Page 25 of Destino

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The sun waking her was a welcomed event. She would’ve overslept if not for the warmth that covered her face and burned away the remnants of sleep from her eyes. Normally, she preferred that all curtains and blinds were drawn shut. But after her goodbye with Giovanni Battaglia, she lay in her bed and stared out at the lake thinking of her heart's failing choices in the past. She didn’t need a man. What she needed was a new life full of independence and adventure. She wanted to make her grandparents proud.

Mira squinted and slowly opened her eyes to the serenity beyond her large oval shaped window facing Lake Como. She lifted on her elbows to stare out across the calm waters. The serene beauty of it all made her a believer in paradise. In the morning the blue waters, green mountains and hills, and ice cream colored buildings looked vibrant and wonderful. She’d get out today and explore.

Rested, she dropped back against her pillow. The time check of her watch revealed it to be just after nine. Mira rarely slept this late. Most mornings she was awake at five, consumed with thoughts of her next big project. She’d work off what fatigue she had left on her treadmill and then begin her day.

Vacationing meant a complete change in plans. Sinking in to the soft cushion of the pillows she stared at the ceiling with thoughts of Giovanni Battaglia returning to her. The intensity in his stare and his self-confidence sent a rush of desire through her veins. He was unlike any other man she’d met. Feeling inspired, she rose from the bed in her revealing black lace camisole, and retrieved her portfolio folder. Her large sketchpad and sharpened pencils slipped out.

Maybe she knew how to vacation after all. Walking over to the vanity barefoot she dragged the chair to the window. Propping the sketchpad against her bent knee she began to sketch the scenery. Paying attention to details, she smiled as she felt herself relax under the flow of her pencil.

A soft click echoed from the door and her gaze lifted from her sketch. At first she smiled, waiting for Fabiana to enter. She had one pencil in her mouth and the other in her hand. The sketchpad rested on her lap with her knees raised and the heels of her feet pressed at the edge of the chair. Before she could lower her feet, the door opened, and Giovanni’s head appeared. He walked in staring at her empty bed. Mira scrambled to cover herself. She rose abruptly with the pad clutched to her chest. “What are you doing in my room?” The pencil dropped from her mouth.

His gaze swiveled to the left. He dropped his stare to her exposed thighs, hips and the barely shielded dark V of her sex. She hadn’t worn panties to bed. The camisole didn’t pull down smoothly over the rise of her backside. So she discreetly pushed the pad down lower to keep that intimate part of her body shielded, which only revealed the tops of her breasts. It would be the best she could do. The blood began to pound in her temples and her breath quickened. He stood silent, staring, and her embarrassment soon turned into outrage. Mira wanted to scream at him. For some reason she didn’t. The tension building between them forced her to reserve her energy for breathing. She glanced at her robe on the bed and knew it was too far of a walk to retrieve it. He’d see more of her. To her relief he understood her dilemma. Instead of leaving, he entered the room and picked up her robe then walked over to hand it off to her. She accepted the robe, and he turned his back.

“Why are you in my room?” she asked again, tying her sash into a double knot.

Instead of answering, he ran his hand over her sketchpad. “This is beautiful.” He lifted it, held it in front of him, and compared it to the scenery beyond the window.

“Excuse me, I asked you a question?” Mira took the pad from his hand. She tossed it on the bed and faced off with him.

The new gentle persona he’d adapted to gain her attention had become exhausting. He wasn’t used to overcoming suspicion over his motives when vying for the affection of a woman. Even his time spent abroad in college hadn’t been strained when he had pursued young coeds of all races. This one here appeared to wake with a sourpuss. Yes, he found her attractive, and he enjoyed her coyness, but he wanted to be done with her refusal to trust him. “I came to wake you, but looks like you’re an early riser like me,” he forced civility in his tone.

“Will you leave, please, so I can get dressed?” She nervously ran her hand through her hair to smooth down the puffiness. Last night her dark tresses had a silky flow. Now it was thicker, untamed.

“Forgive me. We will be leaving for breakfast in an hour.”

It would prove best if he honored her request for privacy, so he turned for the door. He paused. When he cast his gaze back to her, he saw the irritation in her face. She wore little to nothing under that robe. He’d seen enough of her curves to know any man who ever touched her had to be a lucky bastard. Fuck it all to hell, he wanted to be added to the list.

“Is there something else?” she asked.

“You’re a designer, so you might care to know today is pretty casual.”

“In Italia, no one dresses casual.” She sassed him.

He suppressed his smile. “True. Maybe you can wear something you’ve made, anything but green. I think you’d look really nice in yellow today.”

“I’m supposed to believe that you don’t like green, and then put on green to spite you? You really must think I’m stupid.”

“No Bella. I think you’re quite beautiful. That’s the point. I’ll be waiting.”

She rolled her eyes at his remark, hearing the door close behind him. “Jerk!”

Mixed feelings surged through her. She tried to force her confused emotions into order. At this point she wasn’t sure if she wanted to smile or frown. Who barges into a room uninvited? The man had nerve. At her foot was one of her many bags. She heaved it up to the bed, unzipped it and rummaged through the many pieces she had created.

“Dammit I didn’t hang any of this up last night.”

The crumbled silks and linens would require ironing, and she hated ironing. Snatching one colored delicate garment after another, her hand landed on a pale yellow sundress. Holding it up, inspecting it closely, she smiled. “Green huh?” She turned to find an iron and stopped. Mira sighed. She glanced back to her luggage. “What is it about that man?”

The angry voices echoed from the parlor to the hall. Fabiana wavered, trying to comprehend what she was hearing. The loudest voice of all was Lorenzo’s, and it appeared he had reason to be upset. His business investment inIsabella’s, the restaurant, went up in smoke. He shouted in Italian over the injustice. She turned the corner and peered inside. Lorenzo leaned forward on the mantle above the fireplace, his head bowed, his hands gripping both ends. Without warning, he exploded and swiped his arm across, knocking over the small alabaster figurines. Several went crashing to the floor and shattered. He whirled on the two men watching, and his eyes flashed up to her. That glare held her frozen in limbo where all her decisions and actions hinged on what would come next.

The men took notice of her as well.

From somewhere deep in her core she summoned her voice. “I’m sorry, I thought we were um, leaving. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Fabiana took a few hurried steps back and collided with a wall of a chest. The man steadied her on her feet and stepped aside. She became acutely aware of his tall presence. It felt as cool as the shadow of a passing giant. Like her he observed Lorenzo and the destruction around his feet with interest. She sensed the stranger's gaze shift to her, and she dared to look him in the face. He had dark black hair, and a dimple that dug into the crease of his cheek when he smirked down at her. It perfectly matched the notch in his chin. It was his eyes that threw her. Lorenzo’s eyes were a dark shade of blue, almost like sapphires. For a moment this man’s eyes shifted in color from clear blue like rain to a seductive shade of violet. She blinked. Was he for real? The guy smelled rich, stood taller than most, had broad shoulders and arms, and an edge that was razor sharp. Who was he?

The moment passed. He returned his gaze to Lorenzo.

He spoke in Italian and addressed the one he called Carlo. The man answered. He said he just arrived to deliver the news to Lorenzo that the club was gone and the whores were gone too. They spilt little blood in the entire ordeal. Apparently none of these men, except for Lorenzo, knew that she spoke Italian too. Fabiana’s stomach turned sour.

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