Champagne Deception (8 page)

“This is dinner,” he announced.  “I had it catered for us.  I know, I’m probably the only Italian man who can’t cook,” he said sheepishly.  “But at least I don’t try!  You wouldn’t want to taste my cooking, believe me.”

Coretta laughed, happy to learn that this man actually had a flaw, and it was one she could live with.  “That’s okay.  What you lack in culinary talent, you make up for in artistic ability!”

“
Grazie
,” he winked.  “How about you?  Do you cook?”

Coretta pursed her lips, thinking of the endless sushi dinners she had endured with Jonathan.  Her kitchen in Manhattan hadn’t been very amenable to cooking, and Jonathan never appreciated her meals anyway.  T
heir tastes in food, like their tastes in virtually everything else, were in opposition.

“I actually like to cook, but I haven’t had much chance lately,” she hedged.

“Well, you are welcome to use the kitchen anytime.  Someone should cook in there!” Lorenzo joked.

Coretta smiled, glancing over at the virginal kitchen as they made their way to the dining table.  The table had already been set with fine bone china and sterling silverware. 
Chivalrously, Lorenzo pulled out her chair, as she appreciatively took a seat.  She watched with a rumbling tummy as he unpacked the bags and set out platter after platter of hot food.  This was the first real meal she would get to devour since arriving in Milan.  Aromas of bubbling cheese, fried eggplant, and savory tomato sauce wafted through the dining room.  Lorenzo surprised her by taking a seat at her side rather than across the table.

She snuggled in closer to him at the table as he placed a hand intimately on her thigh.  “I guess we better eat,” he said, grinning as he reluctantly moved his hand away.

Other than for that saucy moment, Lorenzo was a consummate gentleman throughout dinner.  Coretta basked in the layered discussions that arose so easily between them, just as they had back in college.  Lorenzo spoke of his traditional Italian family and his hope that she would meet them at some point.

“They’re a bunch of characters,” he
chuckled.  “But I think you would like them.  They’ll definitely be at the grand opening of our gallery.”

Coretta tried to hide her disappointment.  For a second, she thought he had intended to introduce her to
his family on a personal level, but clearly it was just for professional purposes.  What was she thinking anyway?  Yes, they had kissed and there was a budding attraction between them, but she had just arrived
yesterday
, for goodness sake.  Ten unhappy years with Jonathan had apparently left her starving for male attention, but she needed to play it cool or risk scaring Lorenzo off.

“I look forward to meeting them at the grand opening,” she said breezily, taking a bite of salad.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed again.  This time, Lorenzo frowned pensively, unsure of who could be at the door.   He shot up from his chair and said, “Excuse me for a moment.”

Impatiently, he moved from the
dining room to the front door on the opposite side of the villa.  Coretta discerned the sound of a woman’s voice. Stiffening in her chair, she wondered what woman would be comfortable enough to pay Lorenzo an unexpected visit on a Sunday evening.  An ex-girlfriend, perhaps?  Coretta was astonished at how much the prospect tied her stomach up in knots.

Lorenzo strode back onto the terrace with the mystery woman pacing behind him.  With his massive body in the way, Coretta couldn’t get a glimpse of the woman at all.  Chewing the inside of her cheeks nervously, she
willed Lorenzo to move out of the way so she could see who the lady caller was.

“Coretta, this is my mother, Elisabetta.” He stepped to the side so Coretta could finally see the uninvited guest.
Round bodied and raven haired, the woman looked nothing like her son.  Her eyes were the same shade of brown as Coretta’s, and her features had none of the chiseled perfection of her son’s.  Coretta decided that Lorenzo’s father must be a very handsome man indeed.

“Hello
Elisabetta,” Coretta said cheerfully.

“
Signora
Fiatti
,” she corrected brusquely.

So she wanted to be called Mrs. Fiatti?  Coretta didn’t have a problem with that. 
But she didn’t care for the woman’s unfriendly attitude.  “
Buona sera
, Signora Fiatti.
Piacere
,” Coretta greeted awkwardly.

