Rome in Love (6 page)

*   *   *

Amelia took the elevator to the lobby and crossed the marble floor to the gift shop. It was early evening and the space was filled with men in dark silk suits and women in glittering cocktail dresses and narrow stilettos. Amelia glanced at the striped velvet sofas and mirrored walls and ornate ceilings and caught her breath. Even the fragrance from the huge vases of yellow roses was intoxicating.

She purchased
Vanity Fair
and
Variety
and a packet of Life Savers. She was tired from spending all morning on the set and the afternoon at the Villa Borghese. She wanted to curl up in bed with a room service tray of insalata mista and gnocchi pomodoro and tiramisu.

She walked toward the elevator and saw a man standing at the reception desk. He had dark curly hair and wore a blue blazer with beige slacks. He had a leather backpack slung over his shoulder and clutched a bouquet of pink roses.

Amelia froze, her heart hammering in her chest. Whit couldn’t possibly be here. He wasn’t the kind of person who jumped on a plane and flew over the Atlantic to surprise her. She ran toward the desk and tripped on the Oriental rug. Her package went flying and her magazines spilled on the floor.

She scrambled to collect the magazines and felt a hand on her arm. She looked up and saw Whit’s blue eyes and white smile.

“What are you doing here?” she stammered.

Whit found her hair clip and fastened it in her hair. He gathered the magazines and slipped them in his backpack. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “I came to take you to dinner.”

*   *   *

“You didn’t fly to Rome to take me to dinner,” Amelia said, standing on the balcony of the Villa Medici Suite.

Whit stood beside her, gazing at the outdoor bar and marble fireplace. The balcony had a polished travertine floor and a glass dining room table and leather chairs. Music played on hidden speakers and twinkling lights bathed the space in a yellow glow.

“Evan has been trying to hire Alex Tomaselli, the top designer at Maserati, for months.” Whit turned his eyes to the skyline. “I volunteered to fly over and close the deal.”

“That was noble of you.” Amelia giggled, breathing in his Hugo Boss cologne.

“I have heard Rome has delicious food,” Whit mused, pulling her toward him. “Apparently the pizza is better than in America.”

“I was going to order room service,” Amelia murmured, pressing herself against his chest.

“I’d like to take you somewhere where we can talk.” Whit’s eyes suddenly clouded over. “Somewhere quiet where we can eat pasta and drink a bottle of Italian wine.”

“That sounds lovely.” Amelia felt a pinprick of uneasiness. She turned and gazed at the bright lights of the Colosseum and the wide dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

“The restaurants in Rome stay open late,” Whit continued. “Most people don’t eat dinner until ten
P.M
.”

“Is that true?” Amelia whispered, standing on tiptoes. She kissed Whit on the mouth, running her palm over his shirt.

“That gives us plenty of time to take a nap.” Whit kissed her harder. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the master bedroom. He took off his blazer and folded it over a velvet chair. He turned to Amelia and unzipped her linen dress.

“Suddenly I don’t feel tired.” Amelia fumbled with his belt and unzipped his slacks. She slipped off her sandals and turned down the cotton sheets.

Amelia wrapped her arms around him, pulling him on top of her. She wanted to feel his slick thighs against hers, his mouth biting her lips, his hands in her hair. She wanted him to carry her with him, fill her up, take her over the edge.

Whit paused and looked in her eyes. He stroked her hair and kissed her on the mouth. He opened her legs and pushed inside her. Amelia felt the delicious sensation of letting go, of not thinking of anything except the warmth between her legs. She felt Whit pick up speed, pushing harder until they came together in one long, dizzying thrust.

“I’m still not tired,” she whispered, tucking herself against his chest. “But I’m suddenly starving.”

chapter five

Amelia took Whit’s hand and skipped along the cobblestones. She wore a red silk dress and gold sandals. Her hair was fastened with a gold clip and she wore Whit’s diamond teardrop earrings.

They had slipped out the revolving doors of the Hassler and run down the Spanish Steps. Now they strode down an alley and approached a yellow building with marble columns. They opened the iron gate and descended the steps to a green door.

“Where are we?” Amelia asked, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

“I asked the concierge to recommend the most intimate restaurant in Rome and they suggested Il Gabriello.” Whit stood in the stone entry. “It’s in the basement of a seventeenth-century palazzo. The staff is discreet and they serve the best ricotta ravioli and truffled omelets in the city.”

