SARA WOOD - The Vengeful Groom

Giovanni, Tina thought at once, his name shocking her with its sudden arrival in her head. Giovanni moved with an undeniably erotic grace, and his hair sat like whipped cream on his tanned Latin forehead, making a startling contrast.

Back came that star-burst moment when she’d fallen so helplessly in love with him. He’d walked into her class when she was an impressionable fourteen and he’d been a year older—a tall, graceful Polish-Sicilian from the back streets of Palermo, with pride and apprehension and defiance fighting in his expression.

“I prefer dark guys myself,” she stated emphatically, wrinkling her small nose.

“How’s it goin’, sir?” called Josh respectfully to the feet and cream pants.

“Great.”

The muffled reply came as a relief because it meant she didn’t need to hang around. But she couldn’t help wishing he was some rich guy who’d turned up to buy the garage. Then her grandfather could retire and stop creaking himself into gear every morning. Even with the part-timers and guys on school placement sharing the work, he ended up exhausted. Having Adriana around with her innocent demands didn’t help, however much happiness she brought.

Tina’s expression grew soft and affectionate when she scanned the small Murphy’s Garage, with their cramped apartment above and a For Sale sign in front. Then her gaze returned to the burned-out buildings of the derelict Alden place a few yards away. Brent Powell—now Josh’s stepfather, she reminded herself—had nearly lost his life in the fire there a couple of years ago. A terrible scene, an awful memory.

It was a scandal that the old colonial house and outbuildings were still standing in ruins and that the town couldn’t enforce the destruction order. The place was an eyesore, and the blackened timbers and collapsing clapboard facade had badly affected Grandpa’s asking price.

And then she gave a wry grin. She’d promised Grandpa she wouldn’t think of anyone but herself today, and already she’d checked on a crowd of students and a tinkering Lamborghini driver, and worried about selling the garage!

“Well, if everything’s okay, I’m off to pick up a picnic for the beach,” she said cheerfully. “Hang around, you guys. Awed hayseeds sometimes get dimes thrown to them!”

Lisa giggled. “I’m not going! Bet you’d stay, too, if you were sixteen.”

“You got it!” Tina admitted. “But I’m more than ten years beyond that sell-by date!” She grinned, knowing how old that must seem to Lisa. “Only a senior citizen with a decent pension would give me a passing glance now.”

Something hit her small sandaled foot. A silver coin. She blinked. “What the…?”

Everyone was laughing. “A dime for a hayseed, Miss Murphy!”

“It’s his pension—you hit the jackpot!” cried Josh.

“Then he’s got sound judgment,” she said simply.

The blueness of her eyes deepened with warmth at their laughter. She loved it that they could crack jokes together and that they regarded her as a friend. The relationship she’d evolved with them over the years had gotten to be as comfortable and familiar as an old sofa. Too comfortable sometimes, she thought ruefully; the students seemed to think she was available all hours of the day—and night. But then, they knew she’d move heaven and earth for them and she’d root for them till she dropped. Though, come a crunch, she could do some tough talking and deal with a drama or two.

A second coin landed on her red-painted toe. Fascinated, she pushed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. Skillful, she thought. He didn’t have much room to maneuver under there.

“I’m being targeted,” she marveled. “Hey. I’m a high school guidance counselor, not a slot machine!”

“He’s pretty accurate,” Brad Phister said admiringly.

“Perhaps he pitches for the Red Sox,” she suggested.

Feeling curious, she crouched down, tipping her head sideways in an attempt to see under the car. She got a view of a male body clad in discreetly toned cream, a hunky quarterback chest soaring up and preventing her from seeing beyond, and a bared flexing arm and the flash of a gold watch as another silver coin whizzed in her direction.

“Hi, there! You practicing stone skipping?” No answer. “Okay, I give up. What are you doing? Try dollar bills! I take credit cards! Gold!” she called, unable to keep the laughter from her voice. It was crazy! The guy still didn’t answer, and she stood up in puzzled defeat.

Then the glove-soft shoes shot forward, the girls taking in a collective breath as the long legs and slim hips of a young, athletic-looking male came into view. Rich, too, thought Tina, highly intrigued. Those immaculately pressed pants weren’t from a thrift shop. Her curiosity soared as questions of who, why and what skated around her brain.

Under her fascinated gaze, the discreet cream knees bent and the leather-clad heels propelled the body out a little more. Now they could all see that the guy had been lying on a proper mechanic’s trolley. The mystery deepened. A trolley wasn’t the kind of thing a rich man kept handy.

“I think he’s Italian,” stated Lisa, “despite the blond hair. Wait till you see his pecs!”

“Pecs? I’ve seen pecs,” said Tina mildly, but she stayed nevertheless, dying to know why a blond Italian would throw coins….

She took a step back in shock. Her small hand went to her brightly painted mouth. A blond Italian. Italian car. Italian shoes.

Oh, God!

Her skin paled beneath its tan, washed with gray from head to toe, her huge, dark-lashed eyes suddenly great sinking navy pools in her horrified face. Suddenly she didn’t want to stay around the dime-tossing stranger any longer. Just in case. Her heart stopped beating for a brief moment as the ground seemed to heave beneath her feet and she tried to steady herself.

It could well be Giovanni.

Hazily she focused on the feet, the legs, the dancer-slim hips. It couldn’t be. No, some other guy. Why had she thought of Gio? Her intuition had gone crazy. He could never afford to rent a Lamborghini, let alone buy one. Surely… She swallowed. No man in his position would want to come back. The shame, the accusing stares, the stony silence from everyone would be unbearable for him.

Yet there was the familiar thud in her chest that came when Giovanni was close, the melting of her body into a molten heap, ready to erupt when he touched her, spoke, fixed her with his brooding, heavy-lidded eyes.

Since his departure so long ago, nothing had changed the way she felt deep inside. A crowd of guys had dated her; a few had kissed her. She scowled, firmly pushing back the inevitable thought that none of them had taken her all the way to heaven the way Giovanni had.

Perhaps it was just as well. The lush red of her lips parted in a grimace of pain. Never again in her entire life did she want to feel that she was dying inside because of a man’s rejection and his casual betrayal. Or to realize that the man she’d loved was without honor or backbone. No wonder Gio’s adoring parents had disowned him!

She inhaled sharply, slamming the door on a pain ten years old. That was how you dealt with tragedy; when it was too huge, too hurtful to cope with, you eliminated it from your mind and threw yourself into work one hundred percent and made some kind of a life for yourself.

Her mouth trembled. Every now and then, a word, a gesture, the angle of a jaw or a word spoken on the television, caused her to learn the cruel lesson that her love for Giovanni had never faded; it was merely suppressed. Which made her a mindless fool, because only a mindless fool carried a torch for a cheat and a liar.

Men like Gio were virtually programmed to build up a woman’s hopes, to deceive and disappoint—then to vanish. He was a coward. No, worse than that, she thought unhappily. Much worse. As bad as a man could be.