Beside her, her uomo del giorno snored softly. She’d met him two days earlier when she stopped by a café after visiting the Uffizi. Three hours of looking at Renaissance art got her in the mood for romance; Alessandro served her a shot of espresso and when she left a few lire for the bill, she included a scrap of paper with her hotel phone number. He called her as soon as his shift was over and arrived at the hotel on a red Vespa. He hadn’t left since. For now, she was more than content to have him in her bed. But she knew it was just a matter of time before the restlessness set in; it always did.

Paulina was in love with the idea of love. Unfortunately, she had yet to fall in love with an actual person. No matter how handsome the stranger, how great the sex, how fabulous the setting, she lost interest after a week or two. He’d start talking about the screenplay he hadn’t finished, or his ex, or his mother issues, and the bubble would burst and she’d be over it.

Maybe this was normal for age twenty-three, but Paulina wasn’t a normal twenty-three-year-old. She was a Pavlin, heiress to a jewelry fortune, with the tabloid following to match. And they were relentless. A few months ago, the New York Post ran a piece about her with the headline “The Count, the Duke, and the Wardrobe”—a play, no doubt, on the book The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—documenting her consecutive flings with a French count, a British duke, and one of the Missoni fashion heirs. To top it off, it included a paparazzi shot of her topless on the latter’s yacht.

Ever since, she found it easier to have affairs with more low-profile men, and so . . . the barista in her bed. Who knew how long this particular fling would last, but she hoped at least until the weekend; she was meeting friends on the coast for a day of yachting, and she knew her barista would look beyond hot in a bathing suit.

Paulina slid gingerly from under the covers, not wanting to wake him. But she couldn’t wait another minute for coffee. The strong Italian coffee had exacerbated her caffeine addiction. She slipped on her jeans and well-worn ankle boots for the trip down to the espresso cart on the street.

“Ms. Pavlin, un minuto,” the front desk clerk called out.

“I’ll be back soon, Umberto,” she said. “I need caffeina.”

Italian had proven so much easier to pick up than French. Maybe it was because the people were kinder about it, quick to let her mistakes slide and eager to offer help.

“I have a telephone message for you—from two days ago.”

She’d turned her room phone off and asked not to be disturbed. Her heart skipped a beat in alarm.