Read Her Italian Millionaire for Free Online

phrase book and took a deep breath.
    “ Conosce un buon ristorante ?” she asked even though the man probably spoke perfect English. How was she going to get better if she didn’t practice She wished she could add, “near here,” in Italian but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to take any more taxis, trains or buses until she had to. She wanted to walk. She’d had enough diesel fumes and cliff-hangers on mountain roads.
    “There is the Vista dei Mare, Signorina,” he said with an amused look. “Very good, very nice, very popular, very close. I will make a reservation. For eight.”
    She looked at her watch. It was only six. Of course Italians didn't eat until eight. “Yes. All right. Thank you.”
    He nodded and picked up the phone. She understood a few words like ristorante, Signorina . Why hadn't she studied more, studied harder? Because she never really thought she'd get here. Never thought she'd ever get divorced, and she knew Dan would never bring her here. Never thought she'd have the nerve to come by herself.
     But she had. She was here. The clerk caught her smiling to herself and gave her an odd look. As her smile faded, he brought out a map.
    “You are here,” he said, putting one tapered finger on the map. “Restaurant is here.”
     It wasn't far. Only about a half an inch away. She folded the map and put it in her shoulder bag, thanked him and started for the front door.
    “Signorina, where are you going?” he called.
    She turned. “Out...just to look around,” she said. “Why, is it dangerous?” It looked like a nice neighborhood, filled with villas on quiet streets. She'd taken all the precautions recommended by the guide books, like wearing her money belt filled with traveler's checks, and her passport hung around her neck under her shirt. This was hardly the slums of Naples – still, she was a stranger here; maybe he knew something she didn’t.
    “No, no, of course not. I was merely inquiring.”
    People were certainly not shy about inquiring. What were some of the questions Marco had asked? What do you want? What will you do now? What if he doesn’t come?
    “I’m going for a walk until dinner,” she said.
    He nodded as if that were the right answer. As she left, he was reaching for the phone again.
    Her gaze swept the patio for signs of Marco. He wasn't there. She didn't know why she felt a twinge of disappointment. She certainly didn't want him harassing her anymore with offers to show her around. He'd probably found some other American to hustle. Whatever the reason, he was gone. Hopefully for good.
    There were plenty of people on the streets, none of whom looked like petty thieves or tried to pick her up or pick her pocket. They were sauntering, just as she was, in the early evening dusk. At home everyone rushed home at six o'clock. Nobody took time to sit at a cafe with friends or strolled around admiring marzipan candies in the sweet shops or bought a gelato cone and walked down the street eating it when they should be home making dinner.
    She stood in front of a furniture store, wishing she could dump everything in her house, every memento of her previous life - from the Oriental carpet that had faded along with her marriage to the gold-plated mantle clock, a wedding present she'd always hated from his parents. When she got home she'd do the whole house over Italian style, with bright Mediterranean colored cushions, light wood and ceramics, and lots of blue and yellow tile.
    Anne Marie left the shopping district and suddenly she was in a different neighborhood of older, smaller houses, of gardens filled with flowers and rows of beans and eggplant. She paused at a small stone house where tomatoes grew on vines supported by wire stands.
    She could so easily imagine herself living in a house like this. She'd be Italian, of course, and she'd can these tomatoes for the winter ahead, along with basil and garlic. When her husband, who might look like that stranger at the hotel this