An American Girl in Italy: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance

Aubrie Dionne

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Chapter One

Paying the Price

You may now turn on all electronic devices echoed through the intercom of the Boeing 747 as music to Carly’s ears. After nine and a half hours of practicing her oboe fingerings on her pencil to the beat of Bertha Payne’s snoring, she was ready to tear through the metal hull of the plane with her fingernails.

Carly turned on her phone and waited for her e-mails to load. As much as she loved her bff, Melody Mires, their friendship had taken a back seat to Melody’s grand love affair with the conductor. Four seats up, Melody had glued her head to Wolf’s shoulder. Carly and Melody had practically owned two seats at the bar of the Neighborhood Grill, which they’d frequented every night after rehearsal. Then Wolf showed up and bam! Girls’ nights out ended for life. That left Carly with sweet, little old Bertha.

Her inbox flashed before her eyes in a horror show. Two hundred and seven e-mails. She couldn’t remember the last time her phone had been shut off for so long.

Scrolling down, she hoped she hadn’t missed anything too important. A few gig requests for last-minute summer weddings, three oboe students wishing her good luck on her Italian tour, and a whole ton of e-mails about her contemporary music group, Women Reeds. Although nothing was pressing, she’d had to pass on two concerts with other orchestras, three days of teaching, and a few wedding gigs.

Her best bet was to get through this tour and get back to the States as soon as possible so no one thought of her missing in action and started hiring her rivals.

Her finger stopped on a message from Dino Daywood, the DJ contractor who got her the swankiest gigs. Last-minute performance request at the Hyatt Harborside. Tomorrow at noon. Show up and play Pachelbel’s Canon. Twice union wages.

Dammit! Hadn’t she told him she’d be stranded in the Italian countryside for two weeks?

Wolf stood up from his seat beside Melody and cleared his throat. ‘Attention all Easthampton Civic Symphony members. Welcome to Italy.’ His thick German accent commanded their attention.

He smiled and straightened his broad shoulders, looking like a Roman gladiator. As much as Carly missed her friend, Melody really had scored big time. ‘Our tour guide will be meeting us right outside the gate. His name is Michelangelo Ricci, a native from Tuscany and—get this—his family owns a vineyard. He’s the best tour guide around and has been conducting tours since he was a young boy.’

As Carly squirmed in her seat, Wolf gestured to the orchestra’s biggest donor and the board of directors. ‘Ms. Maxhammer handpicked him after a series of rigorous interviews. Michelangelo knows his way around and will be with us every step of the way.’ Wolf waved his hand over to the front of the plane, where people had already started pulling down their bags in first class. ‘Play well and I hope you and your families enjoy the tour.’

Carly glanced at Bertha. By the time she woke up, they’d be the last ones off the plane. She needed to get to a quiet place and call Dino back. He wouldn’t be happy, but he’d be even less happy if she didn’t give him enough time to find someone else.

Carly’s neck burned with frustration. Twice union wages, and a contact with the Hyatt Harborside. She’d been dreaming of playing there ever since she saw it glisten from across the Back Bay. Enjoy your trip, my ass.

She nudged the old violinist. ‘Bertha, it’s time to wake up.’

Al chuckled from the seat behind them as he picked up his trombone. He insisted his instrument have its own ticket, whereas Carly’s oboe fitted in the overhead. ‘There’s only one way to wake her up.’

He unzipped his case and brought out his mouthpiece.

Carly shook her head. ‘You’re not going to—’

Before she could finish, Al buzzed the mouthpiece down by Bertha’s ear.

Carly winced as Bertha’s eyes flickered open. She smacked her dentures together and gazed up at Carly. ‘We’re there already?’

Al winked as he passed them down the aisle. ‘You can thank me later.’

Carly gave him a dirty look. In his dreams. Melody may have made a lucky match in the orchestra, but Carly didn’t mix business with pleasure. Her life was one hundred percent business and she endeavored to keep it that way.

It took forever to help Bertha with her violin and baggage. Only then did she have the luxury of whipping out her phone. Cringing, she dialed Dino’s number and punched in his extension.

The other orchestra members gathered around the glass windows at the front of the Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. A man with curly dark hair wearing a white cotton shirt waved them over. His back was turned, so she couldn’t make out his face, but she bet it was chubby and dark with a long, oily mustache like the guy on her pasta label. Oh great, that must be the Italian guide.

