Ache For You

11

Then she looked up, caught me staring, and pinned me in place with the force of her gaze.

I’ve never seen eyes like hers. Green as the finest jade and canted up at the corners, like a cat’s.

Yes, that’s it exactly. She reminds me of a Siamese cat. Sleek and haughty. A sinuous walk and needle-sharp nails and teeth made to crunch bones.

Which made the pain she was so obviously in that much more interesting.

I’m not a man drawn to damsels in distress. I find weak women supremely boring. But the combination of tough talk and soft underbelly gave me an erection the likes of which I haven’t had in years. Walking away from her at the bar after she told me to leave her alone was painful.

Literally. My c**k throbbed so hard it felt like a medical emergency.

I imagined my hand was that strawberry mouth as I jerked myself to an unsatisfactory climax in the men’s room.

Assuming our brief encounter would be our last, I was thrilled to see her at the gate of my outbound flight. Then not so thrilled when I heard the desperation in her voice as she begged the scowling woman behind the counter for help.

“My father is dying. I have to be there for him. If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”

It was the last part that gripped my heart and made me offer my seat. Because if anyone knows the lingering shame of that particular situation, it’s me.

So I stepped in.

And she gave me those cat eyes again.

But this time she gave me something even more powerful.

Inspiration.

As the plane I was supposed to be on backs slowly away from the gate, I press a button on my cell phone. After a few rings, my right-hand man, Antonio, answers the phone at the atelier in Florence.

“Si.”

In Italian, I say, “I have good news.”

A relieved curse, followed by an exhalation. “You hired a new designer?”

I tap my finger against the cover of the sketch pad. A satisfied smile curves the corners of my mouth. The plane switches directions and pulls down the runway, picking up speed. “Something like that.”

Antonio’s silence echoes with questions, but he knows better than to ask if I don’t offer answers.

“Tell everyone to be ready to get to work as soon as I’m back. Ciao.”

I disconnect, then dial the number I’ve already memorized. Intending to leave a voice mail for my raven-haired siren to hear when she lands, I’m startled when the line is picked up by a man with a rough Brooklyn accent and a hacking cough.

“Yeah? Who’s this?”

I don’t like his voice. Or the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I snap, “This is Matteo, Signor Marchese Moretti. Who is this?”

A boozy cackle comes over the line. “Who, me? I’m the Baron von fuckin’ Trapp, bro.”

“Are you related to Miss Bobbitt?”

“Who?”

I grit my teeth. “Lorena Bobbitt. Does she live there?”

The man on the other end of the phone becomes belligerent. “Is this some kinda fuckin’ joke, bro? You makin’ a prank call? ’Cause I’ll put my fist right through this phone and rip off ya fuckin’—”

“Sir!” I snap, livid. “Do you know the lady or not?”

He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I know her. Everybody knows the broad who cut off her husband’s d**k while he was sleepin’, bro. Hey—is this bein’ recorded? Am I on the radio?” He shouts into the background, “Angie, I’m on the radio!”

I hang up, so angry my ears are hot. I type the name Lorena Bobbitt into the web browser on my phone, then read the Wikipedia article in astonishment.

Apparently my Siamese cat has a very dark sense of humor to go along with her smart mouth.

After a moment of shock, I throw back my head and laugh out loud.

Then I book the next flight to Florence, excitement building, and try to put the alluring stranger I’ll never see again out of my mind. I’ve got the House of Moretti’s spring collection to start working on.

Stroking the cover of the sketch pad, I smile. And what a collection it will be.

FIVE

KIMBER

As soon as the flight lands in Florence and I’ve collected my luggage, I take a taxi straight to the hospital, urging the driver to go faster so many times he curses at me. I check my voice mail on the way, hoping there won’t be a message from Dominic. It was my father’s oldest and closest friend who sent me the letter via courier to tell me the terrible news, and I know if he called again while I was on the plane, it would be more bad news.

Luckily, he didn’t. I pick up messages from Danielle and Jenner, both telling me to call them when I get settled, then freeze when I hear Brad’s voice on the next.

“Hey, Kimber. Uh, it’s me. Can you, uh, call me when you get a chance? We need to talk.”

Mother. Plucker.

Hearing his voice makes me so furious I almost throw my cell phone out the taxi window. I stick my head out and suck in a few deep breaths of warm Italian air instead.

It’s the first time he’s tried to reach me since our Hindenburg wedding. He’s probably calling to find out when I’ll have my things cleared out of the apartment. He can damn well wait. If I’m not back in San Fran by the first, I’ll charge another month’s rent on his blasted platinum card.

At the information desk inside the hospital, I ask a sleepy-looking staffer to direct me toward my father’s room. He points down a hallway and yawns, and that’s the end of our conversation. Weighed down by my luggage and a dark sense of doom, I hurry down the hall toward the room.