Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

something for yourself.” And she said, “What do I need? It’s you who needs the pretty clothes.”
    So then I pointed out some very nice handbags in Gucci, and she said, “Maybe,” and, “Perhaps,” but finally went in and purchased a plain black bag with a bamboo-look handle, which came enveloped in its own soft little white sack and was probably the most expensive thing she had ever owned.
    By then Nonna was really into shopping mode, and we headed across the street to Prada, where she bought Livvie her first handbag (other than a Miss Kitty one when she was seven), a flat black satchel that Livvie thought the last word in cool. And then Livvie saw a pair of bright red boots on sale in another boutique, which meant they were only in the low millions of lire instead of the zillions, plus then there were these cute little T-shirts and sweaters…and like that, if you know what I mean.
    I bought a great handbag for my friend Patty at a much more reasonable price in Furla, on the Piazza di Spagna, and tried on a soft, silky wisp of a red chiffon dress in a boutique called Alberta Ferretti. It looked almost cute on me, and I was almost tempted. Except then I thought, What am I doing, trying on little silk dresses? When would I ever wear a little silk dress? And anyhow, then I saw the price and I almost fainted.
    By now I was exhausted. Shattered, in fact. So I left Nonna and Livvie to it and, laden down with all the packages, headed back to the hotel and—oh thank you, God—bed. Heavenly bed. My feet felt about ten sizes larger than they had that morning.
    A bellboy came running to take my packages, but I waved him away. It was really more effort to untangle myself and give them to him than it was to carry them that extra few minutes it would take me to get to the room. I pushed the elevator button with my elbow and waited, shifting from foot to aching foot. Was the elevator never going to get here? I turned impatiently away, scowling at the delay. Then there was the little ping and I swung around again, stepped into the elevator, and, klutz that I am, tripped over someone’s feet.
    I staggered back against the elevator wall, shedding parcels like a pack mule on a mountain bend. “Oh, shoot,” I said, kicking the nearest bag crossly. “Damned shopping, who needs it!” And then I saw The Feet.
    They were in expensive brown suede loafers, probably from one of the smart shops we had just patronized, and they were worn, I noticed, with pale yellow socks. My eyes traveled upward, past the immaculately pressed pants, taking in the dark blue short-sleeved linen shirt, the steel watch on a very masculine arm with black hairs tangling around it. Up the strong golden-tan neck. And into the eyes of…the Michelangelo of Long Island. I felt that blush again, rising like the sun in a fiery glow.
    His eyes were gray—or were they hazel?—and flecked with golden lights, and they were not smiling at me. “Let me help you,” he said coolly.
    “Oh. I didn’t realize there was someone in the elevator. I’m sorry. That was so clumsy of me.” Conscious of my own scuffed sneakers and dusty appearance, I knelt among the dropped parcels while he pushed the stop button, then bent and helped me pick up my stuff. Our eyes met again over the Prada bag.
    “Yes, it was,” he said as we stood up and he piled parcels into my outstretched arms.
    “Was what?”
    “It was clumsy of you.”
    “Oh!”
    Michelangelo stepped out of the elevator, then turned back and said, “What floor?”
    “Oh. Seven, please.”
    He pushed the seven button and stood staring at me as the doors slid closed. I thought there was a hint of laughter in his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure. What I could be sure of, though, was that I felt like a fool.
    Back in the suite, I flung the packages onto the sofa, then stalked into my room, pulled off my sneakers, and flung myself onto the bed. Fuck Mr. Perfect Know-It-All, I thought, suddenly angry. Who did he think he