When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Page 8

  Pleasure at the gesture turns to whimsy. I fish in my bag for a loose coin and wander to the fountain’s edge. Our permit has kept the tourists at bay, but not for much longer. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure the others are out of earshot, I lift the coin to my lips.

  “It might be a cheesy tradition perpetuated by an old movie,” I whisper. “But here’s to good luck, and a wish to return with fame attached to my name.”

  With that, I spin and toss the coin over my shoulder. It makes a dull plep as it hits the surface of the water, taking all my aspirations with it into the realm of possibility and fate.

  My on-site team arrives back at the studio before anyone else, and since Domenic doesn’t have anything else on the schedule for today, I send the models and stylists home. After helping Dave and Rafe put the gear away, Lauren and I settle at the desktop workstations and weed out the junk images. She offers to stick around and give me a hand with initial editing of the proofs, but I decline.

  “I’m used to doing my own editing,” I explain. “If I’m going to own today’s work, I want to own it from start to finish.”

  Lauren shrugs. “Sure. Domenic likes to do his own editing sometimes, too. Probably more than the rest of us realize. Do you want to meet up later for dinner?”

  “Maybe. Depends how much I get done.”

  “Your call. Send me a text if you finish up early.” She grabs her laptop bag, shoots me a friendly wave, and heads out.

  Alone in the pristine quiet of the studio, contentment washes over me. I lose myself in the proofs, playing with saturation, isolating colors, airbrushing enough to show what the images could be like once more detailed editing is complete. The studio windows are covered, as always, but I sense the slow passage of the afternoon into evening. The gnawing growl of my stomach finally lures me away from the computer around seven o’clock, and I tear myself away to search the tiny kitchen for something to tide me over until I can make it to a trattoria on my way back to the hotel.

  A single-serve container of ice cream stares back at me when I open the freezer door. Jackpot. I haven’t had ice cream since arriving in Rome. In the combined euphoria of my first international photography gig and the general sense of operating out of my league, I’d actually forgotten how much the sweet treat can calm my nerves.

  I’ve certainly earned the right to indulge. Smiling, I grab the container, heedless of whomever it may actually belong to, and retrieve a spoon from a drawer.

  The sound of the studio door opening, followed by a conversation between two people, stops me in my tracks before I tear the freshness seal off the lid.

  “You could’ve taken an hour or two away from Palatine Hill to check up on her,” says a familiar woman’s voice.

  An even more familiar man’s voice answers, “I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought I was clear on that already.”

  Domenic and Corrine.

  She’s still hung up on me tackling an on-location shoot by myself? With as much stealth as possible, I return the spoon and ice cream to their rightful places and prepare to barge through the kitchen door and confront her. Domenic’s repeated assurance that he believes in my abilities bolsters my fighting spirit, and somehow I think he’d get a kick out of me taking his slightly stuck-up head wardrobe stylist down a notch or two.

  Indignant steps carry me within two feet of the door, but I catch myself before I actually give in to the impulse to fight. While it might be satisfying to go head to head with Corrine, starting a feud with her won’t be productive at the end of the day. There are still three weeks left in the shoot itself, followed by two weeks of wrap up work before we fly back to the States. Corrine’s an established member of Domenic’s team, and she could make the rest of this job hell for me if she wanted to. Plus, I’d risk alienating the other core members of the production crew, including a handful of people I’m just starting to think of as friends.

  Joe. Lauren.

  Domenic?

  The thought of disappointing him is the tipping point. Professionally, I might as well sign a contract condemning myself to obscurity. And on a personal level, I’ll never get the chance to find out why he’s shown such an interest in me, or why just a look from him can launch the butterflies in my stomach into flight.

  Sighing, I lean against the wall beside the door and listen for the two of them to leave.

  “Look, she’s got her proofs up on the computer,” Domenic says. “Probably stepped out to get something to eat. Her work ethic alone should be enough to convince you.”

  Corrine scoffs. “A lot of people have great work ethic and never come up with an end product.”

  “Kate Miller doesn’t fall in that category.” The sound of chair wheels on hardwood indicates that Domenic has approached the workstation. He starts clicking with the mouse.

  Panic seizes me by the throat. Technically, he owns the pictures I took this morning and can look at them whenever he wants. But I’d hoped to have them a bit more polished before letting him see.

  Too late.

  “Corrine, come over here and look at this. See how she used the natural lighting to augment the colors in the wardrobe selections? How she posed the models so the fountain complemented, rather than contrasted with, the modern styles?”

  Corrine’s heels clatter as she crosses the room. “So?”

  Domenic continues. “There’s something in her vision, something she recognizes in every shot. She’s precise and purposeful when composing all the elements. That’s why I let her take Trevi on her own.”

  His voice resonates with absolute confidence, and those damn butterflies don’t just start fluttering. They damn near start dive-bombing my very core. Heart pounding, I ease a little closer to the door.

  “She has what it takes,” he says. “What I’ve been looking for.”

