Italian for Beginners (18 page)

He looked wounded, and for a moment, I felt bad.

“You don’t understand, Cat,” he said gravely.

“What is there to understand?” I demanded.

“But, Cat, you’re the one I want!”

My blood boiled. I hated the way he was teasing me, pulling at my heartstrings when they weren’t his to pull. “Go back to
your wife!” I said irritably.

“What?” he asked, but suddenly, his voice sounded very far away and had taken on the trace of a foreign accent.

“Go back to your wife,” I repeated more resolutely.

Michael looked hazy all of a sudden, and from nowhere, I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. I looked at Michael in confusion,
noting that both of his hands were in front of him. Who was grabbing my shoulder?

Then, as clear as day, a sharply accented deep voice spoke in my ear. “Well, I don’t have a wife, so that might be a little
difficult.”

The voice was enough to snap me out of my dream. I blinked a few times and realized, to my horror, that not only was I not
on a street corner in New York with the married restaurateur but that I was on a dark, deserted street in Italy with a sandy-haired
man sitting beside me, his face inches from mine, looking into my eyes.

I screamed and scrambled away. Startled, the man let go of my shoulders and jumped back, too.

“Relax, relax!” he said, holding up his hands. “I was just trying to wake you. I was worried.”

“ Who—who are you?” I demanded, shrinking away to the far corner of the bench. As my hammering heart began to slow, I realized
with a start that it was the sandy-haired guy from the bar, the one who had stepped between me and the persistent Giuseppe.

“Well, I’m not Joe Bradley,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me. “But do not worry. I’m not trying to hurt you. I just wanted
to make sure you were okay.”

“ I—I’m fine,” I said, wondering who Joe Bradley was and why this was relevant. I studied his face and realized that I kind
of liked the way his green eyes sparkled in the light of the street lamps.

He grinned at me and, with a fake, exaggerated American accent, said, “I think you better sit up; much too young to get picked
up by the police.”

I stared at him. “Police?”

He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Classic,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “And why are you talking like that?”

“What, like Joe Bradley?” he asked, now back in his Italian accent, looking amused.

“Who’s Joe Bradley?” I demanded. I was utterly confused now. I scooted away. Perhaps this guy
was
crazy after all.

“Oh, come on,” he said, shaking his head and smiling at me. He looked pointedly at my outfit.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “What?” I demanded.

He laughed again. “Okay, if you want to play it that way,” he said. “But you
are
okay, right?”

I hesitated and nodded. “I think so.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “But may I ask why you are sleeping on the side of the road in the
middle of the night?”

I opened and closed my mouth, but I realized I didn’t know what to say. After all, where would I begin? New York, where I’d
made the decision to shake up my boring life? The airport in Rome, where I thought I was falling into the arms of a man who
loved me? This morning in that same man’s apartment, when he told me to get out? Or this evening, with my crazy landlord storming
away from me in the street while a sleeping pill gradually muddied my brain?

The man stared patiently at me and then sighed. “Okay, this is very charming, but don’t you think you’re taking the
Roman Holiday
thing a little too far?”

I looked at him blankly. “Huh?”

He shook his head again and said something in Italian under his breath. Then he said, “I mean, we run into this in Rome all
the time. American tourists who want to think they’re Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
. And really, it’s fine if you want to play make-believe. But you can’t just go around sleeping on streets by yourself. Not
all Italian men are as nice as me.”

He smiled. I still wasn’t following. I’d never seen
Roman Holiday
or any other Audrey Hepburn movie. I’d avoided them quite deliberately.

“Audrey Hepburn?” I asked flatly.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “It’s very clear what you’re doing.”

“No, no, no,” I said quickly. “I’ve never even seen
Roman Holiday
. I swear. I got separated from my friend—well, not even my friend, really, my landlady—and we had a fight, even though I
don’t even know how, and, well, now I have no idea where she lives or how to find her place. I think I’m even more lost now
than when I started. And I was just so tired.…” I was embarrassed to feel my throat closing up.

