piqued his interest more.

She leaned over and whispered in his ear. ‘Let’s just say he had a little too much fun last night and is searching for a bathroom as we speak.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ So Carly liked the party boys? Somehow he had a hard time believing that.

Michelangelo reached in and brought out the case with Al’s name on it. He handed it to her, their fingers brushing. Heat traveled up his hand to his shoulder.

Carly looked away. Either she’d felt it too and couldn’t handle it, or she felt nothing at all. She turned toward the main entrance of the Coliseum.

A cord tugged on his heart, as if she’d lured him in with a fish hook and hadn’t let him free. Michelangelo wasn’t ready to say goodbye. ‘Ms. Davis?’

She whirled around, swinging the trombone in the air. ‘Yes?’

He pointed to the grand arches behind them. ‘What do you think?’

She wrinkled her perfect little button nose and shrugged. ‘Looks old and crumbly to me.’

Before he could respond, she’d turned back to join the rest of the orchestra.

Michelangelo laughed, his mood lifted from the earlier call. Ah, how I’ve missed Carly’s sass.