Chapter Seven
Michelangelo checked the last row of bus seats, making sure no one had left anything important behind. He’d found a few half-used water bottles, an umbrella, and a concert program. Stuffing the program into his shirt, he thought back to Carly’s duet with Alaina. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her burgundy dress, outshining the opera diva in every way.
His chest panged when he remembered her disappointed grimace as she walked off stage. He wasn’t classically trained, and the aria sounded pleasant to him despite Alaina’s earsplitting high notes. But something had gone wrong. Should he drop by Carly’s room and reassure her? It was his job to ensure the comfort of everyone in the orchestra.
‘Daydreaming, signore?’ Edda turned from her steering wheel. She still had to fill the bus with gas for their excursion to St. Peter’s Basilica and the drive to Florence in two days and was fretting about the time.
Michelangelo realized he was standing in the aisle with his arms full of trash. He smiled as though she’d caught him red-handed. ‘Something like that.’
Edda gave him a motherly smile. ‘She’s a lucky girl, whoever she is.’
He dumped the trash in a bag at the front of the bus. ‘How do you know I’m dreaming about a signorina?’
‘A young man your age needs a little love in his life.’ She glanced at his bare ring finger. ‘I’m surprised you’ve gone on this long without it.’
For a moment, he almost told her about his vineyard, and how he didn’t have the time for love. But, he couldn’t implicate her in his forgery. Best she did her job, and he his.
Michelangelo smiled. ‘Maybe now’s the time, eh?’ He said it as more of a joke to get her off his case. But, as the thought passed his mind, it left a lasting impression.
‘See you tomorrow. Enjoy your night off.’
She nodded. ‘Oh, I will. Got my grandson coming over. The child runs like a demon, destroying everything in his path.’
He gave her a look of horror and she chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Any plans for you?’
He really needed to return to his vineyard, but his contract had him attending the orchestra’s needs twenty-four seven—which was the reason for the big check at the end. ‘Not for me.’
‘Who knows, something may pop up.’ Edda must have sensed the wistfulness in his voice.
Yeah, like two hundred thousand euros? That was about the only thing that could make him happy. Well, that and spending more time with Carly. If he could make her feel better about her performance, then he’d done his job for the day. ‘Thanks, Edda.’
Michelangelo walked off the bus and toward the hotel. Three fifty-two. Carly’s room number. All he had to do was take the elevator up and stop by. He could use some excuse like checking the departure time for tomorrow’s tour of the Vatican. They had been late to the bus this morning, so a short visit wouldn’t seem too strange.
He entered the hotel, making a beeline for the elevators before he changed his mind. One compliment about her performance, that’s all. He didn’t know why, but he had a deep urge to comfort her.
What if Alaina is there as well?
Then he’d reaffirm the time with both of them, give Carly his reassurance about her performance and return to his room. What was the worst that could happen?
Michelangelo stepped into the elevator and pressed for the third floor. When he got out, the hallway was empty. Grazie a Dio. The less people who saw him here the better.
He counted the room numbers until he found three fifty-two. Excitement rushed through him. Brushing lint off the green polo he’d put on after the concert, he knocked on the door.
The door swung open, and Alaina leant on the wall, wearing black, lacy, sheer sleepwear—or underwear—he wasn’t sure. ‘Well, hello Michelangelo.’ She stepped forward and he averted his eyes from all of the porcelain flesh. ‘What can I do for you?’
He looked over her shoulder, but the room seemed empty. He cleared his throat, assuming the most professional tone he could under such circumstances. ‘I wanted to reaffirm the time for the tour tomorrow.’
‘Reaffirm away.’ She trailed her long-nailed finger up and down the side of the door.
‘The bus leaves at nine a.m. sharp. Can you make sure Carly receives my message?’
Alaina waved her finger in the air. ‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ He moved to leave, and her hand darted at him like a viper, grabbing his arm. ‘You can’t fool me. I know why you’re here.’
His heart sped into high gear. ‘Excuse me?’ Did she know about his attraction to Carly? He hadn’t exactly done his best to hide it.
‘Come in and I’ll show you.’
Or worse: did she have some sort of evidence about his tour guide history—or lack thereof? Was she going to blackmail him? He only had about ten euros left to his name.
Michelangelo stepped in. ‘My apologies, signorina. I have no idea what you are referring to.’
‘This.’
Before he could take a breath, Alaina pushed herself against him, pressing her sticky, lipstick-coated mouth to his.
*****
If bombing the aria wasn’t enough, Carly had another message from Dino on her phone. As everyone else shuffled upstairs, she found a quiet reception room and called her voicemail. Crossing her fingers, she hoped he wasn’t dropping her as a performer.
Dino’s voice came on the line. ‘Carly. Babe. Boy, do I have a gig for you this Friday night.’
Carly breathed with relief, then rolled her eyes as the word Friday sank in. Didn’t he hear her the first time? She was four thousand miles from Boston. That was quite some mileage to pay. She prepared to be majorly disappointed.
‘It’s at the—’ He paused as if he either forgot the name or couldn’t pronounce it. ‘Cesari Amento, located right in the center of Rome.’
Wait a sec. Did he say Rome?
Carly ended the message and pressed speed dial.
‘Dirty Dancing DJs.’
‘Dino. It’s Carly.’
‘I knew you’d be a-callin’’ Dino sounded like he was grinning at the same time as he spoke.
‘How did you—’
‘I pulled some strings. A former DJ of mine opened a business in Milan. He books all of Italy, and I thought—why not. Let’s give it a try.’
‘That’s wonderful. The orchestra is off that night. I’m totally free.’ Did she sound too desperate? She didn’t care.
