“A man didn’t whack me,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Are youspecial?” She made air quotes around the wordspecial.
I sensed an insult—couldn’t slip anything past me, right?
“My Nonna thought so.” I would have stood a little taller, but I was already an inch or two taller than her. She was on the shorter side, but I didn’t realize it until she started trying to intimidate me.
“Of course,” she said. “We all love our own donkeys.Heee. Haw. Heee.” She made donkey-like noises at me.
Wow.
Okay.
My first impression of her had been correct. Spicy as her peppers. But I had a feeling we were having two different conversations. I ran the conversation back in my head, wondering where it had all gone wrong, where we had veered off in different directions.
Ah. Got it.
I wasn’t the talk of the island because of the ghost whacking; I was the talk of the island after I paraded myself in the streets with the royals of Italy—the Fausti family. Let her think I was “special.” I wasn’t sharing anything about my budding relationship with Rocco Fausti. My lips pinched and so did hers, for two different reasons, it seemed.
A line started to form at the stand. I noticed it was mostly men.
“You will help me or not?” She lifted what reminded me of a wooden bar flap, inviting me to her side.
Invitation accepted. I said nothing as I started working side by side with her. Her stand was twice as busy as the citrus stand, but the woman, who some of the men had called Peppina (a name I assumed was a diminutive for Giuseppina)—go figure—had stocked her stall well. Even after the line thinned, she still had some loose peppers, one or two jars of paste, a few flakes and powders, and a few of the dried bushels left.
She took a seat next to me, watching as I finished up with a customer (a man) who bought a bushel. He wore a thin white T-shirt with a pair of swim trunks, a towel hanging over his shoulder. The look of him, his build, and the lion emblem tattooed on his chest marked him officially as a Fausti. The same tattoo on Rocco’s arm came back to me, and my face suddenly felt hotter than the sun.
Every inch of that man, considered a sexy part of the body or not, could turn me on.
Sighing after the man left, I took a seat on the opposite side of Peppina. She stared at me, and when I turned to face her, she lifted her red eyebrows.
“You remind me of Brando Fausti’s wife,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Not so much in looks, but in spirit.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
She laughed. “Of course, you would think it is a compliment.”
“It is,” I said, my tone defensive. I liked Scarlett. A lot. She almost felt like a sister to me.
She shrugged, waving a hand. “You are good for business.”
I grabbed a bottled water and guzzled it, suddenly realizing how thirsty I was. The scent of the peppers seemed to linger on my tongue, making it tingle.
“You seemed to be doing okay without me.” I sighed, feeling the cool water mustache over my lips in the hot air.
“True,” she said. “The men on this island like me. They feel I am touched.” She tapped her temple. “But we are different.”
“That we are,” I said.
The implied insult had zinged her. I had gotten one in.
Her eyes narrowed. “A warning? That man you are playing with is fire—or he used to be before Rosaria Caffi flew off the cliffside. They tell me she is dead.” She twisted her face at this. “I do not fully believe it. It would take more than rock to kill that one. I doubt the king believes it as well. Or not fully. She is still haunting him, ah?” She waved her hand dismissively. “This is neither here nor there. Not when it comes to Rocco Fausti. I do not believe there is a femaleculoin Italy, besides his family and his brother’s wives—though it is rumored he was in love with the touched one—that he has not touched.”
She lifted and pointed to her well-rounded behind. “Mine included. His wife loved it! She constantly invited women into their bed, including me. All this to say, if you have submitted to that delicious mouth—” her eyes danced with light in remembrance “—you have kissed my lips as well.” She puckered them at me, then nodded forward. “Francesco.”
I had to tear my eyes away from her smug face before I turned and found a man waiting with three other men. The one Peppina had motioned to, Francesco, placed the order. He wanted two pounds of the loose peppers. I realized I had to bend over the stall to get to the bottom of the basket to grab them. I was thankful I hadn’t decided to wear a top that gave an easier view of my cleavage, though my boobs still squished and jiggled when I had to scoop them up, but the lion’s heart pendant was still front and center.
Francesco had those “Fausti” eyes, and they didn’t seem to miss a beat. I refused to meet his eyes when I felt him staring at me the entire time. It felt as if the full effect of the sun had melted the awning and was beating down on me.
