Untraceable (13 page)

I found the perfect magazine. They
were all larger, southern style homes some with Italian influences,
some with French influences. “Awesome,” I whispered to myself as I
headed to the front of the store.

There was a tall, muscular, brown
haired man in a suit, stepping into the line just in front of me.
He turned and flashed me a polite smile. He didn’t appear more than
somewhere in his mid to late twenties, but from his creamy tan
skin, black-brown eyebrows and golden eyes, one word popped into my
head: Italian.

“
Mi
dispiace,
Ladies first.
Prego.
”
he offered.

Okay, he not only looked Italian, but
he spoke Italian.

I took a step back. “No. Grazie.” I
didn’t know more than a few phrases that Micah had taught me to
impress Giorgio.

He seemed very surprised, “Parli
italiano?”

“
Poco. Tu parli
inglese?”

“
Yes, but it is not often
that I run into anyone in the States who knows anything more than
Ciao.”

“
Well, you’ve just heard
most of the Italian that I know.”

“
Please, go ahead of me,”
he offered again.

“
No, that’s okay. I’m not
in that big of a hurry.”

The cashier rang up his Car and Driver
magazine. He turned and smiled as he picked it up and tucked it
under his arm. “It was nice to meet you. My name is Jonathan Rossi,
and you are?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Annalisa
was completely off limits since that was my one-word stage name
from Remake. Leese was okay, but Winslett was not to be mentioned,
and I didn’t know if Gavarreen was a good idea either.

“
Ah…Leese,” I finally
settled on, accepting his offered hand.

“
Aleasee?”

“
No. I’m sorry. It’s just
Leese. It’s a nickname actually, but it’s what everyone calls
me.”

“
Are you building a
house?” he asked as I placed my magazine in front of the
cashier.

I was getting more nervous by the
second as this man continued the conversation. I knew I was
stereotyping him. Just because the man was Italian didn’t mean he
was mafia. Get a grip, I told myself as I inhaled and tried a
smile, “Yes, actually, my husband and I bought some property and
we’re just trying to get some ideas about different house
plans.”

“
That is what I do! I am
an architect—well, in Italy I am an architect. I have not opened an
office here in the States, yet.”

That was an unexpected relief. I was
looking for signs of a shoulder harness under his Armani suit. The
cashier gave me the total, but instead of grabbing my plastic and
possibly exposing my real name, I paid cash.

“
What kind of designs do
you like?” he continued. “Are you looking for Traditional,
Neo-Traditional, French Country, English tutor, Greek, or perhaps
my favorite, Tuscan?”

“
I—we haven’t decided yet.
But I’m leaning toward something that might be along the lines of
southern craftsman style.”

“
I have worked craftsman
style into Tuscan before with interesting results.”

I began to walk slowly for the door. I
didn’t want him to continue following me out to the parking lot, so
I was trying to give him enough time to end this conversation
before I stepped outside. “I’m trying to remember what Tuscan style
looks like,” I honestly stated.

“
Much of the countryside
in Italy is Tuscan style. Red to brown stucco, raw beams and
exposed wood, tile roofs—it is very beautiful, if you are Italian.
You do look Italian.”

I never considered what ethnic group I
looked like, but I certainly didn’t think, with my ultra blonde
pixie hair, that I looked anything like an Italian.

“
Are you a natural
blond?”

“
Ah—in this country that
question would be considered rude,” I said sharply.

“
Oh—
mi dispiace—I mean, I am
sorry,” he said, blushing a little and holding the door open for
me. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be nosy or to make you
uncomfortable. I just have not made many friends here yet and I
guess I am—how would you say—a little over-anxious to have someone
to make conversation with. It was nice to have met you, Leese. Once
again, I apologize.” He turned and headed for the parking
lot.

Okay, now I was
feeling bad for snubbing him. “I should be the one apologizing for
snapping at you like that,” I quickly added.

He turned and
smiled, “It is okay. If this was Italy and I talked this much with
a married woman, I would most likely get… What is the American
phrase? Get the crap beat out of me,” he laughed. “Ciao,
Leese.”

I thought that was
pretty funny as I headed toward my car. I tossed my magazine onto
the passenger’s seat and started my engine. I hadn’t been in the
store long, but the car was an oven in the mid-June Florida
sunshine. I turned the air conditioning to the coldest setting and
dropped the shifter into reverse and began to ease out of my
parking spot. Suddenly another car was right behind me. I was quick
on the brake, but I still felt a gentle bump as the cars made
contact.

Immediately, I was
furious. I put my car in first gear and drove the two feet back
into the parking space. I opened my door and stepped out, but
paused as I realized that I needed to reassess if this was a safe
thing to do or not. The car behind me was a fabulous metal-gray
Ferrari Enzo. Surely this wasn’t a threat driving something so
exquisite. The lambo door (exactly like my Aero) rose up and out
stepped Jonathan. Maybe this was a threat—a very well-dressed,
well-mannered, well-driven threat.

He spouted off
something that sounded like an Italian cuss word and then turned
his head toward me. He seemed to jump slightly when he understood
who he had just run into. “Are you okay? I am so sorry, this was
all my fault. I only looked down for an
instant.”

I walked
cautiously to the back of my car. There was a tiny smear of gray
paint, but it was otherwise fine. I looked to the front of his car
and noticed that he too had been quick on the brake as the damage
was barely noticeable.

