Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Read online

  Oh no. Late again.

  Pigeons scattered in her wake, regrouped, scattered again. "Scusi, scusi," she said to the birds, as they fluttered and reflocked.

  An older tourist watched the pretty girl run up and down the steps as he lazily worked on a half-melted gelato. Ahhh, Rome; a rueful twinkle; a sigh.

  Isabella finally made it to the top, looking at her watch, catching her breath, patting her '50s razzle-dazzle purse, her frenzied mind stuttering with images of all the famous landmarks... the Pantheon... the Colosseum... the Roman Forum... the Trevi Fountain.... Even now, in her rush, she still couldn't stop being distracted by the tingle of realization that she was actually here, in Rome. As personal assistant to -- to be blunt -- a super crazy rich person, she'd traveled to many wild and wonderful and beautiful places, but when she'd gotten that text message ("Boss-mails") with her at-the-last-minute (of course) weekend assignment...

  ...tres importnt, go to Rome, spcial auction, IMMEDIATELY acquire, why are you still reading this GO...

  ...she couldn't believe it when she saw it on her cell phone. Rome? That Rome? The Rome? Rome Rome?

  A quick follow-up confirmation and one international plane ticket later...

  Yes...Rome.

  ... re: Rome auction...MAKE SURE you get it...you're approved to bid up to ten thousand, three times its worth, you'll easily get it, no reason to get nervous and bid the whole amount -- again! -- at all costs DON'T BE LATE -- again! --

  "Don't be late," she whispered with a grin; then, a start: "Don't be late? Don't be...oh no! I am late!" To the older tourist and his gelato: "I'm missing the auction!"

  In a flurry of pigeons, Isabella turned and ran.

  #

  She burst in, out of breath, saw the hurdy-gurdy, and panicked.

  "Ten thousand!" she called out from the back of the room, waving her paddle. Then froze, realizing she'd bet the whole amount right off the bat. Oh, crazy rich boss is going to murder me. Managing an embarrassed smile, she stood there as everyone in the room enjoyed a curious glance at The Pretty American Girl Who Overbid For The Funny Musical Whatnot. Pressing the smile, like she had some secret strategy for bidding so high for no reason, she stood at the back of the auction room, arms crossed in mock confidence, waiting for the gawking to be over, so she could take the thing and be done with it. And then spend the rest of the weekend vacationing in wonderful marvelous Rome, before I get boss-throttled...

  "Ten thousand, one hundred."

  Isabella, distracted for a moment by a daydream, those long Izzy-strangling crazy-boss-lady gloves...coming towards her, revenge in her boss-lady eyes and a big Italian auction bill at her boss-lady feet...

  "--thousand one hundred?" Isabella gasped abruptly, her distant fears popping away in a boss-lady-shaped cloud. "Ten thousand one hundred?" Her eyes scanned the crowd. Everyone was looking at her, with that bemused bored Italian look.

  Someone overbid my stupid overbid?

  Shook her head, cleared her throat. Then firmly and quite determinedly said: "Ten thousand." She waved her paddle stubbornly. "Ten. Thousand."

  Isabella crossed her arms, waiting for her bid to stick.

  The female auctioneer (a lady auctioneer? That's sexist! Izzy thought, nonsensically) smiled apologetically, gesturing her gavel toward someone in one of the front rows. Isabella looked--it was the only person in the room who hadn't turned to stare at her. Whoever it was, he was tall, had broad shoulders, and the back of his head was quite good-looking. She mentally dared him to turn around, but he, unable or uninterested in mind-reading, did not.

  Then, in her mind, he did turn around, but instead of an overbidding stranger with a good-looking back of the head, it was -- of course -- crazy-boss-lady time again.

  MAKE SURE you get it.

  Make SURE--

  "Ten thousand," she squeaked. "And...one hundred." The auctioneer, old and kindly, and very patient, again indicated the stranger with the gavel. Isabella stood there, staring at the gavel, imagining it in her boss's crazy-rich gloved hands coming down on her head. (All old ladies are against me!) "Ten thousand, two hundred," she sputtered defiantly, realizing all this was coming off badly, but remaining defiant to the last. Well, there goes my per diem, she thought ruefully. But at least I'll have the silly--

  "Ten thousand, three."