‘How much Italian do you speak?’
Carly froze. Never say no to a gig if you can help it. ‘Some.’ Meaning Si and Grazie. Oh, and signore. Put them together and she could say Yes, thank you, Mr. At least that’s what she thought.
‘Great. I’ll hook you up. Their oboist dropped out last minute—hand problems or something. Anyways, the contact name is Vinci Romano, the lead violinist in the chamber group, and the booker is Mario Gallo.’
‘Mario, as in the video game?’
‘Yes, as in the video game. But, don’t tell him that.’
Carly laughed. ‘Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.’
Dino typed in the background. ‘I’m sending you the times and address in an e-mail.’
Address. Carly hadn’t thought about how she’d get there. Guess I’ll have to call a cab.
‘Thanks, Dino. I owe you one.’
‘No, I owe you. Expanding my business overseas is a dream I’ve had for a long time.’
Wow, getting on Dino’s good side was a score. ‘I’ll make sure to do a good job, then.’
‘You always do, babe.’
She ended the conversation and hung up. Looks like the day is shaping up after all. She only had to gloss over one little detail. She couldn’t speak Italian to save her life.
Carly needed an Italian teacher, like, yesterday, and only one person came to mind.
Michelangelo.
Drat. Hadn’t she vowed to stay away from him? Could she really control herself if he hit on her again?
She’d have to chance it. Gathering her oboe case and purse, Carly approached the front desk and asked for Michelangelo’s room number, saying she had some sort of problem with the tour to resolve. They gave it to her right away.
Carly stepped in the elevator and pressed his floor. Waiting for the door to open, she rehearsed what she’d say. Please teach me Italian in twenty-four hours. Every excuse she came up with sounded crazy, so she decided to stick with the truth.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped out and followed the numbers to his room at the end of the hall.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Sheepishly, she smoothed down her black blouse and knocked on the door.
No answer.
Maybe he was an early sleeper.
She pushed away yet another image of Michelangelo in his boxer shorts and knocked again.
Nothing.
He must be helping someone else resolve an issue about the tour.
Dammit. She needed him now. How could she learn anything tomorrow in St. Peter’s Basilica while he regaled the orchestra with historical facts?
Carly thought about walking around to look for him, but that bordered on stalker behavior, and she didn’t want to advertise the fact she was seeking him out in the wee hours of the night, even though it was purely work-related.
Carly brought out her purse and wrote on the back of a grocery receipt. Need your help with Italian translation asap. Carly Davis, Room three fifty-two. There. That sounded professional.
She slipped the paper under the door. Now she could go back to her room and look up key phrases on her phone and start memorizing right away. Michelangelo could help with pronunciation.
Carly took the elevator back to her room. Disappointment settled over her and she tried to push away her illogical feelings. Was it because he couldn’t help her right away? Or was she really so hung up over a tour guide she’d barely met? If it was the latter, then she had to slap some sense into herself. She needed him for her gig and that was it. End of story. No flirting allowed.
The door to her and Alaina’s room stood ajar, with golden light glowing into the hallway. Panic jolted through her. Alaina would never leave the door open with all of her expensive jewelry and perfume. Had someone broken in?
A thud reverberated from inside. Was it luggage hitting the floor, or a body hitting the wall? What if the intruders were attacking Alaina?
She reached for her phone to call nine-one-one. Then she remembered they were in Italy, and she had no idea who to call. By the time she figured it out, Alaina would be dead.
Carly held her purse as a weapon and her oboe case as a shield. She whirled around the corner into the room.
Alaina leaned against the wall, kissing a man. She wore see-through undies, which didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Carly blushed with embarrassment and looked away immediately. ‘Holy Mary, mother of Victoria’s Secret! Sorry to intrude.’
Alaina pulled back, and Carly’s stomach dropped to ground level.
‘Michelangelo?’ What a hopeless flirt. Had he seduced every naïve woman on that tour bus? She felt so utterly stupid.
‘My apologies.’ He looked more shocked than she was. Didn’t think both women you hit on had the same room, you jerk?
Carly glanced back to Alaina, who leaned against the wall with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘We were just discussing the departure time for the tour tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure.’ Carly turned back toward the door. ‘I can find somewhere else to sleep if you two want to be alone.’ There was no way the three of them would be having a slumber party.
Michelangelo pushed by both of them. ‘No, there’s no need. I was just leaving.’ He glanced at Carly one more time, his eyes looking innocently vulnerable considering the circumstances. ‘I’m sorry, Ms. Davis.’
Carly gawked with nothing to say as he left. A second after he was gone, she thought of all the wittiest responses in the world.
‘You scared him away.’ Alaina pouted. ‘We were having such a good time.’
‘You could have let me know so I didn’t walk into the most awkward moment of my life.’
‘It was a surprise, dear. After the embarrassment of our aria, I needed something to cheer me up.’
Carly sighed, still reeling from the second embarrassment of the day. ‘And I didn’t?’
‘Wait a sec.’ Alaina crossed the room and narrowed her eyes at Carly. ‘Are you jealous?’
‘Hardly.’ Carly picked up her phone as an excuse not to meet her gaze. She didn’t want to see so much of Alaina’s skin anyway.
Alaina put both hands on her hips. ‘How do I know you don’t want him for yourself?’
Carly collapsed on the bed wondering if she could learn Italian from Wikipedia and Google. She had a gig to prepare for. The last thing she needed was idle distractions. What a total waste of thought and time.
‘Believe me, I don’t.’ She gave Alaina a thumbs-up. ‘He’s all yours.’