So, what was the compromise? He gave up everything and I gave up nothing? But if I did give up my work, how long would it be before I felt resentful and tied down. And he wanted us to have kids. Whatever he said about ‘seeing what happened’, I knew that was high on his list of priorities.
“I wouldn’t want to give it up completely, Sebastian, that’s the truth. But I could agree to a maximum amount of time I spent away in a year, maybe.”
He nodded slowly and sighed. “Okay, I guess.”
He stood up and stretched, gazing around the restaurant.
“Where are you going?”
“Restroom. I’m hoping they have machines that sell rubbers.”
I smiled. “We still have one left.”
“Yeah, but that’s not nearly enough for what I have in mind… unless you want to do what we talked about earlier?”
I could hear the hope in his voice, but I shook my head.
“That’s another discussion for another time, Sebastian.” He pouted, and I couldn’t help smiling. “When you’ve finished this next tour: we’ll talk about it then, I promise.”
He returned a few minutes later, scowling.
“Fucking useless!” he fumed. “They didn’t have any in the restrooms and I checked with the waiter: all the nearby supermarkets and pharmacies are closed on Sunday evenings.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, smiling. “Well, never mind: we’ll just have to get creative.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, sulkily.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I hope you’re not getting bored with me already!”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re like a freakin’ drug to me, Caro. I can’t get enough of you. And I really like wake-up sex.”
I couldn’t help laughing out loud. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t sweat it, Hunter.”
Sebastian was still in a bad mood when we left the restaurant. Okay, it wasn’t the ideal situation for two apparently sex-starved adults who were behaving like rampant teenagers, but I thought we’d already proved that we could be creative – and I had one or two things in mind. Besides, I’d brought the rest of the bottle of wine from the restaurant, so we could always have a quiet evening with a glass of vino and watch the stars appear.
Sebastian, however, was a lot less relaxed, accelerating hard out of the parking lot in a shower of gravel, tires squealing.
I gripped him tightly around his waist, hoping that he’d slow down, but instead he went faster, taking the turns on the coast road at such a speed that our knees were ridiculously close to the ground. I closed my eyes and hung on, until he slowed abruptly. I soon saw the reason: two Italian police officers were waving their table tennis-shaped batons at us.
Crap.
We’d been caught speeding.
Sebastian pulled over to the side of the road and swung one, long leg over as he climbed off. Watching as he removed his helmet, I decided to follow him. He was so hotheaded, I could imagine him mouthing off at them and spending a night in a cozy, Italian jail.
“French?” asked the first policeman, looking at the license plates on Sebastian’s motorcycle.
The officer looked disconcertingly like Groucho Marx, which was rather distracting. The second one was younger and stared at us through his aviator shades, even though it was dusk.
“No, American,” replied Sebastian.
The policemen looked surprised.
“Is this motorcycle yours, signore?”
“Yes.”
“You have papers for it?”
“Yes, in my wallet.”
Sebastian started to reach into his jacket, and the younger officer immediately went for his gun.
I gasped and Sebastian swore. The next second, they were forcing him to kneel on the ground and put his hands behind his head. I could see the older man reaching for handcuffs.
“No, please!” I called out. “He was just trying to show you his papers.”
“Signora, he was driving at 120km an hour; the speed limit here is 90km an hour.”
“Please, let him show you. I’ll get his wallet!”
I moved slowly so they could see exactly what I was doing. I reached into Sebastian’s inside jacket pocket and carefully lifted out his wallet.
“What am I looking for?” I whispered, urgently.