The Story of X: An Erotic Tale by A. J. Molloy Read Free Book Online Page A

parasol. I
     sit.
    “Signorina, buongiorno—e Signor Roscarrick!”
    Marc is obviously well-known here; his arrival has created a tiny but perceptible
     hubbub among the other diners, but especially among the staff. I wonder how many other
     young women he has squired to these tables under this Italian sun, in this same sweet
     and cooling sea breeze.
    I don’t care. Nibbling at a breadstick— grissini —I gaze and sigh, and feel the sincere horrors of the last hour begin to drop away.
    Because if there is any place that might soothe a troubled mind, it is here. The view
     is so beautiful; the great bay sweeps with cavalier generosity from the ancient glittering
     center of Naples, past the brooding heights of Vesuvius, down toward the cliffs and
     beaches of Vico and Sorrento. Italian flags ripple in the mellow wind, yachts ply
     the prosperous blue waters, smart polizia in speedy motorboats unzip the sea into exuberant vees of surf. It is a painting
     of Mediterranean Happiness.
    “It is very lovely,” I say, reflexively.
    “You like it?” Marc seems genuinely pleased. His white-toothed smile fits perfectly
     into the scenery. The ocean? Check. The sun? Check. The handsome man? Check. All present
     and correct. Hmm.
    “The waitress knows you, right? I suppose you come here a lot . . . ?” My question
     is unworthily suspicious. I chide myself for my rudeness. But Marc answers very graciously,
     nonetheless.
    “I know the owner, Signora Manfredi. Her husband was a police officer. The Camorra . . . killed him.”
     Shaking his head, Marc glances down at the menu but my guess is that he knows exactly
     what is written there. He is disguising emotion. He pauses, then his expression lifts
     and brightens. “I helped her set this place up, with a little loan. In return, she
     guarantees to serve all my favorite dishes. And my very own wines. Here.” Marc leans across and points at
     something on my menu. “You see this one?”
    I attempt to read the item. It is impossibly difficult. “ Pesci ang . . . basilic . . .” I give up. “Um, some kind of fish?”
    He nods.
    “Yes, some kind of fish. Actually it is angler fish on a basil risotto, with lobster
     foam. It is quite sensational. You want to try?”
    I look at him, and he looks at me.
    Kicking off my sandals under the table, I sit back, driving the worries from my mind
     again and focusing on the moment. Only the moment.
    “Why not, Marc. You choose. Choose for me.”
    He nods, with just a hint of a smile.
    “Okay.”
    I smile in return. I am barefoot in the sun, and now the relaxation is working—it
     is pervading me like a drug: anesthetizing the pain of the morning. We are surrounded
     by happy Italian families chattering and eating, where the scents of lemon and good
     cooking and the glittering sea all waft and refresh.
    “And some wine? If you will permit me?”
    “You officially have my permission. Not least, Marc Roscarrick, because you’re paying.”
    Where did that come from? Maybe danger has emboldened me, made me flirtatious. He
     laughs anyway.
    “Very good point. Okay, we will have some wines from the Alto Adige—you know it?”
    “No.”
    “It’s the far north of Italy, the South Tyrol, where they speak German. One day, maybe
     . . .” He gazes at me, then shakes his head, as if correcting himself. “The wines
     are just brilliant, but barely known outside the region. My family has estates there—vineyards
     and a schloss . That is to say, a castle.”
    “But of course,” I say, half smiling. “Who hasn’t got their own schloss ? I used to have a schloss but I got bored. Schlosses are so last year. Now I want a palacio .”
    “Ah. You’re teasing me.”
    “You’re a billionaire. The first billionaire I’ve ever met.”
    “I’m not sure whether to be gratified, X.”
    “What’s it like having that much money, anyway?” I crunch a breadstick. He smiles
     at my audacity. There is a European flag fluttering