Unwrapped (14 page)

“Still, we get to see it all,” Karla points out,
“I mean, it’s not like we’ll have time to go look at all this stuff
once rehearsals get going, they’ve taken it easy on us this
week!”

She heads inside with the others, but I linger
in the square, turning my face up to the sun. A chatter of foreign
accents washes over me, and I feel strangely adrift. Our first day
off since we arrived, and I haven’t heard a single Italian accent:
every major tourist site is crammed with sightseers, just like
us.

“Excuse me, would you mind taking our photo?” an
American couple asks, holding out their camera to me.

“Sure.” I line up the viewfinder to catch the
church behind them. “There you go.”

“Thanks, honey. Isn’t it incredible?” she says,
beaming. “So Italian!”

I smile and nod, but I can’t help but feel a
pang of regret. We’ve been shuffled on and off the bus so fast on
Mademoiselle’s whistle-stop tour, I haven’t had a chance to catch
my breath and just
experience
the city. The
statues and monuments are beautiful, sure, but part of me itches to
get away from the crowds for a moment and experience the real
Rome.

I’m walking to join the others inside the great
cathedral when I hear a faint burst of music, drifting down from
one of the side streets.

I pause. The sound is faint, but I can make out
a deep bass beat, and some classical strings playing. The odd blend
of old and new styles catches me by surprise, a wild, staccato
rhythm, and I find myself wandering closer before I even realize
where my feet are taking me. I glance back to my group, but they’re
already inside, out of sight. We just arrived, I reason with
myself. I’ve got a little time. As long as I make it back before
the bus leaves, nobody will even notice I’m gone.

Besides
, a rebellious
voice adds.
Karla was right: you’re not on some
school trip. You’re nineteen, almost an adult. Break the rules for
once in your life.

Carefully checking the name of the street,
carved up on a stone placard, I duck down the narrow, winding
passageway and head in the direction of the music. It gets louder
as I follow the cobblestone street, until I emerge in another
beautiful, old
piazza
square. This one is
long, oblong-shaped, edged with quaint curbside cafes and flowers
trailing from the window boxes above. It’s so charming, like a
picture postcard come to life, bustling with a hum of activity
under the cloudless autumn skies. The music is louder here, and I
see a crowd of people circled around something, so I make my way
over, and edge my way through the crowd to see what’s going on.

They’re dancing.

It’s a group of street performers, putting on a
show. They’ve marked out an area in the midst of the crowd, rigged
speakers from someone’s iPod, and now, as I watch, three guys
finish a hip-hop style routine, turning backflips to the applause
of the crowd.

I laugh, surprised. It seems weird, watching
them dance such modern steps in the shadow of a half-century-old
classical fountain, but I can’t help being swept up in their
enthusiasm. They’re good, too; I’m no expert on this kind of dance,
but I can see the crisp movements in their routine, how the flashy
tricks are grounded in real technique and skill. Choreography like
this could be in a music video, or some movie, not just out here on
the street busking for a few euros.

The song ends and I burst into applause,
cheering along with the rest of the crowd. The three guys take a
bow, and then clear the makeshift dance floor for the next routine.
I check my watch, wondering if I have time to stay for another
dance. Maybe I should be getting back …

Then a new burst of music sounds, pulsating and
wild, and suddenly, my thoughts fade clear away, blotted out as
completely as the sun during an eclipse.

I see
him
.

Standing, poised, waiting for his intro, his
body proud and arched, arms raised. There’s a girl waiting beside
him, his partner, but I only have eyes for him.

God, he’s gorgeous. Dark curly hair, tanned
skin, and piercing blue eyes that seem to shimmer against the gold
of his skin. He’s dressed in a starched white shirt and tuxedo
pants that fit him like a glove. The breath is sucked from my
lungs, and I feel a thrill ripple through me, a sensation I’ve
never known before: anticipation, as if I know something important
is about to happen. Something life-changing.

