Breathing Room

he sees one.

He locked his eyes with hers and deliberately touched the corner of his mouth with his knuckle. Something warm unfolded inside her, like a layer of puff pastry plumping in an oven. She watched, fascinated, as his knuckle drifted toward the slight indentation in his bottom lip. The gesture was so blatantly sexual she should have been offended. Instead, she took another sip and waited to see what he’d do next.

He rose, picked up his glass, and walked slowly toward her. The two Italian women at the next table stopped their conversation to watch. One uncrossed her legs. The other shifted in her chair. They were young and beautiful, but this fallen Renaissance angel zeroed in on her.

“Signora?” He gestured toward the chair across from her. “Posso farti compagnia?”

She felt herself nod, even as her brain ordered her to turn him away. He slid into the chair, as seductive as a black satin sheet.

Up close he was no less devastating, but his eyes were a little bloodshot, and the stubble on his jaw seemed more a product of fatigue than a fashion statement. Perversely, his ragged edges intensified his sexuality.

She was only mildly startled to hear herself address him in French. “Je ne parle pas l’italien, monsieur.”

Whoa… One part of her brain ordered her to get up and walk away right now. The other part told her not to be in such a hurry. She did a quick survey to see if anything obvious would give her away as an American, but Europe was filled with blondes, including ones like her who’d had light streaks added to perk up their spirits. She was dressed in black, as he was-slim trousers and a cropped, sleeveless cotton sweater with a funnel neck. Her uncomfortable shoes were Italian. The only jewelry she wore was a thin gold bangle with the single word BREATHE inscribed inside, to remind her to stay centered. She hadn’t eaten, so he couldn’t have witnessed that telling transfer of fork from left hand to right that Americans made when they cut their meat.

What does it matter? Why are you doing this?

Because the world as she knew it had collapsed around her. Because Michael didn’t love her, and she’d had too much wine, and she was tired of being frightened, and she wanted to feel like a woman instead of a failed institution.

“E un peccato.” He shrugged in that wonderful Italian way. “Non parlo francesca.”

“Parlez-vous anglais?”

He shook his head and brushed his chest. “Mi chiamo Dante.”

His name was Dante. How appropriate in this city that had once been the home of the poet Dante Alighieri.

She tapped her own chest. “Je suis… Annette.”

“Annette. Molta bella.” He lifted his glass in a sexy, silent toast.

Dante… The name warmed her belly like hot syrup, and the night air turned to musk.

His hand touched hers. She gazed down at it but didn’t draw away. Instead, she took another sip of wine.

He began toying with the tips of her fingers, letting her know this was more than a casual flirtation. This was a seduction, and the fact that it was calculated bothered her for only a moment. She was too demoralized for subtlety.

“Hold your body precious,” the Spiritual Dedication Cornerstone advised. “You’re a treasure, God’s greatest creation…” She absolutely believed that, but Michael had bruised her soul, and this fallen angel named Dante promised a dark kind of redemption, so she smiled at him and didn’t move her hand away.

He leaned farther back in his chair, at ease with his body in a way few men were. She envied his physical arrogance.

Together they watched the American students grow more boisterous. He ordered a fourth glass of wine for her. She shocked herself by flirting a little with her eyes. See, Michael, I know how to do this. And do you know why? Because I’m a lot more sexual than you think I am.

She was glad the language barrier made conversation impossible. Her life had been filled with words: lectures, books, interviews. PBS played her videos whenever they had a fund drive. She’d talked, talked, talked. And look what it had gotten her.

His finger slipped beneath her hand and stroked the cradle of her palm in a gesture that was purely carnal. Savonarola, that fifteenth-century enemy of everything sensual, had been burned at the stake in this very piazza. Would she burn?

She was burning now, and her head was spinning. Still, she wasn’t so drunk that she didn’t notice that his smile never made it to his eyes. He’d done this a hundred times before. This was about sex, not sincerity.

That’s when it struck her. He was a gigolo.

She started to snatch away her hand. But why? This simply spelled everything out in black and white, something she usually appreciated. She lifted her wineglass to her lips with her free hand. She’d come to Italy to reinvent her life, but how could she do that without erasing the ugly tape of Michael’s accusation that kept playing in her head? The tape that made her feel shriveled and lacking. She fought back her despair.

Maybe Michael was responsible for their sexual problems. Hadn’t Dante the gigolo shown her more about lust in a few minutes than Michael had shown her in four years? Maybe a pro could accomplish what an amateur hadn’t been able to. At least a pro could be trusted to push the proper buttons.

The fact that she was even thinking about this should shock her, but the past six months had numbed her to shock. As a psychologist, she knew for certain that no one created a new life by ignoring old problems. They simply came back to bite again.

She knew she shouldn’t make a decision about something this important when she wasn’t sober. On the other hand, if she were sober, she’d never consider it, and that suddenly seemed like the worst mistake she could make. What better use could she find for the little money she had left than to put the past to rest so she could move ahead? This was the missing piece of her plan to reinvent herself.

Solitude, Rest, Contemplation, and Sexual Healing-four steps all leading to a fifth, Action. And all, more or less, in keeping with the Four Cornerstones.

He took his time finishing his wine, stroking her palm, sliding his finger beneath her gold bangle and over the pulse at her wrist. Abruptly he grew bored with the game and flung a handful of bills on the table. He rose and slowly extended his hand.

Now was the time to decide. All she had to do was keep her hand on the table and shake her head. A dozen other women sat within breathing distance, and he wouldn’t make a fuss.

“Sex will not fix what’s broken inside you,” Dr. Isabel said when she lectured. “Sex without a deep and abiding love will only leave you feeling sad and small. So fix yourself first. Fix yourself! Then you can think about sex. Because if you don’t-if you try to use sex to hide your addictions, to hurt the people who’ve abused you, to heal your insecurities so you can feel whole-you’ll only make what’s broken inside you hurt that much worse…”

But Dr. Favor was a bankrupt failure, and the blonde in the Florentine cafe didn’t have to listen to her. Isabel rose and took his hand.

Her knees felt wobbly from the wine as he led her out of the piazza into the narrow streets. She wondered how much a gigolo charged, and hoped she had enough. If not, she’d use her overextended credit card. They walked in the direction of the river. Once again she experienced that nagging sense of familiarity. Which of the Old Masters had captured his face? But her brain was too fuzzy to remember.

He pointed to a Medici shield on the side of a building, then gestured toward a tiny courtyard where white flowers grew around a fountain. Tour guide and gigolo in one erotic package. The universe provided. And tonight it had provided the missing link in her plan to create a new life.

She didn’t like men towering over her, and he was a head taller than she, but he’d be horizontal soon, so that wouldn’t be a problem. She suppressed a flicker of panic. He could be married, but he barely seemed civilized, let alone domesticated. He could be a mass murderer, but despite the Mafia, Italian criminals tended to prefer theft to slaughter.