Oil di wey…His accent was way thicker than I was used to with Paolo, so I had to really listen hard.
“Um, yeah.” What’s my story? I tried not to look nervous, but no doubt my sweaty brow and shifty eyes weren’t helping. “Well, I work for a tabloid in Hollywood. We’re doing a feature on Nikki.” I tapped my hands awkwardly on the steering wheel. “My first big assignment.”
“First time in Rome?”
“That obvious?” I laughed awkwardly.
“Maybe. How long are you staying?” He flashed a flirty smile.
“Oh. Uh…just a few days, then I’m heading back. Like, yanno?” Stop that. He gets the point.
“Too bad, I could’ve shown you around a little.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” I tried to keep my smile sweet and cheerful. Nope. I’m not shady. Not me.
“Well,” he thumped his hand on the top of the car a few times, “guess I’ll be seeing you tonight.”
I stared at him.
“You are going to be stalking Nikki with the rest of the paparazzi, si?” he asked.
“Oh! Yeah. Of course. See you there at…” I looked at the itinerary, “Nur Bar.”
He winked. “Looking forward to it.”
I made a little wave as he walked back toward the gate.
“And wear something nice,” he called out. “I’ll see if I can get you inside one of the stops.”
I gave him a thumbs-up as he disappeared inside. He might actually prove helpful if I spotted Paolo tonight. But what sort of places were these? I’d brought nothing but three pairs of jeans, tees, and the essentials.
As I Googled each spot and absorbed their intimidating swankiness, my brain tortured me with fabricated visuals of Paolo and Nikki dressed in expensive, cool clothing, riding from place to place in their limo, enjoying the hell out of themselves. Me? Yeah, I was there, too. Frizzy red hair, wrinkled XL Hollister tee, and jeans. I began to see why Paolo would choose that life over one with me. Fun and glamour versus…well, just me.
I sighed and started the engine of my ridiculously tiny red Fiat and hit the button on the GPS to head back to my sad, dark, “cash only” hotel room with brown shag carpet and cigarette burns on the furniture.
Glamorous.
CHAPTER FIVE
Although the neighborhood reminded me a little of Soho in New York—funky, hipster feel with plenty of cafés and restaurants—the fashion options were not the same. I’d been to three stores, and with the pleather microminis, fishnets, and see-through halter tops, I was convinced that the local boutiques only catered to the everyday nympho on a budget. What I wouldn’t give for a Thrift Town with vintage treasures waiting to be unearthed and united with their intended fashion soul mates. I’d once had a pretty nice collection of ’50s stuff, mostly jackets and rhinestone pins, to go with my extensive collection of jeans, flip-flops, and T-shirts, but that was one more piece of me I’d had to leave behind. Thankfully, the money my father had socked away for me in offshore accounts allowed me to keep donating to my favorite animal shelter near my old house where I used to volunteer. All of those little homeless Sparkys and Garfields were going to have a very, very cushy place to crash while they also waited for their soul mates—the human ones, I mean. Because, as Mother Teresa used to say, “The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis, but rather the feeling of being unwanted.” Maybe that’s why I’d always felt such an affinity toward unwanted pets—giving them a second chance felt like I was righting some cosmic wrong.
But this…? I held up a pink patent leather tank dress with peekaboo circles all over the torso, leaving just enough material to make it legal. Nothing can right this wrong.
I looked at my watch. Less than an hour.
Next I grabbed a silver-sequined, backless dress that scooped down so low in the front that my girls—C cups and the only really nice part of my body—would be halfway out all night long. The hem was so short that I would be making very personal thong-and-cheek contact with any surfaces I sat upon.
Guess I’ll be standing tonight. It was either that or I’d have to carry around a giant bottle of Lysol.
I glanced at my watch again. Dangit. I hadn’t showered or straightened my frizzy hair yet. This dress will have to do.
I grabbed a pair of black hooker heels and headed to the register, thanking “goodness” (whoever the hell she was) that Mandy, my best friend since the first grade, wasn’t around to witness my sad little style episode. Mandy had always been my fashion north and ensured I never went anywhere looking like a trampy clown.