‘Dirty Dancing DJs, Dino speaking.’ He sounded like he was in the other room, not four thousand miles away.

Maybe a little distance, in this case, is good.

‘Hey, Dino. It’s Carly.’

‘Hey babe, what’s happening? Did you get the good news?’

The orchestra started to leave through the double doors. Melody waved to her, but Carly waved her back. ‘That’s what I’m calling about. I’m in Italy for the next two weeks. I left you a message—’

‘Italy? Damn, girl. How am I supposed to book you over there?’

‘One of my orchestras is on tour, and I had to go to keep my full-time status. I’m sorry. I thought you got the message.’

He sighed, sounding more annoyed than sad. ‘Well, I guess I have to find someone else.’

Someone else. Those two words cut to her gut like reed sharpeners. In the gig business, if you refused, you got bumped to the bottom of the list. Dirty Dancing DJs was like the music mafia. It controlled every event center from the coast to western Massachusetts. She could already hear his fingers clicking over the keyboard for more numbers.

Someone tugged on her sleeve and she yanked her arm back. Melody has some guts coming to me now after ignoring me for the whole flight. ‘Just give me a sec,’ she hissed while covering the phone.

Dino hung up, leaving her with a dead phone stuck to her ear. Carly stomped her foot as anger threatened to get the better of her. How long would it take to rise back to the top of his precious list? ‘Asshole.’

There was that tug on her arm again, this time more insistent. Fury boiling inside her, she whirled around. ‘I told you—’

A man who looked like he’d walked off a Giorgio Armani ad glowed before her, illuminated by the Italian sun shining through the windows behind him. Midnight hair rolled in waves around his ears, slicked back from his face with just the right amount of mousse. Thick, perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrows contrasted with smooth, olive skin. Blue eyes with a ring of amber around the center mesmerized her.

‘Are you with the Easthampton Civic Symphony, signorina?’ He accented his words just like the cultured Italian men on the James Bond films she had watched growing up.

‘Yes, I was just—’ what was she doing? Carly’s voice trailed off.

‘May I introduce myself? I am Michelangelo Ricci, your tour guide.’

Their tour guide? Carly’s stomach plummeted. She’d just made a bitchy fool of herself right in front of the man she’d have to spend the next two weeks with. Great. Or what do the Italians say? Bene.

Michelangelo stared in expectation at her with his beautiful blue-amber eyes. What did he want? Some sort of pat on the back? A kiss? Stop daydreaming. Carly blinked back to reality. ‘Yes?’

‘And you are?’

‘Oh. Carly Davis.’

He extended his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Carly.’

She took his hand in hers and squeezed. He had a strong grip with rough calluses, maybe from working outside in the vineyard? Boy, this guy was too good to be true. Which was why she should stay the hell away.

He released her hand politely, if not a little too soon for her taste. ‘Per favore, follow me. The tour bus is just beyond the doors.’

‘I know that.’ She grabbed her oboe case. Her long, floral bohemian skirt caught on her Birkenstock, and she tumbled face-forward on top of her luggage. Her over-packed bag broke her fall, but it didn’t stave off a humbling wave of embarrassment.

He reached for her arm, pulling her up. ‘Mio dio, are you all right?’

Why was she so off all of a sudden? Must have been the conversation with Dino. It couldn’t possibly be the tall, dark and gorgeous hottie, who must think she was the biggest idiot ever to land in Italy.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Her fingers shook as she grabbed the handle of her rolling bag. ‘Just a long flight, that’s all.’

‘I’m sure it was.’ His eyes glanced to where the bus was parked, looking very unconvinced. He reached for her oboe case, of all things. ‘May I help you?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She pulled her case back. He may be hot, but she wasn’t about to trust him with her twelve grand rosewood Lorée. Embarrassment climbed its way into her cheeks until she was pretty sure her entire face was red as a ketchup bottle. Her pale skin didn’t help. Even at her most calm, her cheeks always looked pink.

‘Va bene.’ He stiffened as though slightly offended, then stepped away from her and moved toward the double doors. ‘If you’ll come this way.’

