She's On Top. Susan Lyons

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      The hotel had made a reservation for Giancarlo at a restaurant they recommended—Don Francesco’s on Burrard Street. Where, apparently, the Italian owner had studied opera and could, on a special occasion, be persuaded to sing.

      It was less than a mile from the Opus Hotel. Freshly showered and shaved, dressed in black pants and a slim-fitting black V-neck sweater made of a cashmere/silk blend, Giancarlo decided to walk. Along the way, he absorbed sights, sounds and smells, storing away each impression for possible use in a video. Vancouver was funky and unpretentious, he thought. A real mix of people: all ages, races, economic levels and sexual orientations.

      When he walked into the restaurant, the aromas of Italy greeted him. He sniffed appreciatively, savoring the scents of garlic, rosemary, roasting chicken and lamb.

      He gave his name and a waiter in a white shirt and black pants led him to a white-clothed corner table by the window. The restaurant had an elegant simplicity, with creamy yellow walls, gilt-framed paintings of Italian scenes and a wall of dark shelving holding wine bottles. The music, soft enough so as not to interfere with conversation, was classical guitar. His hotel had done well by him.

      He’d barely sat down when a man in a suit came over. Perhaps sixty, his face had smile lines and his close-cropped black hair was silvered. “Buona sera, Signor Mancini. Benvenuto a mio ristorante.” He smiled broadly and held out a hand. “Sono il padrone, Francesco Alongi.” In Italian, he went on to say that the Opus Hotel, when making the reservation, had made special note of the fact that they were countrymen.

      “Buona sera.” Giancarlo continued on in Italian, exchanging pleasantries, happy for the rare opportunity to speak his native language.

      Francesco asked him if this was an evening with a special lady, and he answered, “Spero de sì.” I hope so. That led to a consultation about the appropriate beverage. Always the optimist, Giancarlo placed an order, which Francesco passed along to a waiter.

      As he and Francesco chatted, Giancarlo kept an eye on the door.

      He recognized her the moment she stepped into the restaurant. She hadn’t changed, except to grow more beautiful. When he let out an approving sigh, Francesco turned to look, and both men spoke at the same time. “Bellissima.”

      Now that, Giancarlo thought, his dick pulsing with appreciation, was what a woman was supposed to look like. Curves that, as he well remembered, were soft and utterly genuine, not the product of a plastic surgeon. A lush body covered in a way that was modest yet seductive. Beautifully shaped legs and graceful neck, the glimpse of a forearm as she reached up to brush hair back from her face. A temptress’s hair—an abundance of undisciplined curls that whispered of sensual pleasures.

      One day, if he found the right performer, he’d do a video that played on this seductive subtlety. Not the usual in-your-face sexuality so many young—and not so young, if you counted Madonna and Cher—entertainers flaunted.

      “She doesn’t recognize you,” Francesco murmured.

      Giancarlo realized he’d been staring at Rina for several minutes and she hadn’t moved. She’d been gazing around the room, eyes wide. Fiddling with her fringed shawl, searching for a familiar face and not finding it.

      He snapped his fingers. “I forgot how much I’ve changed since she knew me.”

      He rose to his feet and hurried toward her. “Rina.” He caught her hands in his, feeling an immediate surge of warmth, connection. Arousal. He squeezed her hands lightly. No rings. Yes, he could let himself hope.

      She stood gaping, then her cheeks flushed and she blurted out, “Giancarlo? Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you.” She glanced down, up again, shook her head. Then she stared at his face. “Okay, your eyes. I recognize your eyes. And your hair. That long curly hair.” Finally she smiled and her own brown eyes began to twinkle. “Your father still hasn’t gotten you to cut it?”

      He remembered telling her that his father hated his hair, and said he was lucky he was a musician because no other occupation would allow a man to look like a girl. “He’s given up.” It was the only thing his family had stopped nagging him about, no doubt because they now considered his hair the least of his sins.

      “I’m glad. I like it.” Then she flushed brighter. “Not that, I mean, my opinion isn’t—” She broke off. “Sorry, I sound like an idiot. But you caught me off-guard. I expected—” Again she broke off, then finished lamely, “Something different.”

      “The same scrawny kid?”

      She nodded. Then, apparently just becoming aware that he still held her hands, she tugged them free. “You must have grown six inches.”

      “Five. And over forty pounds.”

      “None of it fat,” she muttered, sounding almost annoyed.

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