Free Her Italian Millionaire by Carol Grace Page B

knees buckle and her head spin when he kissed her. Or had she dreamed that kiss? All that could be due to the wine she'd drunk last night. Yes, she had responded in ways that scared her half out of her wits, making her feel shaky all over, empty and unfulfilled, like a sex-starved cat in heat, instead of a forty-something librarian whose recent sexual experiences had been all vicarious.
    Of course there were logical explanations for these strange sensations. Jet lag, culture shock and sensory overload. If only she could remember what really happened last night. Some parts were dream-like, like the kiss, and some were a blank. She resolved to stop drinking wine in the company of strange men. Now, Giovanni was a different story. He was not a stranger, he was an old friend she could drink wine with and feel safe. She knew he was not a gigolo. She knew he wouldn't take advantage of her.
    But it wasn't Giovanni whose body had been pressed against hers outside that apartment building last night. It was Marco's. What if someone had seen them? Maybe someone did. Her dreams had been filled with erotic longings, disturbing sensations, and lust and passion right out of an X-rated movie.
     She'd been up at dawn planning her escape to Paestum without Marco. Unfortunately, nothing was open at dawn. She'd sat here at the beach on her suitcase for an hour waiting for a cafe to open. Then she'd barely gotten her coffee when he'd arrived.
    Why? What did he want with her? This was the third time he'd shown up like this - in the hotel lobby, in the restaurant and now here in the cafe. He never asked her for money, so that wasn't it. He hadn't ravished her last night, so it wasn't that. He was after something or someone, but what or who?
    She had her coffee and now she wanted to find an Internet cafe so she could check her messages. Despite her brave words back there at the cafe, she was experiencing a wave of homesickness that made her long for something familiar, a familiar voice or a kind word. She knew it was silly to be nostalgic when she'd only been away for a few days, but she was. She found a small shop with Internet access on a side street, paid the small fee for fifteen minutes and settled herself and her suitcase in front of a computer.
    Her pulse raced when she saw she had an e-mail message from her son. What if Tim was sick? What if he needed her? Yes, he was eighteen and a freshman in college and fiercely independent, but still...
    “Mom. Hope you're having a great trip. It is so cool you are getting a chance to do all those things you always wanted but never could. Live it up, mom. La vida loca and all that. You won't believe what happened here. Or have you already heard? You know the wedding was yesterday. Or it was supposed to be yesterday. There we were in the church. I was standing next to Dad at the altar. You remember he asked me to be his best man, which I didn't want to do, but you said it was okay, you understood. I was nervous, it being my first wedding and wearing my first tux and feeling weird about my own dad getting married to someone who, well you know, and then the music started and she...”
    That was all there was. Anne Marie sat staring at the screen. Where was the rest of the message? She clicked the mouse. She restarted the computer. Nothing happened. She went back to the counter and spoke to the woman in charge, who shrugged. It wasn't her fault if the American had only gotten half a message, was it?
    “Why don't you ask the sender to repeat the message?” the clerk suggested in English.
    Anne Marie went back to the computer and wrote Tim a message, asking, him to re-send the message trying not to sound desperate for news of her ex-husband. Still she wondered, what could have happened at the wedding? She scrolled down to a message from Evie. Maybe she'd tell her what happened.
    “Hi Anne Marie.
    I tried to call you last night at your hotel. What happened in Rome? My cousin went to meet you at the airport