And then he starts to dance.

Dear Lord …

I swear, time stops as I watch him move. It’s
like nothing I’ve ever seen: part Latin ballroom, part street, part
modern contemporary. And all of it totally devastating.

I stare, awestruck, as he plays out a wicked
game with his partner: bringing her in, sending her away, lifting
her as effortlessly as if she was made of air. His movements are
bold, dominating. There’s no cheap grinding, or tacky thrusts, but
somehow, every step oozes sensuality, such an intimate connection
between the dancers that I feel myself start to blush.

It’s mesmerizing, out of this world, and I’m
completely lost to it, caught up in the story of love and betrayal
they’re telling with their bodies until at last, he whirls her out
one more time and then pulls her back; dipping her so low her hair
grazes the ground.

They freeze there, holding the pose. There’s
silence, so pure you could hear a pin drop, and in that moment, he
lifts his head and looks out across the square.

Our eyes lock.

It’s only a split second, those piercing blue
eyes on mine, but I feel the moment stretch for an eternity. His
gaze crashes through me, setting every nerve and sense alight, as
if I’m touchpaper and he’s a molten spark, dancing through my
bloodstream.

And then the thunder of applause breaks the
spell, and I realize I’m digging my nails into my palms, gasping
for breath.

Who is this man?

He turns away, taking his partner’s hand and
dipping low in a bow. The girl curtseys with him, and I let myself
study her for the first time. She’s beautiful, with sweeping dark
hair, and red lipstick, dressed in a flowing skirt and
peasant-style blouse. I wonder if they’re together.

Of course they’re together, I tell myself
immediately. The chemistry between them practically ignited the
square. I feel something ripple through me, envy, and the
unfamiliar stirrings of desire. What it would be like to dance like
that, to
know
a man like that …

The truth is, when it comes to guys, I’m
painfully inexperienced. Ballet was always the number one priority
in my life; I never went to parties, or out on dates, never even
kissed a boy until I was seventeen, an awkward fumble backstage
after rehearsal with a male dancer who was cut from the company the
very next week. I’ve always watched girls like Karla with envy, who
somehow manage to have a social life, and still put their ballet
first. But Mom was clear: the sacrifices I make now are worth it.
There’ll be plenty of time for guys later. Besides, why would I
want to settle for ordinary teenage fun, when I could be great
instead?

But watching this man and his partner, the
passion between them, the naked sexuality on show, I can see:
there’s nothing ordinary about it.

Everything about him is extraordinary.

I slowly fade back to reality and realize the
crowd is dispersing. Some of the dancers are making the rounds,
collecting coins in upturned hats, so I find a ten-Euro note and
press it into the hat as it passes me by: it’s a lot, but they
deserve it.

I’m tucking my wallet back into my purse when I
hear the sound of church bells ring out across the square. I check
my watch. Damn! I’ve been here twenty minutes or more. Everyone
will be ready to go—if they haven’t left already! I turn to leave
when suddenly someone jostles against me hard. I nearly lose my
balance, and as I struggle to recover, I feel a sharp tug on my
purse strap. Then it’s gone.

“Wait!” I yell, looking wildly around. There, I
see him: a guy in a baseball cap, sprinting away through the crowd
clutching my purse. “My bag!” I cry. “He stole my purse!”

Dread crashes through me. Everything is in that
purse: my money, credit cards, passport. Oh God, my passport!

I start after him, trying to duck through the
throngs of people, but he’s racing away from me too fast. “Thief!”
I cry angrily, “Stop, thief!”

Then there’s a flash of motion rushing past me:
someone else racing through the crowd. He easily weaves across the
square, gaining fast. As the thief reaches the edge of the piazza,
his new pursuer tackles him, bringing him crashing to the
ground.

I catch up with them, breathless, just as my
savior drags the guy over and snatches my bag back.

“I believe this is yours.” The voice is low,
edged with an Italian accent. Then he turns, and I find a pair of
familiar devastating blue eyes just inches away from mine.

