Читать книгу An American Girl in Italy: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance - Aubrie Dionne - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Never-ending Songs

‘May I?’ Michelangelo offered his arm to the sweet little old lady who was the last orchestra member left on the bus. As he had helped the others with their bags, she sat knitting as though patiently waiting for him to come over.

‘Of course, love.’ She wrapped her knobbly hand around his arm. ‘An old lady like myself will get whatever help she can.’

‘You’re like a fine Pinot Grigio, aged to perfection.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Mmawh.’ He helped her stand and walked to the front of the bus.

‘I like you. What was your name again?’ She squinted at him through glasses so thick they must have been bulletproof.

‘Michelangelo.’ He smiled as he took the last bag on the shelf, along with a violin case. He helped her down the steps and onto the sidewalk. ‘And your name is?’

‘Bertha, but my friends call me Bert.’

He kissed the back of her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Bert.’

‘Oh the young ladies will like you.’ She chuckled and walked away muttering to herself. ‘Kissing my hand like I was a marriage prospect.’

Michelangelo stood with a pile of bags, wondering what had just happened in the last crazy hour of his life. Sure, in his opinion they were all self-centered, ill-mannered, brash-speaking Americans, but they also had an openness to them he was beginning to like.

Carly was another story.

Two concierges came through the double glass doors with carts, and he helped them load the luggage while immersed in his thoughts. Why had he told her about his winery? He had sworn not to tell any of them the real reason why he was doing this tour for fear Ms. Maxhammer would see right through the elaborately constructed façade. And, of course, the only tours he’d ever led were on his own vineyard. He had no idea what he was doing. He was in it for the money, and the money alone.

A little voice inside him teased, what about Carly?

Her witty comebacks had impressed him, and every moment they sat together, the chemistry rose until he thought the air around them would explode into fireworks before they reached the hotel.

‘We’re to deliver these to the assigned rooms, signore?’ The boy reminded him of himself ten years ago when he was lifting barrels on the vineyard. So much responsibility had been put upon him since then.

‘Si, si.’ He handed them a list of the names and room assignments. ‘Pronto!’

The boys scurried off. The lists! He slapped his hand over his face. He’d just given them his way of contacting Carly.

You’re better off forgetting about her and doing your job.

Ms. Maxhammer had hired him to be polite, not to seduce the members of her orchestra. If she found out anything had happened, it would be scandalous. She might even fire him, and he needed that check.

Still, his chest stirred with desire. The last time a woman had caught his attention this badly had been years ago. After college, when his father had grown ill, he’d thrown all his energy into working on his vineyard. Dating was a lost memory.

Maybe it’s time to get out and look around. That little voice hounded him again. This time it was more insistent.

Casually, Michelangelo walked to the desk. One of the receptionists greeted him. ‘Ciao, signore.’

‘Ciao, signore’ He leaned on the marble countertop. ‘Are all of my guests accounted for?’

‘Si. They were all eager to get to their rooms after such a long trip.’

‘Eccellente.’ Michelangelo ran his hands through his hair. ‘Do you mind if I have a look at the list? The baggage boys took mine.’

The host paused, and for a bleak second Michelangelo thought he’d turn him down. He offered more of an explanation, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. ‘Just to verify your list with the bus roster.’

‘Ma certo, signore.’ He turned the computer screen toward Michelangelo.

Michelangelo scanned the names, nodding along the way to assure the receptionist that everything matched up. ‘All the names are there.’ His eyes stopped on Carly Davis, room three fifty-two. He committed the number to memory. Just in case. ‘Grazie.’

‘Anytime.’ As the man moved to turn the computer back, Michelangelo read Carly’s roommate: Alaina Amaldi.

Merda! A memory of the diva requesting her own private limousine instead of the bus came to mind. She’d grumble to Ms. Maxhammer if he so much as touched her doorknob. Out of all the people on the tour why did Carly’s roommate have to be her?

Maybe fate was telling him to leave Carly alone and do his damn job. His vineyard needed him, and he refused to break the last link in the family chain. He wanted to pass the lands down to his sons, and his grandsons and great grandsons for years to come. He wasn’t about to let some fling ruin his plan.

Yet, as he checked into his own room, the number still resurfaced in his mind like a song that never ended.

Carly Davis. Room three fifty-two.

*****

Carly plopped onto the hotel bed and closed her eyes. There was no sign of Alaina, so the diva’s limousine must have run into problems along the way—which was fine with her. She needed time to check her e-mails and forget about the sexy conversation she had had with Michelangelo.

How his eyes zeroed in on her as if she were the only woman on the bus.

How his legs had brushed against hers.

Enough! She dug out her phone and brought up her e-mails. Finally some time to catch up.