“It’s fine;
nothing more than swapping a little paint, mostly
yours.”

“Yes, I had this
repainted several weeks ago, I am sure it is not fully
cured.”

“Then you do this
a lot?” I chuckled.

He looked
perplexed and then he realized that I was asking if he runs into
people a lot. “No, no, not at all. Ferrari comes basically in three
colors, but I prefer Titanium over their Silver so I had it
repainted. Are you sure you are okay—I mean, a lady in your
condition… Perhaps I should call for an
ambulance?”

“I think we bumped
into each other at a total of about two miles per hour—I’m
fine.”

“Let me at least
pay to have that paint buffed off your car,” he offered, pulling
out his wallet.

“No. And to tell
you the truth, it had to have been my fault because I should have
seen you coming. But I swear I looked and thought you were much
further away, barely moving.”

“You see it is not
your fault. You are correct. My magazine slid to the floor and I
slowed to pick it up and then hit the gas without looking. You have
a beautiful car—I am sure your husband will be furious. Please let
me give you something for this.”

By this point the
driver to the car next to mine had come out of the store and was
climbing into her vehicle. Jonathan’s car was blocking her
in.

“Please,” Jonathan
stated, quickly writing something on a hundred dollar bill. “Take
this. My number is on it. If it is more, call me and I will pay the
extra.” Then he smiled broadly, “Or if you would like some
architectural help, I could offer my services.”

“Thank you,” I
said. I didn’t want the money, but for the sake of time and getting
him out of the way of the lady with the annoyed expression beside
me, I accepted it. And, perhaps, it would come in handy to know an
architect.

He drove away and I pulled
out and headed for Lyle’s office.

CHAPTER seven

When I woke June
eighteenth, Micah was raised up beside me, staring
intently.

“What?”

“I’m your cook for
the day—or errand boy, depending on what you want to eat.
Comment-free food; just tell me what you want.”

“You make a
wonderful omelet.”

“That’s not
weird.”

“With
chicken-apple sausage, broccoli, Asiago, onions—yeah, lots of
onions.”

“Okay, now you’re
talking weird. By the way, the onions can ruin kissing about as bad
as a cigar.”

“Not if we both
eat onions,” I laughed.

My chef rolled out
of bed smiling, “Don’t get up, baby. Spoiling comes with the
birthday—I’ll bring breakfast up here.”

I certainly felt
like I was getting the better end of the birthday as I pulled my
Aero out of the garage after breakfast. We drove along the beach
and then stopped at an Indian café for lunch because I was getting
an urge to eat a curried chicken salad. Then it was back home to
relax out by the pool until supper was delivered. I was having
Micah’s favorite New Orleans cuisine catered, but I had made his
cake, from scratch the day before and had it waiting in the
refrigerator. It was after dark when the food arrived, and it was
delicious, but my cake was the highlight as everyone moaned with
approval as to how it turned out. We moved from the dining room out
to the pool deck to finish off the evening.

“Present time,”
Micah stated.

“Me first,” Kimmy
excitedly announced. She grabbed the boxes she had brought down and
handed one to me and one to Micah. For me, she had picked out a
beautiful sterling silver covered baby book. The cover of the book
was also a picture frame. For Micah, she picked out a deep green
silk tie and gold tie-clip engraved with his
initials.

Mom had purchased
gifts that were on the silly side, but silly was okay with us.
There were several tee-shirts for Micah, me, and the baby with
funny sayings on each. My favorite was the baby’s shirt that had an
arrow pointing up labeled Pacifier and a down arrow labeled Diaper.
Although, we did find two tee-shirts in the box that
would
never
be worn in
public. Micah had one with what appeared to be a large sperm cell
on the front that read, ‘My Boy Can Swim!’ and there was one for me
that read, “Stupid Knocked Me Up!” with an arrow to the
side.

Mom turned
scarlet, “David picked those two out.”

At that statement,
Micah began to roll with laughter. As we folded them up and placed
them in the box, he rose up and said he’d be right back. He had two
boxes, handing me the larger one first. I opened it and found a
mouth-watering, forty-eight piece box of Godiva “G” collection
chocolates.

“Okay, you bought
this for me, so it has to be guilt free—comment
free.”

“Deal.” Then he
handed me a smaller rectangular wrapped package. I pulled away the
paper to reveal a velvet box.

“You said diamonds
and chocolates, so I’m guessing this is a
diamond.”

“Just open it,” he
breathed anxiously.

I opened the box
to find a stunning, pear-shaped orange stone of approximately two
or three carats, in twined in a golden choker that looked like
vines linked together. “It—it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a stone
quite like this. Is it a—”

“It’s a diamond,”
he answered softly. “I was trying to find you a certified true red
diamond, but there are only about twenty in the world and I
couldn’t find one for sale. But the brilliant orange is pretty rare
too—just like you. Happy birthday, Annalisa.”

“Put it on me,” I
asked as Kimmy and Mom oohed and aahed over the necklace. He
removed it from the box and fastened it around my
neck.

“Wow,” was Mom’s
reaction. “That color is exceptional on you.”

I wiped away the
happy tears and then raised my hand to feel the necklace. I wanted
to run upstairs and look in the mirror, but it was time for his
presents.

“And now for you,”
I smiled rising up and going over to the pool equipment box and
lifting the lid.

“Ah,” escaped his
lips. “I looked in there!”