Anyway, I decided that maybe getting in a few hours by the pool would be a good idea. Refresh the batteries.
So that’s where I am now. Lying by the pool, relaxed as hell and feeling guilty for it.
I sit up and wonder if I should get in the pool again. I take a look at my arms. I slathered on a lot of sunscreen so I shouldn’t be burning anytime soon.
Feeling daring, I get to my feet.
The place is just so gorgeous and the sun is so hot that there’s this delicious hedonistic vibe in the air. The pool is fairly large and set into the lush green grass, giving it a wild feeling. It’s surrounded by a long, thick hedge that completely shelters it from the road, and down one end there’s a gorgeous rose garden that I spent a good part of the morning wandering through.
Emilio said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, which means I have the entire place to myself.
Which means I’m totally alone.
And while that made me feel a bit scared yesterday, even though I’m truly a loner at heart, now it makes me feel free.
I peel off my bikini top and fling it onto the lounge chair.
Sunbathing topless is totally expected in Italy, right?
Then I take it further and step out of my bathing suit bottoms.
Now I’m completely naked.
I giggle to myself.
I don’t have a perfect body (what is that, anyway?) and I try not to look at myself in the mirror if I can help it. I know I could be leaner, I know I could have more muscle tone. I’m soft everywhere, the result of sitting on my arse most hours of the day. But here, now, my toes digging into the warm grass, the bright sunlight on my pale body, I feel more in tune with myself than I have in years.
I feel like I’m doing something dangerous and naughty and completely free, something Grace Harper of Edinburgh wouldn’t normally do.
I walk around the pool, heading into the rose garden to smell some of the pink and yellow blooms at the entrance. I close my eyes and inhale. It smells like a lemon drop martini, utterly entrancing.
A crunching noise makes me whirl around.
I’d heard a few cars drive by earlier on the road, but I know for a fact that they can’t see me. Was that noise from the road or…?
Cautiously I walk back to the pool area and step out from around the giant fig tree that lines the gravel path to the house.
There’s a man standing there.
“Ahhhhh!” I scream.
“Ahhhh!” he screams.
What do I do, what do I do?
My first thought is that I’m totally naked and that I have to cover up immediately but my bathing suit is on the other side of the pool, and all I can do for now is cover my breasts and cooch with my hands, staring at the stranger, mouth open.
Then, before I can turn and make a run for the hedge or, god, something, anything, a young boy appears beside the man, staring at me with the biggest eyes I’ve seen.
Oh. My. God!
Without thinking, I run and launch myself into the pool, an awkward cannonball bordering on belly flop. I hit the water hard and then let myself sink to the bottom, in absolutely no hurry to surface.
Who the hell was that? Why is there a man here? And a boy. Oh my god, he saw me naked. They both did. What’s he doing here? Am I in any danger? Is he here by mistake, here to rob the villa?
Eventually I have to resurface, because, you know, air.
I break through, gasping for breath, and once the water is out of my eyes, notice the man has stepped even closer, peering over the edge of the pool in concern. Guess he thought I wasn’t coming back up.
He takes a step back and then motions for his son, who is still staring at me mouth agape, to turn around. Who knows how much of me he can see?
“Wh-who are you?” I manage to say, hoping they understand English, hoping I don’t start stuttering.
“Who am I?” the man repeats incredulously, his brows raising. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize that he has perfect eyebrows, dark and shaped with a distinctive arch, a strong frame for his intense brown eyes. “You’re asking who I am?”
Okay, well at least the man with the perfect brows speaks perfect English.
I continue to tread water, hoping he can’t see my body clearly. To his credit, he’s not looking. He seems too shocked and borderline angry to do that.
“My name is Grace Harper,” I tell him, finding my voice. “I’m a guest of Jana Lee’s. This is her house.”
Isn’t it? Now I’m second guessing everything. I mean, that was Emilio at the airport, right? He had a sign with my name on it but he never actually said his name was Emilio. Oh lord.
The man watches me for a few moments, his brows drawn together, and I can’t figure out his game. Jana never said there would be any guests coming. Maybe he’s a friend of hers? Perhaps even a boyfriend, though he does seem a couple years younger. Then there’s the kid, who must be around ten years old, who is still facing the other way, though I catch him looking over his shoulder at me and frowning.
The kid rattles off something in Italian, and the only word I understand is “Papà,” so I guess this is the kid’s father.
“Non lo so,” the man says, and then glances at his son. He makes the gesture for the kid to turn around, which he does begrudgingly, huffing as he goes.
It’s while his focus isn’t on me that I’m able to get a better look at him. The man is tall, perhaps six feet, and with a slim but muscular physique, like an athlete. His skin is bronze in the sunshine, his hair black, shorter at the sides and longer on top so it sort of flops onto his forehead, and his face is strong and well-defined like a Roman sculpture.
He’s wearing dark jeans, a navy t-shirt and slip-on sneakers, with no socks. There’s a large gold watch on his wrist. He seems like the epitome of Italian fashion, like he should be advertising Armani cologne or something. He’s incredibly handsome, even though I push that realization to the back of my head because that’s the least important thing right now.
“So, who are you?” I ask. “Unless I’m in the wrong house.”
“Jana invited you?” the man asks, rubbing his jaw in frustration as he ignores my question again.
I nod. “Aye. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t be here. She said to come down for a month so I can finish my book. She’s my agent.”
He nods slowly, realization coming over his eyes, though he still looks pretty pissed off. “I see.”
I blink at him. “What do you see? You haven’t even told me who you are.”
“I’m Claudio Romano,” he says to me with a sigh. “This is my son Vanni.”
Vanni looks over his shoulder at me and says in perfect English, “And you are in our swimming pool.”
Three
Grace
I can’t help but stare, totally confused.
I shake my head and then swim to the edge of the pool, resting my arms on the grass. At least they can’t see my body this way. “I’m sorry, your what?”
“Our swimming pool,” Vanni says, louder this time, as if I couldn’t hear him. “You’re in our pool. This is our house. You’re a … a … intrusa.”
I don’t have to speak Italian to know he sees me as an intruder.
“Enough, Vanni,” Claudio says. He gestures at the house. “Why don’t you take your bag to your room? I’ll handle this.”