Casanova (Library of Illumination Book 4) Page 3

  “Is he actually drinking that stuff, or does he just like the feel of glass between his lips?” Jackson chided.

  Johanna stiffened. Jackson acted like they were married or something. Has he forgotten I’m his boss? She turned to Casanova. “Are you feeling better?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Okay, Jackson. Make the iPad ask him if he feels any better.”

  Jackson typed the question, and when the Italian version popped up, he clicked the icon that would allow them to hear the translation.

  “Ti senti meglio?” came out of the iPad.

  Casanova’s mouth dropped open, and then he threw back his head and laughed. “Si, si,” he finally uttered, “mi sento bene.”

  Jackson typed in Casanova’s answer and hit the speaker. “Yes, yes, I feel good,” the iPad translated in unaccented English.

  Johanna broke into a wide smile. “Good job.” The words were for Jackson, but her eyes never left Casanova’s face.

  This is working out nicely, Casanova thought as he held Johanna’s gaze. He picked up one of her hands and held it to his lips. The kiss was gentle—neither forceful nor needy. He believed in the premise that women had delicate natures and had to be treated carefully.

  She did not try to pull her hand away. Instead, she curledher fingers around his.

  She’s mine.

  —LOI—

  4

  It took every ounce of composure that Jackson could dredge up from within to keep him from flinging the iPad across the room. Johanna kept sending him mixed signals, and it drove him crazy. Last night she hosted a birthday party for him. His mother told him Johanna had paid for everything. That would indicate some kind of attachment, wouldn’t it?

  Now, she made gooey eyes at a guy dressed in a weird costume. It looked like knight’s armor, but on closer inspection he saw it was made out of a rough, red, knit material that mimicked the appearance of chain mail, completely covered with overlapping thin scales of rhinoceros horn that would not provide much protection. It looked flashier than it did authentic—just like Casanova. Sure, some girls might consider him handsome—the ones who went in for unkempt, smiley types with two-day-old stubble on their chins. It’s a look. But if you had asked Jackson if Johanna would ever fall for that type, he would have said no. The guys he had seen her with were clean-cut and polite—nice, normal guys (although he hadn’t thought so when he first saw them with her). What was she doing falling for this Latin lover? It was so against type! Besides, the guy fainted when he saw himself at the gaming table. Why couldn’t he just die?

  By the time the grandfather clock struck six, the skies had turned to pitch. The only other sound in the library was the rumble of Casanova’s stomach.

  Johanna realized she needed more food. She had been tempted to open a cookbook and let Giada De Laurentiis whip up an evening meal for them, but decided against it. Giada was kind of pretty, and Johanna didn’t want any competition.

  “What should I feed him?” she asked Jackson.

  Jackson looked over, surprised. She had pretty much ignored him, except to criticize him, for most of the afternoon. Now she wanted his advice.

  He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Bouillabaisse?”

  “Bouillabaisse.” Casanova jumped off the sofa. He picked up each of Johanna’s hands in his own. “Amo bouillabaisse!”

  Jackson picked up the iPad. “Amo. That means love. Was he talking about the bouillabaisse or you?”

  “Jackson.” The reprimand was clear.

  “Where are we supposed to get bouillabaisse?” the teen asked.

  “Le Chat. Could you look up their phone number on that thing?”

  “Only if you’re going to invite me to stay for dinner.”

  The look on Johanna’s face revealed how torn she was by Jackson’s request. Part of her wanted to say yes without reservation, but another part did not want Jackson to get in the way of her chance to be alone with Casanova. “You can stay for dinner, but you’re off the clock. I’m not footing the bill for dinner and then paying you a salary on top of that.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” he said quietly.

  “Fine.”

  Casanova studied their body language and tone. They were not sympatico, which was bound to work in his favor. He did not doubt the lad sought Johanna’s affection, but Jackson was merely a boy who had no sense of finesse in the ways of women.