Amelia saw a small room with brick arches and a low ceiling. Square tables were set with white tablecloths and sterling silverware. There was a floor-to-ceiling wine rack and a wall filled with murals of heirloom tomatoes and green peppers and purple eggplant.

They sat at a table in the back and ate fresh herb bread dipped in olive oil. The waiter brought prosciutto de Parma and veal scallops cooked in white wine. They shared a plate of bresaola and drank glasses of Chianti.

They talked about her suite at the Hassler and Sheldon and the movie set. Amelia was about to mention the first night’s gala but suddenly bit her lip. She didn’t want to spoil the evening by talking about escaping from a room full of journalists.

“We met with Sequoia Capital yesterday,” Whit said, pushing back his plate. “They want to invest thirty million dollars.”

“That’s wonderful,” Amelia exclaimed. Her cheeks were flushed from the red wine and she felt warm and happy.

“We’ll be able to hire more staff and I’ll have some time off,” Whit continued. “We can buy a condo in Pacific Heights, take cooking classes, go to Hawaii.”

Amelia ate a bite of veal and smiled. “I’ll buy a swimsuit and a pair of sexy Italian sandals.”

Whit put his fork down and fiddled with his napkin. He furrowed his brow and his eyes were suddenly dark.

“I’m serious,” he said slowly. “I want you to quit acting and move to San Francisco.”

“I can’t quit now.” Amelia frowned. “I’m at the height of my career, everything is in front of me.”

“I don’t want to come home to a stale milk carton and an empty bed. I don’t want to fold my clothes alone at the Laundromat and spend my nights staring at a computer screen. And I don’t want to walk down the street with photographers sticking a camera in my face and asking whether we’re breaking up or getting married.”

“I’m the flavor of the month,” Amelia murmured. “The attention will die down after
Roman Holiday
.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve really tried.” Whit sighed, slumping in his chair. “I can’t do a long-distance relationship and I can’t live with the paparazzi breathing down my neck.”

“What are you saying?” Amelia felt a shiver run down her spine.

“I think we should break up,” Whit said slowly.

Amelia’s cheeks flushed and she felt anger well up inside her. She remembered Whit’s mouth on her breasts, his thighs between her legs. She remembered his slick chest and damp hair and warm breath.

“Why did you come all the way to Rome to tell me?” she demanded. “Why did you buy roses and red wine and a delicious dinner?”

“I thought if we got more funding you’d give up acting.” Whit looked at his plate. “I thought if we had everything we want, you’d rather be together than make movies.”

Amelia glanced at Whit’s pale cheeks and white lips and her stomach turned over. She tried to think of something to say but the words stuck in her mouth.

“I’m going to go.” Whit threw a wad of euros on the table and pushed back his chair.

“You can’t just walk out on four years of being together.” Amelia followed him up the stone steps. She felt the cool air on her cheeks and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“I’m not the one walking out.” Whit turned to her. “You chose acting over us.”

Amelia gazed at his dark hair and blue eyes and felt her heart hammer in her chest. She could demand he give up his company and move to Los Angeles, but what would be the point? They were like a bull and a matador circling in the ring.

“I’ll walk you back to the Hassler,” Whit suggested.

“You go.” Amelia shook her head. “I’m going to stay here.”

“It’s almost midnight.” Whit frowned. “You shouldn’t be out alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” Amelia mumbled.

She watched Whit cross the piazza and climb the Spanish Steps. She walked slowly along the cobblestones, listening to her heels click on the pavement. She reached the bottom of the steps and peered up into the dark. Whit was gone; all she saw was a young couple kissing and a man selling roses.

*   *   *

Amelia found an outdoor café in the Piazza di Venezia and ordered a glass of Barolo. She pictured Whit disappearing across the piazza and her stomach heaved. She ordered another glass of wine and tried to stop the feeling of losing everything important to her.

She sat next to an English couple who insisted on buying her a glass of champagne. She listened to them praise her acting, a smile plastered to her face. She drained her glass, scribbled her autograph on a napkin, and stumbled into the street.

