IT took Andrea all of about three minutes after storming away from her nemesis to figure out that she’d lost her phone in the ruckus. Which meant she’d have to return to the scene of the crime and no doubt mix it up with the snooty prince again—not tops on her to-do list. But she needed to get to her Couchsurfing home, so she had to figure it out. Besides, her entire everything was on that phone. Without it, she was doomed.
By the time she got back to binario due, no prince was to be found. She asked around in her barely serviceable Italian if anyone had seen her cellulare, to no avail. Eventually she saw the old gypsy woman again.
“The prince,” she mumbled to Andi in her garbled voice. “The prince has what you need.”
Or at least Andi thought that’s what the woman said. She could have said the prince was a bad seed. Or the prince loved to read. Hell if she knew what the old gal had said. Great, Andi thought. I am now without my traveling lifeline, and I’m supposed to rely on advice from a demented old woman who says some stupid prince has what I need. As if he could have anything I’d ever want or crave. Well, except maybe that cricket bat he was packing. After all, it had been an awfully long time since she’d been with a guy... She gave herself a little mental dope-slap at that thought, then found a tourist-information desk and got directions to the nearest Internet café. At least she’d be able to check her e-mail and find out where she was going to sleep for the night.
~*~
“What do you think was up with that strange bird at the train station?” Zander shouted to Lorenzo above the din of the party as he topped off his glass with yet more champagne. “She acted almost as if she knew me, like I’d wronged her, even. What a lunatic! And shouldn’t we be drinking prosecco, not champagne, being that we’re in Italy? Though I’d rather have a beer.”
His friend pointed to his ear, unable to hear with the band playing so loudly. “Let’s take it outside,” he said as he led the way through the Great Hall of Palazzo Donatello, the walls and ceilings of which were covered with spectacular Renaissance murals, tapestries, frescoes, and maps. The opulence was breathtaking, though Zander was accustomed to living in such a rarified world, so he barely lifted a brow to notice it all.
Outside, they followed a pebbled path beneath a canopy of orange trees, past a large Baroque fountain featuring a statue of Neptune cavorting with a bevy of water nymphs. Zander pointed at the statue.
“Now we’re talking.” He hoisted two thumbs-up. “My kind of man, that one.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lorenzo said, well aware of his good friend’s roving ways. “But remember, you’re still on parental probation.”
“I’ll choose to ignore that.”
“Ignore it all you want, but remember I’m tasked with keeping you out of trouble. Besides, what’s with the mixed mythologies, there? Don’t nymphs belong with Poseidon, not Neptune?”
“You do realize I’m not renowned first and foremost for my scholarly attributes, right?” Zander gave him a wink. “For all I know that is Poseidon. Or maybe they’re not nymphs. But I love me a good nympho, if that matters at all.”
Lorenzo just rolled his eyes. “I swear to you that statue reminds me all too much of you in that pool in Vegas.”
“Will I never live that one down?” Zander wrung his hands together, pretending to lament his fate, but he had a broad smile on his face. Truth was he hadn’t given a care if that episode aroused fury in his mother or a million hits on YouTube or even an auto-tuned version of his little foray (there were four, in fact). He was perfectly comfortable in his skin, with or without any extra layers of pricy designer clothes covering it up.
They were enjoying this early evening al fresco at his father’s cousin’s sprawling fourteenth-century palace on the outskirts of Rome, basking in glorious late-spring weather in a garden the size of a football (soccer, that is) field that was fragrant with an intoxicating clash of lavender, rosemary, honeysuckle, and jasmine, along with the scent of roses climbing tall trellises scattered throughout the gardens. Nearby, elegantly clad Italians in various shades of black, gray, tan, and white milled about as equally stylish waitresses in what appeared to be sleek, formfitting black Armani sheaths passed canapés to party guests. Euro-beat dance music was blaring, though still the vibe was decidedly less rambunctious than Zander’s usual preference.
“Do you think we might slip out of here and go clubbing later?” he asked, batting his eyelashes dramatically as if that would charm Lorenzo.
“Sorry. To answer your many questions, in order of appearance: I don’t know, and no,” Lorenzo said. “That woman? Who knows? Clearly she wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards. And as far as the clubbing idea: if you step out of line and engage in some stupid public display of erection again, your mother will have your head.”
“Very funny,” Zander said. “Just for the record, there was no erection involved.”
“Truth matters not, once the tabloids have their way with the story,” his friend said, tut-tutting him. “Granted, the pictures weren’t particularly in focus, but arguably that could have been a hard-on. Hard to tell, ha-ha. I refused to pull out my magnifying glass to inspect it for clarification’s sake. Or maybe it’s just that your dick is as big as they say it is, even in dormancy. What’s it like to be an Internet meme, by the way?” He chucked his good friend on the arm.
“Oh stop with that nonsense,” he said. “Besides you have me confused with my brother. Not that mine’s not just as huge, but Adrian’s the one who stirred up the buzz for being hung like a horse.”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” Lorenzo said. “That fashion show in Milano.” He started laughing. “God, that was too perfect. Your brother spends his whole life ensuring he does nothing that can be interpreted badly, always following the straight and narrow. And then some guy’s measuring his inseam for pants he has to wear at a fashion show, and the next thing you know, the Internet is abuzz with rumors of the size of his cock.”
