need of help from any treacherous man.
TWENTY
Lamour
We made short work of the
Calamari
and I was already on my third slice of pizza when we heard the roar of a speedboat coming into the harbor. We turned to admire the sleek silver Riva as it slid alongside the stone jetty. We saw the young man piloting it, and we watched, interested, as he leaped nonchalantly ashore, tied the rope around the bollard, then pulled an old pink T-shirt over his head. Running his hands through his dark blond hair, he sauntered along the harbor toward us. Well, not exactly toward
us
but to the Amalfitano anyhow.
“My God,” Jammy said, taking him in, bug-eyed, “this place is lousy with good-looking guys! Where do they all come from?”
I had no idea, but I had to admit he was a vision, gorgeous and golden. I also noticed the triangle of sweat on the front of his shirt and the sexy tangle of blond chest hair peeking above the V. He looked interestedly at us and I felt that old pull of attraction that I hadn’t felt since I met Alex. But I forgot, I was not going to think about him.
The vision made a little bow to us.
“Buona sera, signore,”
he said, and I saw his eyes were alight with mischief and admiration as he looked at us. Of course I recognized at once that he was a practiced flirt. Still, I couldn’t resist that smile and I smiled back. And so, I noticed, did Jammy.
“Buona sera, signore,”
we chimed, sounding embarrassingly like a chorus in a bad Broadway musical comedy.
The vision lingered by our table. “My name is Nico,” he said. “Too bad you have already eaten, or I would have asked you to lunch with me. May I offer you more wine, though? Or perhaps a glass of
limoncello,
our local drink? Then you could tell me all about yourselves.”
Jammy gave me a quick little sideways glance that said,
What are you waiting for, girl?
Then, sounding all charming and genteel and even
southern,
she said, “Well, that would be just delightful,
signore,
though of course, you’ll need to tell us all about yourself, too.”
The vision pulled up a chair, waving the proprietor over.
“Ciao, Aldo,”
Nico said, shaking his hand. It was obvious they knew each other well, and I guessed Nico must be a local. Jammy and I each primly accepted a glass of the
limoncello
. With it came a plate of tiny almond cookies. I didn’t think I had room left for another morsel, but I nibbled on my cookie, looking through my lashes at our new “friend.”
He raised his glass to us, suddenly serious. “To two beautiful women, whom I am most fortunate to find in my little village,” he said.
I could have sworn he meant it, but even if he didn’t, it was charming and so was he.
“And to our delightful new friend Nico,” Jammy said, filling in the gap because I was trying not to choke on my
limoncello,
which had the bite of a shot of neat tequila. “I’m Jammy Mortimer,” she said, “and this is Lamour Harrington. We are staying at the Santa Caterina.”
I thought I saw a flash of surprise as he shook my hand. “Lamour, such a pretty name,” he said, and, foolish woman that I am, I let my hand stay in his for a moment longer than I should have. I smiled right back into his eyes and found myselftelling him the story of my namesake New Orleans great-grandmother. “Who was probably no better than she ought to be,” I finished, taking another sip of the
limoncello,
startled by the way it seemed to fizz all the way from my mouth to my brain like rocket fuel.
“Then your great-grandmother was probably a very wise woman,” he said, smiling. “And how did Jammy come by her name? Not another wicked great-grandmother?” And giggling, Jammy told him the story.
“Ah, but I must introduce myself properly,” he said. “I am Nico Pirata.”
“Oh!” Jammy said. “The skull and crossbones—the Marquis de Sade . . .”
Nico smiled, but his eyes were still on me. “Unfortunately, all I can lay claim to is a pirate ancestor.”
I
TWENTY
Lamour
We made short work of the
Calamari
and I was already on my third slice of pizza when we heard the roar of a speedboat coming into the harbor. We turned to admire the sleek silver Riva as it slid alongside the stone jetty. We saw the young man piloting it, and we watched, interested, as he leaped nonchalantly ashore, tied the rope around the bollard, then pulled an old pink T-shirt over his head. Running his hands through his dark blond hair, he sauntered along the harbor toward us. Well, not exactly toward
us
but to the Amalfitano anyhow.
“My God,” Jammy said, taking him in, bug-eyed, “this place is lousy with good-looking guys! Where do they all come from?”
I had no idea, but I had to admit he was a vision, gorgeous and golden. I also noticed the triangle of sweat on the front of his shirt and the sexy tangle of blond chest hair peeking above the V. He looked interestedly at us and I felt that old pull of attraction that I hadn’t felt since I met Alex. But I forgot, I was not going to think about him.
The vision made a little bow to us.
“Buona sera, signore,”
he said, and I saw his eyes were alight with mischief and admiration as he looked at us. Of course I recognized at once that he was a practiced flirt. Still, I couldn’t resist that smile and I smiled back. And so, I noticed, did Jammy.
“Buona sera, signore,”
we chimed, sounding embarrassingly like a chorus in a bad Broadway musical comedy.
The vision lingered by our table. “My name is Nico,” he said. “Too bad you have already eaten, or I would have asked you to lunch with me. May I offer you more wine, though? Or perhaps a glass of
limoncello,
our local drink? Then you could tell me all about yourselves.”
Jammy gave me a quick little sideways glance that said,
What are you waiting for, girl?
Then, sounding all charming and genteel and even
southern,
she said, “Well, that would be just delightful,
signore,
though of course, you’ll need to tell us all about yourself, too.”
The vision pulled up a chair, waving the proprietor over.
“Ciao, Aldo,”
Nico said, shaking his hand. It was obvious they knew each other well, and I guessed Nico must be a local. Jammy and I each primly accepted a glass of the
limoncello
. With it came a plate of tiny almond cookies. I didn’t think I had room left for another morsel, but I nibbled on my cookie, looking through my lashes at our new “friend.”
He raised his glass to us, suddenly serious. “To two beautiful women, whom I am most fortunate to find in my little village,” he said.
I could have sworn he meant it, but even if he didn’t, it was charming and so was he.
“And to our delightful new friend Nico,” Jammy said, filling in the gap because I was trying not to choke on my
limoncello,
which had the bite of a shot of neat tequila. “I’m Jammy Mortimer,” she said, “and this is Lamour Harrington. We are staying at the Santa Caterina.”
I thought I saw a flash of surprise as he shook my hand. “Lamour, such a pretty name,” he said, and, foolish woman that I am, I let my hand stay in his for a moment longer than I should have. I smiled right back into his eyes and found myselftelling him the story of my namesake New Orleans great-grandmother. “Who was probably no better than she ought to be,” I finished, taking another sip of the
limoncello,
startled by the way it seemed to fizz all the way from my mouth to my brain like rocket fuel.
“Then your great-grandmother was probably a very wise woman,” he said, smiling. “And how did Jammy come by her name? Not another wicked great-grandmother?” And giggling, Jammy told him the story.
“Ah, but I must introduce myself properly,” he said. “I am Nico Pirata.”
“Oh!” Jammy said. “The skull and crossbones—the Marquis de Sade . . .”
Nico smiled, but his eyes were still on me. “Unfortunately, all I can lay claim to is a pirate ancestor.”
I
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