Free Her Italian Millionaire by Carol Grace

think it would help.”
    “It won't hurt.” He paused. “Not her son. He's just a kid. He wouldn't know anything. But check out her friend Evie and her ex-husband.”
    Silvestro scribbled a note on a piece of paper, then he looked up.
    “When are you getting married, Marco?” he asked.
     Startled, Marco turned, the doorknob in his hand. Where had that come from? Was there a conspiracy against the unmarried? “Not you, too. Never, why should I?”
    “Because one day you'll be old, too old to chase women or thieves. My advice is to find someone now, before it's too late. Someone to spend your golden years with. Give her a diamond and settle down. Then when you're sixty-three, like me, you'll have someone to sit in the square with in the evening, someone to share a grappa and watch the sunsets with.”
    I don't need company in the square. I can drink alone and watch the sunsets on my own. But thanks for the advice. I'll think about it.”
    “Do that, and when you think about it, think about me. Because I want to retire and plant roses and enjoy the sunsets with my wife, but if we don't get that diamond back...”
    “We will. I promise you on the grave of my grandmother.”
    “Your grandmother is alive and well, I saw her yesterday. She's worried about you. She prays for you.”
    “I'm glad someone does.” Before Silvestro could nag him further, Marco was in his car and on his way to the hotel.
    He stopped only to buy coffee and rolls, which he thought might impress Ana Maria as a thoughtful gesture. But when he knocked, there was no answer.
     The cleaning woman called to him from the end of the hall. “ Troppo tardi ,” she said. “ E andata .” She gestured with her hand. You're too late. She's gone .
    “ Que cosa ?” he said, his teeth clenched. She was out cold when he'd left her. How could she be awake, on her unsteady feet, and out of the hotel so soon? He cursed her. He cursed himself. He cursed his superior for calling him in this morning and the whole agency he worked for.
    He raced down the stairs and jumped into his car, spilling the coffee from the cardboard cup onto the leather seats and speeding down the hill, taking the curves much too fast on the way to the bus station. If she was going to Paestum, she'd have to go by bus, unless she'd hired a taxi to take her. But why so early? Why go alone?
    He parked his car across from the beach. The sun, still low in the sky, slanted its rays on the calm blue water. The beach umbrellas were still packed away, the paddle boats were beached, and workers were sweeping the sand of debris. The air smelled of salt water and fish.
    He saw her right away at the first cafe along the strip. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, her tote bag over her arm and her suitcase at her feet. She was wearing sunglasses, and absolutely no jewelry he could see. She was writing something on the small, round table in front of her. He parked his car and ambled casually to the café.
    “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
    She looked up. If he thought she'd be pleased by his asking permission this time, he was wrong. There was a long silence. All he could see was his own face reflected in her sunglasses. “There are other tables,” she said at last.
    He straddled a wrought iron chair and lighted a cigarette. “I prefer this one.”
    “Do you mind not smoking?” she said wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke. “In California it's illegal to smoke in a cafe.”
    “Even outside?” he asked incredulously.
    She nodded.
    “You're in Italy now,” he reminded her.
    “You're at my table,” she reminded him.
    He stubbed out his cigarette on the cement floor.
    “What happened last night?” she asked.
    “We had dinner and I took you to a concert. There was a fortune teller…”
    “I mean later, at the hotel. I must have had too much wine, because my head hurts like hell this morning. And I can't remember how I got home.”
    He was relieved to learn she had no memory