Free Full of Grace by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

reception desk took my passport and exchanged pleasantries with me. This guy had his own subtitle—Signore Hottie. He was tall and olive-complexioned, and his dark eyes were so filled with mischief they could have belonged to the devil himself. Massimo Floris was simultaneously all-business and sex appeal. I had expected he would be enthusiastic in his assistance, but I had not expected Massimo to be so…I don’t know except to say that he reduced me to lewd thoughts and schoolgirl giggles.
    “Signorina Russo! Che bella! Buon giorno! A cappuccino? I make it for you with my own hands!”
    Just so you know, che bella meant he thought I was a babe. As addicted to Michael Higgins as I was, it was all I could do to keep a straight face and a loyal heart. Massimo was a walking aphrodisiac. Then I reminded myself that Italian men think all women are babes, no matter what their age or girth, countenance or manner, status or means. If they have a pulse and breasts, they are worthy of carnal consideration.
    “Thank you,” I said, snickering internally. “Caffeine is just what I need.”
    He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned he handed me the cup and saucer. Don’t you know he had somehow produced a miniature replica of palm-tree fronds in its foam?
    “The cappuccino is for free, but for the artwork is twenty euros,” he said with a wide grin, revealing perfect teeth.
    “In Vegas they comb in a king and queen of hearts,” I said, lying off the top of my head.
    “ Sì? This is true? Playing cards or portraits?”
    “Neither. It’s not true. I was just kidding. Sorry. Dumb joke.”
    He smiled again. “It’s okay. We like jokes at the Cala di Volpe. Now how may I help you prepare for the arrival of your guests, bella?”
    To hell with them. Let’s run away and do something wicked. That’s what I was thinking with a laugh every time I looked at his face. Shoot. It wasn’t dangerous, it was just flirting, and believe me, Italian men don’t know how to talk to women without exuding some very powerful pheromones. They have to be the most virile and dangerous creatures on the planet.
    The morning was spent going through the hotel together, touring all the shops and meeting rooms and, most important, making sure that every guest would have a view of the water and that the board president had the nicest suite. (All those beds! What a waste! I’m kidding, all right? I was committed to Michael; I wasn’t Mother Teresa of Calcutta, okay?) Then, in descending order of board position, ego, donor history and donor potential, rooms were assigned. But with a high-season basic rack rate of fourteen hundred euros a night, the rooms ranged from glorious to spectacular. The marble bathrooms were stuffed with Acqua di Parma soaps, shampoos and body lotions. And, not to worry, breakfast was included. Like we used to say in New Jersey, Such a deal . Honestly, some people might have said the rooms weren’t that fantastic, but theyall fit the style of the hotel, which was a little rustic, somewhat resort-like and a little spare. Italian Opulent Zen.
    Speaking of opulence, just yesterday, at Saks Fifth Avenue in Charleston, I had picked up tons of sunscreen products for men and women that were to be put together in Burberry tote bags and labeled by guest name. In addition, each guest was to receive gourmet chocolates, a nice bottle of champagne, a book about Sardinia and a video that gave an overview of the history of the island to take home. The biggest dogs would have flowers in their rooms and monogrammed bathrobes. This was all included in the cost of the trip. But somehow finding these luxury goodies neatly displayed in their rooms on arrival made them feel they were special and therefore somehow entitled to something extra. After assembling the bags in my room while munching on a panini, I called the bell captain. When he arrived, we loaded up the trolley and took them down to the lobby. Massimo’s part was to deliver