When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Page 12

  “Mmm-hmmm.” He pulls me into motion and leads me to the deck railing. “The train compartments can get a little stifling after a while. All that hot air getting blown around.”

  A brilliant response is slow in coming, especially once I realize he’s referring to the conversation I had while he and Joe were gone. There’s no way he could know what the others told me. But he’s very astute and way too good at reading people. He can probably guess at what they said. My mind races, trying to come up with a benign comment to throw him off. But as soon as we reach the deck rail, my brain turns to total mush.

  Except for, “I wish I’d brought my camera up here.”

  The Straits of Messina link the Ionian Sea with the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the boat traffic hints at the strong maritime activity that must remain a key part of life along the Sicilian coast. The city of Messina itself lies straight ahead of the ferry, its buildings perched on the rocky hills that rise steeply from the water below.

  But it’s the sea that most intrigues me. Cerulean blue is usually a color reserved for crayons and acrylic paints. But I have to peg cerulean as the exact color of the waves, chopped by little white caps in the sun, as I peer over the side of the ferry.

  Domenic settles beside me and rests his hand on my shoulder, sliding his palm around and down until he cups my waist. A gentle tug nestles me against his side, his arm secure across my back, and all my earlier discomfiture scatters.

  “I think,” he whispers, ducking his head until his lips brush my earlobe, “we should spend the next two days forgetting that we traveled here with six other people.”

  Was my brain mush before? Now it’s mush. “What do you suggest we do instead?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Not until I look at him, my gaze landing on his lips before scuttling up to his eyes.

  Eyes that warm with interest and desire. “Whatever we want.”

  Chapter 12

  Taormina

  When we arrive at the Taormina-Giardini station, everyone piles onto a bus that will take us up a steep, switchback road to the town itself. Twice I think the driver is dead set on toppling us down the cliff when he executes a sharp turn at either end of the switchback. But by some miracle, we make it to Taormina in one piece. We grab dinner in a pizzeria near the bus stop, then drag our luggage up the side of a narrow road, Domenic in the lead, to our hotel.

  The hotel gates open to a lush garden, and we step down into the lobby with tired backs, aching feet, and full stomachs. Miranda and Joe take care of getting everyone checked in and passing out room keys, while the front desk clerk explains to us that we can leave our keys at the desk during the day when we’re out and about. Once we’re checked in, the team disperses to find their rooms.

  I expect to take the elevator up, but unlike Rome, many Taormina hotels are built down the sides of the hills. A small sign near the elevator’s button panel explains, in Italian, English, and French, that going up one floor will take us to the breakfast room and open-air terrace. All guest rooms are on the lower levels. Due to the small size of the hotel and the number of us who need separate accommodations, we end up stopping on almost every floor. By the time we reach the last, lowest level, Domenic and I are the only ones left on the elevator.

  He grabs the handle of my suitcase and drags it out of the elevator ahead of me, then turns expectantly. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Hesitant, fiddling with my room key, I step into the corridor. “Did you plan the room reservations to make sure we were the only ones on this level?”

  His lips quirk in a lopsided grin. “No. I just booked the right number of rooms, then grabbed the last key.”

  I huff a breath and take my suitcase from him. “Aren’t we presumptuous?”

  “We established that when I ordered dinner for you in Rome.”

  An urge to smack his arm rises and ebbs. Instead, I turn on my heel and head for my room. “I’m turning in.”

  I can feel his gaze on me as I fumble to fit my key into the lock. When I manage to drop it, I close my eyes and bow my head. His footsteps are slightly muffled by the runner in the center of the tiled hallway, bringing his solid heat to close proximity. He bends to retrieve my key, then reaches around me to unlock the door.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, pushing my door open.

  A rush of air conditioning hits me from inside my room, but it does nothing to cool the heat in my skin. My pulse throbs, and I turn to watch Domenic back up, that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin on his face, and head to his own room. Hauling in a breath, I scurry inside and shut the door.

  If only I could shut the door on the tumbling waves of attraction that are building to tsunami-sized proportions. Warnings blare in my head, but my heart—and seemingly every other part of my body—ignores my mental screams of logic.

  There’s only one thing to do if I’m going to get any sleep tonight.

  I take a cold shower and hope I’m not setting myself up for a huge fall.

  I find Domenic waiting for me when I open my door the next morning. He leans against the opposite wall of the hallway, thumbs flashing over his smartphone screen in a way that would only be done when playing a game. I can’t help my smile.

  “Guess every guy has a weakness for video games,” I say, pulling my door shut behind me and making sure it’s locked.

  He slides his phone into his pocket and pushes away from the wall. “That’s like saying every woman has a weakness for shoe shopping.”

  “I definitely don’t have a weakness for shoe shopping.”

  “Precisely.” He steps toward the elevator. “But I was playing a game. So you can tally that point for yourself.”

  Shaking my head, I hitch the strap of my bag a little higher on my shoulder, the weight of my digital SLR bumping my hip, and join him at the elevator. “You aren’t bringing your camera?”

