Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story Part 1

Italian Kisses.

A Billionaire Love Story.

Lucy Lambert.

Chapter 1.

As soon as I arrived at the party, I wanted to leave. I smiled politely at the slick-haired doorman as he waved me in with one white-gloved hand contrasting so sharply with his olive-skinned face. The skirt of my red dress swished around my legs while I shuffled in.

At the same time, a cool ball of anxiety started somewhere in the area of my lungs and began rising up through my chest and throat like some slow, agonizing elevator.

I hadn't been this far away from the university since... I tried to think of such a time, frowning while a waiter conveying a tray of champagne flutes weaved around me.

Two months, I thought. It had been two months since I'd done more than go from my flat to the campus and from the campus to my flat.

You've fallen into a rut, came an admonishing voice. My voice.

An older man wearing a tuxedo jacket on his shoulders and a severe-faced Italian matriarch on his arm cleared his throat behind me.

"Pardon me," I said, stepping out of the way. I'd been standing just a few steps from the doorway, apparently unable to keep myself from sliding back into said rut and drifting away in a daydream.

The man smiled at my use of English and led the severe-faced woman down through the front foyer in which we stood. As he pa.s.sed, I found I could see myself in the reflection cast by his shiny head, which was lined with the white horseshoe of his remaining hair.

Just go inside, I thought, mentally prodding myself. He's in there, waiting. But then again, maybe he was why I didn't want to go inside.

He, you ask? One of my professors of art history at the Sapienza University here in Rome. Giuseppe Aretino. My escort by night and my teacher by day. Or at least that's how he'd like to style himself.

I wonder if he knew I was seriously considering leaving Rome.

Stuck in a rut, I thought again. And apparently in more ways than one. From the large set of ornate doors that, by their iconography, appeared to have originated sometime in the 16th Century, the sound of a string quartet wafted to my spot.

I couldn't recognize the particular piece, but then again, my interest lay more in art than in cla.s.sical music.

There was also the soft murmur of dozens of conversations. Dozens of people. Dozens of strangers. And one particular black-haired (which he always kept slicked back with shiny oil) Italian professor with the power to make or break my grades this semester.

I looked down at the floor, the action of bending my neck forward like that jamming the elevator car of anxiety somewhere just below my larynx. The floor was marble, so perfectly polished and smooth I could easily make out the individuals ringlets of my hair as they shifted on my bare shoulders.

A head of curly blonde hair in a sea of s.h.a.ggy black (in the case of younger Italians) or thinning grey-white (in the case of older Italians).

Professor Aretino... Giuseppe, as he always asked me to call him, liked to call me Golden Girl (Ragazza D'oro in Italiono) because of my hair. It had been cute at first, almost endearingly so when I made a Betty White joke about it and he didn't get it, but now it grated on me.

In fact, I almost left right then and there, an angry pressure building behind my eyes while I stared down at the floor that looked like it might have been preserved since Antiquity but had probably been installed by one of Mussolini's cronies back in the 1930s in an attempt to return Rome to some of its former Imperial splendor (G.o.d, even at times like that I couldn't get my head out of the textbooks).

I even turned toward the door, which happened to open at the same time, sending a burst of sweet-smelling evening air into that glossy marble foyer.

I couldn't leave, I knew then. If I left without putting in some sort of token appearance with Dr. Aretino, he'd corner me after our next lecture and he'd flail his arms about in that animated Italian way and I'd be roped into attending another function at another time.

That was it, I realized. I could put in my appearance and then go catch a taxi back to my flat and start looking into flights back to the States.

That thought really twisted in my stomach, the pressure forcing that elevator car jammed in my throat up another few inches. If I left now, my grades would be incomplete. In essence, thousands of dollars wasted. Thousands of dollars I'd promised not to waste.

I guess it goes to show that nothing turns out like you expect. Not even Rome. The place that wasn't built in a day. All the roads may have lead here, but maybe an airplane could take me away.

So I swallowed against the cold lump and turned back. Rather, I turned my face right back into an expensive suit. I got a whiff of tastefully expensive cologne and a sense of hard muscle beneath the tailored jacket before rebounding.

"Oh!" I said, my reflexes making me stumble back, my shoes unable to find purchase on that slick marble floor. A cold, hard marble floor that definitely wasn't going to be kind to my behind. My teeth clicked together and my eyes squeezed shut in antic.i.p.ation of the jarring pain about to shoot up my spine.

Except it didn't. Instead, two hands grabbed my out flung wrists and steadied me.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, his Italian flawless if accented. It was an American accent.

That startled me. Normally I wasn't one to fall prey to stereotypes, but I'd definitely seen my fair share of American tourists speaking slowly and loudly in English or fumbling their way through an English-Italian dictionary to start believing there was some truth to it.

