The Florence Affair

by Kristy Tate

  CHAPTER 9

  The next evening, as Flora was leaving the shop, Zane showed up with a glittery glass jar.

  “What’s this?” Flora took the jar and held it up to the fading sunlight that shone through the old city’s cobblestone street.

  “Buttons.” Zane bit his lip and watched her with a hopeful expression. “All sorts of buttons. Some are glass, some are made of shells.” He upended the jar and poured a handful into his palm to show her the sparkling variety. “Buttons are connectors. They hold things together.” He made a fist and let the buttons slip through his grasp and back into the jar. They made a happy tinkling noise. “I thought you’d like them.” He held the jar out to her and as she took it, her fingers brushed his, and that familiar tingle of his touch returned.

  “Thank you. Did you buy them yourself?”

  He nodded. “I went to a sewing notions shop that had hundreds, if not thousands, of buttons. I picked out the ones I thought you’d like.” He fell into step beside her. “The price of the buttons is you have to let me walk you home.”

  Flora loved that Zane, who could afford to buy her anything, had gone to the effort to collect buttons for her. “That seems like I’m getting a good deal.”

  His expression lit up. “I’m glad you think so. Did you know why buttons are called sewing notions?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s not just buttons. Notions is like this huge umbrella sort of word that can also mean scissors, needles, thread, ribbons—almost anything that has to do with sewing.” He took her elbow as they crossed the street. Cars and trucks rattled by and a rat scurried into the gutter. High above them, drying laundry flapped on clotheslines. Zane’s lips tightened, but he didn’t remark on the shabby street.

  “Do you know why they’re called notions? I thought that was an Italian thing, but Aunt Cordie said it’s an American saying as well. I didn’t know, so I looked it up. Notion can also mean a bright idea or a clever invention or useful object. In the nineteenth century, the definition of notions had narrowed to things having to do with sewing. And that’s about all I know about sewing.”

  She bumped him with her hip. “I love that you looked that up.”

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but closed it moments later. His expression turned grim when his attention focused on a man stumbling down the street with a wine bottle in his hand.

  Flora studied the jar as they walked, found an opaque stone set in gold filigree, and pulled it out. It glistened in her open palm. “This is gorgeous.”

  Zane touched it with his finger. “I especially liked those. I think I bought about twenty. They’re made of opals.”

  And now she had something to tell him. “I had a college roommate named Opal. She was born in October, so Opal was not only her name but also her birthstone. She told me it comes from the Greek word opallios, which means to see a change of color, and they’re said to have the power to help estranged families find reconciliation.”

  “Ah,” Zane said, as if this somehow applied to him.

  “There’s twenty of them?” A concerned wrinkle formed between her brows. That had to have been expensive. Did she want Zane buying her expensive gifts? She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. She couldn’t lead him on.

  “Too many for one blouse?” Now he sounded concerned.

  “They’re so beautiful, I’m not sure I could ever have too many.”

  He seemed pleased, until Flora stopped at a flight of steps below street level that led to a door with peeling blue paint.

  “You live here?”

  “I was lucky to find something I could afford so close to Madame Figueroa’s.”

  “‘Lucky’ is not the word I would use.”

  “It’s not so bad.” She wished she could invite him in so he could see it wasn’t terrible, but the horrible truth was that it was that bad. It smelled of her neighbor’s cigars, and the previous tenants must have had cats because the carpets were not only stained and smelly, but had been littered with dry cat food. She’d vacuumed, of course, but because of the smell, she was forced to keep the windows open. Fortunately, they were covered with bars so she didn’t worry—too much—about someone breaking in while she slept.

  “Do you want to get dinner?” he asked. “Just as friends?”

  She pressed her lips together, debating, but after a moment, she nodded. “Let me drop off my buttons.”

  ZANE STOOD IN THE CENTER of Flora’s apartment and tried to tamp down his frustration and concern. His gaze shifted from the single bed in the corner to the tiny kitchenette with its grease-splattered oven and stained sink. Mold grew on the walls, and there was a large and bulging yellow spot on the ceiling that promised to cave in at any minute. He had a horrible vision of a half-clad man tumbling into Flora’s room and landing on her bed.

  He couldn’t let her live in these conditions. Not only was this place a slum, it smelled like a cemetery for nicotine-addicted felines. He had to get her out of here. But how?

  She followed his gaze and fidgeted beside him. “I know it’s not much, but like I said, it’s close to Madame Figueroa and in my price range, so—”

  He had to interrupt before he said something he’d regret. His aunt and cousin had warned him against being too controlling. “Where would you like to go?” Did his voice sound as strained as he felt?