“
Piacere
,” Signora Fiatti greeted frostily.  In her arms, she carried a glass tray of lasagna that she set down on the center of the table.  “You didn’t come to Sunday dinner tonight.  I was worried about you.  You didn’t even call me,” she scolded as Lorenzo reddened with embarrassment.

Coretta
hadn’t yet dared to dream what it would be like to be Lorenzo’s wife, but in that moment, she had an unpleasant image of playing second fiddle to an overbearing Italian mother-in-law. 
Lorenzo is a mama’s boy
, she sighed inwardly. 
Well, I knew there had to be something wrong with him
.

“
Mamma
, I’m having dinner with Coretta tonight,” he explained matter-of-factly.

“But I made lasagna with meatballs.  And tiramisu for dessert.  Everyone was waiting for you, all your sisters,
your brother, everyone!  So I had to bring all this food to you!” Signora Fiatti complained as Coretta instinctively ducked her head, feeling Lorenzo’s embarrassment.

“
Mamma
,” he said in a lightly pleading tone.  “There’s no need to get upset.  Thank you for bringing the lasagna and tiramisu.  Coretta and I will enjoy them very much.”

Signora Fiatti looked appraisingly at Coretta.  “You are American.  What are you doing in Italy?” She asked bluntly.

Coretta wrung her hands tensely.  Before she could answer, Lorenzo interjected, “She’s going to be my artistic partner.  I finally found a good painter to work with.”

“Really?” She asked doubtfully.  Addressing Coretta, she declared, “My son is a modern day Michelangelo.  He is the best sculptor in all of Italy.”

“She is exaggerating!  Please,
Mamma
!” Lorenzo protested vehemently.  Looking towards Coretta, he said, “She’s the only one who’s ever made the comparison between Michelangelo and me.  Leave it to a mother!”

Yes, leave it to a doting, smothering, overprotective mother
, Coretta thought while forcing a smile.

“Do you have Italian roots?” Signora Fiatti demanded.

“Um, no, actually I don’t.  My parents are Greek,” she replied proudly.

“So you are not Catholic?” Signora Fiatti
appeared horrified.

“No, I was raised Greek Orthodox, but I’m not very religious,” she replied as Lorenzo shook his head nervously.

“Not religious?” Signora Fiatti’s horror deepened.

“No, not really,” Coretta replied honestly, wishing she could leap off the terrace and disappear into the busy streets of Milan.

“Mamma, I think you have asked Coretta enough questions for now.” Lorenzo put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, trying to lead her to the door.

Reluctantly, the rotund
woman acquiesced, giving Coretta one last disapproving look before accompanying her son out of the dining room.  A few minutes later, Lorenzo returned, still flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry for how rude my mother was.  I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of mama’s boy!” He chuckled
.

I already do
, she thought stiffly.  “She didn’t seem to like me very much,” Coretta observed honestly.

“She’s a tough cookie at first.  Ever since my father died, I’ve kind of taken over the pa
triarch role of the family.  My sisters and my little brother do what they can, but my mother leans on me a lot.  She’s very traditional, but she’s got a heart of gold once you get to know her.”

“When did you lose your father?” Coretta asked compassionately, shoving aside the mama’s boy issue for the moment.

“Almost two years ago.  He had a heart attack.”

Ah, that would explain it.  Signora Fiatti was recently widowed and not yet accustomed to being on her own.  Hopefully, in time, she would become more independent if any type of relationship were to develop between Coretta and Lorenzo.

“That’s so sad.  I’m sorry,” Coretta consoled.

“Thank you.  I was very close to my dad.  I still miss him sometimes,” Lorenzo admitted as
his eyes clouded with sadness.

“Of course you do!  It’s only been a couple of years.” Coretta reached across the table and rubbed Lorenzo’s forearm.

In a low voice, he said, “And you know why she was asking you so many questions, right?  Because she can see that this is more than a working relationship.”