"Fine. Clumsy, but fine," I said, giving my head a shake that sent those blonde curls of mine tumbling back and forth against my skin. Those hands of his still held my wrists, and I could feel the heat from his palms radiating against my skin.

"You speak English!"

"So do you, apparently..." I had a witty remark on the tip of my tongue, but it died there when I lifted my eyes to get a look at the face of my savior.

Dark hair, like an Italian. Black and glossy and so soft looking my fingers curled even as my stomach tightened with the desire to feel just how soft. It was tousled just enough to give that bed-head look without actually being bed-head.

Below that hairline, two baby-blues twinkled back at me with amus.e.m.e.nt. The barest hint of a five-o'clock-shadow graced sculpted cheeks and a dimpled chin. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that tapered to show his build without being flamboyant.

It was an Armani suit, too. Which brought to mind yet another old saw: When in Rome...

But what caught my eyes the most was the smile. The barest uptick at the corners of his thin lips, which parted just enough to offer a glimpse of the pearly-whites they curtained, confirmed the amus.e.m.e.nt I'd detected in those baby-blues.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he said, giving my wrists a squeeze and glancing down in a gesture meant to draw my attention.

I followed his look and discovered what he'd been trying to get at. I'd twisted my hands in his grip without realizing it so that I could hold onto his wrists as well. Now that I saw what I'd done, I couldn't help but think about what I felt.

The sleeves of his jacket and the cuffs of his shirt had ridden up, allowing bare, skin-to-skin contact. His pulse thumped strong and steady beneath the softness of his wrists. My own heart chattered against my ribs, and I realized that if I could feel his pulse, he must feel mine, too.

I jerked my hands back out of his grip so hard I nearly lost my balance again. "Fine, I'm fine!"

"That's good to hear," he said. And then he stuffed those saving hands of his into his pockets, hooking his thumbs in a way that invited my eyes to explore that fine body of his further. Did he do that on purpose, or did he just like standing that way?

He didn't leave. Why isn't he leaving? Still, that coy, boyish grin of his wasn't the worst thing I'd seen that day. And it wasn't an oily smile like Dr. Aretino's.

"You know, it's rather unusual to find another American at an event like this," Mr. Baby-Blues, as I began calling him in my mind, said.

I crossed my arms. "Who said I was an American? I could be Canadian." I didn't know why I flirted with him like that. Moments, heartbeats earlier I'd wanted nothing more than to give Dr. Aretino a quick h.e.l.lo and beat a hasty retreat back to my flat.

It was the eyes, I decided. Or rather the way they crinkled at me in amus.e.m.e.nt. And those saving hands of his. It took no effort at all to recall how warm those fingers felt against my bared wrists.

Then he squinted those eyes at me, appraising. That small smile of his curved a little tighter. Something very low in my stomach tightened in response to that smile. I resisted the involuntary response, choosing instead to bristle in indignation.

"No, you're definitely not Canadian," he said.

I flicked my head to the side, tossing a few blonde curls off my forehead. "You can't know that."

"Actually, I can," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. The movement wafted more of that light, expensive cologne my way.

"Are you psychic, then? Because there's no way you know anything aboot me, eh?" My lips, so used to a neutral expression, began a slow, creaking uptick into a smile.

My Canadian caricature drew a raised eyebrow in response, once more drawing my attention to the laughing twinkle behind his eyes. I liked the way they met mine so calmly and confidently. This was a man used to flirting with women. Not the sort of man I normally liked to flirt with (I was more into the quiet, artsy type of guy, or so I thought).

Yet flirt I did. And I liked it far too much. Definitely in a rut, I thought again. Were those baby blues of his my guiding lights, my twin lighthouses, out of that rut? A fleeting thought occurred that if I let him pull me out I might just land in a much deeper rut that I hadn't yet seen.

I began wondering what else he was good at with women, if he was so good at flirting. The thoughts had to be some defense mechanism on my part, I figured. Some way to take my mind off the way things were. But I welcomed the distraction. It wasn't like it was difficult or forced. Returning that smile of his felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He shook his head, that soft, black hair of his bouncing so gently and tantalizingly that my hands curled into fists against my waist. I'd never before experienced the urge to run my fingers through a stranger's hair, but I definitely experienced it then.

That urge, and others.

"No," he said, "Definitely American. Midwest I'd bet, were I a betting man. Wisconsin?"

I tut-tutted him. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He'd gotten the state wrong, but the general area correct. I found myself wanting to know more about Mr. Baby-Blues.

"It's a good thing you aren't a betting man, because you would have lost. Guess again."

This time both eyebrows ticked upward in the barest display of surprise. I guess Baby-Blues wasn't used to being wrong. Something about being the one to foil him tickled my own sense of amus.e.m.e.nt, and my smile grew, the muscles in my cheeks twitching to accommodate the long-unknown expression.