Carly followed him to the tour bus, dragging her luggage behind her and feeling like she was unwittingly doing everything she could to tick off the one person she’d have to rely upon for the next two weeks.

Maybe it was for the best. She was dangerously attracted to him, and the last thing she needed was a distraction.

Off to a great start.

*****

Michelangelo Ricci trudged to the tour bus feeling as though he’d signed away the next two weeks of his life. Fourteen days of vivere l’inferno, or as the silly Americans would say, a living hell.

It was because of wealthy Americans he was here, scraping together a paycheck so they didn’t build luxury condos on his family’s winery. The irony of his situation cackled in his face.

What Ms. Maxhammer and the rest of the orchestra didn’t know was the only tours he had ever conducted were on his own vineyard. His family’s land had fallen to him a few years ago, and if he didn’t earn money fast, it would be history. Applying to Ms. Maxhammer’s ad was his only way out, even if he had to stretch the truth.

As if taking care of spoiled, lazy tourists wasn’t enough, the embodiment of the All-American Girl following him to the tour bus already grated on his nerves. The crazy part was that if she hadn’t been so rude, he would have thought her intriguingly attractive. Not many women in his part of the world had such white-blonde hair and pale skin, looking more like she walked out of a fairytale than an airplane. Her pale-blue eyes were gorgeous, but it was the sheer determination mixed with intense vulnerability within them that piqued his attention.

Who was she talking to and why was it so important? Usually he didn’t meddle in the affairs of others, but overhearing her desperation made him want to jump in like a knight in shining armor. All the way up until the part where she called the man an asshole. This woman could fight for herself.

So why did he feel such an inclination to help her?

Must be the big paycheck waiting for him after the tour ended. It wouldn’t solve his family’s problems, but it would buy them more time.

They reached the bus, and he turned around, wondering if he should even ask to help her with her bag again. The way she recoiled, clutching the small case to her chest made him wonder if she had trust issues. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off one of the Americans on his first day. Ms. Maxhammer had explicitly asked for the utmost courtesy.

‘Would you like some help, signorina?’ He prepared himself for the worst.

Carly narrowed her eyes, which turned to ice in the midday sun. ‘You can take this bag.’ She pointed to the large, heavy one with wheels.

‘Very well.’ He bent down and gripped the handle. His muscles bunched as he picked it up. Mio dio. What was in here — rocks?

Of course, he didn’t want her to see him strain. Gritting his teeth, he hefted the bag up the steps and onto the luggage shelf at the front of the bus. It hit the shelf, rattling all the other bags before settling.

Edda, the bus driver, who could have posed as his mother, turned around and spoke in Italian. ‘Is she the last one?’

He wiped his forehead. ‘Si.’

Carly followed him up the steps, still clutching the smaller case like a baby, with small, elegant fingers. She looked like a lost princess who had misplaced her carriage. A pang of compassion shot through his chest. The desire to scoop her up and comfort her overwhelmed him. Remember how she told that person off on the phone? You don’t want to become asshole number two.

Michelangelo scanned the seats. Every one was full, except the one next to him. Great, I’ll have to put up with her all the way to the hotel. He gestured toward the front seat. ‘Ladies first.’

She glanced around nervously, as if she’d rather sit anywhere but there. Michelangelo adjusted his collar, feeling slightly offended. He’d offered to help her with her bags twice and lifted her colossal boulder of luggage to the shelf, and this is how she treated him! Usually women enjoyed his company.

He stated the obvious, trying not to sound annoyed. ‘It is the only seat left.’

‘Oh, right.’ Carly slipped into the window seat and adjusted her flowery skirt.

Resisting the urge to glance over the way the light fabric fell around her legs, he took the seat next to her. The bus merged with traffic and turned onto Roma Fiumicino, the main highway that led into Rome. Sunswept green fields spread before them.

Remembering he was supposed to be describing the landmarks, Michelangelo brought out a crumpled note from his pocket. Holding it in the palm of his hand, where no one would see, he turned on the intercom. ‘I’d like to welcome all the members of the Easthampton Civic Symphony. Per Ms. Maxhammer’s request, I’ll be announcing important landmarks along the way.’

He checked the note. ‘To your left is Lago Traiano, an artificial lake built by Imperatore Traiano in 98—117 B.C. and used as a port in the time of Imperial Rome.’

