Rome WIth Dad's Best Friend Read online

  “It must have been fate,” Hannah grins.

  The waiter returns to us, and I listen with half an ear as Hannah orders the Bolognese as I recommended. I put in my own order for a glass of sparkling water and a slice of Luccio’s hearty lasagna, remembering the way her curves had put me in mind of it. I can work it off in my personal gym later. Why not?

  I run my eyes over her again as Hannah studies the menu, a flustered spot of pink appearing on her cheeks as she hurriedly decides what she wants to drink. Over her full, pink lips, her chest straining inside her blouse, the pale, soft skin swelling above the neckline. For a moment a fantasy comes over me, of my hands sinking beneath that fabric, pulling her milk-white breasts free to the surface.

  I shake my head to clear it as she decides what she wants, putting myself back into the right frame of mind for conversation. One thing is clear to me. I want to make Hannah mine. I want to claim her, take her home right now, and bend her over my kitchen counter, take a bite out of that juicy ass.

  Right or wrong, I want her. And I’m not the kind of man who doesn’t get what he wants.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hannah

  I look at the steaming plate of perfectly-formed Bolognese in front of me. It’s like something out of a cartoon. Exactly what you would envisage, the loops and whorls of spaghetti, the meatballs rested at perfect intervals on top, the sauce poured over it all with precision. Not only does it look good, but it also smells amazing. I snap a couple of pictures with my phone, wishing there was a way to capture this scent.

  It’s only when I’ve taken my first bite, the spaghetti coiled around my fork and a meatball balanced on the end of it so that I can try all of the flavors at once, that I realize Marco is watching me intently. I flush. I probably look like a pig. I just read somewhere that it’s better to taste a dish by eating a little piece of every flavor on the plate first, to see how they burst together in your mouth.

  And I have to say, whoever wrote that was a genius because I forget how self-conscious I am when my eyes slide shut in pure pleasure. Marco was right – this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

  “Good?” Marco asks.

  I open my eyes and blush again to see him still watching me. “Good,” I say, once I’ve swallowed my mouthful, nodding rapidly.

  Marco flashes me a grin, then starts eating his own meal. “So, how long is your vacation?”

  “Just a week,” I say, making a face. “It barely seems long enough, after the flight. But I came in yesterday, and my flight leaves Sunday evening.”

  Marco shakes his head. “Definitely not enough time for this beautiful city,” he says teasingly. “What are your plans?”

  “I didn’t really plan anything,” I shrug. “I looked up the opening times for all of the tourist attractions I was interested in, and now I’ll just play it by ear, I guess.”

  Marco looks horrified. “But you’ll be lost in queues, waiting to get in, if you don’t plan properly.”

  “Really?” I blink. “Is it that bad?”

  “Rome is one of the busiest cities in the world,” Marco tells me. “Both a blessing, because who wouldn’t want to visit our beautiful city? – and also, a curse. There are lines everywhere. If you go too late to the Vatican City, you won’t even get in before closing.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, my face falling. “I was going to go there. And I was going to book one of the guided tours. That wouldn’t get me to the front of the line, would it?”

  Marco shakes his head, making a face. “No guided tours, please. Overpriced and delivered by bored teenagers. You need a local guide.”

  “I don’t know anyone here,” I say, sighing. Maybe I wasn’t quite prepared for international travel on my own, after all.

  “You know me,” Marco says, popping a perfectly square-cut bite of lasagna into his mouth.

  I stare at him for a moment. Was he…? No, he couldn’t be offering. He had to be busy. He had work, after all. This was his life.

  “But you must be so busy,” I manage to blurt out, realizing he hasn’t said anything else and is looking at me expectantly.

  “Yes,” Marco says, then shrugs. “And no. Everything can be changed. I wouldn’t mind showing you some more of the city.”

  I barely know what to say. It would be a big ask, and here he is offering it freely. Can I really be so lucky as to get the chance to spend more time with this gorgeous, handsome man?

