I was wearing one now, a tiny red number that hardly covered my small breasts, let alone my groin and buttocks. Normally, I never would have worn something like that, but the way Dante’s eyes heated like lit coals made me feel like a goddess in it.
I was reminded of that as I opened my eyes, shading them with one hand so I could squint into the descending sunlight at Dante standing near the foot of the lounge chair.
“Oh?” I asked, raising my foot to run my toes along his inner thigh. “I wouldn’t mind staying in.”
He growled slightly as he caught my foot, lifting it higher to place a kiss on my arch. “As tempting as that is, I realized we haven’t been on a proper date yet. I want to take you out. Woo you properly.”
“I followed you to Italy,” I noted drily. “I would say you’ve done a serviceable job of wooing me already.”
“No, lottatrice,” he murmured as he sat on the edge of the chair near my hip and leaned forward to cage me in with his muscular arms. His breath on my face smelled of lemons and mint. “I am going to take you to the most beautiful place in the south, water you with the finest wine and the best food you’ve ever tasted, praise you until you feel like regina mia and then I am going to bring you back home and fuck you to within an inch of your sanity, capisci?”
I blinked at him, the heat of his words surpassing that of the sun on my skin. “Well, I have a very busy schedule today, but I suppose I can make time for you.”
“Sei cosi bella,” he said, almost to himself as he traced a single finger from my ankle up to the inside of my groin. “Should I tell you how I plan to fuck you later or do you like the suspense?”
I shivered. “Surprise me.”
His smile was wolfish, teeth glinting in the light. “Va bene, bella mia. I have meetings until six-thirty, but I will meet you in the foyer at seven o’clock.”
“It’s date,” I agreed, feeling like some teenager about to go to prom.
We didn’t have such a thing at our school in Naples and if we had, I’d never been the type of girl to attend parties, but I didn’t care.
This was so much better.
I prepared myself in the same way, spending hours soaking in a deep tub overlooking the lemon trees at green hills beyond, shaving every inch of my body before lathering it in lotion, then doing my hair and make-up impeccably.
I wore a dress Dante had bought me because I knew instinctively, he had bought it with this date in mind. The white fabric was nearly sheer, my nipples a dusky promise beneath the plummeting neckline, the stark color offsetting my deepening tan. It was rare for a red head not to burn, but even though I had Seamus’ pale Irish skin, I inherited the capacity to tan from Mama. Despite the risqué neckline, the simple cut of the long dress was elegant and sophisticated.
With my hair tousled in loose curls around my shoulders and breasts, longer than I’d worn it in years, I felt beautiful.
That little voice in that back of my head reminded me of my flaws, but it was drowned out by how I imagined Dante might react to the sight of me like this. What he might say.
Beautiful, magnifica, mine.
He proved me right when I descended the stairs that evening, his face slack as he took me in.
“So this is how Paris must have felt,” he muttered, eyes burning as I neared him. “Knowing he would risk his entire kingdom for the love of one woman.”
“Do you think he believed it was worth it, even in the end,” I countered as hit the main level and clicked over the tiles to him on my six-inch heels. “Even while Troy burned?”
He collected my hand and raised it to his lips, flipping it to press his kiss to the inside of my palm. “Undoubtedly.”
I sucked in a shaky breath because the power he had over me made my knees weak and my belly flutter. “Where are you taking me?”
His grin was so beautiful, it took a moment for the words to sink in. “Sorrento.”
Sorrento.
I had been there once before.
A very long time ago.
I was sixteen, my heart soaring as I drove beside the man who would soon be my first lover on La Sorrentina drive, one of the most scenic portions of the coast. Christopher looked so exotic in the rent Fiat, his pale skin pinked by the hot sun pouring in from the windows. His otherness had been so sexy to me then. I remember reaching over and poking his flushed flesh to see if go from pink to white and back, imagining how the rest of his body might look when we undressed later that evening.
It wasn’t that the memory of our time in Sorrento that weekend was bad because he had treated me poorly. At the time, Christopher was still deeply invested in our relationship. It was bad because it hurt to know how naive I’d been, how important I’d let him make me feel just because I longed for male attention I’d never get from my father.
Thinking about it made me feel foolish, something I’d spent the rest of my life trying to avoid.
It killed the happy butterflies in my gut, my belly graveyard of memories.
“Lena,” Dante called as he tugged me closer. “You do not like Sorrento?”
I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t want to tell Dante about Christopher for all the reasons I told my mama, but also because we were having a kind of honeymoon here despite the circumstances and I didn’t want to ruin it with decades old heartbreak.
“No,” I assured, running my nails over his freshly shaven jaw. “I can’t wait to go there with you.”
The Amalfi Coast was the jewel of Italy’s natural beauty. The steep cliffs festooned with brightly colored homes like something in a patisserie display window, the long rows of sun-baked lemons giving off a sweet, slightly tacky aroma on the sea scented breeze, and all that greenery bursting with multitudes of vivid blooms in the long spring and summer seasons. There was a quality to the light there that brought artists through the ages to those craggy shores in droves, but people visited for the food too––the sweet-tart tomato sauces smothering pastas and pizzas and eggplants, the green bite of pine nut pesto, and the lemon liquors thick with cream or sour as biting straight into the flesh like an apple. The people wore their sun leathered, sea weathered skin with pride, their bodies agile beyond their years from climbing up and down the countless stairs and hills that made up the topography of that pointed peninsula.
It was a beautiful place filled with beautiful, vivacious people.
And I’d hated it since I was sixteen.
It was filled with memories of the stupid teenage girl I’d been, believing myself in love with a man who had never loved me back. He had used me the way one uses a tissue, carrying me around crumpled in his pocket, hidden and dirty, to pull out when there was a deposit to be made into it.
Disgusting.
Filthy.
The entire affair.
I could think of it now, after years of therapy with less self-loathing. I didn’t want to throw myself off a cliff at the realization of how stupid I had been when I thought myself so worldly and wise. Now, I just felt sad when I thought of that time. Then, it had been the happiest period of my life. I’d laughed and danced, I dreamed and played piano as if I was possessed, emotions flowing through me to hammer at the keys. Music spilled from our little house in Forcella at all hours of the day when I wasn’t with Christopher.
It was why I avoided music so much after we moved away and left him behind.