Turning off the intercom, Michelangelo glanced longingly at the circle of pines. He’d taken the guided tour on a horse-drawn carriage with his father as a young boy. If only he was still here, he’d think of a way to save the vineyard.

He turned his attention back to Carly. Scrolling down a list of e-mails on her cell, she didn’t even look up to see the lake, which sent a dagger of pain through his gut. Stupid American, can’t even appreciate the Italian countryside. Would she stay on that thing the whole time and miss all the views?

Michelangelo sat beside her once again and tried an attempt at conversation.

‘Is this your first time in Italy?’

Carly nodded as she checked off the boxes beside the e-mails and deleted a bunch. ‘First and last.’

Wow, he’d not heard that before. No visitor he’d ever met didn’t want to come back. What was with her? Want stirred in his gut as he looked her up and down.

‘Is that so? I’ll have to change that.’ The words slipped out of his mouth as more of a challenge than a remark. Did he just hit on her? What was getting into him?

Carly dropped her phone and glanced at him with a mix of surprise and dismay, and maybe—if he didn’t imagine it—a hint of desire. She shifted a little further away, pressing her side against the window. ‘Excuse me?’

Michelangelo’s friends said he was smoother than gelato. He could work his way out of this. He shrugged. ‘Everyone falls in love with Italy. Once you’re here, you’ll always remember it.’

‘Besides music, I haven’t fallen in love with anything in my entire life.’ Carly twirled a strand of silky hair behind her ear. ‘Good luck.’

Michelangelo took that as a challenge. Whether to make her fall in love with Italy, or with him, he wasn’t sure.

Chapter Two

Diva’s Choice

Carly hoped Michelangelo couldn’t see her heart beating like a metronome on vivace. She read the next e-mail, trying to focus and ignore how the hottie tour guide may have just hit on her.

Honestly, she must have read him completely wrongly, because they’d had about the worst introduction she could think of, and she’d watched a whole ton of romantic comedies in her day with Melody; While You Were Sleeping, Groundhog Day, Pretty Woman, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. She could go on and on—they’d even come up with their own top-fifty list.

Wait a sec. Didn’t they all have rough starts?

Michelangelo leaned over and his eyes glanced down as if reading over her shoulder.

Sighing, she shut the screen off. She’d have to wait until they reached the hotel if she wanted any form of privacy.

‘How long is this trip?’ Her tone came out more annoyed than she would have liked. All the unread e-mails, the conversation with Dino, and her embarrassing introduction to Michelangelo had raised her anxiety to momentous levels. Thank the hotel gods for mini bars.

‘It will take us about thirty minutes to reach the center of Rome, where the Villa Borghese is located.’

Great. Thirty minutes of spine-cringing awkwardness.

She turned to the window. Lush hills spread before her in blankets of emerald, accented by pointed, dark shrubs and patches of red and white wildflowers. An old farmhouse made with bleached stucco and red-orange tiled roofs claimed the side of a hill. Italy really was gorgeous.

Her phone vibrated with another new message.

Too bad she couldn’t appreciate it.

Michelangelo gestured to her phone. ‘You’re a wanted woman.’

‘Right now I am. Give it two weeks, and we’ll see if they still call.’ Carly tucked her cell in the front pocket of her purse, wishing she could control her mouth. Why was she spouting her problems to this man?

Michelangelo pouted his thick, velvety lips, a look which came across as sultry and alluring. ‘You’ve got some fickle friends.’

She forced herself to stop staring at his lips and focused on his two-tone, blue-amber eyes. ‘It’s the nature of the bizz I’m afraid.’

‘Sounds as risky as owning a vineyard.’

Oh yeah, right. Wandering through the vineyard and taste-testing great wines. Like he could really compare all the competition, the hours spent practicing, the expensive instruments, and the twenty-four-seven gig schedule? She crossed her arms and turned toward him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The crop yield all depends on weather, pests, and the quality of the vines. One late frost, swarm of aphids, or disease can mean thousands lost. And that’s just the beginning. Even if you have a good yield, you have to protect against bacteria, make sure the tanks are all sanitized, and check the bottling line systems and drainage systems. There’s always something that needs fixing or replacing.’ For a moment he looked older than his years—which couldn’t be any more than hers.