  “Just say yes,” Marco says, watching me with a twinkle in his green eyes. “You don’t have to be conflicted. Simon made a lot of things easier for me when I was in the US. The least I can do is to return the favor for his daughter.”

  I shoot my eyes back down to my plate, feeling like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over my head. Of course, just when I was beginning to feel like something might be aligning in the stars to bring us closer together, he has to remind me that he only sees me as my father’s daughter. A child. Not at all somebody to try to get close to for a hot vacation romance.

  “So, what’s your impression of our beautiful Rome so far?” Marco asks me.

  “I think I’m starting to fall in love with it,” I say, absent-mindedly, twirling another piece of spaghetti around my fork. It’s true. Rome isn’t like other old cities. It’s not stuffy and trapped in time, reliving the days of its prime and refusing to move with the times. It’s not boring, but modern, a breath of fresh air. You can almost forget how old it is until you see those telltale signs because it feels so much younger. And it has a totally sexy accent.

  Alright. I may not be thinking about Rome anymore.

  But sitting across from a man like that, can you blame me?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Marco

  I know there’s no way I’m going to be satisfied with leaving Hannah after this meal, just going back to the office and waiting to meet her again tomorrow. Because it would have to be tomorrow – tonight I have an important business dinner, and it will keep me occupied for hours.

  But there’s no chance I’m walking away like that.

  Now that I’ve spent some time with her, I know it more than ever, I want to possess her. To have her by my side at all times, to show her off on my arm, to let other men know they dare not even look at her without my permission. Something about her triggers my caveman side, my built-in instincts. I have to clench my hands under the table to stop myself from getting up and pulling her into my arms right here and now.

  “I’ll just make some calls, bella,” I tell her, dumping my napkin on the table next to my empty plate. “I’ll be back in a moment to pay the bill.”

  “My name’s Hannah,” Hannah says, blinking at me.

  I laugh as I get up, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Bella means beautiful. It’s what Italian men say to attractive women,” I tell her. Then I straighten and walk outside, because as tempting as it is to linger and watch her flustered expression, I think it’s much more effective to let those words sink in.

  I call my assistant, Francesca. Despite her name – which I always think sounds like that of a young woman, ready to party – Fran is actually in her sixties. I keep thinking she will want to retire, but so far she shows no sign of stopping, and I’ve never had a more reliable assistant in my life.

  “Sir,” she says, in rapid and no-nonsense Italian. “I have three messages for you. The director of the -”

  “Wait, wait,” I tell her. “Pretend you never spoke to me. Tell me the messages at another time. I just need you to cancel everything for tonight.”

  There’s a pause at the end of the line. “Everything alright, Mr. Chelimeo?”

  “Quite alright, Fran,” I tell her. “Something more important came up. In fact, keep the restaurant, but change the reservation for two. I will still attend tonight. You can tell the others I am unwell. I’ve never used that excuse in fifteen years, so it might be nice.”

  I hear the sound of Fran typing on her computer keyboard, and I can picture her with the receiver tuc
ked under her chin, her steel-grey bun piled on top of her head as always. “Should I reschedule for tomorrow?”

  I hesitate. “Next week,” I decide. “In fact, clear my schedule for the rest of this week, too. Let people get a little uncomfortable. Why not? They will think I’m meeting with a rival company and be even more eager to work together when I return.”

  Fran stops typing. “Are you sure you’re alright, Marco?”

  I know she’s serious. It’s the only time she will call me by my first name, she’s normally far too formal for that. “Better than ever, my dear Fran,” I tell her with a smile, glancing through the window at Hannah. “I have a reason at last to skip work. After all these years, I think I earned it.”

  I end the call, smiling at Hannah through the glass. I quickly move to join her again, feeling already that I don’t want to miss a moment of time by her side.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hannah

  After an afternoon of lazily exploring the back streets of Rome, where Marco seems to know everyone and everything, it feels as though we are caught up. He knows all about my life up until this point, my dreams for the future, everything that someone could need to know about me.

