Chapter Ten
Carly hid her black clothes underneath a bright-pink scarf and floral blazer. The orchestra members were supposed to be having a night out on the town, and she didn’t want anyone knowing she’d snuck off for another gig, with another orchestra, with Michelangelo.
She’d spent the day memorizing the notes she’d taken with Michelangelo yesterday at lunch and watching Italian television shows while the rest of the orchestra went on a tour of the local marketplace. He’d even called her room on his break, speaking Italian, to make sure she was absorbing the information. He’d given her an exact time when he’d pick her up in a red Fiat out front.
Alaina had gone shopping for a better dress, and knowing her, that would take all day. Thank goodness she hadn’t come back yet. The less the opera diva knew, the better. She’d probably want to rehearse again, and Carly had had enough of Bach’s silly rendition of love.
Making sure the hallway was clear, Carly snuck from her room and took the stairs down to the main lobby. Three floors weren’t bad, but after walking all over the Vatican City, her feet ached. Such is the price for a flourishing career.
Melody and Wolf sat on the guest sofas right before the double doors, chatting with Bertha, Trudy, and Al. At least one of them would notice her leaving all by herself. Then she’d have to come up with some excuse, not to mention the fact they might catch her getting in Michelangelo’s car.
Great.
Carly closed the door and leaned against the wall in the stair shaft, trying to calm her racing heart. Maybe if she waited it out, they’d go away.
She checked her watch. Five more minutes and Michelangelo would pull up to the curb, expecting her to get in. She had to be at the Cesari Amento in thirty minutes, ready to play.
An older couple came down the stairs speaking feverishly in Italian, and Carly whipped out her phone, pretending to read an e-mail. As they passed, she picked up a few key phrases about hailing a taxi and eating out at some restaurant. The haze of foreign phrases had cleared some, thanks to Michelangelo.
The couple walked into the lobby and Carly checked again before the heavy fire door snapped shut.
Laughing, Wolf and Melody headed toward the entrance. Bertha and Trudy hailed an elevator, and Al leaned against the main desk, flirting with the dark-haired woman receptionist, who wasn’t buying it.
Carly snuck out and hid behind a large ceramic pot almost as tall as her with exotic ferns splaying out on all sides. Her fingers brushed a picture of a young couple sitting beside a pond. Strangely, the woman and man had the same hair color as her light-blond ponytail and Michelangelo’s dark waves. Blinking the resemblance away, she watched as Melody and Wolf disappeared outside.
Carly waited another two minutes and bolted for the door.
Sleek black limos, brightly colored taxis, and other luxury cars lined the circular drive. Melody and Wolf slipped into a taxi to the right, so she turned left. Come on, Michelangelo, where are you?
A corner of red poked out from behind their tour bus to her left. Carly dashed down the sidewalk and spotted Michelangelo’s Fiat expertly hidden behind the large tour bus. Edda waved at her from the bus driver’s seat as she passed.
Carly scanned the walkway to make sure no one noticed. She approached the Fiat, opened the passenger door and slipped in.
Inside smelled of a hint of masculine aftershave and mint. Michelangelo turned to her with a smile spreading across his luscious lips. He wore a tailored suit, bringing out the curve of his chest and arms. ‘Quite an outfit for a gig.’
‘It’s my disguise.’ Carly unwrapped her pink scarf and pulled her arms out of her blazer, stashing her clothes in the back. ‘Edda’s in on this, too?’
‘Let’s just say she wanted me to have a night out.’
‘She won’t tell Ms. Maxhammer?’
‘Naw. What’s to tell?’
He was right. They weren’t going on a date. He was just chauffeuring her to her gig. End of story. ‘Okay.’ She settled back into her seat and watched the nightlife of Rome flash by in bright lights.
‘So, why this gig? What’s so important about it?’ Michelangelo cast her a curious sideways glance.
Carly debated how much to tell him. He had agreed to teach her Italian and drive her there, so he deserved some explanation. ‘If you want to succeed as a freelance musician, you take every gig offered to you.’
‘Even in your free time?’
‘Ha! Musicians don’t have free time.’
He turned a corner, weaving smoothly around the traffic. ‘Sounds like a busy life.’
‘It is. I spend most of my free time practicing for concerts, or driving to gigs on the weekend.’
‘Do you enjoy living this way—as you Americans would say in the fast lane?’
Carly shrugged. No one had asked her that before. ‘I’ve lived like this ever since I decided to pursue music in high school. It’s the only life I’ve known.’
‘Ah. Sounds like you need to spend a day on a vineyard.’ His lips curled suggestively.
Carly shifted in her seat. Was that an invitation? She decided to play it cool. ‘Why’s that?’
‘There’s nothing like it in all the world. Once you’re there, time disappears. Honking cars, people rushing to work, the constant cell phone calls—it’s all replaced by buzzing bees, light winds, and the smell of fresh blossoms.’
‘I thought you said running a vineyard was stressful.’
He considered her response, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It is at times, but it’s also extremely rewarding.’
Carly recalled the prickle of goose bumps on her skin when she performed a piece of music. ‘Guess I’d say the same thing about music.’
‘We are at an impasse, then?’ He glanced over with a smile.
Wait a sec. Something didn’t add up. If he enjoyed the vineyard so much, why did he leave it? ‘So why did you leave the vineyard to become a tour guide?’
Michelangelo stiffened and focused on the road ahead.
Carly checked the road, but the traffic was light. Seems she’d hit a nerve.
He rubbed his chin, darkened by light stubble. ‘You don’t truly appreciate something until you are away from it.’
‘Interesting.’ Carly thought back to her jobs in the States. Did she miss them? Her constant e-mail checking was more out of necessity than any type of wistful remembering. Then again, she had one of her orchestras over here with her. So, it wasn’t the jobs in particular, it was the music.
Michelangelo pulled up to a hotel swankier than theirs, with stone statues of men in togas and white Roman columns strung with ivy. He parked in front of a fluorescent-green Lamborghini and waved the luggage boys away. ‘Let me give you my phone number, and you can call me when you’re done.’
‘Okay.’ Carly put his number in under MR, just in case anyone saw her phone. Alaina had turned off her alarm the other day; she wouldn’t put it past her to skim through her contacts.
‘Remember what you learned. Call me if you run into any problems.’ He leaned over, and Carly froze in shock.
Michelangelo placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, his lips brushing her skin light enough to send jolts of electricity through her body. ‘For good luck.’
So, he kissed me. Don’t make a big deal out of it. People kissed on the cheeks all the time in France, right? So was this any different?
She collected her purse and her oboe bag. ‘Thank you.’
Michelangelo winked. ‘My pleasure.’