Get your head out of the gutter, Stewart.
I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a piece of dry toast, and sat down at the kitchen table overlooking the busy street below. But it wasn’t old ladies and moms holding onto their kids that I saw.
My mind could only focus on one thing: smoldering eyes and a hard body leaning over me. I sighed and let my imagination roam freely where it wanted to go.
***
Late afternoon, Sylvie was still not back, probably busy hooking up with last night’s conquest. In case she worried or needed me, I left a note on the kitchen table with my new number and the promise to call her as soon as I arrived in Italy. Half an hour later a cab pulled up in front of the building, and I drove to the airport with the setting sun behind me.
Once at JFK and waiting in the boarding area, I switched on my smartphone. The plan was to transfer my old cell’s contact list, excluding Sean’s number, to my company phone. Instead, I was instantly awarded with a long list of redirected calls and text messages. I knew nothing about my new boss, so I figured flicking through his messages would help me paint a picture before I met him in less than nine hours. I took a sip of my water and almost choked on it. He sounded businesslike and curt. While I understood that smileys and kisses were to be avoided in business correspondence, Mr. Mayfield also seemed to harbor a great aversion to saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. I frowned as I made a mental list of his favorite words: great, okay, fine, yes, no way, done. His longest sentence was: If you need to talk, my assistant will be happy to assist you.
I sighed and rubbed my still throbbing forehead. James hadn’t been the greatest boss in the world, but he didn’t seem allergic to talking. I certainly liked engaging in dialogue every now and then, so my new job might turn a bit challenging, and not in a good way.
I was about to switch off the smartphone when an IM from Sylvie came through. Glancing at the clock to make sure I wasn’t late, I opened the conversation and quickly skimmed through to the bottom. There was a brief mention of a letter and some guy with a strange and (according to Sylvie) extremely sexy accent calling to talk to me. I was listed in the public phone directory and was used to the usual financial and insurance companies soliciting me, so the information didn’t bother me. Maybe the fact that I had other things on my mind further contributed to my lack of interest. Switching off the smartphone, I headed for the gate to board the plane, wondering for the umpteenth time why a headhunter would headhunt me to work for someone like Mayfield. Judging from his brisk tone and my fondness of human conversation, we sure weren’t a match made in business heaven.
Chapter 7
The plane landed at Malpensa airport nine painful hours later, which was the longest period I had ever spent on a plane. I knew I didn’t look my best. My head reeled, my eyes burned from a lack of sleep, and my thighs ached for a jog, but at that moment, I couldn’t be more excited. Milan’s ancient buildings and twinkling city lights were waiting just outside the sliding doors. I was ready to explore each and every part of this wonderful city on my days off, of which I hoped I would have plenty.
Smiling, I gathered my unruly hair in a high ponytail and pinched my cheeks to look more presentable, then picked up my luggage from the carousel and made my way through customs. The arrivals area was filled with waiting families and taxi drivers. I spied a cardboard plaque the size of a notebook with my name written on it and walked over, expecting my new boss to be waiting for me. The middle-aged guy greeted me in broken English, and I knew it couldn’t possibly be Mayfield.
“Seniorita Stewart, I’m your driver. May I take your luggage?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He grabbed my suitcase and heaved it up in a fluent motion, then carried it to the parked SUV, dodging the dissipating crowds and taxi drivers vying for tourists’s attention. I hurried after him, concentrating hard to keep up with his chitter-chatter as he went on to tell me about the weather, the country, sightseeing opportunities, and who knows what else.
Night had descended, but the airport was brightly illuminated, allowing a breathtaking sneak peak at the mountain scenery I had seen outlined through the plane’s window. I smiled and nodded politely as he opened the door for me, and I jumped onto the back seat of the car. He paused in his conversation for all of five seconds, or as long as it took him to pull out of the parking lot. As we headed up the highway he resumed his chat.
“You had a nice trip but very long?” I nodded, and he laughed. “But now it’s over and you’ll have a beautiful vacation.” I didn’t want to point out that I wasn’t on vacation, so I just nodded again. The driver continued his half-English, half-Italian monologue through the drive to Bellagio. By the time he pulled over thirty minutes later, my head was reeling, and not from the fresh air and stunning backdrop I had glimpsed outside the window. I jumped out on shaky feet, my hand clutching the car’s door for support, as I gawked at the hotel in front of me.
The architecture was definitely neo-classical, reminding me of Ancient Greek and Rome with its little columns, capitals, and beautiful sculptural bas-reliefs that my fingers itched to touch. It was big but not oversized, about five stories high with a beautiful illuminated fountain spewing up water onto two embracing angels from which a thick, red carpet was stretched out to the heavy glass door. As I entered my home for the next two weeks, my breath caught in my throat.
Holy cow.
The reception hall, though not big, was absolutely stunning. Glass candelabra dangled from the high ceiling, illuminating the polished ivory marble floor below and accentuating the flower reliefs adorning the ivory-colored walls. But what impressed me most were the two Corinthian columns behind the reception desk.
Silvio passed my luggage to a uniformed bellboy and instructed him to bring it straight up to my room, while I waited at the reception desk to check in.