Susan Phillips - Breathing Room

Now was the time to decide. All she had to do was keep her hand on the table and shake her head. A dozen other women sat within breathing distance, and he wouldn’t make a fuss.

“Sex will not fix what’s broken inside you,” Dr. Isabel said when she lectured. “Sex without a deep and abiding love will only leave you feeling sad and small. So fix yourself first. Fix yourself! Then you can think about sex. Because if you don’t-if you try to use sex to hide your addictions, to hurt the people who’ve abused you, to heal your insecurities so you can feel whole-you’ll only make what’s broken inside you hurt that much worse…”

But Dr. Favor was a bankrupt failure, and the blonde in the Florentine café didn’t have to listen to her. Isabel rose and took his hand.

Her knees felt wobbly from the wine as he led her out of the piazza into the narrow streets. She wondered how much a gigolo charged, and hoped she had enough. If not, she’d use her overextended credit card. They walked in the direction of the river. Once again she experienced that nagging sense of familiarity. Which of the Old Masters had captured his face? But her brain was too fuzzy to remember.

He pointed to a Medici shield on the side of a building, then gestured toward a tiny courtyard where white flowers grew around a fountain. Tour guide and gigolo in one erotic package. The universe provided. And tonight it had provided the missing link in her plan to create a new life.

She didn’t like men towering over her, and he was a head taller than she, but he’d be horizontal soon, so that wouldn’t be a problem. She suppressed a flicker of panic. He could be married, but he barely seemed civilized, let alone domesticated. He could be a mass murderer, but despite the Mafia, Italian criminals tended to prefer theft to slaughter.

He smelled expensive-clean, exotic, and enticing-but the scent seemed to come from his pores instead of a bottle. She had a vision of him pressing her against one of the ancient stone buildings, lifting her skirt, and pushing into her, except that would get it over with too quickly, and getting it over with wasn’t the point. The point was being able to silence Michael’s voice so she could move forward with her life.

The wine had made her clumsy, and she tripped on nothing. Oh, she was a smoothie, all right. He steadied her, then gestured toward the door of a small, expensive hotel.

“Vuoi venire con me al’albergo.”

She didn’t understand the words, but the invitation was clear.

“I want passion!” Michael had said.

Well, guess what, Michael Sheridan? So do I.

She pushed past Dante and marched into the tiny lobby. Its exquisite appointments were reassuring-velvet drapes, gilded chairs, terrazzo floor. At least she’d be having her sordid sex on clean sheets. And this wasn’t the kind of place a lunatic would choose to murder a naïve, undersexed female tourist.

The desk clerk handed him a key, so he was already registered. A high-class gigolo. Their shoulders brushed in the tiny elevator, and she knew that the heat in the pit of her stomach came from more than wine and unhappiness.

They stepped out into a dimly lit hallway. As she gazed at him, a bizarre image flashed through her mind of a black-garbed man firing an assault weapon.

Where had that come from? Although she didn’t feel entirely safe with him, neither did she feel as though she were in physical danger. If he’d planned to murder her, he’d have done it in one of the alleys they’d passed, not with an assault weapon in a five-star hotel.

He led her to the end of the corridor. His hand on her arm was firm, a silent signal, perhaps, that he was now in charge.

Oh, God… What was she doing?

“Good sex, great sex, needs to be just as much about our brains as it is about bodies.”

Dr. Isabel was right. But this wasn’t about great sex. This was about raunchy, forbidden, dangerous sex in a strange city with a man she’d never see again. Sex to clear her mind and wash away her fear. Sex to reassure her that she was still a woman. Sex to mend the broken places so she could move ahead.

He opened the door and flipped on a light switch. His women paid him well. This was no simple hotel room but an elegant suite, although a bit untidy, with his clothes tumbling from an open suitcase and his shoes lying in the middle of the floor.

“Vuoi un poco di vino?”

She recognized the word “ vino ” and meant to say yes, but she got confused and shook her head instead. The motion was too fast, and she nearly lost her balance.

“Va bene.” A small, courteous nod, and then he walked past her into the bedroom. He moved like a creature of the dark, sleek and damned. Or maybe she was the one damned because she didn’t leave. Instead, she followed as far as the doorway and watched him go to the windows.

He leaned out to push the shutters back, and the breeze ruffled the long, silky strands of his hair while the moonlight glazed it with silver. He gestured outside. “Vieni vedere. Il giardino è bellissimo di notte.”

Her feet felt like alcohol-soaked rags as she set her purse on the dresser and went over to stand at his side. She gazed down and saw half a dozen tables in the flower-filled courtyard, their umbrellas collapsed for the night. Beyond the walls she heard traffic, and she thought she detected the musty scent of the Arno.

His hand slipped under her hair. He’d made the first move.

She could still leave. She could let him know this was a big mistake, a colossal mistake, the mother of all mistakes. How much money did you leave a gigolo who hadn’t completed the job? And what about a tip? Should she leave-

But he was just holding her. And holding wasn’t bad. It had been a long time. He felt a lot different from Michael. That unpleasant height, of course, but also a very pleasant muscularity.

He lowered his head, and she began to back away, because she wasn’t ready for the kissing to start. Then she reminded herself this was to be a purging.

His lips touched hers at just the right angle. The slide of his tongue was perfect, neither too timid nor too suffocating. It was a great kiss, elegantly executed, no slurping sounds. Pretty much flawless. Too flawless. Even in her haze she knew that there was nothing of himself in it, just an effortless display of professional expertise. Which was good. Exactly what she would have expected if she’d had enough time to expect anything.

What was she doing here?

Shut up and let the man do his job. Think of him as a sex surrogate. Reputable therapists use them, don’t they?

He certainly believed in taking his time, and her blood began to move a little faster. She gave him points for gentleness.

His hand slid under her sweater before she was ready, but she didn’t try to redirect him. Michael was wrong. She didn’t have to take control. Besides, Dante’s touch felt good, so she couldn’t be all that dysfunctional, could she? He flicked the catch of her bra, and she began to tense. Relax and let the man work. This is perfectly natural, even if he is a complete stranger.

He pushed aside the cups and stroked her spine. She was going to let him do this. She was going to let him brush his finger over her nipple. Yes, just like that. He was very skillful… Taking plenty of time. Maybe she and Michael had been too quick to race to the end, but what could you expect from goal-oriented workaholics?

Dante seemed to appreciate fondling her breasts, which was nice. Michael had enjoyed them, but Dante seemed more of a connoisseur.

He drew her away from the window toward the bed and pushed up her sweater. Before, he’d been able only to touch her breasts. Now he could see them as well, and that felt intrusive, but if she pulled her sweater back down, she might be proving Michael’s point, so she kept her hands at her sides.