  “You said the same thing about Riley, and we all know how that turned out.”

  Corrine’s words act as a dash of cold water, dousing me from head to toe and nearly drowning the butterflies in mid-flight.

  Domenic’s biting reply doesn’t help. “That was different. Kate’s different.”

  “Are you sure?” Scorn and concern mingle in her tone.

  “I know what I’m doing, Corrine.”

  A heavy silence fills the studio and seeps into the kitchen where I wait, practically clinging to the wall in my attempt to stay grounded. Corrine’s general doubt over my place on the team has nothing to do with me, it seems, and everything to do with whatever the hell happened with that Riley person. Moreover, her worry for Domenic is palpable.

  I think quickly of the clause in the contract about copyrights and intellectual property. Miranda and Joe were both adamant about me understanding and initialing it. Something must have happened with Riley that was not only in breach of contract, but also hurt Domenic on a personal level. And Corrine, as a colleague and friend, clearly doesn’t want it to happen again.

  Corrine finally speaks. “She’s talented. I’ll concede that much. Maybe she’s what you’re looking for. But be careful, okay? On every level.”

  He doesn’t respond. But after a minute or so, I can hear Corrine’s footsteps cross the studio, followed by the door opening and closing once more.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, relaxing against the wall. When the kitchen door flies open, I spring away to stare at Domenic in the doorway, my face flooding with heat.

  “Hey,” he says, as if meeting like this was the most natural thing in the world.

  I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “I was getting ice cream.”

  Why the hell did that just come out of my mouth? Of all the things to say, I tell him I was about to eat somebody else’s half-pint of knockoff Italian Ben & Jerry’s?

  Domenic keeps his gaze locked on me, his
tense expression softening as the seconds tick by. “Have dinner with me.”

  The heat in my cheeks flares anew. “Why?”

  “I’d like to spend some time with you away from work.”

  I swallow. “I have questions.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “About Riley.”

  He draws a deep breath, then exhales, his shoulders dropping with the release. “I’ll answer them.”

  I glance down. The knees of my leggings are marked with dust from kneeling on the pavement around Trevi Fountain, and my blue cotton tunic, though cinched stylishly at the waist with a thick gold chain belt, is wrinkled and limp from the warm, humid day. “I’m not really dressed to go out.”

  “Wear something from wardrobe.”

  “What?” My eyes widen as I look up at him again. “Corrine will absolutely kill me!”

  “I’ll handle Corrine.”

  Reaching out, he takes my hand and leads me into the studio to the secure closet housing the array of valuable designer outfits. I gape in a mix of dismay and exhilaration as he spins the combination lock and slides open the doors. He mutters to himself while he shuffles through the clothes, finally coming up with a sleek black A-line dress. I remember shooting one of the models in it a few days ago and had admired the cut and flow of the fabric at the time.

  However, I’m not a fashion model by any stretch of the imagination. “There’s no way that’ll fit me.”

  Frowning, Domenic looks me up and down, appraising my figure before handing the dress to me. “I do this for a living, Kate.”

  “But my shoes—”

  He waves dismissively at my rhinestone-studded sandals. “Nobody’s going to look at your feet once they see you in that dress.”

  A wave of dizzy elation brings a giddy smile to my face. I lift my hand to pat my messy topknot, one last protest coming to mind. “My hair—”

  “Take it down and brush it out.” His voice is low and intimate, even if the words are issued like a command.

  I can do little more than nod.

  Clutching the dress to my chest, I back away from him, then spin and disappear into the dressing room.

  Like a love-struck teenager, I change as quickly as I can, giggling my way into a dress I couldn’t afford to buy on a whole year’s worth of earnings. My hair, usually pin straight, falls in slight waves as I pull the pins from my bun and run a large paddle brush through the length of it. I take an extra five minutes to touch up my makeup with the stylists’ stash, muttering a few choice words about Corrine’s doubt as I do so. Then I step back and survey my appearance in the floor-length mirror.

  I hardly recognize myself. Domenic chose a dress that flatters the curves I usually dress to hide, and my hair frames my face, softening the line of my jaw in a way my usual no-nonsense styles never can. Excitement fills my cheeks with natural color.

  “I’m going on a date,” I whisper to myself, “with Domenic Varezzi.”

  After tightly rolling up my own clothes, I slip back into the studio. Domenic, having changed as well into a dark green button down shirt and khakis, stands near the window, his back to me as he talks on his cell. He says something about a table for two, so he must be making reservations. Smiling, I go to the workstation and stow my clothes in my messenger bag, then lean over the desk and make sure my proofs are saved.

  “Wow.”

  I straighten and turn at Domenic’s quiet exclamation. “Wow, what?”

  Again, his gaze roams my body from head to toe. But this time, he’s appraising more than just my dress size. With an almost nervous lick of his lips, he steps toward me. “You should wear your hair down more often.”

  “So it can get in the way more often?”

  A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, his nonchalance back in place. “Do you always have to be so contrary?”

