Tristram La Roche

Here’s this Sunday’s sample. Remember you can buy Lorenzo il Magnifico direct from Evernight Publishing or, if you prefer, from Amazon, All Romance Ebooks, Bookstrand and Smashwords.

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Luke leaned on the window ledge and studied the flaking green shutters in the wall across the narrow side street. Not quite a view of the Duomo. Well, he wasn’t planning on spending too much time in the room, not looking at the view, anyhow. He turned and smiled at the double bed. That was the main thing he’d requested.

Once he’d unpacked and arranged his clothes neatly, he took a quick shower and splashed himself liberally with the new Kouros he’d picked up at the airport. He peeled on his best jeans and a white t-shirt, then admired himself in the mirror. He looked good for twenty-five. His tall body was as toned as ever, his biceps bulged by just the right amount and, even if he said so himself, he had the face of a sex god. Maybe he should have been a model?  Too late now. He sighed and turned from the mirror, slipped a couple of condoms and two sachets of lube into his back pocket and headed for the street.

The evening light blinded him and he felt for his Ray Bans. How nice it was to need sunglasses at this hour. The slate skies and drizzle of Leeds seemed an age away. He stood on the sidewalk for a while deciding in which direction to go. The traffic fumes now mingled with the smell of cooking, early suppers for the tourists already being served at many of the restaurants and pizzerias. His stomach gurgled and his mind was made up.

He took a seat at a small table outside a typical trattoria. The owners had cordoned off a section of the sidewalk behind tubs planted with laurel bushes. Ivory colored parasols provided shade and trembled when the evening breeze whipped round the corner. A couple of patio heaters stood like sentries in case the weather turned unseasonal. That, Luke thought, was unlikely tonight. The laurels looked parched and there wasn’t a cloud in the patch of sky that peeked between the parasols.

“Buona sera.” The words had that disingenuous lilt that Italian waiters reserved for tourists.

Luke responded in fluent Italian and saw the waiter relax immediately.

“I’m sorry, signore, I thought you were a straniero.”

Luke saw no reason to disabuse the man who now could not bring the grissini and olives fast enough. “If you could bring me a half-bottle of Chianti and the menu, you can forget me for ten minutes.”

The waiter, a man of about sixty with a respectable paunch and a full head of black, oily curls bowed and backed away. In seconds he was back, producing a leather-bound menu with a flourish. “My son will bring your wine in just one moment. Enjoy your meal.”

Luke nodded. With his sunglasses pushed up onto his head in true Italian style, he began to peruse the menu. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but he didn’t want to ruin his figure. Too much hard work went into it. The tagliatelle with white truffles was tempting, but all those carbs. Maybe a salad would be a better idea.

A small bottle of red wine landed on the table, its label covered by a hand that could have made its owner a good living in the advertising business. Broad as a spade, long fingers, tanned, with just a few black hairs at the side, Luke was eager to see the rest. He looked up and did a double take.

The waiter was busy screwing his opener into the cork. “Would you like to try the wine?”

“Please.” Luke watched the expert and made a wish.

As the waiter poured a soupçon of wine into the glass, he stepped back.

“You weren’t very polite to me, were you?” said Luke, before sipping the wine.

“Signore?” The frown only heightened his good looks.

“Earlier on? You were in a hurry, on your Vespa.”

The frown melted slowly and the eyebrows arched. “Oh, I’m sorry, signore.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His tanned cheeks turned ruddy. “You almost got yourself run over. I was—”

“Forget it. I’d probably have done the same myself.” Luke put his glass on the table. “It’s fine, very good.” He watched in awe as the waiter filled his glass, wrapped a serviette around the neck of the bottle and set it down on the table, all in one graceful movement. He

was stunning, perhaps the most handsome guy Luke had ever seen. And Luke was dying for him.

“Have you decided?”

Luke imagined the salad on his tongue. “I’ll have the tagliatelle with truffles.”

“Excellent choice. Anything to follow?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll decide afterwards.”

The waiter nodded and backed away. As his footsteps receded, Luke glanced back over his shoulder. The tight black trousers, standard waiter’s uniform in Florence, clung to perfect buttocks. Luke closed his eyes and tried to picture the waiter naked. His cock twitched and his stomach did a somersault. Yeah, and what’s the chance he has a wife and kids waiting at home? Luke opened his eyes.

The waiter pulled the door open, turned and winked before disappearing into the trattoria.