Italian Kisses: A Billionaire Love Story(27)

He slid his hand across the desk, intent on touching my fingertips with his. I pulled back. He moved faster, catching my hand, trapping it. It was so nice to touch him.

But was it only nice because I knew that I shouldn't?

"Liam, I don't want to get in your way here. I don't want to keep you from doing what you came here to do."

"There's something wrong here," he said, not letting go of my hand, "Something you're not telling me. And I mean more than a tough lecture."

"I hate how you do that."

"What?"

"See right through me. Read me like an open book. Whatever."

"I love that you're an open book, that you don't try and hide what and who you are." His thumb traced gently over my knuckles. It felt nice, so nice.

"That's nice... Look, I don't want to talk about it right now, okay?"

"Okay. I'll be there when you're ready," he said.

I knew he had to be at least partially right about me. Otherwise it wouldn't have been so hard to repress the urge to tell him that I'd seen him today at Fratelli's, to tell him what Abigail had said to me.

Because I knew if I did he would disagree. And that he'd have good reasons. Probably good enough to sway me away from the conclusion that I'd arrived at as soon as he came in with that doggie bag of delicious pasta and that bottle of red wine that tasted better than any wine I'd ever had before.

"You're too good for me," I said.

He squeezed my hand lightly. "Don't say that. Never say that. If anyone should say something like that, it's me."

I couldn't look at him anymore. "This is really good. I mean it. But... do you think that..."

"I could go?"

"It's just that if I want to fix this mess with school I really need to concentrate on it for now. Thank you for visiting. It was really sweet of you."

For a second, I thought he might press the issue, thinking of how he'd wanted to "thank" me for delaying that second meeting. And I wanted him to try. Not only because I knew I would give in like my body demanded, but that I could also use it to justify to myself that he only wanted me for said body and its demands.

But of course he was too good for that. I should have known. I did know, somewhere.

"I understand," he said, "I know you'll figure this out."

Then he lifted his wine glass and my heart sank. There was still a mouthful of wine sloshing at the bottom of it. "To you, Emma, and to digging yourself out of this mess."

I picked up my glass. There was still a little wine in it, too. He clinked them together lightly, the vessels making a sharp, sweet sound that contrasted with the slightly bitter aftertaste of the wine they contained.

He had his hand on the latch when I jumped up from the chair. I couldn't let him go, not without one final kiss to impress on my memory.

He caught me up in his arms, squeezing so hard I could barely breathe. It started sweet, our lips grazing so that I tingled. Then our lips parted and I could taste the wine again. I could feel his stubble tickling at my cheeks and chin.

It was almost as good as that first kiss. It may well have been better, if I hadn't known it was a farewell kiss.

He didn't know that, of course. Not yet. But from the intensity of it I wondered if he picked up on some inkling of it from me.

He held me to him like he'd never let me go, and I wanted so desperately for that to be true.

I'd gone up on my tiptoes to get my mouth closer to his, and my calves and the soles of my feet ached from holding me when he loosened his grip and I sank back down to the floor.

"I don't think I could ever get enough of kissing you," he said.

"We all have our crosses to bear," I replied, meaning it as a joke. Still the sentiment left me with a warmth inside my stomach that I couldn't blame entirely on the wine.

He knew that I was upset. But he also knew that I didn't want to talk about it yet. "I'll see you tomorrow. Pick you up here? And if you could tell Mrs. Rosselini to not brandish that rolling pin every time I come by, that would be nice."

"Okay, I will."

He opened the door and slipped out, taking the stairs slowly so that he could keep tossing glances back at me over his shoulder.

At the bottom of the staircase, he started rounding the corner but leaned back in, showing the top half of his body only. He waved at me. I waved back.

When I closed the door I leaned against it. The world was a still and empty place for me. By rote, my brain pretty much shut off, I tossed the remains of our dinner into the small bin by the door and then tied the bag shut.

I really should have taken it down to the bin in the alley, but I didn't want to. What if Liam had gotten a call and was just sitting in his car out there? He'd see me and I couldn't take that.