After I paid, I rushed back to my dingy hotel room, a few blocks away from the Campo de’ Fiori market—a farmers’ market huddled around a statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno. No, I had no clue who he was nor had I seen the market either. It seriously sucked to be in Rome in the fall and not have time to see anything except the airport, Nikki’s awesome house, and the view behind the wheel of my car.
I showered, shaved, straightened my hair to a pristine shine—hoping it wouldn’t rain as forecasted—and threw on a little makeup. After, I put on the short-short silver dress and stood on the bed to see myself in the mirror. “Oh God. Please don’t let me drop anything tonight.” Short was an understatement.
I threw on a long black sweater I happened to have with me, just in case it got chilly, and slipped on my heels.
When I arrived at the first stop, it took me thirty minutes to find parking in the busy little neighborhood, and Nikki was already inside according to the real paparazzi. She was also sans Paolo.
I waited for about an hour before Nikki emerged in a skintight red dress that was scandalously short and showing major cleavage.
Oh goody, I fit right in.
She and her friends—three young women also dressed in dazzling shades of “nocturnal tart”—waved to the cameras and got into Nikki’s limo. I saw no signs of the hunky blond Italian guard from earlier.
The next stop—dinner—reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a PowerBar and an espresso. Not that it looked like anyone who went into the posh restaurant actually ate anything either. Thin, beautiful, well-dressed people showed up at the brick building in Jags, BMWs, and Ferraris, and then left looking equally as thin. Personally, I’d seen the menu, so I wasn’t sure how they resisted attacking the desserts.
On the third stop of the evening, the entourage of photographers, including me, beat Nikki to the club. The exterior of the place looked like a giant, shiny silver box that had eaten firecrackers, with lights bursting from the rooftop. After forty minutes of waiting, I wondered if Nikki would ever show, but the moment I was about to call it quits, her limo arrived. The parking valet opened the car door, and I realized why they were so late; they’d gone to pick someone up.
Paolo…My fists instinctually curled, my heart filled with hard, cold stones, and my soul ignited into a screaming fireball, weeping its way to earth, where it smashed onto the cobblestone street beneath my feet with a sad little whimper.
Yeah, it still fucking hurt.
Worst of all, Paolo couldn’t look happier. Or sexier.
He wore dark sunglasses and a dark, tailored suit as if he’d just come from a lavish Oscar party. He’d also been working out a lot more because his size was a bit meatier, especially the arms.
Seeing him instantly flicked off the heinous scab covering my fresh wounds and evoked massive emotional bleeding. And as I stood there to the side of the nightclub’s entrance, behind the red velvet rope, trying to process that the last time I’d seen him was the evening before our wedding when he’d kissed me goodnight and told me how much he loved me, Paolo looked straight at me through his dark glasses and kept on walking.
Sonofabitch! No he didn’t. No “Hello, nice to see you.” No “Hey, what are you doing here?” Nothing. I was invisible to him.
I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. No frigging way. I went back to my car, left my crappy prop camera in the trunk, and removed my sweater
. I was getting into this damned club! And when I did, he’d wish he never met me.
I approached the rope, chin held high, trying to crank up my hotness factor a few notches, but the bouncer gave me one look and said something that didn’t sound very nice.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” I said.
He repeated himself, and I was pretty sure he’d said that hookers weren’t allowed inside.
Just then, I felt a warm hand press into my bare back. I looked up and there was Mr. Green Eyes. He said something to the big mean jerk-face, who immediately reached for the rope to let us in.
“Thank you.” I flashed a smile at Green Eyes, trying to mask my imminent emotional eruption. “By the way, what’s your name?”
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter the club. The music pounded in my ears, and the lights flashed as vigorously as my pulse. I would strangle Paolo. He hadn’t even bothered to breathe in my general direction, yet I had been standing right in his line of sight.
“They call me Horse,” Green Eyes replied.
I noticed then how he wore a tight black tee and jeans that hugged his athletic, tall build. He was a largish kind of guy, but not colossal.
“I’m sorry,” I spoke loudly over the techno, “did you say Horse?”
