Authors: Anita Hughes
“We’re in Rome, we must enjoy ourselves. I’m dying for a plate of Parmesan ravioli and a glass of Chianti.” He turned to Amelia. “Would you join us for dinner?”
“No thank you.” Amelia shook her head. “I have plans.”
“Before we have dinner I’d like you to meet someone.” Sophie smoothed her hair. “We’re going to the clinic to see Theo.”
* * *
Amelia crossed the black and gold marble floors of the lobby and walked through the glass revolving doors. She glanced at her watch and realized it was almost 7:00
P.M.
She would go to Philip’s apartment and ask him to join her for dinner. They’d sit at an outdoor café on the Piazza di Trevi and share a caprese salad and a bowl of linguini.
“Good evening, Miss Tate,” Marco called. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you, Marco, I love sunsets in Rome.” Amelia beamed. “They’re like a painting by Botticelli.”
“Can I call a taxi?” Marco asked.
She glanced at the pink sky and the setting sun and the Spanish Steps in front of her. She inhaled the smell of bougainvillea and roasted chestnuts and gasoline.
“No thank you, Marco.” She hurried down the steps. “I couldn’t sit in traffic on such a lovely night, I’m going for a walk.”
She crossed the Piazza di Spagna and strolled along the Via del Corso. She glanced up and saw a familiar figure standing in the Piazza di Trevi. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tan slacks.
“Ann, wait!” Philip called, striding across the piazza.
“I was coming to see you.” Amelia gazed at his dark eyes and smooth cheeks and suddenly felt warm and happy. “It’s such a beautiful evening I was going to drag you away from your assignment and ask you to have dinner.”
“I finished the article, I’d like to do something special.”
“Like what?” Amelia asked.
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. He kissed her softly on the lips and touched her chin. “You’ll see.”
They crossed Saint Peter’s square and climbed the stone steps of the Basilica. Philip knocked on the double gold doors and slipped his hands in his pockets.
“It’s after seven.” Amelia glanced at her watch. “The tours are over.”
The doors slowly opened and a guide in a brown uniform ushered them inside. Amelia gazed at the domed ceiling and the bronze columns and the mosaic floor and sucked in her breath.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
Philip took her hand and smiled. “We’re taking a private tour.”
The guide led them to the side of the Basilica and into a secret passageway. Amelia heard her heels echo on the marble and saw walls covered with gold frames. She followed the guide into a rectangular room with rich oriental carpets. It had a gilt ceiling and walls painted with elaborate frescoes.
“These are the Raphael Rooms,” the guide said. “They were chosen by Pope Julius to be his papal residence in 1513. The frescoes by Raphael are the finest examples of Renaissance art.”
“They’re breathtaking.” Amelia gazed at a painting of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. She kept walking and saw scenes depicting the School of Athens and the Coronation of Charlemagne.
“The Vatican museums are made up of two thousand rooms,” the guide continued. “We could walk for nine miles.”
They visited the Gold Room with its gold statues and the Niccoline Chapel with its murals by Fra Angelico and the Gallery of Tapestries. Amelia saw narrow spaces crammed with ancient Greek sculptures and ornate rooms filled with paintings by Perugino and Donatello and Caravaggio.
They entered wooden double doors and Amelia gasped. She glanced up and saw naked figures against a blue sky. There were plump nymphs and black serpents and baskets of ripe fruit.
“
The Last Judgment
was commissioned by Pope Paul the Third in 1535,” the guide said. “Michelangelo built the scaffolding himself and used special paints that would be visible from the floor. It took him six years to complete and Cardinal Carafa wanted it removed because he thought the naked figures were obscene. Pope Paul prevailed and it is one of Michelangelo’s greatest achievements.”
Amelia gazed at the gold altar and ornate candlesticks and couldn’t believe she was in the Sistine Chapel. She studied the sun and moon and the stars painted on the mosaic floor. She felt Philip’s arm brush her shoulder and shivered.
They finally returned to Saint Peter’s Basilica and the guide led them to a corner. They stopped in front of a marble statue of a woman holding her child.
“Sometimes it’s hard to appreciate the Pieta with tourists crowding around her,” the guide said. “Take your time, but please don’t touch.”