There was still the wine, though. The 2007 Vespolina that had brought out the richness of the pasta sauce so nicely. I picked it up and the dark liquid within filled it up about a third of the way.

I tipped it over and let it slosh lazily into my glass, the wine making a glug-glug noise as it pulsed through the neck of the bottle.

I took a good swallow of it, letting it make a warm ball in my belly, before I sat down and swung my laptop open.

Then I typed. It wasn't a long letter. But I'd always found that there is rarely a correlation between length and difficulty. Sometimes long essays came out of my head fully formed and complete.

Other times, like this one, even getting just those few sentences out made me feel like Sisyphus, hauling that heavy rock up the hill only to have it tumble back down again, my mind conjuring the painting by Titian that displayed this eternal ordeal.

I deleted all the lines wholesale at least half a dozen times before it felt as though they approached saying what I had in my head.

There was a flight back to the States out of Da Vinci-LIRF that l intended on being on tomorrow afternoon. I would have preferred sooner, but now that tourist season was over there weren't as many to choose from.

And then there was only the delivery left.

***

"Perfect," I said, grabbing my mail from the stoop where Mrs. Rosselini always left it for me. There were a couple of rolls wrapped up in a napkin on top of them.

The letter that drew my comment was an official one from Sapienza University. I opened it, expecting Italian but finding English.

It told me pretty much what Dr. Aretino had said. My grades were no longer satisfactory. I was now on academic probation. Without improvement my tenure at the school would be terminated along with my student visa. Yada-yada.

It bolstered my decision that this was the right thing to do. Dr. Aretino had me. If there was a way out of this, I couldn't see it. At least leaving this way I wouldn't have to see him again.

And Liam would understand. Especially with what I'd said in the letter (which I had in an unsealed envelope secreted in my messenger bag).

I wanted to go down and tell Mrs. Rosselini in person, but I couldn't bring myself to. I decided I'd leave a note on the door when I came back here to pick up my bags on my way to the airport.

Then I went over to Liam's hotel. All the way over, the sky, a uniform and unbroken grey, drizzled. The rain was sharp and cold. It seemed fitting.

The doorman looked me up and down and at first I thought he wouldn't let me in, but he did, hauling the door open and looking down at his booted feet.

The lobby of the Forum hotel was grand, with Corinthian columns, copies of famous frescoes on the walls, and a starburst on the floor like the one Liam and I had seen.

With it being off season, only a few of the lounges were occupied, a tuxedo-clad waiter moving between the vast spaces bearing a tray with some champagne flutes on it.

I went up to the auditor, a tall, thin man who parted his hair in the middle and wore a well-oiled pencil mustache on his upper lip. That upper lip twitched when he saw me approach.

"Yes?" he said, taking my blonde hair (now almost brunette with the rain dampening it) and my hesitant steps as indicators that I was neither a guest nor an employee.

It wasn’t, "May I help you, miss?" No, just a curt single syllable. We both knew that I didn't belong here. Not with my $30 Payless shoes, my cheap Target messenger bag, and my lack of any fine jewelry.

There were probably coasters there in the lobby worth more than everything I had on me.

"Can I leave a message here for one of your guests?" That's how they always did it in the old movies, picking up and leaving messages with the concierge. It used to seem terribly romantic and nostalgic to me, leaving messages. Like sending a telegram. Now it seemed like my only option.

"Perhaps," he said, "Which guest?"

I'd already begun reaching into the messenger bag, my fingers brushing against the corner of the envelope.

I wanted to go up and slip the note under Liam's door, but as soon as I'd come in I'd known they wouldn't let me get to the elevator or the door to the staircase without asking to see my room key.

So I pulled out the envelope and started handing it to him. He reached out, but then I pulled it back. He frowned.

There was no way I was handing this oily man my unsealed farewell note. He might read it. And I could tell by the way he eyed it that he would do just that. So I wet the glue strip with a few quick licks and then pressed it shut.

Only then did I hand it over. He looked somewhat annoyed. "And who is this for, miss?"

"Liam Montgomery."

This wasn't the sort of place where you needed to cite a room number. The management probably insisted that the front desk know the name of every single person staying there.