Airport. She steered the clumsy vehicle as if she were back on the streets of LA, doing a drive-by.
“Excuse me,” she said to a woman whom she accidentally bumped in the butt, almost knocking her over. “Coming through!” she yelled as an older gentleman decided to stop and tie his shoe. She managed to bring the cart to a halt just before she broadsided him, stopping so quickly that her carry-on toppled off the cart and Tuffy flew forward and hit the man in the head. “My bad,” she said to the bewildered man, who began berating her in rapid-fire Italian. “No-a speakie, no-a speakie,” she replied as she gathered up her bag and her bear and began again in the direction she thought the woman had gone.
Five minutes later, she gave up the chase. The woman was nowhere in sight and now Tiffany doubted she could even recognize her in a line-up. Was her hair dark blond or brown? Was she wearing a blue top…or was it purple? The woman was Tiffany’s height, five foot three, but Tiffany didn’t remember whether she wore jeans or slacks, or a skirt, for that matter. She’d had colosseums, not criminals, on her mind as they’d talked.
“Damn.” Tiffany plopped down on her luggage and put her head in her hands. She could feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack coming on and tried to focus on breathing deeply. But the gravity of the situation began to grow in her mind. She was in a foreign country, alone, with no passport, no money, and no idea how she’d gone from triumph to tragedy so quickly. She’d been so proud of herself as she’d stepped off the plane, having made it through her first trans-Atlantic flight without throwing up or peeing on herself—both unfortunate events that had accompanied past panic attacks. Now she was precariously close to achieving a trifecta, because in addition to these two scene-stealers, she felt ready to throw a two-year-old tantrum and assure herself a place in one of Rome’s asylums for the insane. Tiffany began to shake with the effort it took to hold herself together. Trying not to hyperventilate—on top of not vomiting, peeing, or sobbing like a fool—was taking its toll.
“Are you all right?”
Tiffany froze at the sound of the voice flowing down to her ears, smooth and sweet…like maple syrup. Without opening her eyes or raising her head, she knew who it was. Just great. I probably look like a blubbering idiot, and here comes Mr. First Class to see me in all my crazed glory. Tiffany hadn’t imagined the handsome stranger as her knight in shining armor, but she had imagined doing things to him at night—before she’d forced herself to stop fantasizing and fallen asleep.
He placed a firm hand on Tiffany’s shoulder. “What is the problem here? Can I help?”
Tiffany wiped her eyes, prayed there was no snot coming out of her nose, and stood. She took another deep breath and forced herself to look into the eyes that had melted her meow-meow on the plane. “My purse was stolen.” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. But it was all she could do. The energy that fueled her initial outburst was spent; now if she opened her mouth much wider she’d break out into an ugly cry.
He angrily clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Come with me.” His tone was decisive, as were his movements. He placed his single carry-on bag on top of her luggage, took Tiffany’s much smaller hand into his large one, and began navigating them through the terminal. Tiffany walked beside him silently, feeling as if the events taking place were surreal. She’d been in Rome less than an hour and already her life was upside down. When they reached the elevator, he quietly reached for the teddy bear in the luggage cart basket and handed it to Tiffany.
“Here, your friend will make you feel a little better.”
His gesture was almost her undoing, yet Tiffany took Tuffy and clutched him to her chest. “Thank you,” she stuttered. She knew it must seem silly to other people, but once she clasped her dear furry friend, she began to calm down.
The elevator doors opened and the stranger guided the cart and Tiffany inside it. Tiffany snuck a glance at him, and then not being able to resist it, took another, longer look. “Where are we going?”
“To the administrative offices,” he replied. “I know someone there who can get us to a higher-up in airport security. We’ll be able to get this straightened out without all the hassle. You’ll have to fill out a report with the airport, and another with the police if you want this crime reported, which I suggest that you do. I won’t ask you what happened. You’ll have to repeat the despicable details at least twice as it is.” He gave Tiffany’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “By the way, I’m Nick Rollins.”
His personable manners in the midst of madness brought a smile to Tiffany’s heart, if not her face. “Tiffany Matthews.”
“Even though I truly wish the circumstances were different, Tiffany Matthews, it is a pleasure to formally meet you.”
Just over an hour later, Nick was once again leading Tiffany, this time out of the administrative offices and down to ground transportation. As assuring as it was to have this six-foot-tall mass of obvious authority walking beside her, looking nice and smelling good, something about his take-charge manner made her uncomfortable. For the moment, she was too grateful to complain. If Nick hadn’t been there, Tiffany felt she’d still be sitting on her luggage, crying and waiting for God knew who to do Lord knew what.
“Thanks for everything you did back there,” Tiffany said as they once again neared the elevator.
“No worries,” Nick said comfortably. “I’m just glad I was here to help you. Trans-Atlantic flying can be exhausting. To have your purse stolen after having just landed is plain bad luck.”
“I knew better than to turn my back on my cart, even for a second. But that woman, excuse me, that thief, distracted me on purpose, showing me a brochure of some famous fountain…”
“Trevi, it’s the Trevi Fountain.”
“It’s the trouble fountain in my book, because that’s what finding out about it cost me—nothing but trouble.”
“On the good side, nothing was taken that can’t be replaced, and what’s more, your trip is bound to get better from here!”
The next thing Tiffany knew she was in Nick’s chauffeured town car, getting whisked to the American embassy for an emergency replacement passport. On the way, Nick provided his satellite phone so that she could make calls to replace her traveler’s checks, cancel her credit cards, and turn off her cell phone—all the while thanking her mother for bugging her until Tiffany had promised to write all of her credit card, passport, and related telephone numbers on a separate piece of paper and place it in her carry-on luggage. While she placed all of these calls, Nick was a calming presence beside her, handling his own items of business on the car phone. When she ended her call, he was still on his, a business call of some sort, she deduced. She busied herself looking out the window, taking in this place that looked so different from the streets of LA. They passed several stately-looking buildings adorned with statues and accented with fountains.
As she gazed out her window, Tiffany thought back over the past couple hours. How Nick Rollins had swooped in to save a modern-day damsel in distress. She remembered the deference those in the airline office had paid him, how the manager of the airport had referred to him as “Mr. Rollins.” How the police had appeared out of nowhere and taken her report right there in the airline office, precluding her from having to actually travel to the station to fill out the report. Nick was obviously well known in Rome, or at least well connected.
It took just under an hour for Tiffany to fill out the paperwork regarding her stolen passport and the application to have a new one expedited to her. Throughout the process, Nick continued to be a reassuring presence beside her. His chivalry continued once they left the embassy
