Her Roman Holiday (21 page)

Calia glanced back with a touch of chagrin as she watched him heft her rough-and-ready backpack onto one shoulder.
 
Her utilitarian luggage fit about as well as she did into such opulent surroundings.

As she walked through the palatial entrance hall, ablaze with light and adorned with Baroque-era decorations and embellishments, Calia’s neck began to hurt from craning it so much.
 
“This place is… actually somewhat overwhelming.”
 
Its scale and grandeur made the villa look like a shack by comparison.
 
“It’s exquisite, but I must admit I find it a little much.
 
Lovely to visit, but I don’t think I’d like to live in a place like this.”

Gio nodded.
 
“I recently had many of the frescoes cleaned and restored
—
they had fallen into neglect during my father’s time.
 
But I agree
—
though I would not see it fall to ruin, it is not a place that I think of as home.
 
In fact, I am considering opening portions of it to the public, since I am so rarely here.”

“It’s a good idea.
 
It seems sad to keep such magnificence locked up behind high walls and privacy.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed as they climbed the elaborate main staircase.
 
“But for the moment, we have the place to ourselves.”

Calia shivered with excitement.
 
It was as if one of her most far-fetched fantasies had come true.
 
With Gio, she lived the kind of life she could only have dreamed of under normal circumstances.
 
And that, she reminded herself firmly, was how she would have to think of all this
—
a fabulous, delirious dream come true.
 
Even if they did continue for a time after this visit ended, Gio’s interest would wane sooner or later.
 
And she simply could not afford to lose sight of that.

* * *

They had an early start Friday.
 
The day was slightly overcast, but the indifferent weather did nothing to dim Calia’s delight in a city whose beauties were as exquisite as a string of glittering jewels.
 
Every street was like another gem
—
this one, a perfectly cut sapphire, the next, an emerald whose chiseled facets brought out its fiery heart.
 

She was enchanted by everything, from the beautiful glassworks and colourful millefiori jewelry, to the shops featuring the many masks of the Venetian Carnival, with their rich fabrics and glowing colours.

But, most enchanting of all was her companion
—
charming, amusing and full of fascinating anecdotes about the history of a city whose glory stretched back to the middle ages.
 
His own family, on his father’s mother’s side, had lived here since the time of the Renaissance.
 
And so, as they walked along the picturesque streets, his stories made them come alive, as he evoked a beautiful maiden peeking out from a casement they passed or a midnight exploit in the very square they were traversing.

“You never talk about your mother’s family,” Calia said, after one particularly amusing anecdote involving Gio’s great-grandfather.
 
“Was she also Italian?”

Something flickered in the depths of his silver eyes
—
there and gone in an instant.
 
His smile did not waver, but it acquired a glacial coolness.
 
“She was American.
 
She left when I was still quite young.
 
I have not seen her since.”

“I’m so sorry, Gio.
 
I didn’t know.”

“How would you?
 
I have little to say about my mother.
 
So, I generally say nothing.
 
The marriage between my parents was a mistake
—
my father had his flaws, but he knew his duty.
 
My mother did not.
 
She was a fickle woman, and I saw little of her.
 
Still, I was not yet eight when I learned that she was not faithful to my father
—
nor had she been since not long after my own birth.”

“So that’s why you don’t trust women
—
it goes right back to your childhood.”

He gave her a quelling look.
 
“If I wanted such astute insights, I would go to a professional.”

“But that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it?” she persisted.
 
“Abandonment issues and an inability separate your mother’s irresponsible behavior from your own mistrust and hostility, even all these years later.
 
At an emotional level, you can’t prevent yourself from believing that every woman you meet will be just as fickle and irresponsible.”

“It is more complex than that, so I will thank you not to psychoanalyze me.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I have no interest in discussing these things.
 
Nor are they relevant to us
—
to the relationship we share.
 
You have, perhaps, forgotten that we are, what was it you called it?
 
Passion pals?”

His mouth curled derisively around the phrase, and Calia felt a flush rise to her cheeks.
 
She glared at him.
 
“And I thought North Americans were the ones who were supposed to be neurotic about personal boundaries.”

“You are.
 
Or have you also forgotten that these were your terms?”

She ground her teeth.
 
“No, I haven’t forgotten.
 
So do you mean to tell me that if I hadn’t insisted on them, you’d be willing to bare your soul?”

“I did not say that.
 
I only say that you should abide by your own rules, instead of trying to institute a double standard, now that something in my past has piqued your interest.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“But regardless of our terms, I have no interest in subjecting myself to your facile little analyses.
 
Your emotional voyeurism will have to be sated elsewhere.”

The cutting dismissal mortified her.
 
She hadn’t intended to be prying or insensitive with her comments
—
had instead been thrilled that he had finally given her a glimpse of some of the reasons behind his negative attitude towards women.
 
But his response served as a sobering reminder that he and she did not have the same emotional stakes in their relationship.

She had begun to have hopes about the longevity of their liaison
—
had begun to think that he was starting to trust her a little.
 
Often in the last few days, she had turned to find him watching her with unaffected enjoyment in his expression, as if he liked her company.
 
And the derogatory comments about women had been conspicuous in their absence.

But now, it felt as if a door had been slammed in her face.
 