The door burst open and a curvy young woman with hair bright as fire wearing a sequined, fluorescent-green Versace miniskirt waltzed in. The concierge followed her, with a parade of white leather Louis Vuitton luggage.

She glanced at Carly and sighed as if she’d had the worst day ever. ‘Why does Italy have to be so damned far away?’

Carly shrugged. Even though she’d been thinking something similar, she wasn’t going to respond to such an egocentric statement. ‘If you live here, it’s pretty close.’

‘Ugh!’ Alaina rubbed her temples, then turned to the concierges still standing at the door like seals before a shark. ‘Place them on the bed right side up.’

The boys did as they were told, and she handed them each five euros. At least she wasn’t a cheap prima donna.

Carly stood, leaving her phone on her bed. ‘There must be a mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake, Ms. Davis.’ Alaina smiled, reminding Carly of an evil Disney queen. ‘I specifically requested you so we could practice my aria. The last few rehearsals have been, shall I say…uninspired.’

Her words slapped Carly in the face. ‘Excuse me?’

‘This is my Italian debut, and I mean it to be fabulous. I already have three newspapers set up to provide quotes for my biography. Which reminds me—’

She unzipped one of the bags and pulled out a red, crystal-encrusted gown. ‘Matching dresses! Although mine has a tad more bling because I am the star after all. Isn’t it ingenious?’

Carly gawked at the sparkly, eye-bleeding fabric wondering how she’d squeeze her breasts in the plunging neckline, and then how she’d play her oboe in it. One bow too low was an immediate wardrobe malfunction. Not to mention being shown up by a voluptuous beauty.

As if Alaina could read her mind, she waved her concerns off. ‘Don’t worry; I had the dressmakers at Versace alter the fit to accommodate your stick figure. You’ll have no problem slipping it on. So?’ Alaina tapped her long, bright-red fingernails on the dresser.

Carly felt like a bird trapped in a tiny cage. If she gave Alaina any reason to complain, it could cost her points with Wolf, and Ms. Maxhammer. She knew the gig business enough to play the game. Never burn bridges. Contacts were the most important tool you could have. ‘Okay, I’ll try it on.’

‘Wonderful!’ Alaina clapped her hands. ‘But only after we rehearse.’

Carly gave her phone one last longing glance. ‘Right now?’

Alaina gave her a blank-eyed stare. ‘Our first concert is tomorrow—the Coliseum, remember?’

The itinerary flashed through Carly’s mind. She had only briefly peeked at it before the trip, but she did remember something about performing in the Coliseum. Funny how the last thing she wanted to play right now was an aria about a wedding. ‘Oh, all right.’

Alaina warmed up with an ascending five-note pattern while Carly soaked her reed in her I-love-NY shot glass. She reminded herself to get one for her collection while in Italy.

They set up as though they were in concert, looking out the window at the darkening sky as the sun set over Rome. Carly started with the cheery oboe interlude of Bach’s typical running eighth and sixteenth notes.

Alaina took a deep breath and came in right on cue.

Sich üben im Lieben,

In Scherzen sich herzen

Ist besser als Florens vergängliche Lust.

As Carly played, she thought of the translation, memorized long ago for a music history exam of the Baroque Period. For the first time since she’d practiced the aria all the way back in her New England Conservatory days, the meaning came through:

To become adept in love,

to jest and caress

is better than Flora's passing pleasure.

Yeah right. She took a deep breath and played through the next interlude before Alaina came back in. To become adept in love would give you one thing: distraction along with a big dose of heartbreak. It was so much more useful to put your time into something tangible that yielded better results, like classical music and her career. Bach had gotten the sentiment all wrong. Love was a passing pleasure, just like spring.

Alaina stopped singing and Carly realized the song had ended.

‘Carly, what’s wrong?’ Alaina’s face fell in true concern, which didn’t happen very often.

Carly shrugged. She didn’t want to put down Alaina’s aria, but the soprano had asked for the truth. ‘This is the silliest, most superficial song I’ve ever heard. I don’t get the words. Adept in love? What does that mean, really?’

Instead of flaring up with anger, Alaina simply waved it off. ‘It’s just a song. He probably wrote it for some big commission. It doesn’t matter what it means, it matters how you play it.’ She took a sip of water and cleared her throat. ‘It needs a little more energy, more mischievousness. One more time?’

Carly sighed, feeling like she’d hit her head against the wall. They could practice the aria as many times as Alaina wanted, but Carly couldn’t play it wholeheartedly if she didn’t believe what it said. She could pretend, but the best of the best would sense her reserve.

‘Sure.’ She felt like a broken record playing the song that never ended. Second verse, same as the first…