The Trip (A Fast Break Romance) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Deborah Grace Staley

  P. O. Box 672

  Vonore, TN 37885

  Copyright 2000, 2011 Deborah Grace Staley

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Visit the author's website at www.deborahgracestaley. Look for other Fast Break Romances© coming soon.

  Cover design: Deborah Grace Staley

  Credits: Photograph of couple kissing © olly - Fotolia.com

  Interior Design: Deborah Grace Staley

  The Trip

  By

  Deborah Grace Staley

  ~*~

  A Fast Break Romance

  Author's Note

  I wrote this short story about twenty years ago. It is my tribute to all those wonderful romances I read that featured the bigger than life tycoon who burst onto the scene of the heroine's life and swept her off her feet. These novels helped a painfully slow reader with poor comprehension prepare for the heavy reading involved in obtaining a college degree. They also helped me believe that perhaps I, too, might someday write a romance novel.

  ~*~

  The Trip was previously published by Nocturnis Productions in an anthology entitled "Northern Hearts" in 2000 and also electronically by Echelon Press in 2004.

  Dedication

  For my sister, Christy, who for years kept me supplied with reading material.

  ~*~

  When I first saw him, I thought I was dreaming. I mean, guys don't just walk off the pages of romance novels and into your life. Especially not ones you've created. But then, I was beginning to accept the unusual as the normal course of things.

  When my first book made a national bestseller list, I thought it was a fluke. I just stuck the money in the bank and didn't tell anyone. It was easy, since in my secret life I wasn't Donna Jean Riley. I was Victoria Dumont.

  Then, another weird thing happened. The second book climbed all the way to number six on that same list, and I wasn't sure what to think. When my publisher sent me a multi-book contract and a check for more money than I'd ever seen, I decided this was real.

  So, I quit my job at the bank. I'd worked there since finishing college. There wasn't much a foreign language major could do in Philadelphia, Mississippi, so I figured being a bank teller was just about as good as teaching teenagers with attitudes and guns. The pay was about the same. I know what you're thinking. Why not move to a big city and get a job as a translator or something equally as exciting? Well, you see, leaving Philadelphia never really crossed my mind. No one left Philadelphia. People grew up there, lived their lives there, and died there. That's just the way it was, and I had no inclination to change the order of things.

  Besides, I had my travels to distract me. Anytime I needed to get away, I went down to the Putnam County Public Library to the geography or history section and off I'd go to medieval Britain, the canals of Venice, the Highlands of Scotland, and other places, old and new. And then I went home and created heroes and heroines who lived there.

  That was my nice, quiet life. I had my cozy little house, two cats, a computer, and my books: the ones on the shelves and the ones in my head. Then Joan, my agent, went and shattered my peaceful existence. She and my editor got together and decided my third book was going to be number one on the list. I was up for an impressive award for my first novel, and they thought since I was going to be in New York anyway, they'd speed up production on my latest book and kick off a publicity tour.

  I wasn't too sold on the idea at first. I sort of liked my anonymity, but they didn't give me much choice. I guess when they pay you that much money to sit at home and live out your wildest fantasies on paper, they expect more in return than commissions and book sales.

  I gave it some thought and decided if I was going to do this, I might as well go for the whole 'author' experience. The works. I could handle signing and having my picture on the back, inside cover. I just hoped they wouldn't make me do readings. But just in case, I signed up for the non-credit summer speech class down at the community college so I could get rid of my Hicksville accent. Then I called up my sister, and we went to the big mall in Tupelo on her day off from hairdresser's school. She'd been bugging me forever about my make-up, and I thought if I was going make appearances as a 'famous author', I should look glamorous.

  So there I was in the Big Apple in early September, staying in a suite at The Plaza, and wearing couture suits that cost more than I made in three months at the bank. I'm racing through the lobby because the limo's been waiting fifteen minutes. (Silk stockings are murder when you're used to nylon panty hose.) And there he stood. I tried to stop, but instead skidded across the marble floor right into his arms.

  He looked about as stunned as me, which was good because I thought I was losing it. I mean, it's like I said, guys don't just walk off the pages of your books and into your path. Unless . . . No. It couldn't be.

  I said, "I'm so sorry."

  "Quite all right."

  Lordy, an Italian accent. Kill me now. "I'm late for an appointment. I didn't see you."

  "Think nothing of it. May I escort you to your car?"

  "No, that isn't necessary. But thank you."

  "I insist," he said as he smoothly took my arm and began guiding me through the lobby. "I wouldn't want some other unsuspecting bystander to walk into your path. He might not fare as well as I."

  What a smile.

  "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Carlo Macinni."

  No! "It's so nice to meet you."

  "The pleasure is mine, um . . ."

  He looked at me expectantly. "Oh, sorry, Don--um, Victoria, Victoria Dumont."

  "The author?"