  She didn't mean to, but she let out a chirp, a loud exasperated one, that got a laugh from the gallery. Now everyone definitely was watching--except for Mr. Handsome Back Of The Head. Irritation sparked, then panic--I'm not winning. I'm not winning the piece. I'm--

  "Ten thousand..." she said, a wobbling uncertain sing-song.

  Everyone was watching.

  "...threeee hundred... and ..."

  She swallowed hard.

  "...ten," she chirped.

  A roomful of puzzled expressions, not much different than her own. Then, popping open her purse with frazzled inspiration: "Yes, ten thousand, three...ten. Ten American dollars!"

  She waved the crumpled bill over her head triumphantly.

  Isabella had never heard a roomful of Romans laugh in hearty, cheery, belly-gut unison before, but she heard it then. A couple even clapped.

  Her cheeks pinked, but she stood resolute, the ten spot over her head, proud and determined, like a mangled battle-weary flag.

  The room went silent, though, when the only person not looking her way, raised his paddle and said, with the slightest almost imperceptible hint of roguish amusement:

  "Ten thousand, five."

  And that was that.

  The room watched as Isabella stood there, with her puckered expression and her ten American dollars. The pucker stretched into a polite smile as she lowered her money flag, folded it with slow deliberate precision, then placed it carefully back into her purse. She nodded at the gallery. Saluted the kindly auctioneer with her paddle. Then, after casting a noncommittal glance at the back of the head of the auction winner--who still wouldn't turn around--she pivoted on her heel stylishly, and, as she left, as a mere afterthought, in full Isabella Parker poutiness, huffed, "That guy! Right there...! Swindler!" Then, with a curtsey and a quick stick-out of the tongue, pivoted again, and exited, to the hearty, cheery belly-gut approval of the gallery.

  -- Chapter III --

  Haven't We Met Nowhere Before?

  He was tall, broad in the shoulders, and had a sleepy-scruff academic look to him, as he stood in the after-gallery, sipping a martini, mingling without really mingling. He looked like everybody's favorite college professor, the one who'd come strolling in a few moments after the bell, with a cup of coffee, a jaunty yawn, and an almost-risqué joke to start the class with. But he also possessed a certain athletic confidence in his manner and stance, that seemed contrary to someone with seemingly professorial leanings. That contradiction, the firm posture yet the drowsy grin, the nice-fitting attire yet the messy hair, made it hard to tell if he'd just come from a workout or just woke up. It wasn't an unpleasant persona; in fact, it was rather roguish--but he definitely gave the impression of a man comfortable with being left alone.

  One bit of non-mingling attention he was currently receiving came courtesy an older Italian woman, humbly but expensively dressed, peering over her very odd umbrella-packed candy-colored drink, with a squint of puzzlement. He squinted back. She tilted her head, as if looking behind him. Ahhh--he decided to take a peek himself.

  Turning slightly, looking over his shoulder, he saw a very pretty, very American girl peering from behind a large vase on a thin pedestal. She had a very determined squint of her own. Or did at least until, realizing she'd been seen, she ducked back behind the large vase. It was a comical sight, as the vase did obscure the top part of the American girl, but the tiny pedestal barely hid any part of her American bottom (attractive as that bottom was).

  The image now: a vase with two skinny legs.

  The tall man turned back to the older lady, who peered over her candy drink with clear disapproval. He shrugged, with a lea
n smile, what can you do? The lady responded with an even more disapproving look.

  Casually, he turned again. Again, the American girl was caught--she ducked back, and must have nudged the large vase, as it began to wobble precariously. Suddenly, the vase with the skinny legs sprouted skinny arms, trying to stop a very expensive tumble.

  Amused, he strolled over, sipping his martini, watching the skinny-legged vase try to keep its balance.

  "Having a bit of a wobble, I see," he mused.

  "No comment," Isabella muttered, straining to get the vase back on the pedestal.

  "Like a hand?"

  "I think I have it," she muttered, teetering the vase on one knee. "I'm fine. Meant to do this."

  "Oh." He nodded. "May I ask why?"