  She took his arm to steer him out of her hovel. “Anywhere.”

  “Do you want to change?”

  “My clothes?”

  Your address, your postal code, your last name... Out loud, he said, “We could go somewhere nice.”

  “If my stove wasn’t so dicey, I’d offer to make something here.”

  Given the smell, he didn’t think he could eat here. He wondered how she could stand it. “Your stove is dicey?”

  “I never use it.” She laughed and tugged him toward the door. “I eat a lot of bread and cheese.”

  Once outside, he breathed easier, although it didn’t smell so great out on the sidewalk, either, but it was a giant improvement over her apartment. “Then we’ll definitely get something nice. I know just the place.”

  “I don’t want you to spend a lot of money. To be honest, I’m feeling conflicted about the buttons.”

  “They’re buttons.”

  “They’re beautiful buttons.”

  He flushed with pleasure. They were nice buttons. He had wanted to buy her jewelry, but his aunt and cousin had been adamant. You can’t scare her away, Aunt Cordie had said. And don’t throw your money around, Lexi had added. Generally, he didn’t listen to his aunt or cousin—or anyone else, for that matter—but they were females and he wasn’t, so he figured they would have a better idea of what it would take to win Flora.

  And when it came to something he wanted, he always won.

  This time wouldn’t be any different.

  FOR THE NEXT MONTH, Zane met Flora every day when the shop closed. Together, they’d walk to Formaggio, a café serving hearty pastas and luscious crusty breads. Lorenzo, who owned the café, always saved them a table by the window that overlooked the Arno River.

  “How is it that you have so much time to hang with me?” Flora asked one evening. She studied him over the rim of her goblet. “Don’t you have work?”

  “I do. I’m doing my research at the university while you’re with Madame Figueroa all day.”

  “And that’s going okay?”

  He tore off a piece of bread and smeared it with butter, obviously trying to hide his smirk. “They seem happy to have me.”

  How much was he paying them and why? Why did he insist on keeping her company every night? Not once had he tried to touch her, let alone kiss her. In fact, he hadn’t done anything that could be interpreted as anything other than friendly.

  “How long will you stay?” She hated to admit it, but her life would have a giant hole in it if he left. He’d become her only friend. The other women in the shop were nice, but most had families and seemed
too busy to socialize.

  He answered with a shrug. “I’m going to Lexi’s wedding next weekend, if you’d like to come.”

  “I can’t crash your cousin’s wedding.”

  “Why not? I would love for you to be my plus-one.”

  “I don’t think so.” Attending would push the boundaries of their tenuous friendship.

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound upset at all by her refusal and tucked into his chicken parmesan.

  She swirled her goblet and watched the wine slosh around. “Tell me about Lexi’s fiancé.”

  “Anthony is—”

  Wailing interrupted their conversation.

  Zane sat up, alert. “Someone’s hurt.” He put down his napkin and left the table.

  Flora watched him go, wondering if all MDs were Johnny-on-the-spot heroes.

  Moments later, Zane returned, his expression grim.

  “Were you able to help?” she asked.

  He shook his head, picked up his napkin, and put it back in his lap, but didn’t pick up his fork.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  She put her hand over his. “What happened?”

  “There was a murder. In your part of town.”

  “That’s terrible.” Flora stabbed a forkful of noodles but couldn’t bring herself to actually put them in her mouth. “I wonder what happened.”

  “It was Lorenzo’s cousin. His mother is in the back, understandably distraught.”

  Flora put down her fork and picked up her goblet, hoping it could tempt her.

  “Fortunately, they have some chamomile tea that should calm her down,” Zane told her. “But sometimes it’s better to ride out the emotions.”

  “Do you think so?”

  He nodded. “It’s only when we try to hide from or disguise our feelings that we become unbalanced.”

  Unbalanced. That was a good word to describe her feelings. Part of her thought that she still needed to hate Zane, but she couldn’t muster the bitterness. Every time she saw him waiting for her on the sidewalk, her heart lifted. She looked forward to sharing her evenings with him. Yes, the food was always excellent, but she enjoyed their nightly walks along the Arno just as much, if not more. But she shouldn’t be thinking of herself, or even Zane. “Is there something more we can do?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  He shook his head, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Listen, you can’t stay in your apartment.” He held up his hand, palm facing her, to stop her argument. “I know I’m breaking my word.”

  “You’re breaking your word?” she echoed, wondering if she’d misunderstood.