Amelia gazed at the statue she had studied in textbooks and her eyes filled with tears. She saw Mary’s slender cheeks and graceful neck and billowing gown. She took Philip’s hand and felt a warmth spread through her chest.
* * *
“How did you manage that?” Amelia asked when they emerged onto the steps. It was almost nine o’clock and the piazza was filled with couples strolling along the cobblestones. She heard violins playing and saw street vendors selling roasted chestnuts and sunflowers.
“Max’s friend, the countess, arranged it.” Philip grinned. “She tried to get an audience with the Pope but he is at his summer residence at the Castle Gandolfo.”
“It was magnificent.” Amelia breathed. “The frescoes are six hundred years old but they look like they were painted yesterday.”
They strolled along the Via del Corso and crossed the Piazza di Trevi. She followed Philip up his staircase and stopped at his front door.
“I thought we were having dinner.” Amelia frowned. “I haven’t eaten since a slice of pizza Napolitano at lunch.”
“We are having dinner.” Philip opened the door. “Authentic Italian cuisine prepared by a personal chef.”
Amelia walked inside and saw glass vases filled with yellow and white tulips. The round table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and set with gold inlaid china. There was a bottle of red wine and two crystal wineglasses.
“Where did this all come from?” Amelia gasped, admiring the flickering candles and silver tray of prosciutto and Edam cheese and smoked salmon.
“The countess lent Max the china and Signora Griselda provided the flowers; her cousin has a flower stall at the Campo de Fiori,” Philip replied, walking to the counter.
Amelia sat on a wooden chair and waited while Philip filled their plates. There was stuffed chicken breast and risotto with black truffles. There was a platter of heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella with olive oil and basil and oregano.
“Signora Griselda gave me the recipe for risotto.” Philip buttered a warm baguette. “She thinks not knowing how to cook is a greater sin than missing church on Sunday.”
Amelia sipped her wine and took a deep breath. It was the perfect time to tell him the truth, while they were flushed from the private tour of the Vatican and the romantic setting and the delicious food.
She put down her glass and smoothed her hair. She looked at Philip and her eyes were huge.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she began. Suddenly Philip knocked over her wineglass and red wine spilled on her skirt. She jumped up and dabbed it with a napkin.
“I’m such a klutz,” he groaned. “If you go into the bathroom I’ll find you something to wear.”
“I’m fine,” Amelia replied, gazing doubtfully at the red stain spreading over ivory silk.
“You don’t want to ruin your dress.” Philip frowned. “If you take it off, I’ll try to remove the stain.”
Amelia walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She glanced at her crumpled dress and her eyes filled with tears. Everything had been so lovely and now the mood was broken.
“You can wear this.” Philip handed her a dress shirt and a pair of socks.
Amelia gave him the ruined dress and put on a white collared shirt. She slipped on yellow tube socks and entered the living room.
“I feel terrible.” Philip hung the dress on the balcony and walked to the table. “I invited you to a romantic dinner and ruined your clothes.”
“Don’t worry about the dress.” Amelia shrugged. “It was an accident.”
“Luckily this restaurant doesn’t have a dress code.” Philip kissed her softly on the mouth. He put his hand under her shirt and caressed her breasts. “Because you look sexy in that shirt.”
Amelia felt his mouth on hers and tasted tomato and olive oil and basil. She inhaled his citrus cologne and rubbed her palms against his chest.
He slipped his hand under her cotton panties and touched the wet spot between her legs. He kissed her on the mouth, digging his fingers deep inside her. She felt the warm liquid fill her up and bit her lip. She grabbed his shoulders, letting her body rise and tip and shudder.
She pulled him to the narrow bed and lay down on the mattress. She opened her legs and drew him on top of her. She wrapped her arms around his back, urging him to go faster. He pushed harder until they came together in one long, dizzying thrust.
Philip lay on his back and draped his arm around her waist. He gazed at the plaster ceiling and whispered.
“It may not be the Sistine Chapel, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be in Rome.”
Philip stood on the side of the Piazza del Popolo and squinted in the mid-morning sun. He pictured Amelia’s smooth breasts and slender hips and wished he were lying next to her in bed. He imagined her sitting at his dining room table, eating muesli and cut berries.