  Casanova’s stomach rumbled again. He looked over to see if Jackson would go out to get food, but the teen sat there, silently playing with the magic screen. The Venetian had never seen anything like it. He wondered if some sort of alchemy or wizardry was involved in its creation. Certainly nothing like it existed in Venice, although he would easily wager he no longer remained within the city of his birth. Maybe thiswas a magical place. He would have to poke around and see what promises it held for him, but later. For now, he was content to sit quietly and observe the dynamics between the young woman and her would-be suitor. Hah! The idea that Johanna would ever prefer Jackson over him was laughable.

  A buzzer broke the silence.

  He watched as Johanna walked to the other side of the room and said, “Illumination.” The polished wall rumbled slightly before sliding to one side. A scruffy young man stood on the other side, holding a large brown bag. Johanna handed the messenger green papers in exchange for the package.

  “I’ll go up and set the table,” she said aloud, heading for the circular stairs, carrying the aromatic bag.

  Casanova trailed right behind her.

  Jackson followed, close on his heels.

  Jackson sulked as he ate dinner in silence. Johanna made a few pleasant remarks to Casanova, but practically ignored her assistant. Casanova had a few comments of his own, but they remained untranslated, because Jackson had purposely left the iPad downstairs.

  The teen sensed neither of them wanted him there, but he couldn’t bear to leave. Johanna is being ridiculous. What was supposed to happen after he left? Would they spend the night together? It’s not like she could just tell Casanova to go home. He had no home to go to, at least not in this century. Jackson had seen a little of Johanna’s apartment over the past twenty-four hours. He knew she had a living room, dining room, and kitchen. He had seen the bathroom. There was only one other room that he knew of, and he guessed that was her bedroom. As far as he knew, there was no guest room, so that left one of the sofas. She had two of them that faced each other, but they were not that long, and Casanova had to be at least six foot three. The thought made Jackson smile. Lover Boy is going to be awfully uncomfortable—unless Johanna invited Casanova into her bed. Jackson’s stomach turned to Jell-O. She wouldn’t dare. But he could sense by the way she looked at Casanova that she very well might.

  After dinner, Jackson offered to help with the dishes. He didn’t want to give Casanova a chance to get Johanna alone. His suggestion backfired, however, when Johanna accepted the offer and put him to work—while she showed Casanova around her apartment.

  Jackson strained to eavesdrop on their conversation. Most of it was muffled, but Johanna had apparently retrieved the iPad, because he caught bits and pieces of the electronic voice translating phrases in English and Italian. Obviously, they weren’t having any trouble at all communicating with each other. And I’m the idiot who made it possible. He felt the grief of having lost something dear. There was nothing left for him to do but leave; after all, he was just the hired help. A third wheel. Persona non grata.

  He threw the dishtowel on the counter and found Johanna and Casanova standing by one of the bookshelves that flanked her fireplace. “I’m going.”

  She turned to face him. Over her shoulder, he watched as Casanova pulled a book off the shelf and opened it. Jackson’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

  Johanna turned quickly and saw Casanova paging through the book. She took a deep breath and smiled at Jackson. “It’s not enchanted. Nothing’s going to happen here, unless I want it to.”


  Was that a double entendre? He didn’t know if she meant the books or Casanova. “I’ll see you Monday,” he mumbled. “Have a nice weekend.” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but didn’t think he was successful. Screw this.

  Johanna had wanted a chance to be alone with Casanova all afternoon. Their mutual attraction was unmistakable, and the butterflies in her stomach increased with every tick of the clock. But after Jackson left, she felt another emotion she couldn’t quite figure out. It made her ill at ease.

  Casanova took a large picture book of Italy off the shelf and sat down on the sofa, where he paged through it. He looked up at Johanna and patted the seat beside him.

  She unexpectedly froze. She was alone with an older man (she estimated a difference of seven years between them) who was very good-looking (so many of the women she knew wouldkill for this opportunity) and happened to be known everywhere as the world’s greatest lover.

