Her Italian Soldier

Her heart raced for no reason. “Right.” But she covered her sarcasm with a wink.

Annabelle had news for the photographer. Lucca had already seen her in the flesh. The last thing he wanted to do was run off with the woman who was an intruder in his home. Giovanni, artistic to his core, didn’t have a clue about the pilot who’d come back from the war agonizing physically and emotionally.

But the photographer’s comment, meant to flatter her, only hit her harder for keeping quiet about Lucca in front of Guilio. As heat poured guilty color up her neck into her face, Marcella unwittingly saved her from having to talk by handing her flowers. Annabelle lifted the bridal bouquet and inhaled the fragrance of the white stephanotis interspersed with tiny flame-red tea roses.

“We want you to try several poses.” Basilio took over. He opened the passenger door, revealing the ultraposh tan leather interior, where a long-stemmed rose of flame-red lay on the seat. “First, walk up the steps until your whole train is exposed. Look back toward the car as if waiting for your bridegroom.”

Thanks to Giovanni’s comment, an image of Lucca rather than Ryan passed through her mind. In a tuxedo, he’d be spectacular. When she realized where her thoughts had wandered, she took a sharp breath and tried harder to follow instructions.

A few more touches here and there and the shoot began. Basilio wanted different looks. So did Guilio. Between the two men, who got into animated conversations and gesticulated with their hands, the day wore on and on. Giovanni had endless energy and continued in his upbeat way to encourage her, but finally even he declared they had enough film.

Relieved it was over, Annabelle hurried inside the hotel. After being dejeweled and disrobed, she freshened up. Once she’d removed her makeup, she changed into her sleeveless orange linen shirtwaist and sandals.

Guilio was waiting for her and invited her to eat dinner with him and his wife at their villa.

Not wanting to offend him, she asked if she could take a rain check because she was nursing a slight headache. It wasn’t far from the truth. “This modeling business is much harder than I thought.”

He patted her arm. “The sun was warm today. By all means go back to the hotel and have an early night.”

“That and a cold drink are all I need, Guilio.” Once she knew if Lucca was all right, she’d be able to relax. “Thanks for understanding. Will you be at the shoot tomorrow in Furore?”

“No. I have to fly to Milan for an important meeting, but I’ll be back the day after. You can always call me if anything comes up.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“I told Marcella to save that wedding dress for you with my compliments.”

“Guilio—you’re generous to a fault, but there’s no wedding in my future. I’m done.” He knew she was divorced though she’d never told him the details.

A frown appeared. “Only the young say that without knowing what’s around the next corner.”

“I think you’re mixing me up with the Amalfi Girl who still has stars in her eyes. She hasn’t been where I’ve been and doesn’t know those stars blaze hot, then run out of hydrogen and fade.” From the doorway she blew him a kiss, then hurried down to the parking garage.

The evening traffic was even worse than the morning commute. By the time she pulled in the driveway, her worry over an untenable situation combined with fatigue had caused her temples to throb.

After parking the car, she hurried inside, moving past Lucca, who was cooking something at the stove. The duffel bag was nowhere in sight. A delicious aroma filled the house, even to the bathroom.

Annabelle had to admit she was glad their earlier conversation hadn’t driven him away or put him off his food. On the way home from Amalfi, her anxiety level had gone off the charts. She’d feared she might find him in a more troubled state than the night he’d come home.

She reached for the bottle of ibuprofen she’d put in the cabinet. Two pills ought to do it. Cupping her hands, she trapped the water from the faucet and swallowed. In the process, her hair fell forward and some of it got wet. She reached in her purse for the tortoiseshell clip she carried and fastened the ends behind her head.

When she walked back to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in another black shirt, a polo this time, and jeans. When she’d asked Marcella what it was about Italian men and their clothes, she said it was because the Italian mother considered her son to be so important, she pushed him to turn out gorgeous no matter what. She would actually starve herself to save the money to keep him stylish.

Annabelle smiled, not knowing if that was totally true, but in Italy she’d been surrounded by men who dressed with uncommon flare. Lucca was no exception. Even in the sweats and T-shirt he’d worn to bed last night, he’d looked classy, yet he seemed unconscious of it.

“Something smells delicious.”

He was pouring a white sauce over the baked pasta in a tomato base that was arranged in a large oval dish. “It does to me, too. I’ve made my favorite meal.”

“What is it?”

“Veal cannelloni.”

“Did your mama teach you?” Her mind was still on her conversation with Marcella.

“She taught me many things.” The affection in his voice was palpable. He’d been his mama’s boy all right. Italian men were known for putting their mothers on a pedestal. “Are you hungry?”

The change in his spirits from this morning came as a big shock. “Yes.” All of a sudden she was famished.