Vulnerable (25 page)

Sebastian thought she was lonely, and a foolish over-sentimentalist with extravagant ideas. She had dreams, he got that, and she would make them come true, come what may.

They walked along the constricted streets lined with famous boutiques housing upscale fashions, and passed a man standing just outside a vinerie talking fervently in Italian on his cellular. He had a faint resemblance to James Dean, and smoked a cigarette a few feet away from a black Ferrari.

“Do you come to Italy often?” D'Becca asked.

“Usually when I need to get fitted.”

“Fitted?” She laughed. “You mean you come all the way to Italy to get your wardrobe?”

His eyes suggested approval. His very silence said a mouthful.

“Do you like Italy?” she asked Sebastian.

“Yes, I like it well enough. The food, the culture. And you?”

When she looked over to him, she saw something new, something she had taken for granted previously. In the essence of a full moon, he seemed more of one thing and less of something else, but D'Becca was not sure what changed. She realized she was becoming attracted to him, or who she thought he might be.

“Yes. I wish I could stay forever. But whenever I go to Paris to work I feel the same way about France. And then I get homesick and I start wanting things you can only get in America. Is that ridiculous?”

“Not at all. Come, I want to show you a to-die-for view. It's difficult to find anywhere else in Rome. Come along,” he said, taking her hand and linking her fingers possessively into his.

The Villa Aventine, in the heart of a desirable, lushy residential district, was a low-key, word-of-mouth hotel once known as the Federici Villa. For many years, it was rumored that the villa was owned by the daughter of a Greek slave, who inherited the baroque
villa through an Italian prince. Since the early 1800s, the real history of the Federici Villa remained a feeble tale; it was impossible to relay the authentic story anymore because the history of its inheritance was handed down for nearly two centuries in slanted detail. The Villa stood atop Aventino, rising above the Tiber just southwest of the Palatine. Secluded convents and churches scattered below the villa, and the church bells could be heard on the hour.

Sebastian's suite—with chamois painted walls, wide-planked flooring the color of espresso mostly concealed by massive rugs—was twice the size of D'Becca's one-bedroom apartment, a charming place overlooking Lake Union and the Space Needle. She loved the room's antiquity, and the smell of burning wood. Presumably a night chambermaid was instructed on when to burn the logs each evening when she came to turn down the bed. The view—probably the most captivating in the City Centre—was unmistakably one of the best she had ever seen in Rome. The serenity of the Tiber from one window, and beyond the river was the Vatican City and an enchanting view of Ponte Sant'Angelo, and within its setting, San Pietro Basilica. From a window on the opposite side of the suite a vista and a sector of the Colosseum posed inside stillness. Sebastian knew how to touch every sensitive place D'Becca possessed, even when he had not known her. She liked this man. She really liked this man. And she wanted what he had to offer: his fabulous world, because his world could not be anything but.

It was not until the following morning, when she crawled out of the classic Victorian cast iron bed and walked over to the window and opened the shutters to get a feel for the day did D'Becca learn Sebastian Michaels lived in Seattle. It was a startling coincidence. Not that she was being snoopy; she happened to notice his passport amid other papers lying near a briefcase on the table. She reached over to pick it up, and his address was listed in the Madison
Park neighborhood of Seattle. D'Becca felt light and happy. Sebastian stunned her and asked, “What are you looking for?” She caught her breath, dropped the passport back on the table and put her finger in her mouth, feeling dreadfully embarrassed.

“Are you married?”

Sebastian did not wear a wedding band, yet D'Becca had learned that meant nothing. A lot of married men did not wear wedding bands. But married or not, D'Becca had her own agenda.

“Yes. I am married.”