He was watching her with a “closed for business” look in his eyes that she had no idea how to penetrate.

So instead, she raised her head and bared her teeth in what was as much a grimace as a smile.
 
“Speaking of emotional voyeurism, didn’t you say the Guggenheim was somewhere around here?”

For a moment, his expression was surprised, before he laughed.
 
“Modern art, eh?
 
I would say that’s as much about emotional exhibitionism as it is about voyeurism, yes?”
 
But then he nodded.
 
“It is just a few streets away.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon at the gallery, whose main exhibits consisted of the private art collection of Peggy Guggenheim.
 
When she died, her Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal was opened to the public.
 
But, though the works it housed were fascinating, Calia had difficulty engaging with them emotionally.
 
She was too caught in the weight of her own despondency.

She couldn’t live like this
—
on this ridiculous roller-coaster of uncertainty.
 
If Gio smiled and showed warmth, then she convinced herself that he was starting to care, only to have her hopes dashed when he shut her out.
 
She had begun to weary of the guessing game, but the idea of baring her emotions with little or no encouragement from him scared her silly.

Still, she decided, even if she didn’t get some sense of emotional engagement from Gio by the end of this weekend, she would confront him.
 
Maybe a declaration of love would be too much, but at the least, she’d make it clear that she had begun to care, and was interested in something more than just a physical relationship.
 
If he didn’t want to explore that avenue, then they would end it.
 
Simple.

In theory, at least.

But for now, she would bide her time as she tried to get some idea of where Gio really stood on the subject of their involvement.
 
His unwillingness to trust her complicated things, making him more difficult to read.
 

As she and Gio walked through the rooms and corridors of the gallery, she did her best to at least appear intent on the various artworks.
 
They discovered a common sensibility in their tastes
—
though Calia soon found her knowledge was far outpaced by Gio’s.
 
Again and again, she was surprised and impressed by his insights and observations.

As they contemplated a canvas that had seemed particularly impenetrable, until Gio’s comments had shed new light on the complexities of the work, Calia shook her head.
 
“I have to admit that your knowledge is humbling.
 
I used to think I was pretty literate about these kinds things, but you leave me in the dust.”

He laughed.
 
“I have been here many times before.
 
And, given that my family’s tradition of collecting art goes back to the early seventeenth century, being a Diamanti means I have grown up steeped in art history. I think it could safely be said that I have had a bit of a head start.”

“You must have an amazing collection, then.”

He nodded.
 
“Perhaps on the way back, we can stop by the family home in Tuscany
—
those pieces that are not on loan to various galleries are housed there.”

She grinned.
 
“I’d love it!”

They ended the day with a leisurely dinner on the terrace of a restaurant Gio knew.
 
To Calia’s left was a narrow little alley of a street, while to her right, a peaceful canal whose quiet waters were occasionally disturbed by the purr of a water taxi or the soft slap of water against the oar of a gondola.

Afterwards, Gio hailed a gondolier.
 
As they settled into the cushioned luxury of the traditional conveyance, he gave her a rueful smile.
 
“This is a thing the tourists do, but I could see from your face that your trip would not be complete without a ride on one of these,” he said with grudging indulgence.

Calia grinned to herself as she curled up next to him and determined to enjoy every second of the ride.
 
She knew that if she had arrived by train, with her backpack strapped on, she’d likely be taking a waterbus to some utilitarian hostel now, with shared showers and dormitory-style beds.
 
Certainly, a gondola ride would not have been part of her budget.

“Thank you, Gio.
 
It really is lovely.”

Their lovemaking lasted well into the night, and Calia was awakened by his kisses on Saturday morning.
 
They spent much of the day in Gio’s room
—
and what a room!
 
As vast and as opulent as the rest of the house, it was a chamber fit for royalty.
 

Meals and champagne were brought to them at regular intervals, and they fed each other playfully, before resuming their amorous explorations.
 
Calia basked in every sensual look, languid touch and voluptuous moment.

They left just before midday on Sunday.
 
As promised, Gio took her to the family home in the hills of Tuscany.
 
But, though the Diamanti art collection was beyond impressive, Calia couldn’t help but feel daunted by this further evidence of Gio’s wealth.
 
This wasn’t just a matter of scale
—
Gio’s new BMW versus Calia’s twelve-year-old Volkswagen.
 
This really was another world entirely.
 

Gio’s phone rang as they were walking out to the car.
 
While he took the call, Calia walked over to a marble fountain in the garden and settled on bench, absently watching the arc of the water splashing into its shallow pond.

How could a man from this kind of background be interested in anything more than a temporary relationship with someone like her?
 
He would want to marry someone from his world
—
someone who understood the demands of wealth and didn’t question them.

Such contemplations stole her breath away, bringing her hard up against the realization that at some point she had begun thinking in terms of commitment with Gio.
 
The knowledge was like a punch in the stomach.
 
She shook her head, gasping at the unpleasant impact of this new knowledge.
 

Even a long-term liaison with the man would no longer be enough.
 
She wanted the full meal deal: marriage, kids and stability.
 
She wanted forever after.

“Calia?”

Gio stood nearby, watching her.
 
She blinked at him, trying to shake away the horrified daze that clouded her mind.