I blinked back tears and stood up. “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I just—it’ll be morning soon, and I’ll find her,
okay?”

The man stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if I was telling the truth. Then he extended his hand formally.
“I’m Joe Bradley,” he said. I hesitated and reached out, letting him shake my hand.

“But I thought you said you
weren’t
Joe Bradley,” I said. “And what kind of a name is that for an Italian guy, anyhow?”

He just looked amused. “And I presume you are Anya Smith?”

“Who? No, I’m Cat Connelly. What are you talking about?”

“You’re not going to quote a Shelley poem to me?”

“Why would I quote a poem?”

“Okay,” he said. He looked me up and down, shrugged, and extended his hand again. “My name is Marco Cassan. And I apologize
for any misunderstanding.”

I shook his hand hesitantly.

Marco looked satisfied. “Shall we?”

“Shall we
what
?” I asked.

“Shall we go?” he asked. I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. But he didn’t seem to be looking at me in the vulturelike way the
men at the bar had.

“Go where?” I asked tentatively.

“I can’t just leave you here sleeping on the street the rest of the night.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

Marco made a face. “No. This is not safe. You will come home with me.”

“I will not!” I declared hotly.

Marco raised an eyebrow. “I meant that we could go to my apartment, just so that the Roman version of Jack the Ripper doesn’t
come get you in the middle of the night.”

I considered this.

“How do I know
you’re
not the Roman version of Jack the Ripper?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Do I look like Jack the Ripper?”

“No,” I muttered. “But you never know.”

“Miss Connelly,” he began.

“Cat,” I corrected softly.

He smiled. “
Sì
, Cat. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” He paused and added, “My mother wouldn’t forgive me, either,
to be honest. She raised me to be a gentleman. And I think that includes not allowing lost women to sleep on benches in the
middle of the night.”

“Look,” I said, “honestly, this is very nice of you, but maybe I should just head back to where I think Karina’s apartment
is. She’s somewhere near the Pantheon. I’m sure I could find it if you just point me in the right direction.”

“I would be happy to,” Marco said. “But if you don’t know where she lives, it might be an impossible mission. There are so
many streets around the Pantheon that looking for one building will be like, how do you Americans say it, finding a needle
in a haystack.”

“Still,” I said softly, “I should probably try.”

He shrugged. “As you wish. I live in that direction, anyhow.” He offered his hand again, and hesitantly, I took it and stood
up. “It’s this way,” he said as we began walking. Then he winked at me and said, “Come along, Princess Ann.”

An hour later, we had walked circles around the Pantheon, but I didn’t recognize Karina’s building. I was growing more tired
by the moment—the result not of the sleeping pill, I suspected, but of the fact that I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours
at a stretch in two days. And Marco seemed to be dragging, too.

But the more we walked and talked, the more comfortable I grew with him. His English was nearly perfect—he told me he’d spent
summers in the United States with his grandparents when he was a kid—and he chatted pleasantly as he indulged me in a fruitless
search for my apartment. I felt like an idiot.

He seemed nice, normal, and kind, and I couldn’t help but notice, as I snuck furtive looks at his sharp profile, that he was
really handsome. Not in the powerful way some of my Wall Street boyfriends back home had been or the slightly dangerous way
that Francesco was… just handsome in a
nice
sort of way.

“So?” he asked finally after we went down what felt like the thousandth unfamiliar side street. “Do you think perhaps we can
return to my apartment for a few hours of sleep? It’s nearly four in the morning, and I have to be at work at ten.”

“I can’t sleep at your apartment!” I said.

“Why not?”

I stared at him for a moment. Perhaps this was just a more advanced game than the one Giuseppe had played. “I don’t even know
you!” I said hotly. “And besides, I am
so
not that kind of girl.”

He looked confused. “The kind of girl who sleeps?”

“The kind of girl who sleeps with a stranger!” I declared. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

He cut me off. “I do not intend to sleep with you,” he said, perhaps a little too firmly. “I plan to sleep on my couch while
you sleep in my bed. Because the only other option is wandering around the streets all night.”