What was left of Sebastian's trip they spent together. They stood in espresso bars amid well-dressed Italians consuming espresso in the ubiquitous demitasse, and ate gelato cones for the thrill of it. They roamed piazza after piazza: from Campo dei Fiori to Piazza del Popolo; to St. Peter's Basilica to study the newly restored Sistine Chapel for hours. D'Becca was struck at how casually artistic lingo such as “frescoes” and “veils of color” dripped from Sebastian's tongue. She even wondered if he studied classical architecture. In fine detail, he explained to D'Becca the ceiling's visual metaphor: Humankind's desperation for salvation which is obtainable by God through Jesus Christ.
The Creation
moved Sebastian so, and D'Becca had never been intimately involved with a man so deeply touched by art. At one point she thought a tear would slip involuntarily from his deep blue eye. She was so happy to be in the company of this man. Sharing her day—her body—with
this
man. Mysterious and strong, he would teach her many things. Take her places. And for once she would feel the raw essence of love.

They traversed many squares and streets throughout Rome in the late hours of the night, and since the city was all but deserted during siesta, they shared the city with tourists and random Italians along the vacant streets. Sebastian was fascinating and real to D'Becca. No other man she had known had been so incredibly
captivating and genuine. By the weekend, she thought she was in love with him.

When age began to gradually threaten her livelihood and D'Becca wanted to get away from the startling invasion of Seattle, Sebastian bought a townhouse which came with one sole restriction: it was hers to live in as long as there were no other men in her life but him. Then one day, following her work in a commercial played during the Super Bowl, jobs became available once more. D'Becca was in demand and invites started pouring in out of nowhere and she liked being around different types of people and having fun. She was the person she wanted to be in the presence of company she wanted to keep. D'Becca traveled frequently again, to Rio, South Beach, and Dubai. Sebastian had family obligations and a sophisticated business that demanded a great deal of his time; he was not always available to be with her. Being with him was a sacrifice she told herself she could handle, but there were times when she was so lonely, she ached. Once, her desperately unhappy mother said to her daughter: “The other woman is never first, Becca.”

Sebastian became increasingly demanding, wanting D'Becca to be around when he wanted to see her. At times he got jealous, even of Troy, her dearest friend who was gay. He became needy and neurotic. Sebastian wanted her completely to himself, for himself, and available when he wanted her, like his many possessions, and more importantly, because Sebastian Michaels
could
. Before she was able to catch herself, she looked up and Sebastian had rearranged her life to fit inside his. Next thing she knew, she was pushed into a life against her will. It was not until she met Rawn that D'Becca wanted to control her own life—how she spent her time. It was Thanksgiving and spending the day with Rawn and Sicily and Tamara that made her see for the first time how being with Sebastian isolated her from the outside world. D'Becca liked knowing
people her age; being with colorful, creative, intelligent and likeable people, who did not try to control her.

•  •  •

“You have to decide, D'Becca. I won't pressure you to stay with me, but you must also remember that we had an agreement.”

Tears of disappointment and tears of broken dreams filled her eyes.

Sebastian reached down and kissed her cheek. “You need some time, I see.”

He went for his overcoat and draped it over his arm with his inherent finesse. Casually, he walked to the bedroom door. Framed inside of the arched doorway, Sebastian turned to look at D'Becca in the bed curled up, her back to him.

“You're in love with him. How did you let this happen?”

When a reply was not forthcoming, Sebastian turned to walk away.

The moment she heard the front door shut, D'Becca leapt from the bed and hurried to the window and looked down at Sebastian. From her bedroom window, she watched him step into his BMW, turn over the engine and drive away. She wiped the tear leading in a solid line down her cheek.

Yes, Sebastian. We had an agreement.

Only three months after they had met in Rome, D'Becca had returned to Seattle from working a show in Toronto. Sebastian had said he would be at Sea-Tac to pick her up, and after being away from him for four days, she was excited to be in his company again. It had been a slow travel evening. He had pulled up to arrivals, and when she jumped into his car, he blindfolded D'Becca.

“What game are we playing, Sebastian?”

“I have something to show you?”

“How will I see it with this thing over my eyes?”

“Have you ever been on Crescent Island? It's a pearl along Lake Washington. They have this secluded restaurant, Rochelle's. It serves the best pan-roasted salmon I've ever tasted. But there's something else.”