  The elevator pings as it arrives on our floor, and Domenic ushers me in. “For outings like today, I generally just use the camera on my phone. I assume you brought yours.”

  “Of course.”

  He hits the button for the terrace level, where breakfast will be served. “I’ll carry your bag during our hike, then. You’ll want your weight balanced for part of it, and worrying about the safety of your camera could throw off your footing.”

  “Where are we hiking?” I bend a sidelong glance at him.

  “I thought we’d take the trail up to Mount Tauro,” he says as the elevator reaches the terrace. “Stop there for a mid-morning snack, then continue on to Castelmola if your feet are up to it.”

  My response dies as we step onto the terrace. The view opens as the slope drops away, providing an expansive vista of the beaches along the blue water’s edge. Orange tiled roofs dapple the hillsides alongside scrubby trees with leaves so green, they don’t seem real. A variety of flowers splash their vibrant colors among the otherwise earthy tones, and the air smells faintly of salt.

  Domenic catches my elbow and leads me to a table, where a server has just laid out a basket of pastries, a plate of cured meats, and a carafe of sweet-smelling juice.

  “Cappuccino,” he tells her. “Due.”

  Conversation waits as he arranges the food on my plate, then chooses some for himself. The cappuccinos arrive, and one look at the heart dusted in cocoa powder on top of mine makes my stomach clench.

  I wait a few extra seconds for the server to pass beyond earshot before springing a question on Domenic. “Something’s been on my mind since yesterday. I have to ask.”

  “It’s about Riley, isn’t it?” He takes a huge bite of his pastry.

  “Yeah.” I lower my hands to my lap and spread my damp palms on my napkin. “I got a bit of an earful on the train while you and Joe were out of the compartment.”

  He freezes for a moment. �
�And you think I’m presumptuous.”

  “They meant well. But here’s my question.” Taking a deep breath, I lean forward. “If things ended badly between you—romantically, I mean—then why keep her on for so long as a photographer?”

  Domenic sighs, then takes a sip of cappuccino. “I thought she’d gotten over it. I was wrong, and I learned my lesson.”

  “And yet, here we sit.”

  “Ah.” He leans back, studying me. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll admit I made some mistakes by not only dating Riley, but by keeping her on as a trusted member of my team. She never completely got the hint that I wasn’t interested in her anymore, at least not beyond her capabilities as a photographer. She almost took me down with her. If I hadn’t brought you aboard, this entire shoot might have ended up a disaster.”

  I shift in my seat and drop my gaze. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “And we do what we can to get past them.” He reaches over, resting his hand on the table, palm up. “Innamorata, look at me.”

  When I do, the fire in his eyes melts my resolve to keep him at bay, to steel myself against feeling anything for him, to ignore the way my entire body responds to the heat in his briefest glance. “You’re use to women throwing themselves at you. I’m use to hovering in the background.”

  “I don’t expect you to throw yourself at me,” he replies. “If anything, I’m throwing myself at you.”

  Most of a minute passes, and when it does, I slowly set my hand in his. He closes his fingers over mine.

  “Just for this weekend,” I tell him, though I only half-believe my own assertion.

  Domenic nods, the smirk on his face betraying him.

  He doesn’t believe my assertion at all.

  True to his word, Domenic lugs my camera all the way up to Castelmola. Good thing, too, since I can barely haul myself up the steep incline of the switchback road that takes us past Mount Tauro. I’m gasping for air by the time we reach the quaint town that caps the mountain like a crown. Domenic leaves me resting under an awning while he buys some water and fresh fruit from a nearby shop. By the time he gets back, my breath has returned.

  We wander Castelmola’s streets while we eat, our fingers lightly linked between us. Domenic indulges my urge to take pictures all along the way, including some spectacular views from a hillside plaza. A little before lunchtime, we catch a bus back down to Taormina.

  Our route through town takes us past shops and churches, narrow alleys made up of steep steps, and intricate iron gates leading to private residences and hotels. We end up at the Teatro Greco, a magnificent Greek amphitheater built into the natural curve of a hillside. The site is in ruins now, though the huge marble slabs that once served as stadium seating for ancient Greek theater aficionados remain cool to the touch under the hot Mediterranean sun. We explore the ruins for a while, then settle high in the bowl of the amphitheater to watch the sun dip toward the horizon beyond Mount Etna.

  “So,” Domenic asks. “I showed you my favorite places in Rome, and now you’ve seen some of my favorite places here.”

  I lean back on my elbows and squint at the sunlight. “It’s all about how you build the foundations, right?”

  He nods, lifting his hand to indicate the floor of the theater. “This place has been around for thousands of years. It’s seen ancient and modern warfare. People have argued, laughed, and loved. Same deal as those old spots in Rome. Things can last.”

  “But not forever,” I say, nodding toward the crumbling columns now silhouetted by the setting sun. “Time eventually weathers everything down to dust. And then what are you left with?”

  Domenic slides close to me on the marble slab, angling his body to block the sun and trap me not only in his gaze, but between his arms as he braces his weight over me. “You’re left with foundations, Kate. When everything else is blown away, solid foundations still stand. And from there, you can always rebuild.”