“I’m fine. You can just leave me here,” I said.

“You and I both know that I will not and cannot do that,” he said. “So you have two choices. You keep me up all night and
therefore ruin my day tomorrow. Or you come home with me and get a few hours of sleep, and then I help you again in the morning.”

I swallowed hard. I felt foolish. “Fine,” I mumbled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s better than leaving you out on the street. Okay?”

Marco lived about a fifteen-minute walk from the Pantheon, in a lovely old building with a vast, flower-filled courtyard and
a broad, winding staircase. I followed him up to the fifth floor, where he unlocked a big wooden door and held it open for
me.

“It’s small,” he said. “Princess Ann might even call it an elevator.” He winked. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

It was about the size of the apartment I was renting from Karina, maybe a little bigger. I stepped inside and felt immediately
at home. It wasn’t neat, but it wasn’t messy, either. Books and CDs, some in English, some in Italian, seemed to overflow
from every surface.

“You like to read?” I asked, eyeing the ubiquitous stacks.

He nodded. “I love it,” he said. “I can’t afford to travel as much as I’d like. What better way to see the world?”

I nodded and smiled.

“Why don’t you sleep in the bed, and I’ll take the couch,” Marco said. “I have an extra T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts
you can sleep in, if you’d like.”

The thought of wearing his boxers sent a strange tingle through me. I shook it off and tried to remain nonchalant. “No, no,”
I said. “I’ll take the couch. You’re already being so kind to let me stay here.”

“I insist.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a couple of items of clothing. He turned to hand them to me. “These are pajamas,”
he said, mimicking an American accent again. “They’re to sleep in; you’re to climb into them, you understand?”

I looked at him blankly. “Um, yeah. I’m familiar with the concept of pajamas.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said, lapsing back into his native accent. “You really haven’t seen the
movie.”

I looked at him blankly. I went into the bathroom and changed quickly into the faded soccer T-shirt and black boxers he’d
given me. I took a quick look in the mirror and was mildly relieved to see that I didn’t look nearly as bad as I’d suspected
I would.

When I emerged from the bathroom a moment later, he had already changed into track pants and a T-shirt. He smiled. “I’ll set
the alarm for nine, okay?” he said. He glanced at his watch and sighed. “That’ll give us four and a half hours of sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking down. “This whole situation is ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” he said with a smile, “I think that might have been the most fun I’ve ever had wandering around Rome.” He grabbed
one of the two pillows that lay on the bed and stretched out on the couch. “Can I get you anything before we go to sleep?”

I shook my head. “Are you sure you won’t let me sleep on the couch?”

“No,” he said. “I’m fine. Like I said, my mother would never forgive my terrible manners.”

I thanked him again and climbed into his bed. The sheets were cool, smooth, and admittedly, a lot more welcoming than a brick
wall on a wide Roman thoroughfare.

Marco turned the lights off, plunging us both into darkness. Within a few minutes, from a few feet away, I could hear him
breathing evenly in the rhythm of sleep. I eventually drifted off, too, finally giving in to the exhaustion that had overwhelmed
me all night.

I slept until Marco’s alarm went off the next morning at nine. It took me about twenty foggy, sleep-soaked seconds to remember
where I was. But when I did, I sat up with a start.

Marco was already up, moving around the kitchen with his back to me. It sounded like he was humming to himself. For a moment,
before I said anything, I studied his frame. He was tall with broad shoulders, a muscular back beneath his tight white T-shirt,
strong legs, and sandy hair.

I must have sighed audibly, for he turned around and smiled.

“Ah, you’re awake, your royal highness,” he said with a grin.

I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks. He was obviously making another
Roman Holiday
reference I didn’t understand. “Morning,” I mumbled.

“Espresso?” he asked.

I nodded numbly.

“Very good,” Marco said properly. He poured dark liquid into two small espresso mugs, grabbed a pot of sugar and two spoons,
and walked toward me. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the edge of the bed.