He thought about the articles safely stored on his computer. He described their first meeting at the taxi stand and Amelia falling asleep against his shoulder. He wrote about fishing her out of the Trevi fountain and making her eggs and bacon. He described the concert at Hadrian’s Villa and the restaurant in Trastevere. He wrote about picnics and romantic dinners and their night in Portofino.
Every time he wrote about her brown eyes and wide smile he felt his throat close up. He sat back in his chair and tapped his pencil on the desk. He could go to her and admit he knew she was Amelia Tate. He would tell her the whole story, how he hated lying to her but was desperate to pay back his father. He would say he should never have started it and hoped she would forgive him.
But he realized he knew so little about her. Actresses had on-set romances all the time. Perhaps he was nothing more than a distraction after she broke up with her boyfriend.
* * *
“Where were you last night?” Philip approached a wrought iron table in front of Canova. Max wore a creased yellow shirt and blue jeans. His blond hair touched his collar and he had faint stubble on his chin. “You were supposed to leave the diamond ring in my apartment. I was going to propose but Amelia said she had something to tell me. I had to distract her by spilling red wine on her dress.”
“The count forgot his heart medication and came back from Umbria early.” Max poured sugar into black coffee. “He found Mirabella and me in the kitchen making chocolate panna cotta.”
“That doesn’t sound incriminating.” Philip sat in a chair and stretched his legs in front of him. He spread strawberry jam on a warm scone and took a large bite.
“She wasn’t wearing anything but an apron,” Max replied. “She made me wait in the Alfa Romeo, I felt like Bonnie and Clyde. Finally she hopped in the passenger seat and we tore out the gates. The count is a terrible driver, I lost him on the Via della Conciliazione.”
“Where is the countess now?” Philip asked.
“Asleep in my bed.” Max shrugged. “She said he’d calm down after he takes his heart medicine.”
“The countess slept at your place?” Philip raised his eyebrow, picturing Max’s small apartment with the glossy photos of beautiful women.
“I told her the photos were all for work.” Max waved his hand. “I liked having her sleep over. We played strip scrabble, I don’t care what decade she’s in, she has the finest breasts in Italy. This morning we lay in bed and cuddled.”
“Soon she’ll be packing your lunchbox with a turkey sandwich and an apple and a chocolate chip cookie.” Philip grinned.
“I did manage to get this for you.” Max reached into his pocket and drew out a black velvet box. He opened it and revealed a large oval diamond flanked by two glittering sapphires.
“It’s perfect.” Philip sucked in his breath. “Where did you get it?”
“Mirabella’s personal jeweler at Bulgari lent it to me,” Max sipped his coffee. “It’s a two-carat Griffe diamond on a platinum band. I only have it for forty-eight hours, you have to propose by tomorrow night.”
“I left before she woke up. If I plan another romantic dinner she’ll tell me who she is before we finish the soup.” Philip felt a knot in his stomach. “She’s like a deer caught in the headlights, she doesn’t know which way to turn. Maybe I shouldn’t go through with it, I don’t want to hurt her. I’ll tell Adam I proposed and she turned me down.”
“Are you crazy? You’re steps from the finish line!” Max exclaimed. “The countess received an invitation to the masquerade ball at the Palazzo Colonna. The Palazzo Colonna has been in the same family for nine hundred years and it is the most spectacular private residence in Rome.” Max tapped his fingers on the porcelain cup. “Invite Amelia and tell her to meet you there. Ask her to dance and propose before she realizes who you are.”
“Why isn’t the countess going?” Philip asked.
“The count changed the locks and she doesn’t have anything to wear.” Max shrugged. “We’d prefer a quiet evening at home, we’re going to make the lemon-honey semifreddo we learned at cooking school.”
“How will I know Amelia if she is wearing a mask?” Philip frowned.
“I’ll tail her from the Hassler,” Max replied. “I’ll text you and tell you what she’s wearing.”
Philip watched the sun glint on the diamond ring. He pictured gliding across the marble dance floor with his arm around Amelia’s waist. He imagined her soft lips and smooth skin and floral scent.
“All right, I’ll do it.” Philip slipped the ring in his pocket. He felt the warm sun on his cheeks and his shoulders relaxed. “You’re good at this, you should have been a spy.”
“If I don’t get a cut of that twenty thousand I may need to find a new career.” Max drained his coffee cup. “You can’t support two people on a photographer’s salary.”