  Isabella opened her mouth to tell him, but also, unfortunately, simultaneously opened her grip. The vase plummeted, stopped at the last near-crashing instant, by the man's swift Martini-free hand and not-swift-enough toe.

  By the time the still-amused man eased the vase safely off his sore foot, the American girl was gone.

  #

  He found her out on the steps, head in hands, elbows on knees, looking decidedly forlorn.

  Sensing someone behind her, she gave a quick glance, then slumped back, head in hands. "Oh, it's you."

  "Afraid so. Just thought you might like this, you dropped it back when, you know, you were having it out with my big toe."

  "Hmmm?" She managed another lifeless glance, saw he was holding her scarf. "Oh. Well, fine, thanks. And all that." She gestured in a half-hearted manner that gave him no clue what she wanted done with the scarf, then went back to her dreary slump. "Sorry 'bout your toe," she said, as a pigeon waddled by. "Did it hurt? Looked like it might've."

  "Plenty more where that came from."

  "Oh. You're one of those optimistic fellas. That's dispiriting."

  "A burden, no doubt," he smiled. He held up the scarf questioningly.

  She vaguely acknowledged the scarf, then...a rather enigmatic look took over her features. She smiled coyly, then--a second later--her bracelet suddenly fell off her hand. "Ooops," she said, looking pleasantly helpless, even though the bracelet was only a step or two away.

  The man looked at the bracelet, then at her. It was obvious she expected him to get it, so, being a sport, he did. When he leaned down, she leaned back, gave the back of his head a good hard-eyed once-over, and--

  "It's you!" she chirped, and gave his head a smack with her purse. "I recognize that auction-cheating back-of-the-head anywhere!"

  "Yes," he smiled, standing back up with the bracelet. His hair was even more mussed up, but he didn't seem to mind. "'The Swindler,' at your service."

  "So you admit it." Snatching the bracelet from his hand. "Which makes you rude as well." She gave a scowl as she fumbled her bracelet back on. "Why'd you even bid so much?" she said, smacking his knee with her 50's-style razzle-dazzle purse. "Three times what it's worth. More, even!"

  "Why did you?"

  "It was an accident. I was late!"

  "Frankly, I wish you were later. Might have saved me some money."

  "But I'm the one who made the stupidest bid first! I should have won!"

  "I guess ten American dollars doesn't go as far as it used to."

  "How hilarious," she said, bandying the purse about for another smack, then just slumping back into forlorn mode. "So I ran out of Italian money. I had to try and beat you somehow. Just one big riot. Don't pity me on my account."

  "It was an auction, fair and square, you know."

  "Yeah, well, you're a square all right," she said, with a fresh international weariness, "but it sure wasn't fair. I only wanted the silly thing because I need it for my job."

  "I need it for my job."

  "Well, my job is more important than your job."

  "You don't even know what my job is."

  "Does your job involve working for a crazy millionaire lady who makes you do impossible assignments, sends you half around the world to buy ridiculous whatnots just because they have funny names, that no one in their right mind could possibly want, but you get outbid anyway by the back of someone's head just because you're late again even though you were warned not to?" She gave his knee another smack. "Well, does it?"

  "Uhm...no."

  "So there then. And now because I didn't get the ridiculous whatnot, I'm going to become an Italian street urchin." Sighing, back to her slumping. "Hope you're happy."

  "Well, I don't know if I'd call it happy, but I'm definitely amused."

  "Hmmm? See, you are rude." She finally snatched the scarf from his hand.

  "I'd be lying if I said you were the first to have pointed that out." He nodded, palms out. "I'm sure everything will work out. It usually does."

  "There's that optimism again. You need to have that checked," she said grumpily; then, she slumped again.

  "I'll add it to the list. Well," he said, "it was nice meeting you. Sorry about the piece, but I really do need it for my job. Really."

  She shrugged again, extra forlorn, without looking at him.

  "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Besides that."

  "No, then. Swindler."

  "Well, I'm sure it'll work out. As I say, these things... well, good luck to you," he said, giving a two-fingered salute, took a step, paused, turned. Now it was he who was looking at the back of her head. It really was a cute back of the head. Even all forlorn as it was.

  Still...

  He turned to go.