Sebastian got a kick out of surprising D'Becca.

She knew this was a big one.

When he had unlocked the door and ushered D'Becca into the empty townhouse, he had removed the blindfold. Initially, D'Becca was confused, but when she began to walk through it, she knew that it was for her. In the full-sized, high-ceiling living room, her eyes met a huge crystal vase complete with two-dozen long-stemmed jade roses, which sat on the striking parquet floor. Sebastian had told her, “Be happy, my love.”

Her heart filled with utter joy, D'Becca had laughed. “Sebastian, I love it.”

•  •  •

Nervously she dialed a number. When Troy answered, she sniffed her runny nose and said, “I'm in trouble. I need to come to Miami.”

T
he first thought that ran through Rawn's mind when he opened his door was how she had managed to find out where he lived. There was no way Tamara would have asked Sicily because that would have come across suspicious. Or was she so undeterred she would inquire knowing it would lead Sicily to wonder why she even asked. While the island was small, it was not that small. Somehow Rawn found his voice. “What's going on?”

“So you aren't going to invite me in?”

He stepped aside.

With a judgmental eye, Tamara checked out the place. Faint lighting came from the direction of the kitchen. Rawn stood by the piano, awkward, unprepared. He had walked in the door not more than three minutes ago.
Khalil said she stalked.

“What are you doing here?” His words were abnormally blunt and his pitch impatient.

She slipped off her long wool coat, suitable for the especially cold winter night. Rawn, literally, could not believe his eyes. She stood across the room wearing quite revealing lingerie. “Listen, don't be ludicrous, Tamara.”

“Come on. It's what you want. Don't pretend you didn't like…us.”

He hurried across the room. Rawn reached for her coat on the floor where she dropped it. When he draped the coat over her, she slapped him.

“What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Don't mistreat me!”

“You need to leave!”

She flung the coat off her shoulders and came within an inch of him. “What are you going to do, huh?”

Rawn covered his face, heaving.
Dammit!
A sobering reality set in, and he was in a quagmire. Rawn saw it so clearly now: he would indelibly intertwine with Tamara for an ill-defined period of time, and behind one reckless moment. Nothing between him and Sicily would ever be the same, whether he came clean—or Tamara came clean—or not. If he said nothing, he would always know what Sicily did not know, and that knowledge played with him in a disturbing way.

“Listen to me, Tamara…”

“Come on, Rawn. Don't be so uptight. Lighten up, relax.” She reached for his hands and he snatched them away. “I promise, I won't tell Sicily. You have my word.”

“Do you get it? You need to grasp the concept: Sicily is my
friend
. Do you have any idea how much she's into you?”

“She thinks I'm her soul mate. Please.” Tamara smirked. “Sicily—she was a moment.”

“Obviously you don't give a damn about her.”

Furiously, Rawn snatched her coat from the floor and draped it over her shoulders once again. This time he buttoned the top button and walked away from her. Words Khalil said about her began to play over and over in his mind, like a song he could not get out of his head:
That woman isn't wrapped tight.
He turned when he heard Tamara say ever so casually…

“I care about Sicily, too.”

Care.
That word stalked Rawn. It was not until she said it did Rawn have appreciation for how a seemingly small term to describe human emotion should come across as inconsequential

“Tamara, this misbegotten idea…There's nothing here for you.”

“I remember something D'Becca said to me on Thanksgiving.” Tamara closed the gap between her and Rawn. “She said, ‘Rawn can put a spell on a girl, so watch out.' At the time it meant nothing to me. But there hasn't been a man I wanted to be with more than Henderson. Not until you… When you came to my place and we spent the evening together. It's…Let's just say you're attainable.”

With a grimace, Rawn said, “Did you say attainable?”

“You think that Sicily won't approve, right? She might be disappointed…”

“Disappointed? You definitely don't know Sicily.”

She moved into him, gingerly resting her hands against his chest. “She's a big girl.”