She's On Top. Susan LyonsЧитать онлайн книгу.
he came.
There was nothing like a morning routine. Over the past couple of months it had become Rina’s habit to rise before seven and go for a three-mile walk with her elderly neighbor, Levi Fischman. Breakfast, after the walk, was Earl Grey tea and low-fat yogurt, which she consumed while checking e-mail and her appointment book, planning her day.
Today, she plunked her strawberry yogurt down beside the computer and checked her watch. Only eight. No chance Giancarlo would have checked e-mail and responded yet, but—
“Oh my God.” Hurriedly she clicked open his message and scanned it.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. She turned to her cat, who was gazing out the window. “He wants to see me!”
Sabine turned to her, sat down neatly with her tail wrapped around her body and began grooming herself.
“Tonight? Oh no, he wants to see me tonight. I don’t have anything to wear.” Nor could she shed twenty pounds in one day. “What was I thinking? This was crazy. Stupid. I don’t really want to see him.”
The cat tilted her head and said, “Mmrp?”
Rina sighed. “Yeah, okay, I do. I want to, but I don’t want to be me. I want to be a skinnier, prettier version of me.”
Sabine studied her for a long moment, then stood slowly, stretched and sauntered over. She leaped into Rina’s lap and began to purr.
“Okay, you love me just the way I am.” Rina stroked the soft fur and immediately felt calmer. “You’re right. It’s not like I want the man to be attracted. The whole point is for us to not be attracted to each other, so I can stop dreaming about him and move on.”
All the same, that didn’t mean she had to wear her dowdiest clothes. Mind busily inventorying the contents of her closet, Rina quickly typed,
Sounds great! Tonight at 7 is good. Where?
Then she headed for the shower where she shampooed and conditioned her hair, shaved her legs and armpits, then trimmed her bush, where the curls grew as exuberantly as on her head. Not, of course, that Giancarlo was going to be getting any peeks at her private parts, but anything that made her feel a tad more feminine would be a confidence booster tonight.
After toweling her hair, she spritzed on a healthy dose of leave-on almond oil conditioner in an attempt to subdue the frizz. Then she examined her face in the mirror and plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs. Could a woman get any hairier?
Though she couldn’t complain about her long, full eyelashes. And her eyes were her best feature. As for her nose—what could she say? It was Jewish, and she was damned if she’d have it fixed. Lips weren’t bad. Full, naturally rosy.
Knowing she’d be teaching until six, she decided to make her clothes-for-dinner decisions now and get everything laid out.
Her wardrobe, much of which she sewed herself, consisted mainly of clothes designed to cover up the body that her girlfriends called voluptuous and her Aunt Rivka called zaftig. A body that was, in fact, just like Rivka’s. Rina’s mom had been svelte, her dad had been fit and muscular, yet she’d managed to get the same zaftig genes as her mom’s sister.
Rina’d been dieting since she was nine, when her mother first started worrying that her puppy fat wasn’t disappearing. “You don’t want to end up looking like your aunt,” her mom had said. But sure enough, that’s exactly what had happened.
Now she studied the dark skirts and pants in her closet. Actually, since she’d been walking and doing yoga, her legs weren’t so bad. Maybe she’d go with a knee-length skirt rather than a longer one. Black, of course. With black pumps that were higher heeled than she normally wore and gave her calves some nice definition.
She added a loose, gauzy black blouse and her favorite scarf, a huge, fringed, silk one with gigantic red poppies embroidered on it. Of course she had dangly earrings to match, with satiny jet beads and glittery red ones.
What a contrast she’d be to the performers Giancarlo was used to working with, who bared nine-tenths of their bodies in tiny skirts, tube tops, bustiers or even skimpier clothing.
She sure hoped that at least he was still kind of funny looking, or she’d be completely intimidated and regret she’d ever e-mailed him.
The hotel had made a reservation for Giancarlo at a restaurant they recommended—Don Francesco’s on Burrard Street. Where, apparently, the Italian owner had studied opera and could, on a special occasion, be persuaded to sing.
It was less than a mile from the Opus Hotel. Freshly showered and shaved, dressed in black pants and a slim-fitting black V-neck sweater made of a cashmere/silk blend, Giancarlo decided to walk. Along the way, he absorbed sights, sounds and smells, storing away each impression for possible use in a video. Vancouver was funky and unpretentious, he thought. A real mix of people: all ages, races, economic levels and sexual orientations.
When he walked into the restaurant, the aromas of Italy greeted him. He sniffed appreciatively, savoring the scents of garlic, rosemary, roasting chicken and lamb.
He gave his name and a waiter in a white shirt and black pants led him to a white-clothed corner table by the window. The restaurant had an elegant simplicity, with creamy yellow walls, gilt-framed paintings of Italian scenes and a wall of dark shelving holding wine bottles. The music, soft enough so as not to interfere with conversation, was classical guitar. His hotel had done well by him.
He’d barely sat down when a man in a suit came over. Perhaps sixty, his face had smile lines and his close-cropped black hair was silvered. “Buona sera, Signor Mancini. Benvenuto a mio ristorante.” He smiled broadly and held out a hand. “Sono il padrone, Francesco Alongi.” In Italian, he went on to say that the Opus Hotel, when making the reservation, had made special note of the fact that they were countrymen.
“Buona sera.” Giancarlo continued on in Italian, exchanging pleasantries, happy for the rare opportunity to speak his native language.
Francesco asked him if this was an evening with a special lady, and he answered, “Spero de sì.” I hope so. That led to a consultation about the appropriate beverage. Always the optimist, Giancarlo placed an order, which Francesco passed along to a waiter.
As he and Francesco chatted, Giancarlo kept an eye on the door.
He recognized her the moment she stepped into the restaurant. She hadn’t changed, except to grow more beautiful. When he let out an approving sigh, Francesco turned to look, and both men spoke at the same time. “Bellissima.”
Now that, Giancarlo thought, his dick pulsing with appreciation, was what a woman was supposed to look like. Curves that, as he well remembered, were soft and utterly genuine, not the product of a plastic surgeon. A lush body covered in a way that was modest yet seductive. Beautifully shaped legs and graceful neck, the glimpse of a forearm as she reached up to brush hair back from her face. A temptress’s hair—an abundance of undisciplined curls that whispered of sensual pleasures.
One day, if he found the right performer, he’d do a video that played on this seductive subtlety. Not the usual in-your-face sexuality so many young—and not so young, if you counted Madonna and Cher—entertainers flaunted.
“She doesn’t recognize you,” Francesco murmured.
Giancarlo realized he’d been staring at Rina for several minutes and she hadn’t moved. She’d been gazing around the room, eyes wide. Fiddling with her fringed shawl, searching for a familiar face and not finding it.
He snapped his fingers. “I forgot how much I’ve changed since she knew me.”
He rose to his feet and hurried toward her. “Rina.” He caught her hands in his, feeling an immediate surge of warmth, connection. Arousal. He squeezed her hands lightly. No rings. Yes, he could let himself hope.
She stood gaping, then her cheeks flushed and she blurted out, “Giancarlo? Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you.” She glanced