  "The least you could do is buy me lunch."

  He paused, looking at the back of her head again. "Sorry?"

  She turned, all grins and sparkles. "I know the perfect place. Circus Minimus--a Rome institution. This little sidewalk cafe hideaway offers rich dishes, spicy entrés and a crisp crunchy pizza with no compare. A gastronomic getaway, a cheese-laden oasis that mixes elegance and extravagance, serving tempting delicacies of unparalleled temptations at pleasantly quaint prices. Where mouths water, spirits soar and happy hungry hearts sing. Warning: be prepared for pleasure, and leave room for the house dessert. Closed Thursdays."

  "My. That was certainly specific."

  "I bought a guidebook."

  "That's some guidebook."

  "Ah, now, don't make me drop something on your other foot." She ran her hand through her hair. "This whole city's made of stone, you know."

  And there, finally, he laughed. "Okay. Far be it from me to let a future street urchin go hungry."

  "Or, more importantly," she said, gathering her purse and scarf as she stood up, "without dessert. So, truce then? At least for an hour or two?"

  She offered an outstretched hand.

  "My name's Isabella Parker."

  "Mine's S.S. Fitzgerald. You can make fun of it during the appetizer. Until then, call me Fitz."

  "Gotcha, Fitz," she said, as they shook. "Still a swindler, though."

  "Still not getting that auction piece."

  "Maybe so, maybe no," she smiled, dropping her scarf again. "You know what they say... Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore."

  "Pretty impressive," he said, picking it up again. "Get that out of your guidebook too, did you?"

  "Actually yes." She smiled triumphantly as they headed down the steps toward a taxi with a sleeping driver. "Do you have any idea what it means, because I haven't a clue."

  -- Chapter IV --

  Out of Sight, Out Of Mind

  At Circus Minimus.

  The cute table over by the adorable cobbled pathway.

  #

  The waiter brought their order, the "Garlic Gladiator," a large pizza with roasted-smoked garlic cloves, gyro strips, lightly melted gorgonzola, a layer of fresh sliced tomatoes splashed with raison-curry olive oil (instead of sauce), deep red onion circles, banana peppers, apple quarters, Kalamata olives, Canadian bacon, halved chick peas, jalapeños, pineapple, basil-tossed sun-dried artichoke hearts, olives stuffed with rai
sons, black cherries sprinkled with lemon pepper, all surrounded with a lightly-glazed black-peppered zaatar crust.

  Isabella sat there with a cute smirk on her face, studying the pizza intently as she pointed to bits and pieces of it.

  "What are you doing?" he finally had to ask.

  "Making sure they didn't leave off anything."

  "Is that even possible?"

  "I like to get your money's worth."

  "I noticed."

  "Hey, girl's gotta eat." She smiled, taking a slice extra-piled with toppings. Sensing a competitive nature, he quickly secured his own slice, as people passed by the outdoor table on the walk.

  "So," Isabella pronounced, grinning a spicy mouthful, "your parents named you...after a boat."

  "Well, for the record," he said, taking a savoring bite. "I wasn't named after a boat--I was born on a boat, out in international waters. So: Mom's odd sense of timing, an even odder sense of humor, mix it together...S. S. Fitzgerald."

  "Ahh." She winked, pointing a breadstick. "I knew there was something fishy about you. Do the S's stand for anything?"

  "Yes. They do." He smiled enigmatically, plucking an artichoke heart, and popping it in his mouth.

  "Oooh, a mystery. I like mysteries. Fine, don't tell me then--I'll figure it out. I'm good at that." She twirled her breadstick. "Not now, obviously. Can't read your mind." Trying to look enigmatic herself, she plucked an artichoke heart, popped it in her mouth, adding slyly: "As far as you know."

  At which point she gave her breadstick another twirl, knocking over the other breadsticks in the process.

  She frown-sighed.

  "Well, they are complimentary," Fitzgerald soothed, piling up the breadsticks for the waiter. "So tell me--if your boss is so crazy and insane, sending you all over the world, why do you work for her in the first place?"

  "Because she is so crazy and insane, sending me all over the world." A faraway look colored her expression. "I love to travel. I love to shop. Who else would send me to do both but a crazy person?"