  And I know that… he works a lot, and is a friend of my Dad’s.

  Actually, when I stop to think for a moment, I realize that he hasn’t given much away at all.

  But I don’t have the time to call him out on it or try to learn more, because the afternoon has passed by in a daze, and now it seems that it’s time for our dinner reservations.

  As we race across Rome in the back of a taxi, a sudden uncertainty strikes me. “Is this a fancy restaurant?” I ask, glancing at Marco in his impeccable suit. “I don’t want to be underdressed.”

  Marco laughs gently. “It is a nice place, but don’t worry so much,” he says. “You look beautiful.”

  I feel a blush spreading across my cheeks, but I won’t be distracted so easily. I’m wearing what is quite obviously a daytime outfit, not something suited to a swanky evening meal. I start to worry. People will stare, wondering about the fat girl who doesn’t know how to dress herself.

  “Maybe I should go and get changed first,” I say.

  “There’s no time,” Marco says. He gives me a funny look, his eyes cast in my direction with something unreadable in them. “You feel that you will be out of place?”

  I shrug helplessly. I hate that he can see my insecurities – but I’m also glad because it means that at least he might be able to help address them.

  “You won’t be out of place,” Marco assures me. “Some women show up in ridiculous gowns they can’t breathe in, eat three leaves of salad for fear of ruining the lines, and then spend the rest of the evening miserable. We are going to have a good time. For that, you look perfect.”

  I feel a smile growing on my lips, in spite of myself. He knows just what to say to make me feel better, like magic.

  At any rate, it’s too late to change my mind now, as the taxi pulls up outside a restaurant with floor to ceiling glass walls, showing off the diners within. To my relief, though I see that almost all of the men are wearing suits and a lot of the women are in evening dresses, and some of the other diners are also more casually dressed. Perhaps I won’t stand out like a sore thumb – even if I won’t be turning heads for the right reasons, either.

  Not that I think I’ve ever turned heads that way.

  The door staff greets Marco exuberantly, by name, ushering us over to a table which seems to have the best view in the place. From here we can see over the whole restaurant, including a glimpse through the open façade of the kitchen, and also out through the windows to the world passing by outside. But the glimmering chandeliers, extravagant customers, and plates piled with delicately arranged food can only capture my attention for a brief moment. Once we are seated, I really only notice Marco.

  He’s a quiet and attentive man at most times – watching me, listening carefully to what I say. He’s perceptive and manages to recommend the menu items that sounds most appetizing to my tastes as well as hanging his jacket on the back of my chair to block out a slight draft that was coming at me from behind – even without me complaining about it at all.

  I can barely remember what we talk about. The food, the restaurant itself, the city. Everything passes as if in a daze, including the delicious food. But as we finish our meal, he manages to get my attention so entirely that I hear every word branded into my memory.

  “So,” he says. “Bella, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

  That’s when I realize he was really serious about spending some more time showing me around. Today was wonderful enough, but I can’t work up the energy to protest against more. As much as it feels like it would be the polite thing to say, I can’t deny myself what I want. And what I want is to spend more time with Marco.

  “I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “What do you suggest?”

  “You haven’t seen the big tourist sites yet, no?” Marco asks, reaching for the bottle of sparkling water on the table to pour me another glass. I had barely even noticed I had drained mine. “We can see all the great sights.”

  “That sounds nice,” I nod, smiling. In my head, I’m frantically searching through the bag that I brought with me. Do I have nice clothes that I can wear? Something that will impress Marco? But at the same time, a voice in the back of my mind reminds me that to him, I’m his friend’s daughter – that he won’t be looking at me like that anyway.

  I suppose I can still try.

  “I’ll come and pick you up early in the morning,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, I will organize it all. I know where to go and what to do here.”