"What do I get I get if I guess correctly?" Baby-Blues said, c.o.c.king his head slightly.

I shrugged. I hadn't really been thinking that far ahead, instead enjoying some innocent flirting for once. "What do you want?"

Baby-Blues squinted briefly at a bearded bust of Constantine the Great that sat on a pedestal a few feet to my right, examining the marbled curls of his beard and his eternally opened eyes. "Your name."

I wondered if he knew who the bust had been sculpted after.

"And I suppose I get yours if you miss the mark again?" I replied.

He nodded. "That sounds like a fair deal to me." I got the impression that he found something about our little interaction refreshing. I wasn't really sure why. Maybe some subtle, unconscious stress he'd put on the words fair deal.

Just who are you, Baby-Blues? I wondered. I began to get the feeling that there was more to this guy than a flirtatious smile, nice hair, and an expensive suit. I then found myself hoping he would lose our little game so that I could get a name out of him.

So I let my hands slide down to my hips and c.o.c.ked my head to the side as though the answer to my origins lay somewhere on my body, perhaps on a badly concealed tag on my red dress, or a telling tattoo normally hidden (I have no tattoos, but I wondered if he had any hidden under that Armani of his).

Except Baby-Blues didn't accept my unspoken invitation to let his baby blues range over my body for the answer. They stayed locked on my eyes in the most disconcerting way. It was about this point I noticed that the elevator car of my anxiety had crashed in some unused sub-bas.e.m.e.nt of my psyche, the cool ball it normally left in my stomach completely absent.

"Missouri," he said, "I'm going with either Springfield or St. Louis. Which is it?"

For a moment I could do nothing but keep my jaw from dropping open in shock. I bristled again, more at myself than at him. Because I had a decision: I could lie and say he was wrong again, getting his name. Or I could concede and give him his prize.

As I considered how much I valued my honesty and integrity a few more well-dressed Italian couples sauntered into the foyer, shooting glances at the tall American man who blocked their path and forced them to move forward towards the main hall in single-file.

"You know, the longer you pause, the more I know I'm right. So which is it, Springfield or St. Louis?"

My smile turned tight-lipped. He looked so smug and secure in his knowledge. I just had to get rid of that smugness. But I couldn't let myself lie to do it.

"Guess which," I said, "Double or nothing."

He brought one hand out of his pocket and used his thumb and forefinger to stroke gently at the stubble along his jaw line. He prodded at his dimpled chin in the most endearing way. I almost gave in and spilled the beans... (Do as the Romans, I admonished myself with growing amus.e.m.e.nt) rather, spilled the... what? Tomatoes? Grapes? It was a question for another time.

"Double what?" he asked.

I shrugged, giving him a taste of his own medicine with a coy grin. "First name and last."

He balked playfully, "You mean you were only going to tell me your first name before?"

This I answered with another shrug and a wink to top it off. I really was enjoying this flirtation a little too much. I really need to get out more.

"Fine then," he said. Again he resumed his inspecting squint, his eyes glaring into mine as though he could somehow probe the mind that lay behind them. I swallowed, realizing that the feeling in the pit of my stomach was suspense.

"It's St. Louis," he said finally.

This time my mouth did drop open. I'd been certain he'd guess Springfield. Certain.

"Fess up," he said, pausing a polite moment to let my obvious shock pa.s.s.

"Wait... How did you? There's no way you could... Are you stalking me or something?" I kept sputtering. It was the only rational answer I could come up with at that moment.

"Of course not," he said, looking so genuinely shocked at the accusation that I couldn't help but believe him, "Let's leave it at reading people is a requisite for my job. So do I get my prize?"

"Yes, yes. I'm..." My throat tightened up, residual anxiety rising up from my stomach again. This is your last chance, something told me. But my last chance for what? To escape, to get away clean from my charming expat flirt here, I supposed.

The thing was, I didn't want to escape. Well, that wasn't true. I wanted to escape my life, escape Rome. But maybe, just maybe, I could escape into him? Into Baby-Blues' baby blues?

Yes, I decided. Escape was just what I needed.

So I fixed my broken smile and turned it on him. "Emma. Weston," I said, pausing between my first and last names like some robotic phone operator. "Emma Weston," I tried again, my name suddenly sounding foreign and strange to me.

"That's a nice name. I like it," Baby-Blues said.

"Glad you approve," I said, my nerves retreating enough to allow some wit. "And you are?"

He gave a wink that infuriated and exhilarated me simultaneously. "You lost fair and square. I'm under no obligation to tell you anything."

"'Under no obligation?' What is this? A contract?"

"No, no. Of course not," he spread his hands in mock supplication, "I'm Liam."