  "Why, yes. I'm surprised you've heard of me." The doors swished open and a slight breeze lifted his magnificent, dark hair off his shoulders.

  "Yes, I am told I am very much like a character in your most recent novel."

  "Really? How interesting." Dear Lord, deliver me! "Well, this is my car and I'm running very late. Thank you for walking me out."

  "Publicity tour?" he asked as he handed me into the limo.

  "Yes. Thanks again."

  "Good luck," he said, then turned and walked back into the hotel.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should have considered this possibility, but who would have thought? I mean, aren't there about two bazillion people in New York? And what were the chances of the two of us being in the same country at the same time, or for that matter, in the exact same spot at the exact same time?

  I never should have done it. When I saw his picture in that business magazine, I should have said, "Oh, nice looking, check that, incredible looking guy," and left it at that. But no, I had to create a whole book around him. He could sue me, the publisher, and Lord only knew who else. This was a complication I'd never anticipated, but I had to put it in the back of my mind and focus on the book signing and reading I'd be doing in less than, I checked my watch, ten minutes. That's when the limo ground to a halt in the clogged streets of New York City.

  ~*~

  My mind was still churning along with my stomach when the car finally glided up to my first stop on the day's itinerary.

  Joan ran out to meet me. "Donna! Thank goodness you're here. Did you get stuck in traffic?"

  "Yes and--" I started to tell her about my troubles with the stockings--and the hero of my novel--but change
d my mind. "I'm sorry I'm late."

  "No problem. You look great! There are about a hundred people in here dying to meet you," she continued in an efficient, businesslike tone. "Let's get started."

  A hundred people!

  "You're not nervous, are you?"

  "No, not at all." The cheese Danish I'd had for breakfast lodged somewhere between my stomach and my throat.

  She introduced me to the manager who in turn introduced me to the crowd of women standing around. I managed to mumble a few words of gratitude then sat at the table and began signing.

  After about an hour of non-stop writing, the manager presented me with a bouquet of two-dozen blush-colored roses.

  "Thank you so much. How kind of you."

  "They're not from the bookstore. They were just delivered."

  "Oh." I pulled out the card. It read:

  Congratulations on the smashing success of your new book.

  --Carlo

  I thought, this is really too much, but when I looked up and saw him standing in line waiting for an autographed copy of Breathless, I thought, this is really too much.

  "Hello again," he said in that delicious accent.

  "Hello." I hesitated a moment and then said, "Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful."

  "You are very welcome, Ms. Dumont." He lifted my hand to his lips and charmed me with a gentle kiss on the back of my fingers.

  When he handed me his book, I managed, "If you'll tell me your wife's name, I'll be happy to sign this for her."

  "Thank you, but I have no wife. I thought I would decide for myself if I resemble this . . ." he checked the back cover, "Antonio. Would you like me to spell my name for you?"

  "No, that won't be necessary." I opened the book to the title page and wrote:

  Thanks so much for your interest in my book. Enjoy.

  Lame, really lame. You call yourself a writer, then you write drivel.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "You're very welcome." Real original, Donna Jean.

  "Who was that?" Joan whispered in my ear as he walked away.

  "Carlo Macinni."

  "The Carlo Macinni?" she asked as she sat beside me. "The wine mogul/financial wizard/so sexy it hurts Carlo Macinni?"

  "The same."

  "I had no idea you knew him."

  "I don't. We just met this morning."

  "Tell me everything."

  "There's nothing to tell. I was rushing through the lobby on my way here and bumped into him. Literally."

  "You're kidding?"

  "No."

  I gathered my things in preparation of leaving for the next signing.

  "You must have made some impression for the guy show up at your signing and bearing roses, no less."

  "It is odd. I wonder how he knew I was here?"

  "Asked someone at the hotel is my guess."

  "You're probably right."

  On the way to the next stop, I stared at the gorgeous flowers in my lap and thought, what a trip. My second full day in New York, I had a new wardrobe, I'd met one of the sexiest and most successful men in the world, he'd sent me flowers, and bought my book. Life didn't get any better than this.

  I had three more signings, and at each store I received a bouquet of roses. The second was yellow, the third white, and the fourth red. But it was the fourth one that really got my attention. The man himself delivered these in front of a couple hundred of my fans. His lips were a whisper on my cheek as he murmured, "Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady." I thought every woman in the store was going to faint, myself included. And then, he was gone.

  I'll wager I signed so many books in that store, we sold out. Better publicity could not have been imagined than a look alike for my main character delivering flowers and then disappearing into the night. The last card read:

  Meet me for drinks in the hotel's formal lounge at 9:00.

  We wound things up a couple of hours later. I didn't reach the hotel until 9:30. What to do? He'd probably given up and left by now. I felt certain he was not the type of man to wait around on a woman when he surely had such a wide selection from which to choose.

