Watching eyes surrounded me.
Even when I had been alone, I was never alone. Rocco’s spirit not only covered me like a shield, but extensions of him had been placed to keep watch over me. Not only did I feel it, but I recognized some of the faces. The men had not been making it obvious, but it was obvious to me that they had been put in strategic places on the island to keep watch over me when Rocco couldn’t.
Since he had his own work too, even though this island was supposed to be for Fausti vacations, I’d decided to keep busy by working at thechilestand, since I’d never showed up for my shifts after the concussion. It seemed like a fun thing to do, to work there. One day I’d say, “Oh, that summer on an island in the middle of nowhere, not far from Italy, not only did I work at a citrus stand but at a chili pepper one too!”
Besides, the moving of the stalls was sort of symbolic to CK’s character growth. She goes from the tangy side of the island to a spicy one.
Which lead me to my next point.
Getting there was proving to be somewhat embarrassing, especially knowing I had eyes on me from all sides. I’d decided to take the Vespa, since the dead car was probably in a metal graveyard somewhere, and when I sat on the hard seat, I moaned. I was extremely sensitive between my legs after our morning discovery session, and the vibration was doing things to me that felt unnatural.
I was convinced that, after our first time, I was going to need a hundred pounds of Epsom salts, or a soak in the salty sea. I was thankful that the wind whipping against me cooled me off some and hid the fact that on bumpy streets, or sharp turns, I groaned.
Rocco Fausti and I had unfinished—somethingto attend to.
Businesswas too impersonal.
Sexual relations? Sexual awakening?
Whatever label it had, I needed more of it.
He’d awoken something inside of me that was as starved as he was. But I knew he needed time—time to process my arrival in his life. He was all about following the laws his family had set, and the ones he had set for himself. No wonder he was a lawyer—he seemed anal retentive about details. Which was why I was keeping up with the symbolism in his life. At Sunday dinner, even though the men talked, I could tell it went much deeper than what they were saying at times.
I was going to have to keep sharp and keep pace. I was going to have to keep up with his hesitance too. I could literally feel it when he swerved from cold to hot and back to cold. He’d pull away from me like he’d done this morning.
I hit a bump and made a “Mmm, eeee, mmmm,” noise, groaning after. It was like my body was eager for another orgasm. The one I’d had this morning was powerful, so powerful, it felt like I’d been thrown out of myself for a minute or two, then floated back into myself. Since I finally knew what all the fuss was about, I felt like I might finally have an addiction in my life—Rocco Fausti sex.
It was a relief when the chili-pepper stand came into view andI found a place to park. Then I noticed the fat tabby, eye sealed shut, loitering around the stand like this was his territory. Pisolino had been following me, but he veered off and gone in a separate direction before I got to the pepper stand. I was glad. At least the stand itself was as cute as the citrus stand.
The pepper stand had a red and white awning, and the hand-painted sign was emblazoned with one word:Calabrian. A second word,Chilis(maybe?), had faded from time and sun to almost nothing. Bunches of dried chilis hung from the awning, fresh single red peppers were in baskets in the front, two wooden scales hung on each side, and there were rows of flakes, powder, and something calledbomba di Calabria, which looked to be some type of paste.
The woman behind the stand lifted up a jar. “I make this myself. Balsamic vinegar, sea salt, olive oil, and garlic, ah?”
I blinked at her.
This woman was a spicy pepper incarnate. Her long, straight hair almost glowed fire red in the bright sun. Her amber eyes seemed to pop because of the color of her hair. She wore a red dress that hung from one shoulder, her breasts filling the fabric out, then tapered in at her tiny waist before it flowed around her curvaceous hips and dropped to a ruffled hem. Her sandals were gold. Her nails and toenails were painted the same color as her Calabrian peppers. She wore dazzling bangle bracelets up to mid-arm on both arms. Around her neck hung a dainty gold cross.
She pushed the paste at me, my eyes going crossed for a second, her bracelets clinking. “You want?”
“Ah.” I found my tongue. “I would love to try it, but I’m here to work. I’m Aria Bella.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You are the girl from Iliana and Pirtinac’s citrus stand?”
“I’m pretty sure I can prove it,” I said, going for a little humor. “I still smell like lemons and blood oranges.”
“They tell me you were whacked in the head with a candelabra at the haunted villa.”
“Word travels fast on the island.”
She set the paste down. “Aria Bella, ah?”
“Most people just call me Ari.”
“‘Just call me Ari,’ you are the talk of this island.”
“Getting whacked in the head by asupposed—” I made air quotes “—ghost is big news.”
“A ghost?” She smiled at me. “He is no ghost, girl. He is a man.”
