He shrugged noncommittally. “Assholes, the whole lot of them. But they’ve got more money than God and they’re interested in slapping their son’s name on our theater so who am I to say no?”
A techno arrangement ofCarmina Buranabegan thumping through the speakers before she could reply. He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! Is nothing sacred?” Min laughed and his eyes flared at the sound. He downed the last of his beer and threw a wad of Euros on the bar. Dr. Jacobs stood and held out his hand to her. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” she shouted over the music. Not that it mattered.
“Anywhere this abomination isn’t playing.”
Min hesitated, glancing around to check that no one was paying attention to them. Her castmates were too focused on finding someone to hook up with to noticed what their conductor was doing. She placed her hand in his and followed him through the throng of drunken dancers.
At the back of the club, they found a door with a hastily painted sign bearing an Italian phrase on it. Dr. Jacobs arched an eyebrow at her. “Rooftop terrace,” he translated. “It says it’s closed. Shall we find out for ourselves?”
She bit her lip and, throwing caution to the wind, pushed open the door. “Lead the way, maestro,” she said. Min never broke the rules. But the way his strong hand held hers – firm and yet soft, confident and reassuring – rules be damned. She would go anywhere with him. After all, the last time she took his hand and followed him, he flipped her world upside down.
They slipped through the door and let it close behind them, ascending the staircase in near darkness. Dr. Jacobs’ hand on her back guided her to the top, where he pushed open another door and they emerged onto the roof of the club.
The terrace was obviously being renovated. Tables and chairs were stacked against one of the half walls that lined the edge of the roof. A table saw and other equipment were draped with a heavy tarp in the middle of the space. The floor was covered in saw dust and a half-constructed pergola stood unfinished. But the view was breathtaking. As the door closed behind them, the sounds of the club dimmed to the dull thumping of the music’s bass. The city lay below, brightly lit and beautiful, while they stood on the roof in a cloak of darkness.
“Stay right there,” Dr. Jacobs said, squeezing her hand before dropping it and disappearing into the darkness. She clenched her fist, trying to retain some of the warmth of his touch.
A moment later, the edges of the terrace lit up with white Christmas lights and Dr. Jacobs returned to her side, looking every bit the triumphant hero. She noted the swagger in his step with a smile. They wandered to the edge of the roof, leaning against the half wall as he pointed out landmarks to her, telling her stories of the Medici and the great artists who once called Florence home. It was the most fascinating history lesson she’d ever received, made all the more so by the man with full lips framed with dark stubble reciting the stories.
“Over there,” he said, pointing across the street. “That is the Parco delle Cascine.” He glanced at her to make sure she was following. She was hanging on his every word. “Cosimo de’Medici built it as a hunting estate and Napoleon’s sister turned it into a public park.”
“We’ll have to go. We can bring a picnic,” she said, her voice halting as she tested the bounds of this energy crackling between them.
He smiled broadly, eyes sparkling. He could level buildings with a smile that devastating.
Dr. Jacobs shifted slightly, leaning his hip against the wall and facing Min more directly as he pointed again. “That is the statue of Vittorio Emanuele the second, the first king of Italy. He famously married his mistress, La Bela Rosin.” Lowering his voice, conspiratorially, “Quite scandalous for the time since she was not a member of the aristocracy.”
“He must have really loved her.”
He hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell her the next part. “It’s not as romantic as it seems, I’m afraid. Apparently, he had many mistresses who bore him many children. Just one of the reasons, I’m sure, that the pope had him excommunicated.”
She laughed, feeling lighter with every story he shared, with every moment that passed between them without the stifling roles imposed by the university. She crossed the roof to the other side, looking out over the city and breathing in the crisp air. It felt like freedom.
He followed behind her, like she was his prey and he was some lithe animal following her every move, a predator lying in wait. That shouldn’t excite her, but there was no denying the shiver that ran down her spine at the thought.
She hugged her arms around herself, suddenly aware of the deepening chill in the air but unwilling to suggest that they go back inside and break the spell. Something was happening here, something that felt big. Like the longer they talked on that rooftop, the closer they came to uncovering this living, breathing thing between them. So she couldn’t stop this trajectory they were on for such a little thing as being cold.But Dr. Jacobs didn’t miss anything when it came to Min. He slipped off his blazer and wrapped it around her shoulders, his hands resting on her arms for just a moment longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” she murmured, pulling the blazer tightly around her body and breathing in the scent of him lingering in the fabric – lemongrass and cedar. He watched her, the darkness in his eyes deepening as she buried her nose in his lapel. A hot blush rose in her cheeks, the embarrassment bitter on her tongue until she realized he looked pleased. Min bit her lip to keep from whimpering at the hunger in his stare.
Dr. Jacobs ran his fingers through his hair and then, suddenly, gripped her hand and swung her around, leading her to the wall on the far side of the roof, both of them laughing at the unexpected playfulness of the movement. She dropped her hands on the half wall and looked out at the city below, not daring to meet his eyes again right then.
He was impossibly sexy like this – sharing his knowledge as though he were inviting her into a secret club. His hair was ruffled where he’d run his fingers through it, his strong forearms on display now that he’d removed his blazer, one forearm covered in an intricate black and white tattoo, lines of music intertwining with thorns and vines. His t-shirt stretched across his firm chest and biceps. She remembered what it was like to run her fingers over his sculpted chest, to trace the lines of his muscled form with her nails. She dug her palms into the rough cement of the half wall to keep from doing so now, her restraint fraying.
He watched her, his eyes bright and his breathing as heavy as her own. Slowly, he moved behind her, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of hers, caging her in with his body. Even with the scant space between them, the heat radiating off his chest enveloped her. His breath warmed the back of her neck, his nose barely brushing against her hair. He dropped a kiss, feather light, against her nape and she gasped.
“And of course, you know the legend of the Ponte Vecchio,” he said, his voice low.
“No,” she breathed. “Tell me.”
He rested his head against hers, the distance between them evaporating. “Dante met his true love on the Ponte Vecchio,” he said, so quietly she had to hold her breath to hear him. “He loved her desperately, but she died before he could be with her.”
Min let out a shuddering breath and pressed herself back against him. He molded his body to hers in response. Why did he have to fit her so perfectly?
“They were parted by death, but his love for her never wavered.”
She turned her head, desperate to see his face. Again, anticipating her need, he shifted slightly, allowing her a better view of him. Of the square set of his jaw dusted with stubble. Of the intensity in his eyes and the sincerity of his furrowed brow.