  I flash him another smile. “Thank you for doing this,” I say. “And for dinner, too.”

  Marco lifts his glass in salute. His is filled with red wine, not sparkling water. I suppose I could legally drink here if I wanted to, but it still feels too strange. “The pleasure is mine,” he says. “I get to have your delightful company. I’m getting the better deal, I promise.”

  A flush fills my cheeks again at the sentiment. I wonder if Marco talks to everyone like this – it would certainly explain his success as a businessman – or if he really means it.

  On second thought, I’m not sure that I want to find out. Much better to stay with the possibility that he could mean it than to have my dreams shattered.

  After a dessert that is so exquisite I want it to last forever, Marco waves over one of the waiters and pays the bill without a word, laying his card across the top of a card reader with a practiced gesture and not a hint of a wince on his face at the total, which he doesn’t allow me to see. Still, I’ve seen the menu and I can begin to guess. I know that the meal wasn’t cheap.

  I wonder just how rich Marco is, that he can simply pay for a meal like that without blinking an eye. Not that it has anything to do with how attractive I find him – the money is just an extra like a cherry on top.

  “Well,” I say, with some reluctance, half-wishing he will contradict me. “I suppose I should go back to my hotel.”

  “A good plan,” Marco says with a nod, throwing his cloth napkin onto the table. “You need your rest for tomorrow. Come. I will take you there.” He stands and extends an arm, helping me to my feet, even though I’m perfectly capably of getting up from a chair on my own.

  He doesn’t let go of my hand even when I have moved away from the table, instead he threads it over his arm so that he can escort me properly out of the restaurant. The servers are all smiles, telling us ciao from all sides as we leave, but I can only really focus on the feel of my hand on his arm. His muscles are tough and bulging under my palm, swelling as he flexes them, and I can only imagine what he must look like under his neatly tailored suit. This mental fascination takes my attention until I realize that we’re sitting in the back of a cab again, and Marco is asking for the name of my hotel.

  I flush at the realization that I almost didn’t even hear
the question and say it clearly for the cab driver to hear, before settling back into my seat. This is it, now – only the last few moments before I have to leave Marco and go inside on my own. I feel a peculiar kind of ache at the thought. I don’t want him to leave. It seems almost childish to ask him to stay longer, so I fight down the urge, keeping my eyes on the streets flashing by, now lit with glowing orange lights against the darkness.

  All too soon, my hotel approaches in the view through the windshield. “This is it,” I say, my stomach falling.

  “Well, I hope you had a good night,” Marco says, fixing me with a smile that brings his dancing green eyes to life.

  “I did,” I say, hoping that it sounds cool and polite, not as dreamy and fervent as it sounds in my own head. “Thank you, again.”

  As the taxi comes to a stop, I expect to say my goodbyes, but Marco leans forward to the driver. “Wait for me here,” he says. “I’m coming back after walking the lady to her room.”

  The driver grunts and nods in response, leaving me to blink in surprise. So, it’s not yet farewell after all. Marco’s manners are so gentlemanly, like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. It’s hard to believe that he’s real.

  Like before, Marco takes my arm to lead me to the elevator and stands calmly by my side as we ride up to the correct floor. I can barely think of a single word to say, and my heart is racing fast in my chest. I want him to stay. I want him to come into my room with me. I want that strong-arm not to simply guide me, but to throw me on the bed, rip off my clothes…

  I stare at my own reflection in the shimmering surface of the metal opposite, hard to make out and indistinct. I can’t do it. I can’t say it. It’s far too forward, and I don’t have any experience in this kind of thing. And Marco – I’m sure he’ll be appalled. He still sees me as a kid. I can’t tell him what I want.

  The elevator door opens onto my floor, and I walk out, leading Marco down the corridor until I reach my door. I busy myself with inserting the keycard and unlocking it as if it’s a very difficult task that requires all of my concentration, and then I hesitate.