Nobody Does It Better. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
the Gorgon. One had to relish the small victories as they arose.
She disconnected the call. Gage noted the time. Quarter past eight. Grinning, he shoved back the covers and strolled into the washroom, clicking the lock on her door and locking her out of the washroom.
“Crap,” she muttered in his ear—well, his earpiece—but it might as well’ve been in his ear.
His grin broadened and he turned on the shower.
“Ugh. Yuck.”
Apparently she’d elected to wear the wet knickers. He pushed the sexual connotation out of his mind. Ah, the Gorgon was going to be in rare form when he met her this morning. Might as well go for broke.
A passable tenor, Gage’s voice always improved with the acoustics of a tiled washroom. He burst into a shower rendition of La Bohéme, from act one.
“I have descended into the bowels of hell,” the Gorgon’s voice muttered in his ear.
Gage sang louder.
HOLLY HAD BEEN DETERMINED to put her bad-day karma behind her yesterday…until she’d rolled out of bed naked this morning and discovered still-damp panties, no luggage and a rude airline-customer-service representative.
The only good thing to come of that conversation? She knew her luggage wasn’t showing up today. The woman on the phone had actually seemed delighted to tell her if it hadn’t arrived by now, it wouldn’t make it today.
In the next room, the shower and the singing stopped. Thank God. The voice wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but she wasn’t in the mood to be serenaded this morning. Yet another grand reason for having requested a private bathroom.
Missing luggage necessitated a change of itinerary. She was more thankful than ever that she’d arranged a private tour guide. She’d specifically requested a woman, slightly older than herself and a Venetian native. Holly would feel comfortable with a woman and she’d look less like a tourist, gaining insight into what it was like to live in Venice. She’d been introduced, via the Internet, to her assigned guide, Signora Ciavelli. Forty-seven, with a slightly round face and dark hair sprinkled with a bit of gray, she’d looked kind and capable in her photo.
Signora Ciavelli would know exactly where they should shop. And shop they would, because clammy panties, clothes she’d worn for thirty-six hours, no makeup and no hair-care products just weren’t working for Holly.
She checked out her reflection in the bedroom mirror. To quote her brother, Kyle, she looked like shit on a stick. Some women fared well going au naturel. She wasn’t one of them.
She knew she wasn’t a head-turner. She was just an average woman with odd-colored eyes. The entire time she was growing up, she’d loathed having the eyes she’d inherited from her father’s grandmother. She’d hated it when people commented on them because the compliments always ended a little flat, as if it was a pity the rest of her didn’t match up. She’d embraced her averageness to the point that when she’d begun earning her own money, she’d started wearing brown-tinted contacts. In fact, she’d had brown eyes for more than a decade. Her mother was the beauty. Thank goodness Holly looked more like her father. She didn’t want to be like Julia, flighty and vain. But with all her recent activities, she’d also realized hiding her eye color wasn’t exactly embracing who and what she was. Holly had forsaken her contacts several months ago. People still commented on her eyes, but oddly enough, it no longer bothered her. Funny how self-acceptance colored one’s perceptions. But there was no coloring her appearance anything but lacking this morning.
She desperately needed concealer for the lovely dark shadows beneath her eyes. As for her hair… She leaned forward and tried fluffing it with her fingers while she held her head upside down. She stood upright again and it looked decent…for about three seconds until it settled back into flat waves against her head. Not a good look.
She’d planned to show up at Julia’s address this afternoon. Holly wasn’t the great American beauty, but she’d be damned if she’d arrive looking like something the cat had dragged in.
The lock on the other side of her door clicked, signaling the bathroom was available. She might not have toothpaste, but she could at least brush and rinse with water before she ran downstairs.
She stepped into the bathroom, ribbons of steam hanging in the room. She had to admit she liked the scent of the shampoo and cologne lingering in the room. However, the guy must be near-ancient and hard of hearing, considering how loudly he sang in the shower.
She locked the door on his side. Granted, she was only brushing her teeth, but she still didn’t want the old fellow to get confused and wander in.
Five minutes later, she shrugged into her backpack and headed downstairs to meet Signora Ciavelli, determined to turn a bad start into a good day.
She descended the last stairs into the small lobby area, catching a tantalizing whiff of coffee and fresh bread. Holly’s stomach growled in recognition. Maybe the scent was wafting in from a kitchen that was out of sight. Maybe it was from somewhere else. She just knew she was hungry. Many pensiones included a continental breakfast but once again, she’d thought to shave a couple of dollars by choosing one that didn’t. Besides, her meals were included in her tour.
She’d kill for a cup of coffee and one of the Italian pastries she’d read about in the guidebooks. As soon as Signora Ciavelli showed up, she’d talk her into grabbing a bite to eat.
A couple stood by the front door studying a map and speaking in German…or was it Swiss? Heck, it could’ve been Russian. She just knew it wasn’t English, Italian or French. Tucked in one corner of the room, to the left of the stairs, two chairs upholstered in worn burgundy velvet flanked a small table. A man sat in one chair, his face obscured by a newspaper. The other chair stood unoccupied.
Mrs. Cheese stood behind the dark wood counter that served as the reception desk to the right of the stairs, speaking, in rapid-fire Italian, into a phone propped between her ear and shoulder.
No one, however, remotely resembled Signora Ciavelli. She stepped over to the window beside the heavy wooden door to peer outside. She experienced that same tingling awareness she’d felt the night before when she’d landed at the Marco Polo airport. Maybe it was something in the air here.
“Ms. Smith?”
Startled at hearing her name spoken in a masculine British voice, she whirled around…and found herself in heart-pounding close proximity to one of the sexiest men she’d ever encountered. Average height, dark hair worn a little longish, a lean jaw, dark eyes rimmed in thick dark lashes beneath heavy eyebrows and a hard, masculine mouth. “Yes. And you are…?”
Don’t let it be Signora Ciavelli with a sex change, which wasn’t as far-fetched as it might sound, considering her luck the past couple of days.
“Gage Carswell.” He thrust a very capable-looking hand with well-shaped fingers toward her. Because she wasn’t sure exactly why she shouldn’t, she shook hands with the man, whoever he was. His handshake was strong and firm without being a vice grip, and if she thought she’d tingled before… His touch resonated through her, all the way to her toes. “Signora Ciavelli had a medical emergency. She’ll be fine, but I’ll be taking her place this week.”
She’d never met him before, she was sure of it. But something about him teased at her, a familiarity she couldn’t quite identify.
“But you’re a man.” She realized how idiotic her comment sounded the moment it left her mouth.
“I’ve had occasion to notice.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which further upped his make-her-heart-race quota.
“But I requested a woman. And a native.” She wanted Signora Ciavelli because they would blend in with the locals and Holly could feel relaxed around her. Gage Carswell didn’t appear to fit either criteria.
“So I understand. But I lived in Venice for a few years and I’m quite fluent in Italian.”