“Must suck being first in line to the throne. I wouldn’t know. Although I suppose there could be worse rumors about a man,” Zander said. “Come to think of it, there was a lot of talk about me too, wasn’t there?”
“I vaguely recall something that trended on Twitter to the likes of hashtag ZandersWompingWillie, if it makes you feel any better. Nevertheless, I think the palace’s grave displeasure with your failed attempt at international bridge building kept me from paying attention to that niggling detail. Though I’m sure there were squeals of delight the world over at the chance to see you naked. I just know your mother practically blamed me for being a bad influence on you, and I wasn’t even there! And don’t even get me started on the episode at the cheeky Tiki Mahiki lounge in London a few months ago. It’s a wonder your mother hasn’t stuck you in the dungeon at this point.”
“Enough of this talk. All in the past,” Zander said, waving his hand to dismiss it. “For now, how do we get the crazy woman’s phone back to her? And then we can figure out which nightclub to go to.”
Lorenzo’s eyes got large. “You are truly serious, aren’t you?”
“I’m a young, single man with no responsibilities except showing up at the occasional charity function or polo match. I’m in Italy, where there are many hot women. I need some healthy diversions in my otherwise ho-hum existence. Besides, I promise to keep my pants up. At least until I’m alone with her.”
“Her who?”
“Her anyone! A little means of relaxation is all I’m asking for,” Zander said. “After all, a man has needs.”
“Why can’t you find that at, say, a sports club or a juice bar, even a gelateria? Must your fun always involve the opposite sex, and, er, sex?”
Zander tipped his chin down and pursed his lips, staring straight at Lorenzo with his sincere blue eyes. “Surely you’re not asking me that. Did you lose your man-club membership card or something? Of course my fun involves women and sex. You should be worried for me if that wasn’t the case!”
“All right, already. I can hardly dispute your argument. If you promise not to do anything foolish in public, we’ll see if we can find a discreet nightclub with discreet upscale customers with whom you can fraternize discreetly. And in case you hadn’t picked up on the theme yet, discreetly is the operative word.” Lorenzo gave Zander a stern look. “Did you hear me?”
The prince clenched his hand in a victory fist. “I knew you’d see it my way. In the meantime, let’s look in this phone and see what we can find.”
~*~
By the time Andi arrived at her Couchsurfing host’s apartment in the gentrifying working-class neighborhood of Testaccio, it was well after dark. Her host, a man named Rafaele, was excited to show her the town. Andi really enjoyed the Couchsurfing experience and had met lovely people in every town in which she’d stayed with a host, but she was truly beat and longed to simply put her head on a pillow and call it a night. Her host would have none of it.
“To overuse a cliché I’m sure you’ve heard a thousand times,” Rafaele, whose English skills were as good as Andi’s, said, “when in Rome...”
Rafaele was a classically handsome Italian man, if a little old for her, with dark, soulful eyes; wavy, thick salt-and-pepper hair that curled at the nape of his neck; and a strong body that looked as if it had been earned not from a gym but from hard work. When he smiled his bright white smile, it was impossible to plead exhaustion or old-lady muggings or even being creeped out by gypsy soothsaying. She knew she had little choice, so she dug into the bottom of her backpack and pulled out her no-muss, no-fuss little black dress and slapped on what little makeup she traveled with for just such rare occasions. She even threw caution to the wind and applied mascara.
~*~
Andi hopped onto the back of her host’s Piaggio for the quick ride to the nightclub, passing by the Campo de’ Fiori along the way. Vendors were closing up for the night, and she made a mental note to return to this glorious-looking market by day. Shari Vari Playhouse was packed by the time she and Rafaele got there. They pushed their way toward the bar in the cavernous basement where Andi ordered an Aperol spritz and Rafaele a Campari sanguinea.
“Drinks are on me,” he said, which surprised her, though once she saw what he paid for them, she was ever so grateful for his generosity since she’d be relegated to washing dishes to pay for hers.
They negotiated their way through a swarm of partiers grinding on the dance floor and pressed up to the wall near a corner just to be able to drink without spilling the precious liquid. Rafaele’s eyes were scouring the room, and suddenly he waved his arms in the air, motioning toward a lovely woman with wavy shoulder-length black hair who was dancing her way in their direction.
“Andi, meet the love of my life, Elisabetta,” he said, pulling his girlfriend close and kissing her on the lips.
Andi and Elisabetta did the usual European two-cheek kiss and tried to speak but couldn’t hear a thing above the DJ’s pulsing music. They resorted to smiling and some futile hand gestures.
“Come, let’s dance,” Rafaele said, nodding toward the hordes of people pressed together. Andi waved her hand to politely decline, but he instead grabbed her hand and Elisabetta’s and pulled the two women out to the dance floor.
Andi tried hard to feel as if she was part of the crowd, to just let it all go and roll with the music and the energy and the vibe. But after dancing through several songs as the third wheel with her host and his girlfriend, she politely excused herself to wander the facilities after making sure they had plans to meet back up so she wouldn’t be left without a way back to his place. If she couldn’t exactly leave yet, at least she could escape the mob for a few minutes.
Going from the solitude of the silence of billions of stars in the North African desert to the sensory overload of a Rome nightclub had left her feeling strangely rudderless, and she wondered if she would find her way again.