  My eyes widen, and my hand shakes as I lift it to the center of his chest. Under my palm, I feel his heart leap behind his ribs, and his breath hitches at my touch.

  So, I’m not the only one.

  Our gazes hold for a minute—or maybe it’s an hour, I can’t tell—before I apply a little pressure with my hand. He eases back until he again sits facing the view of Mount Etna, his fingers raking back the untamed locks of hair at his forehead. Finally, he stands, turning and reaching down to me.

  “Dinner,” he says. “And gelato.”

  We walk hand-in-hand back into the center of town, strolling down Corso Umberto as if we’ve officially been a couple for more than a day. My heart thumps with every step. I realize how short-lived this little affair will ultimately be, but I decided on the slope of the Greek amphitheater that I just don’t care. Not about what Miranda, Corrine, and Lauren worry will happen, and not about the way things will fizzle out in the end.

  Right now, Domenic sees me and wants to be with me. I’ll take it.

  His attraction, his intent, rings louder than any church bell in Taormina as he clasps my hand across a table at the little bistro, where we share an order of bruschetta topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, and shavings of artisan mozzarella, followed by a huge bowl of caponata, a type of eggplant stew. Over glasses of Sicilian red wine, he tells me stories about the mishaps and mistakes he made early in his career before changing the topic to his family and the many trips he’s taken to visit relatives near Taormina.

  “I have an aunt and uncle who own an olive grove just outside Catania,” he says. “They never had kids, but have always treated me like a son. Their villa is my home away from home whenever I want. They’d get a kick out of you.”

  “You’re lucky to have a family that cares so much about you.”

  He sets down his glass. “I still don’t believe your family dysfunction is that bad.”

  I grimace. “Believe what you want. I have a few close friends, and I’ve got my dad. Maybe someday things will be different, but for now, I’m finding it easier to get by if I keep my inner circle limited. That way nobody gets hurt.”

  “Except you, right?”

  “I don’t let myself get hurt anymore,” I say, a little more forcefully than I intend.

  Domenic caresses my fingers, a light touch that sends electric shocks up my arm to raise goosebumps on the back of my neck. “You’ll just take whatever comes, then?”

  My mouth goes dry, but still I manage to croak out, “With no complaints.”

  He grips my hand again, running his thumb across my palm. “Even this?”

  I nod. “Within reason.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, we kind of agreed to pretend a little bit this weekend. But whether we’re pretending or not, we haven’t known each other that long.” His hand is warm over mine. The butterflies stir. “And I haven’t really liked you the whole time.”

  Domenic chuckles. “I knew that already.”

  I swallow. “So, you see, we’re sort of still strangers. We’re just . . . acting like we’re not.”

  “Then we’d better maximize the time we have, and get more familiar with each other as fast as possible.”

  A subtle innuendo lies in the deep timbre of his voice, and everything inside turns molten. The last shreds of logical thought begin to fray, and I grasp them before it’s too late. “I think you promised gelato.”

  “So I did.”

  He releases my hand, and my gaze, to flag down our server for the check. Ten minutes later, we again wander down the main street to a small gelatería, where he orders me a combination of coffee and almond flavored scoops, and a chocolate-hazelnut combination for himself. Then we walk farther down to Plaza IX Aprile and sit on the steps of one of Taormina’s oldest churches to eat. Companionable silence drops over us, and my inhibitions, my instincts to keep
him at arms’ length, evaporate when he presses his hip into mine and offers a bite of his gelato without a word. Staring at him, I reciprocate the gesture.

  Once I’ve finished eating, I reach for my bag and take out my camera. “Do you mind if I mix a little business with pleasure?”

  “You’re the type whose business brings you pleasure,” Domenic answers as he stands.

  “Some people would be insulted by that, like it insinuates they don’t know how to relax.”

  “I could argue that you don’t know how to relax. But I meant it as a compliment.” He grins, then points to the iron railing at the eastern edge of the piazza. “I suggest heading over there to see what you can see.”

  Bending an unconvincing look of irritation at him, I adjust the manual settings on my camera and walk over to the railing. The sun has set now, casting the steep cliff below Taormina in shadow. A few twinkling lanterns bob on the water, boats at anchor. To the south, a glittering arc of land extends into the darkness of the sea, brilliant lights in yellow, orange, white, and red reflected in the waves. Above, the sky holds the deep purple of twilight, a few stars just winking into view.

  My heart, already off its usual rhythm because of Domenic, speeds up. And I thought my shots of the Atlanta skyline were impressive? I hold my breath and pray I can keep the camera steady without a tripod.

  A few clicks of the shutter later, Domenic comes up behind me, drops my bag at our feet, and places his hands on my waist. “Giardini-Naxos.”

  “What?” I lower my camera and crane my head around to look up at him.

  “Resort town. A lot of people come to Taormina on holiday from all over Europe, but Giardini-Naxos is sort of the premiere place to be. Summer residences and stuff.” He moves closer until his chest is flush against my back. “It’s a pretty town, but I prefer the view from here.”