20. Lucia
20
LUCIA
I told Antonio to leave me alone. Did I expect him to call me anyway?
Yes, I did.
But he doesn’t. The weekend goes by with no word from him. On Saturday, I’m hopeful he’ll call, but by Sunday night, I feel like a fool.
You asked him to stay away, and he’s respecting your boundaries. And you’re annoyed by that? You are such a hypocrite.
Okay, I’ll admit it. On some level, I thought he’d pursue me harder. He is a predator, and I’m prey, and I was enjoying the hunt. I wanted him to chase me.
I am such an idiot.
I start the next week in a bad mood, and it doesn’t get any better as the day goes on. Everyone at the museum is talking about the ship that exploded in the harbor. “It’s the mafia,” Dr. Meyer, my least favorite coworker, says, giving me a pointed glance. “The rumor is that it’s some kind of turf war.”
I don’t like the look he gave me, and I don’t like the reminder that Antonio is a dangerous man. I stew and fret, which doesn’t improve my mood. By the time Giana Caputi, our department assistant, knocks on my office door on Wednesday, it takes everything I have not to snarl at her.
Then I notice what she’s holding.
Flowers burst exuberantly from a familiar blue-and-white ceramic vase in a riotous celebration of spring, filling my tiny office with their delicate aroma. White lilacs and pink hyacinths dance together with yellow honeysuckle, and lavender sprigs add pops of deep purple.
And the vase. . . This is the vase I admired at Antonio’s house last week. I picked it up and fell in love with it, and Antonio noticed.
And he’s sent it to me.
“These came for you while you were at lunch,” Giana says, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “But there wasn’t a card.”
By now, everyone at work knows I had lunch with Antonio on Friday. I don’t have to be a mind-reader to know what Giana is thinking. Are these flowers from him? Are they an item? Does she know he’s a mafia boss?
Whatever. I can’t bring myself to care about work gossip right now. A smile spreads on my face as I inhale the scent of the blossoms. “Thank you, Giana.”
“This box came along with the flowers.” She hands me a pale pink rectangular box tied with a silk ribbon. The logo is a string of pearls spilling from a seashell, and the words La Perla Nera are stamped on the bottom.
I’m unfamiliar with the brand, but Giana clearly recognizes it. “La Perla Nera is a lingerie store,” she tells me, her eyes wide. “A very expensive one. They only see customers by appointment.” She’s not brave enough to ask me if Antonio sent me lingerie, though I can tell from her expression that she dearly wants to.
“Thank you, Giana,” I say again, waiting for her to leave before I open my package. The department admin is the biggest gossip in the museum, and she’s positively agog. By the end of the day, every single one of my colleagues will know that someone—Antonio?—sent me flowers and lingerie.
I can’t tell if I’m thrilled by the gift or annoyed by the prospect of being everyone’s favorite topic of conversation.
Giana doesn’t take the hint. She lingers for another ten minutes, making small talk and hoping I’ll give her more fuel for the gossip mill, but I refuse to engage, and eventually, she departs in a huff.
I shut the door behind her, lock it for good measure, and open the box.
Oh, wow.
I’m rendered speechless as I carefully remove each piece from the tissue-wrapped packaging. There are four garments—a pair of panties, a bra, a camisole, and a robe—all made from lightweight bottle-green silk trimmed with black lace.
I pick up the bra reverently. The cups are green silk with a lace overlay, and the straps and elastic bands are covered with the same silk. The panties are just as luxurious. The camisole has lace cups and slits up both sides, and the robe is a masterpiece, with delicate lace outlining the neckline, cuffs, and hem.
The silk fabric glimmers in the light, its glossy sheen coaxing me to stroke it. I run my fingers over the fabric, marveling at its softness. Every piece has been made with a staggering attention to detail. They aren’t just expensive—they are works of art.
I’ve never been given a gift like this before. Never owned something so beautiful.
This is the kind of lingerie a woman would wear when she wanted to drive a man mad with lust. If I wore the panties, would he tug them off me with his teeth? Would he rip the silk camisole off my body with growly impatience?
A shiver of pure desire runs through me.
And yet. . .
I told Antonio to leave me alone, and he’s ignoring my words.
I thought you wanted him to chase you.
The flowers and the vase are beautiful, and I love them. But sending me lingerie as if me ending up in his bed is a foregone conclusion?
Hell, no.
I take a ferry to Giudecca and march up to Antonio’s house. Two guards intercept me before I can reach the front door. “This is a private residence, signorina,” one of them says, his voice polite but firm.
“I know that,” I snap. “I’m here to see Antonio Moretti.”
“And would Signor Moretti want to see you?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure he does,” I bite out, hanging onto my temper by a hair. “Tell him Lucia Petrucci is here.”