Coretta grinned.  Good, let the woman get used to the idea of her being in Lorenzo’s life.  She had handled
a Class A jerk named Jonathan Trake for ten years; she could easily handle an old lady with a tart tongue.

Eye contact was the main form of communication for the rest of the meal. 
Coretta relished how easy the silence was between them---and how wrought the sexual tension was.  Lorenzo watched her avidly with each sip of wine she took, each mouthful of food she swallowed.  Instead of feeling self-conscious, she felt sensual and returned his stares confidently.

Abruptly looking down at his bowl of tiramisu, Lorenzo took a spoonful before stating, “We should get to the gallery as early as possible tomorrow.  So let’s get some rest tonight.  I’m a little tired from my trip to Umbria, and I’m sure you’re not over the jet lag yet.”

Coretta tried to remain neutral as she pondered how the man could be a hot and cold running faucet.  His changes in mood from amorous to business-like were disheartening, and she was becoming increasingly frustrated.  Finishing her dessert with three quick spoonfuls, she answered, “You’re right.  Let me clear up and do the dishes.  You go upstairs and get some rest.”

He smiled and shook his head.  “You’re not lifting a finger, Coretta.  You’re my guest.  I may not cook, but I can do dishes!”

“Thank you,” she said with formality.

Lorenzo politely rose when
she did.  Giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek, he bid, “
Buona notte
.”

“Yes, good night to you too.”

Fighting back irrational tears, she disappeared up the staircase and flopped on the too-big bed of the guest suite.  She didn’t need all this space to herself.  In fact, the master size bedroom was just a reminder that she was alone.  The sound of Lorenzo clearing the table and washing the china reverberated to the top level of the villa as she daydreamed that he would come to join her in a few minutes...lay down next to her and fill up the big bed…

Burying her face in a pillow to indulge in a silent scream, Coretta heard another sound.  But it wasn’t Lorenzo working in the kitchen.  The rustling of trees
whispered outside her bedroom.  Just the evening breeze.  Pattering footsteps instantly negated the notion that the sound was coming from the wind.  Squeezing the pillow tightly, Coretta craned her neck and listened.

The footsteps stopped just below her window until only the swaying trees
were audible. 
Tap.  Tap
.  Coretta looked at the window and saw two tiny pebbles hit the glass before falling to the ground.  Before she could react, three more pebbles tapped the window pane.  Then, just as she was rising to alert Lorenzo downstairs, a huge rock smashed the glass and landed loudly on the floor.  Shaking violently, she ran into the hallway.

Lorenzo met her at the top of the stairs and held her by the shoulders.  “Coretta, are you okay?  What on earth was that noise?”

Frightened, Coretta stammered, “A r-rock.  Someone threw a r-rock into the bedroom!”

In disbelief, Lorenzo charged into the suite and stared at the
portentous rock that had shattered the window into a thousand shards and scratched like claws across the hardwood floor.  He rushed to the window and stuck his head outside.  Not seeing anything unusual, he ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard.  Afraid to stay alone in the room, Coretta followed him as he shouted for her to stay inside.  But she refused to heed his warning and caught up to him quickly on the lawn.

All was silent except for their panting breaths and the trees that appeared sinister
in the moonlight.  Lorenzo whipped his head around, trying to find any clue as to who---or what---had caused a rock to go flying through the upstairs window.

“It must have been Angelo!” Coretta hissed
, trembling in the shadows.

“No, that’s ridiculous.  I already told you Angelo is harmless.  Just trust me on that. 
But someone is trying to get me!  I’m calling the police.  This is the second attempt on my life in the past 48 hours.”

“How do you know someone’s not trying to get me too?  The rock was thrown through the guest quarters, not your bedroom.”

“But you’re assuming this person knows the lay-out of the house.  I’ve never had any enemies inside my home---none that I know of anyway---so whoever did this would have no idea what room he was aiming at,” Lorenzo reasoned.