Amelia entered the Piazza di Trevi and gazed up at the Trevi Fountain. She saw the stone Poli Palace and the marble figure of Neptune. She studied the statues of Abundance and Health and the chariot led by two horses. She climbed onto the ledge to get a closer look and lost her footing. She tumbled into the fountain, splashing in the cold water. She felt strong hands lift her up and deposit her on the pavement.

“It’s you,” a male voice said.

Amelia tried to stop shivering. Her hair was plastered to her head and her silk dress clung to her body. She looked up and saw a man with dark brown hair and an angular nose.

“I recognize you,” she said numbly. “You’re the man who let me share his cab.”

“You seem to have an affinity with water.” Philip frowned. “What were you doing on the ledge?”

“I wanted to see the animals.” Amelia pointed to the fountain. “I read in the guidebook that Bracci carved squirrels and birds. It’s hard to see in the dark, I was trying to get closer.”

“You did a great job, you’re soaking wet.”

“I’ll dry off.” Amelia wrapped her arms around her chest. “It’s a beautiful night. Do you see how many stars are in the sky? I’ve never seen so many stars. They’re like a painting by Michelangelo.”

Philip looked at her carefully, leaning close to smell her breath. “You’re drunk.”

Amelia thought about that and broke into a fit of giggles. “I am actually, I haven’t been this drunk in ages. I was drinking a glass of wine when this lovely English couple insisted on buying me champagne to thank me for my hard work. It would have been rude to refuse.”

“You must be an excellent maid if guests buy you champagne.” Philip stuck his hands in his pockets. “You’re going to catch cold. Let me take you home.”

“I don’t want to go home, I want to keep exploring.” Amelia shook her head. “There’s so much in Rome to see, the aqueducts and the catacombs and the Appian Way.”

“It’s after midnight and you’re soaked,” Philip replied. “The Italian police don’t like tourists disturbing the peace, you’ll be arrested.”

“I couldn’t get arrested, I’m special.”

“I’m sure you’re special.” Philip smiled. “But that won’t get you out of a Roman jail.”

“Don’t be silly, everyone loves me. Let’s ask those nice people over there.” Amelia waved at a couple strolling along the piazza. “They’ll tell you.”

Philip ran his hands through his hair. “If you won’t go home, we’ll go to my place and get you some dry clothes and a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee sounds nice, with lots of milk and sugar.” Amelia sighed, suddenly sleepy. “Do you have any profiteroles? They served them at the café and they’re delicious.”

“I think I can rummage up a profiterole.” Philip nodded. “Come with me.”

*   *   *

Amelia put the coffee cup on the chipped white saucer and smoothed her hair. Philip had given her a flannel robe and a pair of tube socks. He set the glass table with a pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar and a plate of digestive biscuits.

“No profiteroles.” He walked over from the counter and sat opposite her. “But Signora Griselda’s cousin buys these biscuits in London and they’re delicious.”

“I’m not hungry,” Amelia groaned, sipping the hot coffee. The wonderful feeling of light-headedness had been replaced by a throbbing headache. Her throat was parched and her stomach felt like it was coated in lead. “I don’t understand what happened. One minute I was drinking a glass of champagne, the next I was swimming in the Trevi Fountain.”

“Hardly swimming.” Philip grinned, pouring cream into his coffee. “If I were you, I’d stay away from the champagne; it doesn’t agree with you.”

“I hardly ever get drunk.” Amelia hesitated. She pictured Whit in his navy blazer and crisp white shirt and tears sprung to her eyes. “It was just…”

“A bad date?” Philip asked.

“You could say that.” Amelia nodded.

“I gave up dating when I left New York.” Philip shrugged. “The pain-to-happiness ratio isn’t worth the effort. Now I have Sophia Loren.”

“Sophia Loren?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.

“My parrot.” Philip pointed to a striped bird in an iron birdcage. It had green feathers and a sharp black beak.

“I didn’t notice her before,” Amelia replied.

“She’s shy around strangers but she’s quite friendly when you get to know her. She can quote Elizabeth Browning and Shakespeare.”

“She sounds wonderful.” Amelia grinned. She scanned the room and saw a wooden desk with a silver laptop. There was a mug filled with pens and a pile of notepads. “I remember, you’re a writer. What do you write?”

“This and that.” Philip stirred his coffee. “These days with all the free online content, it’s hard to make a living. Newspapers think you should be happy to see your name in print but that doesn’t pay the rent. How about you, do you enjoy being a maid?”