Thirty minutes later I was gazing down at the red, pink, and orange swirled around my neck, and bumped into someone coming in as I was coming out of Hermès.

“Merde,” a feminine voice cursed, and I fought to keep my balance.

“I’m so sorry, mi scusa,” I said, grabbing on to the door handle, steadying her as well. I saw beautiful jet-black hair smoothed into a fashionable ponytail, big green almond-shaped eyes, granite-sharp cheekbones, and a beautiful mouth turned down in a frown.

She looked familiar. Why did she look so familiar?

We both played “place the face” for a few seconds, realization dawning on me the same moment it did on her face.

Simone, the woman with Marcello my first night in Rome.

“Simone,” I blurted, wishing I could pull the words back in, but the shock of running into her rankled me.

She stepped in front of me, blocking the path, her Dior shopping bag draped over her bent arm. There was no misjudging her anger. She would have looked like any of the other chic women moving about the fashionable district, were it not for the undiluted hatred pouring off her. I skirted around her, wanting to avoid the confrontation, but she wasn’t having it and managed to side-step me again. Did she know about us? That he was with me now, that I was the girl who—

“Fucked my Italian” she growled with so much disdain.

Oh yes. She knew.

She followed, her eyes laser locked on me, the girl who—

“Fucked my Italian,” she hissed.

Dammit! I had to stop setting her up in my head like that!

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, taking a step back, bumping into a gaggle of tourists. The crowd moved around us like water around a couple of boulders, enjoying the beautiful day, unaware that a Wild West showdown had begun on the poshest street in town.

“I will not. We have to talk, you and I. Woman to woman,” she shouted, drawing the judging eyes from the couples walking past us.

Looking for a way to placate her, I edged over to the side between two palm trees. This all felt very Real Housewives of Rome with the crowd of tourists getting ready to climb the Spanish Steps, or the unassuming families stopping for gelato. The last thing I wanted was unwanted attention from the peanut gallery. “Simone, this really isn’t the place—”

“Don’t you dare say my name after you took him away from me,” she said, her accent thicker than I remembered.

French, maybe? I couldn’t quite place it. Although to be fair, there wasn’t much I was paying attention to other than Marcello and his beautiful face. And as a matter of fact, now that I think about it, were they even together that night? Her demeanor had seemed possessive, but who wouldn’t be around someone as good looking as Marcello, especially if she’d been trying to land him? Ha! This boulder stood a bit taller.

“I don’t know what you think happened, but I can assure you that—”

“You will be quiet. I have heard enough about you, from Cello. I knew something was going on that night. He acted so odd when you showed up out of nowhere, stupid American falling out of her chair—you looked ridiculous. I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t stop staring at you!”

“Marcello and I have known each other a long time. There’s a lot of history there,” I replied, keeping my tone even and cool, though my heart was pounding in my throat. And the fact that we shared a history made it more concrete. Real. I was his tesoro, his treasure. And this French bitch girl wasn’t going to take that away.

“I had history with Marcello,” she asserted, her voice beginning to crack, hurt showing through. “We were something before you—” She broke off.

A prickly cold feeling was creeping up my spine. What was she talking about?

“I didn’t notice it at first. A missed dinner here, a canceled concert there. He was always busy, especially when he was bringing a project in, but he always made the time for me. For my needs. When he said he was too busy to bring me to the opening party for the new bank? I thought maybe . . . but he came back. He could not stay away for long.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face. She must have noticed, too, because she was suddenly very pleased with herself, standing a bit taller, her chest pushed out a bit farther. She’d struck a raw nerve and she knew it.

“Wait. Just wait a minute,” I said, shaking my head, trying to understand. “You and Marcello were together? Like, together together?”

She looked confused. “Why do you say it twice?”

“Just answer my question.”

Color crept into her cheeks. “Yes, of course we were. We were together for months before you showed up. I convinced him that this was not permanent—you being here. Why end things with me in the hopes that you would stay?”

“I meant after I showed up. You were together? In all the ways?” I asked, knowing the answer, but not being able to stop myself from asking anyway.

“Of course in all the ways,” she scoffed, but her tone shifted. She went from disdain to lethal. “Ah,” she sneered, beginning to circle me. “You are wondering if we fucked? It bothers you not knowing what we did. Did you think he would drop everything for you?”

“I . . .” I wanted to say yes, that it was bothering me. Yes, I thought because we didn’t discuss her that she was a nonentity, but I also didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her words were tearing me apart.

She huffed in response, but didn’t walk away.

“When was the last time you . . .”