  My feet were killing me, and I wanted nothing more than to soak in bubbles for about an hour, put on my serviceable nightgown, and climb into bed. Instead, I found myself standing in the lounge looking at Carlo. He really knew how to wear a dark suit. The soft lighting made his hair seem even darker. I had never been attracted to men with long hair, but everything about Carlo appealed to me. When I'd first seen his picture in the magazine, I had found him intensely compelling and proximity only multiplied my reaction. As he approached, I felt devoured by his dark gaze and knew I was falling under his spell.

  "Hello." He took my hands and kissed me with old-world charm. I was speechless. Couldn't think of anything other than the feel of his lips as they whispered a caress across my cheeks.

  "I'm pleased that you came," he added as he led me to a corner booth.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," I finally managed. He slid in next to me until his thigh pressed intimately against mine.

  "Think nothing of it," he said in rich, deep tones that brought black velvet to mind. "I imagine it takes quite some time to sign books for so many."

  "Yes, a lot of people showed up for that last signing," I squeaked.

  "Several hundred, I would estimate."

  "You certainly helped boost sales."

  "Did I?" he said innocently. "I'm pleased I could be of service." A waiter came and took our order while I panicked over what to talk about. I mean, how is a normal person supposed to think logically with so much male magnetism sitting so close?

  "Your book is very well written and quite interesting. You are a wonderfully talented writer."

  "You've begun reading it?"

  "Actually, I've finished."

  Good Lord, the book is more than four hundred pages!

  "You must have read non-stop."

  "I found I could not put it down."

  "I'm flattered. I'm always interested in men's reactions to my books, not that I have that many male readers."

  Well, you said that without thinking, Donna Jean. You're supposed to steer him away from the subject of the book. You should recall Antonio is not completely a fictional character, or have those chocolate brown eyes and muscles numbed your brain?

  He slid his arm across the back of the booth and leaned toward me.

  "Do you normally write contemporary romance such as this?"

  I inhaled deeply of his musky cologne. "No. My first two novels were historicals," I whispered, mesmerized by his nearness.

  "How interesting. What inspired you to write this novel?"

  You. "I'm not really sure. The flowers were lovely. It was very thoughtful of you to bring them to me. Thank you."

  "Ms. Dumont, may I use your given name?" He took my hand in his and began a painstaking process of kissing the backs of each of my fingers, one by one.

  "Certainly." I desperately tried not to moan.

  "Thank you. Donna, I know little about writing, but I would think that a story of such intensity surely was inspired by some event, or perhaps a person or relationship."

  "No. There was nothing but me and my imagination," I said nervously.

  "Amazing."

  He was moving the back of my hand along the line of his chiseled jaw when I realized he hadn't called me Victoria.

  "How did you know my name is Donna?"

  "I noticed the book's copyright was to 'Donna J. Riley'."

  The waiter delivered our drinks and retrieving my hand, I nervously twirled the stem of my wine glass. What was he going to do next, read my mind? Carlo was no simpleton. He was very shrewd. Too shrewd in fact.

  My agitation increased with my nervousness and the byproduct was half the contents of my glass all over the tablecloth. "How clumsy of me." I was blotting with vigor when his hand covered mine.

  "You seem a bit nervous, Donna."

  "Yes, I--I suppose I am." I stared
at the large, tanned hand covering mine and tried to think of a graceful means of escape.

  "What can I do to make you more at ease?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Discussing the book seems to be the source of your discomfort. Am I correct?"

  "Yes," I admitted.

  "Why is that?"

  "I don't think I want to have this conversation."

  "There is obviously something you are withholding, and I would hate for this to hinder our becoming better acquainted. Let me assure you that whatever it is that is upsetting you, I would like you to tell me so that we may resolve it."

  Fat chance of that happening. Ever. I continued to hesitate.

  "Confession is good for the soul," he said with a heart-stopping smile.

  I released the breath I'd been holding. He knew.

  "Okay. Antonio is you," I blurted. "I mean, well, in a manner of speaking, he's you."

  "This much I had deduced."

  "It was that apparent?"

  "There were, shall we say, certain similarities."

  I felt I needed to explain. "I read an article in a magazine about you and was intrigued. So, I went to the library and found a few other articles, and before I knew what was happening, Antonio came to life.

  "I know how upset you must be," I added quickly, "and believe me, I wouldn't blame you if you decided to sue."

  "Sue?" he said incredulously.

  "Yes."

  "You cannot possibly think I would do such a thing."

  "You're not angry?"

  "Yes. I am troubled that you have such a poor opinion of me."

  "I don't understand. From everything I've read about you, it is clear that you're a fiercely private person. I should think you would see this as the ultimate invasion."

  "But this is a work of fiction. Although there are some aspects of the character's life that correlate to mine, he certainly is not me. You and I have never met, and I never discuss anything of a personal nature with the press, so you could not possibly know such intimate details about me."