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Cars zoomed up behind them, horns blasting. Swerved by them, and because the princess favored staying in the center lane, there was lots of opportunity for drivers passing on the right to put down their windows and scream the necessary invectives, complete with accompanying hand gestures.
And yes, it seemed as if the same one-fingered salute that worked in Manhattan worked equally well in Tuscany.
Alessia, oblivious, drove on.
Okay, Nick thought grimly, okay, there had to be something he could say. Or do. Carefully, searching for the right words, he cleared his throat.
“Ah, is something wrong with the car?” He waited a beat. “I mean, if that’s the reason you’re going so slow—”
“I am at the proper speed.”
“Yeah, well, actually, I don’t think you are.”
“Actually,” she said coldly, “I do not care what you think.”
So much for subtlety. “Actually,” Nick said, emphasizing the word, “I’m certain that you don’t. What I’m trying to tell you, politely, is that it’s a mistake not to keep up with traffic.”
“The mistake is that of the traffic.”
“The mistake is that of the traffic?”
“That is what I said. This is the proper speed for the hour and the road conditions.”
“What conditions? The weather’s fine. The road’s smooth and straight. Traffic’s moving the way it should except for—”
“I am driving, Mr. Orsini. Not you.”
Mr. Orsini. She was even more angry than before; he’d already figured out that her mood dictated whether he was “mister” or “signore.”
“Yes. You are. But—”
A big truck flew past them, so close he could have reached out and touched it. Nick found himself trying to jam his right foot through the floor again.
“Listen, princess—”
“This is my car. My country. I know how fast I must go. And I would prefer it if you would not address me that way.”
“As princess?” Nick frowned at her. “It’s what you are, isn’t it?”
“Not really. The Italian monarchy ceased to exist in 1946 so, to be accurate, titles have no meaning here anymore. They are a relic, a remnant, a—”
Beeeep! Beep beep beeeep!
“Merda,” Nick shouted. “That car almost—”
“The driver is going too fast.”
“He is not going too fast!” Nick hunkered down in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. “I’d love to meet whoever taught you to drive,” he muttered.
Alessia glanced at him, then back at the road.
Perhaps that was the problem, she thought nervously.
No one had taught her to drive. Not the way he meant. Of course, she wasn’t going to tell him that. He was angry enough already, though why he should be was beyond her. She was driving carefully. Safely. It was how she always drove. Was it her fault that Italian drivers treated speed as a national pastime?
Besides, the truth about how she had learned to drive was too humiliating. No one need know she had only accomplished that feat a couple of years ago, that until then, her father’s wishes had ruled her life.
This tough American gangster could not possibly understand what it was like to grow up the child of a father more interested in his own pleasures than in his family.