  Casanova held out the book, showing her a picture of the Grand Canal in Venice. “Guarda, mia casa è vicina questo posto.” He looked for the iPad and typed in what he’d said. The iPad translated what he wrote. “Look, my house is near here.” He smiled and waved the iPad, obviously proud of himself for having figured out how to use it.

  What have I done? she wondered. He’s not even real—at least, not in this century. Now he’s using technology that didn’t exist in his own time. She suddenly wished Jackson had stayed.

  Casanova patted the sofa again.

  Johanna stared at the cushion.

  “Vieni qui,” he coaxed gently. Come here.

  Johanna sat down, leaving several inches of open space between them.

  “Mia casa.”

  “Your house.” She held her arms out with her palms facing up, then pointed to herself. “Mia casa.”

  Casanova laughed. He held up the book. “Libro.”

  Johanna smiled. “Book.”

  He picked up her hand and touched each of her fingers. “Dita.”

  She pulled her hand away and wiggled them. “Fingers.”

  He touched her ear. “Orecchio.”

  “Ear.”

  He tapped the tip of her nose. “Naso.”

  “Nose.”

  He gently traced the outline of her lips. “Labbra.”

  Their gazes locked. Johanna trembled as Casanova tilted his head and lightly kissed her. When she did not pull away, he kissed her again, giving her tiny butterfly kisses all over her face. Johanna was beguiled by his gentleness. Casanova slid closer until their bodies touched. It seemed natural when he slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she reciprocated. She scarcely felt him unbutton her blouse and cup her breast with his hand. But when he pushed her down on the sofa and set his full weight on top of her, the spell was broken. Johanna struggled, pushing him away. He landed on the floor with a dull thud.

  Casanova had not anticipated that Johanna would reject him. “Qual è il problema?” What is the problem?

  She jumped up off the sofa and buttoned her shirt, all the while shaking her head from side to side. “This can’t happen,” she said. She disappeared from the room as he got up off the floor. She returned with a blanket and a pillow. “You.” She pointed to him, and then she pointed to the sofa, throwing the blanket and pillow on it. “Me.” She pointed to herself, and then she pointed to her door. “Goodnight.” She scurried to her bedroom and slammed the door, locking it behind her.

  “Che cosa ho fatto?” he said aloud.

  What have I done? Most women did not treat him this way. Most women were very receptive. Johannahad been very receptive. All the signs were there. Casanova did not handle rejection well, and his unspent passion raged within him. He picked up a glass candleholder that sat on an end table and threw it against the wall. It shattered as it fell to the floor. “Donne.” Women. “Non è una donna, è una bambino,” he yelled. No. Not a woman, a child. He picked up the iPad, about to throw that as well, but decided to take it with him instead.

  He left the residence and descended the spiral stairs to the main floor of the library. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t find a door that would open. He remembered how the wall slid open for Johanna, but couldn’t remember what she had done to make it move. I’m a prisoner! The sudden realization added insult to injury, and his aggravation continued to build. He threw the iPad at the sofa. It landed on the soft cushion without breaking. When that did not help ease his frustration, he grabbed a book from one of the library stacks and flung it at the information desk, watching it crash to the floor.

  Suddenly a huge man—a monster—appeared. He was eight feet tall, with flowing black hair and an eerie yellowish pallor. His watery eyes appeared dead in his face, and his skin was pulled so tightly, it barely concealed the man’s muscles and arteries.

  “Nooooo,” the brute roared. “How dare you steal me away from my moment of retribution. If someone cherished by Victor Frankenstein is not to perish, then surely you must die instead!”

  —LOI—

  5

  Jackson called Logan as soon as he got home. Maybe spending time with his friends outside the library would make him feel better. But in the end, it only reminded him of what he desperately wanted to forget. Several members of the group had been at his birthday party, and they all met at Piccolo Italia, the restaurant from which Jackson had picked up Casanova’s lunch.

