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“The thing is,” she breathed, her brow crinkling, “my name—Steph Grady…”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“That’s my professional name.”
“Get to the point!”
“Uh—you know Antonio Grassi?”
“Of course. He lives in Philly. I’ve worked with him a couple of times, and he and my father were very close. What does he have to do with this?”
“Marco,” she breathed, staring up at him, her eyes wide, “my real name is Stephania Grassi. Antonio is my father.”
* * *
Steph’s stomach churned.
She hadn’t been sure when—or even if—she’d tell Marco who she was, but standing in the intimate bedroom, his dark eyes blazing down at her, and aching for his acceptance, she’d suddenly felt the time was right. Now she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
“You can’t be,” he stammered, abruptly releasing her and stepping back. “The Stephania I know is skinny as a rail. She has short, spiky orange hair and wears glasses.”
“Years ago, during my crazy days when I wanted to drive my dad nuts, which I did, but then he had that heart attack and everything changed. Remember?”
“Dad and I flew down to see him,” Marco muttered, staring at her in disbelief.
“That’s the last time you and I saw each other. In the hospital. It was a long time ago, but it feels like yesterday.”
“You look so different… except… your eyes. How did I not recognize your eyes? I remember thinking I wanted to see you without those ridiculous tinted glasses. Why did you wear them all the time?”
“They matched my hair,” she replied, wishing her heart would stop its wild thumping. “I thought it was cool.”
“You were wrong.”
“Hey, I was only seventeen, a wild seventeen. I’m twenty-five now.”
“I can’t believe it,” he muttered, his head spinning. “Stephania! Holy crap!”
“I thought you’d recognize me when you found me against that tree.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I knew you’d treat me differently. You would’ve been respectful and cautious, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be with the real you, then every time I’d think about telling you, something would happen. Anyway… now I have,” she finished, her voice barely a whisper, then taking a breath, she murmured, “Marco, please don’t send me away.”
Stepping forward and gripping her arms, he glowered down at her.
“You know what I want to do right now?” he growled. “I want to whip your ass and wrap you in my arms all at the same time.”
“You can whip my ass when it’s not so sore, but you can wrap me in your arms any time.”
“Wrong! I’ll whip your ass whenever it suits me, and if you wanted my photograph so badly, why didn’t you just pick up the phone and call me?”
“I was having fun following around the infamous Marco Moretti, especially on my motorbike, and I wanted to see if I could shoot the unshootable picture, but it was impossible. You have this way of ducking your head, and you walk faster than most people run.”
“Damn, Steph!”
“Marco, I, uh, I want to tell you another truth,” she breathed, thinking if she didn’t tell him at that very moment she may never find the courage again. “When you and your father used to come to our house—I guess I was about thirteen—you would’ve been around, what? Eighteen, nineteen?”
“About that.”