It’s him.

The dancer from before, the man who took my
breath away. He’s the one who came to my rescue, chasing the thief
through the square.

I take the purse back, clutching it to my chest,
wordless. Up close I can see he’s in his early twenties, maybe,
with a hint of sexy dark stubble on the line of his jaw; golden
tanned skin the color of pale honey; his eyes the shade of
sapphires and spring skies, the clearest ocean waves.

They’re eyes I could happily drown in.

I’m still reeling from his sudden nearness when
the man turns back to the thief. “What do you wish to do with him?
I can call the
carabinieri
. Police.”

I look down. The thief’s cap has fallen off in
the tussle, revealing his face. I move closer. It’s just a boy,
fifteen at most, cringing now on the ground.

“No, it’s OK.” I’m suddenly hit with sympathy.
The poor kid looks scared to death, waiting for his fate. “As long
as he doesn’t do it again.”

The man drags the kid to his feet, speaking to
him in a stream of harsh Italian. The kid stutters and nods
emphatically. Then he’s released, and scurries away into the
crowd.

“My apologies,” my rescuer turns back to me.
“Many pickpockets use the show as a cover to steal, when attention
is elsewhere.”

“I know why,” I find myself babbling. “You were
amazing … I’m a dancer too, not like you, I mean, but I’ve never
seen anything like it. What was it?”

Stop it, Annalise!
I
order.
Stop sounding like an idiot!

The man’s beautiful lips curl with amusement.
“All things. Some flamenco, tango, modern … I see where the music
takes me.”

I blink, dazed at the sight of his smile. Dear
God, this man could stop time with just one look. “Well, thank
you,” I say uselessly. “For saving me. I mean, my purse. I don’t
know what I would have done without you. And it.”

Stop now!

I press my lips together, so I can’t say another
word and sound even more empty-headed than I already do.

“Annalise!”

I hear the call as if from far away, but I’m so
caught up in this strange encounter, I don’t register my name until
I feel a sharp tug on my arm. It’s Karla, looking panicked. “Where
the hell have you been?” she demands. “We’re all on the bus, and
Mademoiselle is threatening to—Well,
hello
…” She notices the man with me, and suddenly, her voice
changes.

“Someone grabbed my purse,” I explain hurriedly.
“This guy helped get it back.”

“Raphael.” He introduces himself, holding out a
hand to shake Karla’s. Then he turns to me. “A pleasure to meet
you.”

“Hi,” I breathe, taking his hand. The touch is
hot, but I feel a shiver down my spine. “I’m Annalise. Thank you,
again.”

Raphael holds my hand a beat longer, then
releases it, his index finger grazing down the length of my palm in
a gesture so soft, I feel a shudder follow the path of his
touch.

“I hate to break up the party,” Karla coughs,
looking amused. “But seriously, Mademoiselle is about to lose her
shit.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, reality finally piercing my
haze. “We have to go!”

I take a step backwards, but Raphael captures my
hand again. “Wait.” He holds me in place, reaching into the leather
satchel he has slung across his shoulder. “There is a party
tomorrow night, in the Trastevere district. Come.”

He presses a flyer into my palm, his bright eyes
lingering on mine. I feel his request ripple through me,
everywhere.

“Anna!” Karla tugs on my other hand.

“OK,” I breathe, clutching the flyer.
“Maybe.”

Karla drags me away before I can say another
word. I glance back through the crowd and see Raphael still
standing there, watching us leave.

Raphael.

I feel his eyes on me, long after I turn away
and hurry after Karla to face Mademoiselle’s wrath. That night,
when I fall asleep, I dream only of him: dancing alone in a moonlit
square, his body a blur of perfect motion, his eyes blazing pure as
the heavens.

Raphael. The face of a saint, the body of a
sinner.

And oh, how I long to see him again.

WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT – OUT NOW!