  “You look like you got sucker-punched,” Logan observed. “What gives?”

  Jackson shrugged and clammed up.

  “Here.” Chris shoved a slice of pizza in front of him. “Pepperoni cures everything.”

  “I bet you and Johanna had a fight,” Cassie guessed. “I hope it wasn’t about last night.”

  Jackson took a quick bite and just shook his head, glad he had a mouth full of pizza, so he wouldn’t have to talk.

  Logan nudged him in the side. “What happened? Did Mr. French Restaurant show up at the library today?”

  Jackson almost choked. He swallowed the pizza and grabbed on to the excuse. “Something like that.”

  “That sucks.”

  Jackson stuffed more pizza in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to speak, and the conversation changed direction. He tried to look interested in what everyone else said, but his sense of loss kept him from engaging in the fun. The more they laughed, the worse he felt. He slipped away when everyone decided to head out to a movie.

  He walked for a while, not paying attention to where he went, until he realized he’d been circling the block where the library stood.

  He looked up at the light in Johanna’s apartment. What am I doing here? Being near her just made him feel more miserable.

  Casanova backed away from the monster, moving behind the glass display case.

  “You think you can protect yourself from me?” The giant easily flipped the case over, smashing it. The first-edition leather-bound volume of English Fairy Tales inside tumbled out and opened on the floor.

  Both man and monster jerked back when a couple of talking pigs began banging on a small brick hut and shouting for their brother to let them in. The pigs had barely disappeared inside when a wolf began banging on the door. “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

  “Aarrgghh!” the monster shouted, as he slammed his fist across the wolf’s upper body, sending him crashing into the information desk.

  An excited little voice from inside the hut squealed, “He killed the wolf. HE KILLED THE WOLF!”

  “Who killed the wolf?” a third pig asked.

  “The monster.”

  “MONSTER!” the little pigs shrieked, their terror barely muffled by the hut’s brick walls.

  The monster lifted his well-muscled leg and used it to push over the miniature hut. The three little pigs squealed in horror at being exposed. Each one ran off in a different direction, but like pinballs, they continuously bumped into things and crisscrossed each other’s paths, oinking at the tops of their little piggy lungs.

  “What is going on here?” Johanna co
uld barely contain her anger as she stood at the top of the circular stairs.

  Everyone stared back at her in guilty silence for a few seconds before roaring, squealing, and complaining—in Italian—all at once. The monster picked up the sofa and heaved it across the room. The iPad fell to the floor. Frankenstein’s demon crossed over to the shiny object, lifted his massive foot, and brought it down on the glass tablet, crushing it.

  Johanna, in a well-rehearsed motion, slowly edged around the room, looking for open books,grateful she had wasted a moment putting shoes on. Broken glass covered the floor. She spotted English Fairy Tales nestled in the display-case rubble and used her foot to close it.

  The sudden disappearance of the annoying little pigs and their brick hut distracted Casanova and the monster, but only for a moment. The monster used the diversion to rush Casanova, and lifted him up into the air.

  “Aiutami! Aiutami! Devi fermarli.” Help me! Help me! You must stop him.

  Johanna found Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus nestled among the debris, not too far from where she stood. She dove for it and slammed it shut. Casanova dropped from midair and crashed to the floor.

  “La mia testa. Il mio braccio. Il mostro ...” My head. My arm. That monster. He sat stunned, looking at the disarray as blood dripped from his forehead onto the arm he clutched. “Dov’è il mostro?” Where is the monster?

  Johanna was fit to be tied. She had no idea what he wanted, but knew the evening of pandemonium had been his fault. “You couldn’t just go to sleep on the sofa.” Her words were packed with scorn. “No. You had to go on a tear, destroying everything I love.” With each word, her anger increased. “Look at this mess.” She glanced up at the clock. It was shortly after four in the morning. “I wish Jackson were here.”