Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story Part 3

But then I heard him. Humming an aimless tune while other things clattered and tinkled. Curious, I sat up, wrapping the silky sheet around my still-naked body, holding the slack in one hand.

"What was he doing?" Isabella said. She'd stopped drinking her espresso, and she leaned over the table, fascinated by every detail. Her question had interrupted my own pleasant memory, so I shushed her and tried to fall back into it.

I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of the sheet against my shoulders and the way it whisked against the floor as I shuffled my feet forward.

I left the bedroom, following the sound of his voice and the clatter of dishes. I found him in the small, if well appointed kitchen, whisking something in a large stainless mixing bowl, a Teflon-coated skillet waiting on the range.

Isabella's eyes widened, showing the whites. She licked those full lips of hers. Lips that normally made me jealous, but now couldn't budge me from my memory.

"No, he didn't?" Isabella said, obviously shocked.

"He did," I nodded, "He cooked me breakfast."

I remembered standing in the doorway, watching him in those few moments before he saw me. If anything, he looked even s.e.xier in the morning light. His bed-head was tousled just right. The white housecoat he wore terminated at his calves, showing the way he curled his bare toes against the tile floor while he concentrated on cooking. It was adorable.

I could have melted right then and there.

Then he poured the contents of the mixing bowl into the skillet. It was egg. Next, he sprinkled in some small bits of meat and veggies, followed by some shredded cheese. I'd been in Italy long enough to recognize a frittata. My heart seemed to expand to fill my whole torso. I could hardly breathe. Except I forced myself to inhale, the dish smelled so good.

Liam heard the sound, glancing over his shoulder at me. He flashed a smile that made me want to take him right back to bed. "Hey, sleepy. Give me just one second..."

He finished getting all the ingredients in before fiddling with the fancy digital settings on the range.

When he turned around I saw how his housecoat had fallen open slightly, exposing a s.e.xy V of flesh that definitely left me hungry in a way that frittata didn't. He held out his hand and I took it. He pulled me close, me putting my hands on that bared skin of his, feeling his strong chest with one hand while my other palm went down to run over the washboard of his abdominals.

"Hey, yourself," I said.

He looked at me wearing his bed sheet. "You know, I think that look went out of style in these parts about 1500 years ago."

"Really? I thought it suited me," I breathed. I couldn't help myself, he looked simply too delicious to ignore. I kissed the cleft of his chin, loving the tickle of his stubble against my lips. He put one finger beneath my chin and then lifted my face so that he could look into my eyes. Behind him, the egg started sizzling in the skillet.

"Everything suits you," he said, and then he kissed me.

"He sounds like a good kisser," Isabella said, licking her lips again. I could see the slight flush to her swarthy complexion and I knew just where her imagination took her.

"Shh! No more interruptions or I won't finish," I scolded her. She made the motion of zippering her lips together and then tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

I continued with my recollection.

"Maybe this is more in style?" I said. I let my sheet-toga slip from my shoulders and pool around my feet. My skin pebbled with gooseflesh at the touch of the air for a moment before I pressed myself against him, my bare chest touching that naked V slash.

He groaned deep in his throat, pulling me hard against him. His hands slid down my sides, cupping my a.s.s. Sitting there at the bistro with Isabella, my cheeks still felt a little sore from how hard he squeezed them.

"Now this look is always in style," he said.

"So you did it right there, in the kitchen?" Isabella said, forgetting how she'd zippered her lips moments before. When she realized, she clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes widening again in an expression that begged for forgiveness, begged me to not stop my story.

I smiled, "No, actually. We didn't."

She shook her head, forgetting herself again. "What? Why not?" Then she leaned forward conspiratorially, making sure that aged Giancarlo the waiter couldn't hear, "Was there... a problem? Some men, they have problems..."

"What? No. Not at all," I said. In fact, from my recollection of the way his body pressed against mine, he didn't have any problems in that department at all.

It was the frittata he'd been preparing for me. Our kissing and groping grew more intense, and he must have s.h.i.+fted back against the range and b.u.mped up the temperature setting.

One moment I thought he'd be taking me right there on the counter. The next the egg started smoking and spitting in the skillet. Liam used his body to block any of the hot, semi-solid batter from scalding me while he picked the skillet up by the handle and doused the scorched contents in the sink. A cloud rose up, steaming the tile backsplash.

After that we both laughed. He ordered room service for us.

"I'll never look at burning egg the same way again," I said, smiling. After that, he offered me a ride in that rental Bimmer of his anywhere in the city. I had him take me to the campus.

"And that is all?" Isabella said.

"Yep. I wish I'd gotten his phone number or his email or something."

Isabella reached across the table and grabbed my hands. "You know what hotel he is staying at. Go and see him again!"