“Yes. Horse.” He grinned devilishly.
That was unusual. “How’d you end up with a name like that?”
He folded his arms across his chest and glanced down at his groin. “It’s a nickname.”
“Oh.” I looked down at the bulge in his jeans and then at his face beaming with pride. “Okay. This is awkward.”
He wiggled his brows. “Not at all. I am proud of my body.”
Wow. A man who named himself after his penis. I’m speechless. “So.” My eyes scanned for Paolo around the quasi-theater-style club—three tiers of booth seating overlooking a massive dance floor. I immediately spotted Nikki and her girl-posse. The women were already seated in the VIP section in a large booth, but where was Paolo?
My angry eyes quickly scanned the club. There! Paolo stood on a small walkway in front of their table, sunglasses still on, his back to them. And the way he stood there—one hand in his pocket, bathed in pulsing white lights, his lean muscled body in well-fitted black slacks and a tailored black jacket with a white dress shirt unbuttoned to chiseled pectoral level—made him look like he was a cardboard “hunk” cutout from a romance convention. His deep olive skin was just as tanned as the last time I saw him in Costa Rica, but he’d cut off the sun-bleached tips of his longer, espresso-brown hair. Now he sported a more stylish, GQ-looking hairdo cut just above the ears. His five o’clock shadow, however, was thick and black and the same as ever, accenting the squareness of his jaw and fullness of his lips.
I felt my insides quivering with rage. I was “this” close to losing it. And that bastard has no right being so beautiful.
Yet even now, after he’d torn my heart to shreds, a part of me pathetically still wanted him. I couldn’t help it. His aura of masculinity and confidence was so potent that every guy in the club seemed repelled by him and every woman—even those with dates—had to force themselves not to stare. He was…
Perfect.
Not on the inside, Dakota. That part of him is ugly and rotten. Like a bad apple.
“By the way,” Horse chimed in, noticing my eyes pinned on Nikki’s table, “I must warn you that Nikki doesn’t want her picture taken inside the club. So I am going to have to frisk you.”
“Huh?”
He cocked one dirty-blond brow and held out his hands, reaching for my hips.
I stepped back. “Don’t even think about it.”
He stepped in closer, and at that very moment a guy walked by and bumped me into Horse’s eagerly awaiting hands. My palms landed on his chest, and he wrapped his arms around the small of my bare back. The lights flashed on his handsome face as he grinned. “Ah. Seems my wish was granted.”
I cleared my throat, feeling his warm, muscled body against mine. Paolo, who was just in my line of sight over Horse’s shoulder, jerked his head in our direction. Or had it been my wounded heart’s imagination?
I decided to test it out.
I smiled warmly and gazed into Horse’s green eyes. “And what wish might that be?”
He leaned his six-foot-one-ish frame down and whispered into my ear, “To rub my hands all over your body.”
I laughed pretentiously and swatted him playfully on the shoulder. “You’re a big player, Horse.” As I said those words, I thought I saw Paolo’s expression turn icy, but the damned sunglasses and strobe lights prevented me from determining if the stunningly handsome a-hole was reacting or just staring in our general direction.
Horse was about to say something, but stopped when a cell vibrated in his pocket. Yeah, I felt it against my hip bone. And after four months of abstinence, the stimulating pulse in Horse’s pocket was a bit too welcome.
“You going to an-an-answer tha-that?” I asked.
“Maybe.” He pulled me in closer.
I glanced at Paolo, hoping for some sign that he’d seen me—his jilted ex-fiancée—in the arms of a rather hot, blond, Italian man, but no such luck. Paolo turned his back and leaned into the table, his head bent toward Nikki’s attentive lips. Although his back was to me, I could see the way he kissed her was the way a guy kissed a woman he really lusted after—slow, sensual, no touching.
I felt the Grand Canyon in my heart widen just a little further. I’d been inside the club and in Paolo’s presence for less than five minutes, and it was abrasively clear that I meant nothing to him. I wasn’t even a blip on his radar. But Nikki sure was.
