I was here. In Italy. A place I hadn’t visited in more than ten years—not because I couldn’t have or didn’t want to, but because I was terrified of the ghosts I might confront. For more than a decade I had kept the memories of this country at bay, blindly trying to forge ahead with the lies that were supposed to protect my daughter and me, but instead they ended up nearly strangling us.
Now I was cutting us free—but was the truth just as dangerous? Other shadows were cast by the sunlight shining through the bougainvillea. They hid in the lilt of the language, in the cracks of the limestone facades.
They were even evident in the Roman nose and burnished skin of the man sitting in front of me.
Every desire I had ever felt in my life was here. There was no running away now.
So yes, I was a bit overwhelmed.
“I’m all right,” I said instead, picking up the cream-filled pastry and taking a generous bite.
I was going to gain ten pounds at the rate I’d been indulging, but found I didn’t really care. Not when Matthew watched me lick a stray bit of the orange-flavored cream from my lip like it was the most fascinating thing he ever saw.
The Ferrari purred on our way up the boot, and might have made for good conversation if we had had any. Instead, we just kept alternately leering at each other and daydreaming, like we were each waiting for the other to make the first move. After an hour of watching his forearms flex every time he gripped the steering wheel, I was having a hard time not asking him to pull over so I could jump into his lap like a crazed teenager. What was the matter with me? I was still so angry at him.
Wasn’t I?
Matthew cleared his throat as a road sign informed us we were entering Tuscany.
“So,” he said a bit awkwardly. “Did you get to see much more of the area when you were in school here?”
I looked up from where I had been staring nakedly at his Adam’s apple. Why was the muscle on that part of his neck so bloody sexy?
“What? Oh, um, a little. Mostly Rome, Venice, and a few of the other big tourist hubs. I went to Milan for the couture shows and fittings, but otherwise, I only saw a little outside Florence and a few school-organized tours. Giuseppe took me to Siena once—it’s close to the farm. That was very pretty.”
Matthew glowered at the mention of Giuseppe. “Well, maybe we don’t have to go to that town this time.”
“What about you?” I prodded, ignoring his obvious jealousy. “Do you know the area well? You were stationed in Sicily, weren’t you?”
He nodded. “I was, yeah. But Sicily is a bit different than the rest of Italy. I tried to explore whenever I had leave. Went to Naples to visit family on weekends, some other parts of the country on longer liberty. I came up here once to see the Cinque Terre after a few people told me it was one of the prettiest places in Italy.”
“And is it?” I asked. “I never went there, but I heard nice things too.”
Matthew smiled. My heart gave an extra thump.
“It is. There are no cars allowed into the towns, you know, because they’re all carved into the cliffs. No big chains or resorts allowed either—almost everything is local. You have to either hike down or take the train in, which runs through these tunnels. And then you can hike between the five towns. Or pick your favorite and just stay there.”
“Which is yours?” I wondered. I loved hearing him talk like this about things he so clearly enjoyed.
“Well, everyone likes Vernazza because of the church and the castle,” he said. “And the pretty photo-ops. It is nice, the way it curls around this little marina. Some people vote for Monterosso because it has the best beach and an actual resort. But my favorite was the fifth town, Riomaggiore. It’s quieter than the others. When I went, I stayed in this hostel that was actually owned by a woman from the Bronx, if you can believe that. Her father was from Riomaggiore, and she decided to move back and take over his business when he died.”
I couldn’t help but smile with him at the recollection. Everywhere he went, Matthew seemed to find a connection with someone. “That sounds like a nice inheritance.”
“Bit of work, but yeah. It was nice, so far as hostels go.” He side-eyed me. “Have you actually stayed in a hostel, duchess? Packed in with all the other poor students?”
I reddened, unsure exactly why. “No,” I admitted. “I haven’t.”
“Eh, you’re not missing much. Maybe smashing into a room with ten other eighteen-year-olds is fun when you’re young and stupid, but it gets old fast when you’re a twenty-six-year-old officer and tired of barracks. At this one, though, I only had to share a room with two other guys. And it had a really nice rooftop deck, just a few houses up from the sea. Made for a good place to eat. Alone.”
“What did you have?” I genuinely wanted to know. Matthew’s face lit up when he described food. And I wanted him to keep talking.
“Nothing fancy. I didn’t have much money, so I went across the street to the little deli. Picked up a half a loaf of bread, a carafe of wine, a couple slices of prosciutto, and a little container of the pesto they made fresh every day. They’re famous for it in Liguria, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” I murmured, waiting for him to continue. He really was a good storyteller.
“I took it back to the hostel, climbed the five flights of rickety stairs up to the roof. And on the little deck that was maybe ten by ten square feet, I ate my pesto and bread and prosciutto and wine and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean.” His