That sounded good, but the idea stirred at the pool of anxiety low in my stomach. "There's that... But what if he thinks it's just a onetime thing? What if I go to his room and knock on the door and when he opens it and sees me he gives me some look that's asking why I'm there?"

I didn't think I could bear a look like that. Not from him. Part of me just wanted to leave the whole experience as one of my only truly happy memories of Rome. At least if I did that there was no chance I could ruin it by making what should have been a one night thing something that it wasn't.

"Why? Do you think he is married, or that he has a girlfriend? That maybe if you show up you'll catch him with her?" Isabella teased.

"He's not married. He wasn't wearing a ring." I knew because I'd been very careful to check.

"Then what is the problem? Go to him! If you don't, perhaps I will. I have been looking for a good kisser..."

I jerked my hands back out of hers and she laughed. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

Isabella started speaking again, but the tolling of a bell at a church down on the corner cut her off. My mind counted the chimes and when I realized the significance of the number my throat tightened.

"I've got cla.s.s!" I said, scrambling up out of my chair, grabbing at my messenger bag with all my notebooks and papers in it.

"Go to him!" Isabella said, reaching out for me.

I smiled at her even as I started weaving my way between the bistro tables. I'd gotten so wrapped up in the story that I'd stayed too long. Now I was going to be late for Dr. Aretino's cla.s.s.

My stomach began tying itself in knots. Suddenly my latte wasn't sitting so well. Just thinking about the look "I'll think about it!" I shot back at her, "It's the best I can do!"

By the time I made it to the lecture hall my s.h.i.+rt clung to the small of my back from the sweat. I took a moment to compose myself outside the double doors, whisking errant strands of hair back behind my ears, trying to calm the throbbing of my heart.

Steeling myself, I pulled one of the doors open. This particular cla.s.s had 30 students in it, barely enough to fill a quarter of the hall's amphitheater-styled seating. I made my way down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible.

A few of my fellow students glanced back at me when the door shut, sending a hollow boom down past me that made me flinch.

Dr. Aretino used a laser pointer to circle a bit of detail on an enlarged section of a painting I didn't immediately recognize. I could feel his eyes on me as I slid into a seat just off the stairs.

It was my first cla.s.s with him since the fundraiser. Rather, since he'd watched Liam guide me off the dance floor and out of the building. Was that reproach I felt in his eyes?

I got more sidelong glances from my cla.s.smates as I tried pulling out a pen and my notebook as quietly as possible. Isn't it funny how trying to be quiet usually makes things louder? Like the sc.r.a.pe of paper on paper, or the sound of my bag's zipper.

This is what boys get you, I thought. In trouble. If anything, that helped me to decide against calling on Liam at his hotel. My grades were getting dangerously low. If I didn't pull them up I'd be out of the program and back in St. Louis.

But isn't that what you wanted? Another voice nagged at me, reminding me again of that fundraiser where I'd wondered how Dr. Aretino would react if I told him I wanted to withdraw and go home.

Except now I didn't. Not only had my night with Liam made me more appreciative of my surroundings, but it also made me feel a pang of anxiety at withdrawing and retreating.

I decided the best way to stop thinking about Liam was to concentrate on my studies. So I concentrated on Dr. Aretino's lecture, my pen scribbling notes for the next hour. I even successfully answered two questions he posed to the cla.s.s.

That burbling anxiety returned when he turned off the PowerPoint projector and began closing his notebooks that were open on the lectern. All around me, my cla.s.smates also began packing up.

If I moved quickly, I could escape with the pack out into the hall.

"Emma! Emma, will you stay a moment, please?" Dr. Aretino said, waving at me. I thought for a moment that I could pretend I hadn't heard or seen him, but then I realized that if I did want to pull my grades around it would be best to stay on his good side.

So I went down the stairs and stood in front of the lectern, keeping it between us. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling reflected as s.h.i.+ny white patches on his forehead.

"Ah, my golden girl, I have been wanting to speak with you."

"Dr. Aretino..." I started.

"Giuseppe! Always with this Dr. nonsense even though I have asked you many times to call me Giuseppe!"

"Giuseppe," I started again.

He came around the lectern and put his hands on my shoulders. Then he gave me a once over, tut-tutting under his breath. Again, I felt the way his eyes slithered over me. "You are all right, yes? That brute did not mistreat you, did he?"

"Brute?" I said, realizing he meant Liam. "No, of course not. He was a total gentleman. Listen, Dr. Aretino, Giuseppe, I know you probably want to talk with me about my grades."

"Grades?" he said, squinting for a moment and then widening his eyes. He still hadn't let go of my shoulders. "Yes, yes. Grades. Emma, you are a smart girl. And beautiful. There is no reason your grades should be as they are."