  I hoist my bag to my shoulder. “Part of my charm.”

  “I’ll carry that. Doesn’t really go with the dress.” He comes to my side and takes the bag, slinging the strap across his chest. Then he rests his palm on the small of my back and guides me toward the door. “It’s a short walk, but we don’t want to miss our reservation.”

  Fire leaps from his hand to melt every fiber and nerve in my body.

  “Okay,” I manage in a pathetic murmur.

  Domenic reaches for the doorknob, the movement bringing him close enough to mimic the beginnings of an embrace. His breath feathers against my cheek as he swings the door open and murmurs back, “After you, innamorata.”

  Chapter 9

  Intimate Details

  The restaurant Domenic takes me to is small and intimate, dim in the corners and carefully lit by pendant lamps over the dozen tables. Brighter lights illuminate the wait station at the back of the cozy space and the maitre d’ podium just inside the door. Domenic gives his name, and the hostess shows us to a table near the window, allowing us a view of the street while keeping us tucked in relative privacy.

  A waiter appears a few minutes after we sit down. He hands us menus and pours water into our glasses, while rattling off what I assume are the evening’s specials. I pick a few words out of the rapid Italian, but most of it goes in one ear and out the other. Before I can speak up and ask him to repeat everything in English, Domenic flicks open his menu and orders something from the antipasto section and a bottle of wine.

  He glances at me. “Any allergies or moral objections to certain foods?”

  Lifting my eyebrows, I shake my head.

  With a smile, he turns back to the waiter. “Gnocchi alla Romana e risotto alla pescatora. To share.”

  The waiter retreats, and I fold my hands on the table. “How do you know I didn’t want to order for myself?”

  “What fun would it be if I didn’t get to show off for you?” Domenic counters with a smirk.

  “Anybody can order off a menu if you know how to pronounce everything. It’s hardly showing off.”

  His smirk turns mischievous. “I tuoi occhi racchiudono l’incommensurabile blu del Mar Ionio. Potrei fissarli per ore senza essere in grado di valutarne la profondità.”

  A shiver of pleasure races across my shoulders and over my scalp. The sentiment, if not the meaning, sinks in. “You memorized whatever you just said.”

  “It was specific to you.”

  Determined not to let him get under my skin, I fold my arms and sit back in my chair. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t memorize it.”

  Domenic chuckles. “You’d be flattered either way if you knew what I said.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “So what did you say?”

  “Your eyes hold the fathomless blue of the Ionian Sea.” He leans forward, dropping his pitch to a low, rumbling murmur. “I could stare into them for hours and never measure their depth.”

  My heart thuds in my ears. Memorized or not, his words strike a chord that hasn’t been struck at least since college. It’s a chord I haven’t allowed to be struck by anyone in the past two years, that’s for damn sure. And I’m not sure how I feel about Domenic being the one to strike it now.

  “You’re full of shit.” I allow a nervous laugh to take the edge off my words.

  Domenic doesn’t seem irritated or insulted by my response. “You aren’t the first person to accuse me of that.”

  The waiter returns with our wine and antipasto, a plate of cured black and green olives, pepperoncini, mozzarella, and paper-thin slices of prosciutto. He pours, sets our appetizer plates in front of us, and tactfully retreats.

  “So, let’s assume for a minute that you actually do speak Italian,” I say as I serve myself a few olives. “I imagine it’s not just so you can impress women with poetic compliments and order at restaurants like a native speaker.”

  Domenic studies me over the r
im of his wine glass as he takes a sip. Setting the glass down, he clears his throat. “My parents moved from a tiny town in eastern Sicily to Brooklyn in the late 1970s. My dad had learned English when he was a kid, but my mom never did. I grew up bilingual, then picked up enough French and Spanish in school to get me by when I need to.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from Brooklyn.” I pop an olive into my mouth.

  “I can if I want to,” he replies, stabbing a slice of prosciutto with his fork. “I’ll spare you a performance. Trust me when I say I got a lot farther, a lot faster, once I figured out how to operate with the non-regional American accent national newscasters use all the time.”

  After discreetly returning the olive pit to my plate, I wipe my fingers on my napkin and pick up my wine glass. “Is that a not so subtle suggestion to work on dialing down my Southern drawl?”

  He studies the prosciutto on his fork for a moment, then flashes a charming grin at me. “Your accent’s kind of cute. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

  “My, my, Mr. Varezzi. You’re full of compliments tonight.” I send him my own version of a charming smile. “Answer me this . . . How did the first generation son of Italian immigrants take his quadrilingual abilities, and work his way to being one of the most highly sought after fashion photographers in the world?”

  “Is quadrilingual even a word?”

  I shrug. “I think so. Answer the question.”

  Domenic takes another sip of wine and sighs. “I didn’t start off planning to work in fashion. I had grand aspirations of being a Pulitzer Prize winning photojournalist, the sort who takes heart-rending photos of refugees or soldiers at war.”