An American Girl in Italy: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance. Aubrie Dionne

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СКАЧАТЬ herself out there, and she blushed like a giggly schoolgirl. Geez, she had to pull herself together or she’d end up on some crazy fling. Like that would last longer than the two-week tour.

      Carly turned back to the window to cool things off, and they rode in silence.

      The rolling hills had morphed into beige, white and pink stucco buildings interspersed with grand stone facades in the arched and domed architecture characteristic of Rome. Carly marveled at the bustling, narrow streets. The farthest she’d traveled was Disneyland in Florida as a kid. The absence of Starbucks, McDonald’s, and any other US clothing and food chains gave the city a timeless, classic look.

       I’m not in Kansas anymore.

      The intercom buzzed as Michelangelo turned it on. He opened his hand, then closed it again and stuffed his palm into his pocket. Was he nervous? After all the tours he must have given, this should be old school for him.

      Michelangelo took a deep breath. ‘Up ahead we’ll cross the Tiber river, which is the third-longest river in Italy. It comes from the Apennine Mountains in Emilia-Romagna and flows four hundred and six kilometers through Umbria and Lazio to the Tyrrhenian Sea. The king Tiberinus Silvius was said to have urinated in the river, which was subsequently renamed in his honor.’

      Carly laughed out loud, then covered her mouth.

      Michelangelo raised a dark eyebrow in question as he turned the intercom off and sat back down.

      ‘Men. They have to mark their territory.’

      He widened his gorgeous eyes. ‘Is this how you view all men?’

      Somehow, Carly felt as though he’d use her answer to judge every single thing about her character and whether she was available or not. It had to be good. And firm. It had to draw the line between them.

      ‘Only the ones I’ve met so far.’ Carly’s heart sped. Why the hell would she say that? It was practically an invitation. Somewhere between America and Italy she’d lost her brain filter, and her mind.

      ‘I see.’ Michelangelo smiled as though he had a tasty secret on his luscious lips and gazed at the road ahead. Carly tried not to notice the way the fabric of his cotton shirt lay against his smooth chest, or the strength of his jawline.

      They passed over the glassy Tiber river, and into downtown Rome. Residents watered their plants on the balconies and set up their storefronts under bright awnings. Carly could see why Michelangelo claimed everyone that visited wanted to come back. The city charmed her on a grand scale while still claiming its historic roots with pride.

      The bus pulled up in front of a stone building with arched windows and striped, rounded awnings that reminded her of fancy candy wrappers. A red carpet lined the path to double glass doors. Carly breathed with relief. The air between them had grown thick with tension, and she was eager to get off the bus, get a drink and read her e-mail.

      Michelangelo stood and addressed the entire bus. ‘Welcome to the Villa Borghese. I’ll see to it your luggage is deposited at your room. You may go directly to the front desk and check in.’

      Carly stretched her legs and stood. She’d been sitting down all day, first on the plane, then on the bus and it felt good to move around. While Michelangelo helped people with their bags and answered questions, she took the opportunity to sneak away.

      ‘Have a good stay, signorina.’ A hint of playfulness danced in his voice.

      She whirled around. Michelangelo smiled and winked, then turned to the rest of the orchestra. Feeling as though cupid’s arrow had hit her straight through the head, Carly stepped off the bus and walked the red carpet into the Villa Borghese.

      A white marble floor with lightning streaks of mica and gray spread out before her. Wooden columns, much like those in Roman architecture, structured the lobby area where two young men in crisp suits waited for her to check in. Both of them were handsome, dark Italian men, but neither compared to the one she’d just met.

      Carly walked up to the main desk wondering who’d be sharing her room. A scandalous thought of Michelangelo in his boxers passed through her mind before she squelched it. No, probably more along the lines of snoring Bertha.

      The man at the counter gave her a room key for three fifty-two. ‘The elevator is around the corner to your right.’ He spoke in perfect English. ‘Welcome to the Villa Borghese.’

      ‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’ Carly smiled. ‘One more thing, who’s staying with me?’

      He checked his computer. ‘Alaina Amaldi.’

      Carly’s heart froze over. Not the diva who accused her of playing her high A two cents sharp! ‘There must be a mistake.’

      He checked again, but not before giving her that I think this lady is crazy look. ‘No, signorina. There is a specific request to place you two together.’

       Dammit, Melody, you had to fall in love!

      ‘I can assure you, I didn’t place such a request.’

      The host shook his head. ‘Mi dispiace, signorina. Perhaps Signorina Amaldi did?’

      Carly shook her head. It was more likely their stage would freeze over and the curvy Alaina Amaldi would fall through it than the opera star would choose to room with her.

      ‘Can’t you change it?’ To Michelangelo. She bit her tongue. ‘How about Bertha Payne. Who’s she staying with?’ Anyone was better than that vibrato-crazed soprano.

      He typed a few keys. ‘I have her with Trudy Phillip. Per her request.’

      Trudy, of course. She and Bertha were both as old as ancient Rome. They probably wanted to reminisce about the Coliseum days while they knitted doilies.

      The line was lengthening behind her, and the receptionist flicked his eyes over the crowd nervously. Carly knew when she’d outstayed her welcome. ‘Very well.’ She adjusted her purse strap and followed his direction to the elevator.

       This day is getting better and better.

      Chapter Three

       Never-ending Songs

      ‘May I?’ Michelangelo offered his arm to the sweet little old lady who was the last orchestra member left on the bus. As he had helped the others with their bags, she sat knitting as though patiently waiting for him to come over.

      ‘Of course, love.’ She wrapped her knobbly hand around his arm. ‘An old lady like myself will get whatever help she can.’

      ‘You’re like a fine Pinot Grigio, aged to perfection.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Mmawh.’ He helped her stand and walked to the front of the bus.

      ‘I like you. What was your name again?’ She squinted at him through glasses so thick they must have been bulletproof.

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