Horse shoved his hands between our bodies and dug out his device. He glanced quickly at the text. “I am very sorry, but I must take care of a few things for Nikki’s friends.” The way he spoke sounded like: “I am berry so-ree, but I muss take care ob a few tings…”
I had to listen extra-hard, so it took my brain a second or two to mill out the meaning. “Oh. Sure. No problem.” All I really wanted at this point was to catch Paolo the moment he left the VIP section. Sooner or later, the man would have to pee and that would be my chance to remove his man-parts.
Dakota! He jilted you. Big. Time. You are not going to attack him. You’re here to get one answer: Why did he lie about loving you?
But I knew that was a lie. There was no answer on the planet that could justify what Paolo had done. Simply put, what I really wanted was to tell him what an asshole he was. I wanted to hurt him back. Not physically, but emotionally.
“Are you all right…um…” Horse paused. “I don’t actually know your name.”
“Oh. I’m…” Oh crap, Dakota. Which passport did you use to enter the country? Ummm…“Leah. I’m Leah.”
“Like the Star Wars princess.” He reached down and kissed the top of my hand, his lips lingering a bit too long.
“Uh…sure. Just like the princess.” Spelled differently, but who cared?
He dipped his head. “Well, princess, I will return shortly, but…” He lifted his head toward the crowded bar and raised his finger into the air. I turned and caught the bartender glancing at him. Horse then pointed down at the top of my head, and the bartender nodded.
“If there is anything you need or want,” Horse continued, “just ask; it will go on my tab.”
“Thanks?” I muttered, but Horse was already jockeying his way through the crowd of gyrating bodies. I glanced back at the bar, debating getting a glass of red wine—the only alcoholic beverage I’d ever tried and knew I wouldn’t hate—but decided against it. Who knew what I might do given my current state of agitation.
When I turned back around to torture myself with watching Paolo kiss another woman, he was gone. My eyes darted around the crowded club, searching. With so many lights and so many people moving around, it was like trying to find Waldo. But then, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a tall man with a head of dark, thick hair, moving to a doorw
ay that likely led to the restrooms.
I wove my way through the crowd, ignoring a multitude of light gropes and unwelcomed solicitations. These men had no idea who they were messing with, but lucky day for them, because I had bigger Italian sleazeballs to fry. As I passed through the wide doorway and turned the corner into the dimly lit hallway leading to the bathrooms, I ran smack into Paolo.
“Whoa!” He grabbed my shoulders and steadied me in front of him. “Watch where you’re going.” Unlike Horse, Paolo’s Italian accent was noticeable, but crisp and easy to understand. Of course, Paolo had had linguistics training and could fake just about any burr, drawl, and inflection. In fact, he’d pretended to be Spanish when we’d first met.
“Excuse me? Why don’t you watch it!” I pushed him, but with his solid, well-toned body, much larger in proportion to mine, he barely moved.
No longer wearing his sunglasses, Paolo’s eyes narrowed into tight slits before he raised his palms, shook his head, and stepped around me.
Seriously? Had Paolo dismissed me like a threadbare sock and walked away?
Now, I’ve done many things in my life that I’m not proud of, one of which was the time in high school, a few months before graduation, when I lied to my class about having a hot model-looking guy as my boyfriend who ended up actually being a real person that was paid to protect me—Paolo—and certainly there were times when I’d yelled at my mom for no good reason or had done other stupid things. However—big, big breath—I sensed this moment was going to contend for numero uno on my list: jealous, jilted woman tantrum in a nightclub.
I lunged at Paolo from behind, but I’d forgotten the man had spider eyes in the back of his head. He twisted and caught my wrist and then quickly spun my body, slamming my back into the wall. He pinned my arms above my head and used his body to keep me from moving.
He stared into my eyes for one long moment, and the world shut out. It was just me and him standing there. No one else. And despite not wanting it to, my heart remembered how in love it had once been. My brain recognized his scent as the smell of unbridled happiness—a place where every piece of me felt wanted. And as I felt the accelerated pulse of Paolo’s heart beating against my chest, a flicker of deep lust in those dark eyes, an unspeakable rage spread through me like a wildfire. Well, you can’t have me. ’Cause that boat freaking sailed!