The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(47)

But one by one, my new friends scatter. The blondes find a flock of guys to dance with. Lucy moseys over to the tall, dark-skinned guy who’d been checking her out at the bar. She’s on the other side of the dance floor now, her arms flung over her head as she prances around in front of him, arching and dipping to provide an unobstructed view of the Fontana mountain range.

I’m smiling when, without forewarning, my stomach rumbles. A queasy feeling comes over me.

I snake my way through the dance floor, trying to steady myself, when the short redhead—Prince Harry wannabe—appears. Uninvited, he grabs hold of my hands. What makes him think I want to hold his sweaty hands? He winks as he yanks me back onto the dance floor. Am I the only one who thinks winks are creepy?

I do my best to lose myself in the song—some techno tune with lots of bass. I’m at a bar in Venice, drinking and dancing—with a guy. Tonight, I’m actually putting myself out there, just like I promised Lucy I’d do. My stomach churns.

Speaking of Lucy, where is she, anyway? I gaze past the top of Harry’s head, trying to keep a little rhythm in my step. The music slows. My neck snaps when he yanks me to his chest. Our bodies press together, sandwiched like a PB&J, except one slice of bread—my slice—is about twice the size of the other. Lovely. I’m dancing with a twelve-year-old. And what’s that poking at my thigh? Oh, shit! Make that a horny twelve-year-old!

I struggle to create some distance between us and search the dance floor for Lucy. There she . . . hey, where’s she going? She’s walking off with the swarthy guy in black. I wave my hand until finally, she sees me. She points at the guy, wags her tongue, and gives me a thumbs-up. I manage a weak smile, one I hope conveys Don’t you dare leave me!

“Relax, beautiful,” Harry whispers.

But how am I supposed to relax, in the clutches of Shorty and his hard-on? I take a deep breath. This isn’t about me. I’m here for Lucy. And tonight, she’s happy.

The song ends and Harry grabs my hand. “Come,” he says, pulling me across the floor.

My heart thuds. “Wait,” I say, searching for Lucy. “My cousin—”

But Harry has a tight grip and he’s dragging me along like a kid at a carnival. He’s hurting my hand. My head is filled with cotton. I can’t think straight. I stagger past the bar, trying to keep up with him, all the while craning my neck, hoping to spot Lucy. Everything’s out of focus. Where is she?

The door pushes open and a cool puff of wind hits me. Behind us, the door slams shut.

It’s mercifully quiet in the piazza. I suck in deep breaths while Harry leads me around a corner. I realize he’s on a mission and pull back. “Stop,” I say, tugging my hand from his grip. “I have to find my cousin.”

“She left with Ethan.” Sure enough, he has a British accent.

“Who?”

“My mate.” He tips his head to the right. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Where would we go at this hour? I don’t even know you.”

His eyes twinkle, as if I might be joking.

“I’m not leaving without Lucy. My aunt is waiting—”

Without warning, his thin, chapped lips clamp down on mine, stealing my words. I’m frozen with revulsion and shock. A wet tongue darts into my mouth. “Stop,” I manage to say, but he hitches me closer. He tastes of garlic and stale beer and I fight the urge to gag. I try pulling away, but Harry’s grip is too tight. He’s groping my ass!

“Let me go!” I say, and manage to shove him away. But he’s right back on me like a chimpanzee, his arm a vise around the back of my neck.

My stomach gurgles. The chile vodka whatever-it-was rises from my stomach. It’s making its way up my esophagus, and I’m powerless to stop it. I put my hands to Harry’s chest and push away with all my might. He staggers backward.

“The fuck!” he says.

I double over, vomiting down his pant legs, onto his Stan Smiths.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

I swipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Now,” I say. “Do I make myself clear? Leave me the hell alone!”

He stares at me with wide eyes, then lifts his hands. “You are one sick bitch.”

I watch as he walks away. “Yes,” I say proudly. “I am.” Then I vomit once more, this time into a trash bin.





Chapter 25




Emilia

I can’t believe I barfed on the Brit. Serves him right. Men are pigs—all men except Matt and Liam, that is. Is this what Lucy has to contend with, night after night? No, thank you!

I return to the bar and search the place, but Lucy’s nowhere to be found. Where could she be? Finally, I settle for my last resort. I stand outside Il Campo and wait for her to leave—or return.

Forty minutes later, I’m more or less sober, and panic is setting in. The bar is emptying. We need to get back to the hotel—which is where, exactly? Damn Lucy!

The last patrons tumble out at two a.m., the quartet of beautiful Dutch girls.

“Hey,” I say, “have you seen Lucy?”

“Yes,” one of them says. “About two hours ago. She left with that guy in black.”

I hear the squeak of a door and turn to see a man in a white shirt padlocking the entrance.