Borghese.
A white marble floor with lightning streaks of mica and gray spread out before her. Wooden columns, much like those in Roman architecture, structured the lobby area where two young men in crisp suits waited for her to check in. Both of them were handsome, dark Italian men, but neither compared to the one she’d just met.
Carly walked up to the main desk wondering who’d be sharing her room. A scandalous thought of Michelangelo in his boxers passed through her mind before she squelched it. No, probably more along the lines of snoring Bertha.
The man at the counter gave her a room key for three fifty-two. ‘The elevator is around the corner to your right.’ He spoke in perfect English. ‘Welcome to the Villa Borghese.’
‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’ Carly smiled. ‘One more thing, who’s staying with me?’
He checked his computer. ‘Alaina Amaldi.’
Carly’s heart froze over. Not the diva who accused her of playing her high A two cents sharp! ‘There must be a mistake.’
He checked again, but not before giving her that I think this lady is crazy look. ‘No, signorina. There is a specific request to place you two together.’
Dammit, Melody, you had to fall in love!
‘I can assure you, I didn’t place such a request.’
The host shook his head. ‘Mi dispiace, signorina. Perhaps Signorina Amaldi did?’
Carly shook her head. It was more likely their stage would freeze over and the curvy Alaina Amaldi would fall through it than the opera star would choose to room with her.
‘Can’t you change it?’ To Michelangelo. She bit her tongue. ‘How about Bertha Payne. Who’s she staying with?’ Anyone was better than that vibrato-crazed soprano.
He typed a few keys. ‘I have her with Trudy Phillip. Per her request.’
Trudy, of course. She and Bertha were both as old as ancient Rome. They probably wanted to reminisce about the Coliseum days while they knitted doilies.
The line was lengthening behind her, and the receptionist flicked his eyes over the crowd nervously. Carly knew when she’d outstayed her welcome. ‘Very well.’ She adjusted her purse strap and followed his direction to the elevator.
This day is getting better and better.
Chapter Three
‘May I?’ Michelangelo offered his arm to the sweet little old lady who was the last orchestra member left on the bus. As he had helped the others with their bags, she sat knitting as though patiently waiting for him to come over.
‘Of course, love.’ She wrapped her knobbly hand around his arm. ‘An old lady like myself will get whatever help she can.’
‘You’re like a fine Pinot Grigio, aged to perfection.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Mmawh.’ He helped her stand and walked to the front of the bus.
‘I like you. What was your name again?’ She squinted at him through glasses so thick they must have been bulletproof.
‘Michelangelo.’ He smiled as he took the last bag on the shelf, along with a violin case. He helped her down the steps and onto the sidewalk. ‘And your name is?’
‘Bertha, but my friends call me Bert.’
He kissed the back of her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Bert.’
‘Oh the young ladies will like you.’ She chuckled and walked away muttering to herself. ‘Kissing my hand like I was a marriage prospect.’
Michelangelo stood with a pile of bags, wondering what had just happened in the last crazy hour of his life. Sure, in his opinion they were all self-centered, ill-mannered, brash-speaking Americans, but they also had an openness to them he was beginning to like.
Carly was another story.
Two concierges came through the double glass doors with carts, and he helped them load the luggage while immersed in his thoughts. Why had he told her about his winery? He had sworn not to tell any of them the real reason why he was doing this tour for fear Ms. Maxhammer would see right through the elaborately constructed façade. And, of course, the only tours he’d ever led were on his own vineyard. He had no idea what he was doing. He was in it for the money, and the money alone.
A little voice inside him teased, what about Carly?
Her witty comebacks had impressed him, and every moment they sat together, the chemistry rose until he thought the air around them would explode into fireworks before they reached the hotel.
‘We’re to deliver these to the assigned rooms, signore?’ The boy reminded him of himself ten years ago when he was lifting barrels on the vineyard. So much responsibility had been put upon him since then.
‘Si, si.’ He handed them a list of the names and room assignments. ‘Pronto!’
The boys scurried off. The lists! He slapped his hand over his face. He’d just given them his way of contacting Carly.
You’re better off forgetting about her and doing your job.
Ms. Maxhammer had hired him to be polite, not to seduce the members of her orchestra. If she found out anything had happened, it would be scandalous. She might even fire him, and he needed that check.
Still, his chest stirred with desire. The last time a woman had caught his attention this badly had been years ago. After college, when his father had grown ill, he’d thrown all his energy into working on his vineyard. Dating was a lost memory.
Maybe it’s time to get out and look around. That little voice hounded him again. This time it was more insistent.
Casually, Michelangelo walked to the desk. One of the receptionists greeted him. ‘Ciao, signore.’
‘Ciao, signore’ He leaned on the marble countertop. ‘Are all of my guests accounted for?’
‘Si. They were all eager to get to their rooms after such a long trip.’
‘Eccellente.’ Michelangelo ran his hands through his hair. ‘Do you mind if I have a look at the list? The baggage boys took mine.’
The host paused, and for a bleak second Michelangelo thought he’d turn him down. He offered more of an explanation, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. ‘Just to verify your list with the bus roster.’
‘Ma certo, signore.’ He turned the computer screen toward Michelangelo.
Michelangelo scanned the names, nodding along the way to assure the receptionist that everything matched up. ‘All the names are there.’ His eyes stopped on Carly Davis, room three fifty-two. He committed the number to memory. Just in case. ‘Grazie.’
‘Anytime.’ As the man moved to turn the computer back, Michelangelo read Carly’s roommate: Alaina Amaldi.
Merda! A memory of the diva requesting her own private limousine instead of the bus came to mind. She’d grumble to Ms. Maxhammer if he so much as touched her doorknob. Out of all the people on the tour why did Carly’s roommate have to be her?
Maybe fate was telling him to leave Carly alone and do his damn job. His vineyard needed him, and he refused to break the last link in the family chain. He wanted to pass the lands down to his sons, and his grandsons and great grandsons for years to come. He wasn’t about to let some fling ruin his plan.