the shower pounding against my back faded into my awareness. He looked up at about the same moment.
“You were magnificent,” he said.
“You get all the credit for that one, Signore Choreographer.”
He laughed. He helped me to my feet and got rid of both the condom and the stool. The actual showering that followed involved a lot of playful splashing and tickling. I had my back thoroughly washed for the first time in years, and I returned the favor.
Afterward, wrapped in the bathrobe, I watched Marco use the hair dryer to get his shirt and slacks ready to put on. I didn’t see his briefs anywhere, and when I raised my eyebrows, he laughed.
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t need to wear underwear,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.
“On a motorcycle? I’d need to wear underwear.”
He laughed. “I do not have far to go.”
I didn’t want to ask him to stay, but I kind of wanted him to want to stay. “Well, if we’re still on for our rescheduled dinner tomorrow, I’ll see you then.”
“Sara, I have a suggestion. You did not have a chance to get your Uffizi tickets for tomorrow, what with your accident and my skilled nursing.”
He made a face at me, and I laughed. “I don’t mind.”
“You must not miss out on seeing Firenze while you rest your ankle. Would you like to see something very much off the beaten path tomorrow? I will cancel my meeting, and take you myself on the motorcycle so you can heal. Say, ten o’clock?”
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that.”
“Of course not. But I want to do it.”
“Where were you thinking of going?” I asked, feeling shy.
“It is called La Specola, and it is one of the oldest science museums in the world. Since it has no famous art, we will have it as much to ourselves as we had Il Stibberto.”
“There are two museums where we won’t see other tourists? In Florence? In June? And you want to see both of them?”
He came over to me, with his motorcycle jacket over his shoulder. He put one hand on my cheek.
“I cannot help it. I want you all to myself.”
With those words and a last lingering kiss, he was gone.
I sat in the gathering twilight feeling stunned. Then I swore. I’d forgotten again to get his phone number.
Chapter Three
I felt disgusting. I was probably an embarrassment to my pioneer ancestors, but in my mind there was no way a little sink rinsing could make clothes clean. After the Marco treatment, my underpants needed machine washing and real laundry soap. My tunic-and-capris airplane outfit wasn’t exactly the epitome of style in the first place, and being dingy didn’t help it.
I would have preferred to wear my new dress, but I didn’t think I could ride a motorcycle with a high hemline.
I didn’t want to spend my whole souvenir budget on clothes, but things were getting dire. The hotel staff was too polite to take official notice, but facts were facts. I was in their lobby wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. I thought their sidelong glances at me said it all.
The throaty rumble of a Harley echoed across the piazza, and I darted away from their stylish censure.
“Good morning, Marco.”
“ Buon giorno, Serafina.” He shook his hair free of the helmet and grinned. “Your ankle is better?”
I pointed at the brace. “Yes, but I’m not taking chances. At least, not with this.”
He took me into his arms and pressed his cheek against mine. With a sudden swoop, he bent me over backward and kissed me. I liked feeling little and feminine, and thanked him with a little extra tongue.
Someone zipping by on a Vespa honked and cheered. Marco pulled me back upright and waved.
In a moment we joined the gentle stream of traffic flowing down the narrow streets. We swung onto the Via de’ Tornabuoni, our bodies in perfect sync. The cathedral peeped at us in between the old buildings with modern shops. Hermés, Prada and Bulgari gave way to Burberry and Tiffany’s. We paused for a moment when
“You were magnificent,” he said.
“You get all the credit for that one, Signore Choreographer.”
He laughed. He helped me to my feet and got rid of both the condom and the stool. The actual showering that followed involved a lot of playful splashing and tickling. I had my back thoroughly washed for the first time in years, and I returned the favor.
Afterward, wrapped in the bathrobe, I watched Marco use the hair dryer to get his shirt and slacks ready to put on. I didn’t see his briefs anywhere, and when I raised my eyebrows, he laughed.
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t need to wear underwear,” he said, patting his jacket pocket.
“On a motorcycle? I’d need to wear underwear.”
He laughed. “I do not have far to go.”
I didn’t want to ask him to stay, but I kind of wanted him to want to stay. “Well, if we’re still on for our rescheduled dinner tomorrow, I’ll see you then.”
“Sara, I have a suggestion. You did not have a chance to get your Uffizi tickets for tomorrow, what with your accident and my skilled nursing.”
He made a face at me, and I laughed. “I don’t mind.”
“You must not miss out on seeing Firenze while you rest your ankle. Would you like to see something very much off the beaten path tomorrow? I will cancel my meeting, and take you myself on the motorcycle so you can heal. Say, ten o’clock?”
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that.”
“Of course not. But I want to do it.”
“Where were you thinking of going?” I asked, feeling shy.
“It is called La Specola, and it is one of the oldest science museums in the world. Since it has no famous art, we will have it as much to ourselves as we had Il Stibberto.”
“There are two museums where we won’t see other tourists? In Florence? In June? And you want to see both of them?”
He came over to me, with his motorcycle jacket over his shoulder. He put one hand on my cheek.
“I cannot help it. I want you all to myself.”
With those words and a last lingering kiss, he was gone.
I sat in the gathering twilight feeling stunned. Then I swore. I’d forgotten again to get his phone number.
Chapter Three
I felt disgusting. I was probably an embarrassment to my pioneer ancestors, but in my mind there was no way a little sink rinsing could make clothes clean. After the Marco treatment, my underpants needed machine washing and real laundry soap. My tunic-and-capris airplane outfit wasn’t exactly the epitome of style in the first place, and being dingy didn’t help it.
I would have preferred to wear my new dress, but I didn’t think I could ride a motorcycle with a high hemline.
I didn’t want to spend my whole souvenir budget on clothes, but things were getting dire. The hotel staff was too polite to take official notice, but facts were facts. I was in their lobby wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. I thought their sidelong glances at me said it all.
The throaty rumble of a Harley echoed across the piazza, and I darted away from their stylish censure.
“Good morning, Marco.”
“ Buon giorno, Serafina.” He shook his hair free of the helmet and grinned. “Your ankle is better?”
I pointed at the brace. “Yes, but I’m not taking chances. At least, not with this.”
He took me into his arms and pressed his cheek against mine. With a sudden swoop, he bent me over backward and kissed me. I liked feeling little and feminine, and thanked him with a little extra tongue.
Someone zipping by on a Vespa honked and cheered. Marco pulled me back upright and waved.
In a moment we joined the gentle stream of traffic flowing down the narrow streets. We swung onto the Via de’ Tornabuoni, our bodies in perfect sync. The cathedral peeped at us in between the old buildings with modern shops. Hermés, Prada and Bulgari gave way to Burberry and Tiffany’s. We paused for a moment when
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