"I know," I replied, that puddle of anxiety in the pit of my stomach flooding to become a full-fledged pool. "I've been having a hard time with some personal things, but I promise that if you give me the chance I will pull my marks up. I know I can do it."

Giuseppe stopped smiling. He finally let go of my shoulders. Even though my s.h.i.+rt covered my skin, I knew he'd been gripping me hard enough to leave pale white finger impressions on me. He sighed, then leaned back against a table beside the lectern.

Something about his expression, about his body language, set that pool of panic roiling. Something is wrong.

"Emma, it is late in the semester. I am not certain that even getting perfect scores on the remaining a.s.signments and exams in all your courses will be enough for you."

My heart started lowering into that acidic pit. It seemed so ironic to me that now that I'd decided to stay I'd be forced to leave. "That can't be true, professor."

"I know how you feel. When I realized it, I felt a great sorrow as well. But I am afraid it is true... No, do not cry," he said.

This confused me. I wasn't crying. I didn't feel anything but shock. But he reached out anyway, as though to brush a (non-existent) tear off my cheek. I stepped back reflexively.

"Do not be so shy. You are beautiful. There is always a way for beautiful girls to get what they want. Perhaps there is an arrangement we could make?"

Despite the numbing effect of the shock, I grasped what he meant immediately. This was his chance, he thought. He could see what a bad position I was in, and he would help me out of it. For a price, of course. For something he'd wanted from me ever since I'd come to Rome.

Perhaps it was also that numbness that permitted my next lapse. Dr. Aretino reached out and squeezed a lock of my hair between his thumb and index finger. He rubbed the strands, feeling their texture, that greasy smile of his coming over his face again.

Since I didn't immediately slap his hand away, he took that for some sort of tacit consent.

"Emma..." he said, trying to wrap his other hand around the small of my back.

My senses came back to me finally and I jerked away from him. The sudden move yanked at the lock of hair he held, and sharp pain exploded in my scalp. So sharp I thought he'd managed to rip the hair out. "Dr. Aretino!"

When I looked down and saw that his hand wasn't filled with my hair, that he hadn't pulled any out, I felt relieved. Thank G.o.d for small favors, I suppose.

"I promise you it will be worth it," he said.

I took an involuntary step back, realizing just how alone the two of us were in this big, empty lecture hall. Why couldn't someone from the next cla.s.s come in already?

"I'm not that kind of person, professor," I said, crossing my arms across my chest tightly. I tried telling myself it was a gesture of defiance, but I knew it was really because I needed some comforting, some security, from this. Maybe I'll leave Rome after all.

I wasn't willing to sacrifice my integrity for better grades.

"You will come around, Ragazza d'oro. You will."

The double doors at the top of the stairs burst open, letting in the flood of sound from the crowded hallway on the other side.

"Emma?"

My breath caught. It couldn't be! But it was. I spun around and saw Liam standing at the top of the stairs. He wore casual clothes, the collar of his grey b.u.t.ton down undone as a way to deal with the Italian heat.

I didn't care why he was there, why he stood at the top of the stairs like some cla.s.sical hero, a living representation of some beautiful marble statue. I only cared that he was there.

"Liam!" I said, feeling Dr. Aretino's eyes burning twin holes between my shoulder blades. I whirled back on the professor, whose eyes kept bouncing between Liam and me like a ball in a pinball machine. "I'm sorry, professor, but I really have to go."

"Emma, I really do not like this man. There is something about him. Something not honest," Giuseppe said.

Liam walked down the stairs, casually scanning the lecture hall, one hand shoved into the pocket of his khakis. "She's right, though, we do have to go. We have that thing."

"Yes, that... thing," I said.

Liam came up to my side and draped his arm over my shoulders. Immediately, I felt more at ease in my own skin. Skin that currently luxuriated at his touch. I've got it bad, I thought. That really wasn't a one night stand. Isabella was right.

"You remember, that lunch date we set?" Liam said.

"No, no. She is busy!" Dr. Aretino broke in, waving his hands at Liam like he'd wave at a fly buzzing around his spaghetti. "He is no good. Emma, don't you see? He is no dancing instructor! He is a liar..."

"I'm sorry, professor," I said, that pool of acid in my stomach evaporating, making me feel light enough to lift up off the polished hardwood floor of the lecture hall, "But I did set that date. I know there's a way for me to improve my grades. We'll discuss it later."

Dr. Aretino's already swarthy complexion darkened further. The broad expanse of his forehead kept crinkling and then pulling taut. Finally, he fixed a greasy smile to his face that never touched his eyes. "Of course. I understand."

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Aretino," Liam said, his hand slipping from my shoulder. His fingertips brushed against the small of my back, making the skin there tighten. He took hold of my hand in his and started leading me back up the stairs and to freedom.