  He stopped, open-mouthed. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “And yet you did. What did it mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You have to tell me now.”

  He grimaced and studied his pasta. “I promised my aunt that I wouldn’t try and strong-arm you.” He looked up and met her gaze. “‘Strong-arm’ was her word, not mine. I wouldn’t use that word.”

  Her lips twitched. She wanted to ask, strong-arm me into what? But she thought she might know the answer to that question.

  He slapped the table. “But Aunt Cordie didn’t know there would be a murder in your neck of the slum.”

  “Excuse me, it’s not a slum.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “It absolutely is.”

  “No. Sure, it’s an old neighborhood—that’s part of its charm.”

  “You are charming. Where you live is not.” He picked up his fork as if he’d made a decision. “I can’t let you go back there.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do to stop me.” She picked up her fork as well.

  “Flora, be reasonable. It’s not safe.”

  “Pftt.” She waved away his concern.

  “Come and stay at the hotel tonight.”

  “And who is going to pay for that?”

  “It won’t cost anyone anything. You can share my room.”

  She pointed her fork at him. “That’s not happening.”

  He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Marco.”

  “You still have Marco?”

  “Of course. Where else would he go?”

  “Where’s he been?”

  A guilty flush stained Zane’s cheeks. “Here and there.”

  “You mean he’s been hanging around, watching us?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Geez, he must be bored out of his mind.”

  “It’s his job. He’s very discreet.”

  “Obviously. I haven’t even noticed him.” She glanced around and spotted a man sitting at a booth across the room, studying his phone.

  He caught her eye, stood, and headed their way. He was as dark and silent as she remembered him.

  “Marco,” she said.

  He ducked his head in greeting. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You, too, but I’m guessing you’ve been seeing me for a while.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. This must have been extremely boring.”

  “You could describe Zane with lots of words, but boring isn’t one of them.” His lips lifted in a half-smile. “Besides, the food is great.”

  “Marco,” Zane said, “there’s been a murder near Flora’s apartment. Can you stay with her tonight?”

  “Your goon can’t share my apartment.” Now, she blushed. “Sorry, Marco. No offense. There’s hardly room for me.”

  “Then let me stay there,” Zane pressed.

  “For how long?”

  “Until they catch the murderer.”

  She shook her head. “You’re overreacting.”

  “And you’re being irresponsible.”

  They glared at each other. After a moment, Flora tossed down her napkin, fished money out of her purse, and slapped the bills on the table. “I’m going home.”

  Zane stood. Next to Marco, he looked small, but still formidable.

  She took a few steps but whirled around when she realized they were right behind her. “You’re going to follow me? Both of you?”

  When the two men looked at each with tight lips and tense jaws, Flora sighed and headed for the door.

  As expected, Marco and Zane followed.

  “This is ridiculous,” Flora said after a few blocks.

  “You’re right,” Zane said. “Marco, go and get the car.”

  Marco peeled off at the next intersection.

  Flora hated that she felt a frisson of fear as she watched him leave. She shook herself and mentally rehearsed the words I’m perfectly fine. And Zane stomped after her as if he disagreed.

  FLORA FLIPPED BACK the curtains to look at the Mercedes parked along her curb. “I’m being stalked.”

  “By who?” Sicily squeaked in surprise over the phone.

  “Zane and his henchman.”

  “Zane has a henchman?”

  “Yes, and the two of them are outside my door.”

  “Why?”

  She told her sister about the murder in her neighborhood.

  “You should let them in,” Sicily said.

  “What?” Flora dropped the curtain, trudged to her bed, and fell back onto it.

  “I think it’s sweet. Zane is worried about you. You should invite him in.”

  Flora’s gaze swept over her tiny space and she tried to imagine Marco and Zane inside it. They would dominate the room. The only places to sit were the bed and the cat-stained carpet. “I can’t do that.”

  “Did Zane invite you to his hotel?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Flora cleared her throat and raised her voice. “I’m not.”

  “I know you’re scared.”

&
nbsp; “No, I’m not.”

  “Anyone would be. Zane broke your heart, but remember, you also broke his.”

  “I find that so hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s him and I’m just me.”

  “There’s no just about you.”

  “He could marry a princess or a model.”

  “He doesn’t want a princess or a model. He wants you.”

  “Does he really?”

  “Didn’t you say he proposed?”

  “That was weeks ago. He hasn’t even tried to hold my hand or kiss me since then.”

  “And yet, right now, he’s hanging out in his car right outside your door, just to make sure you’re safe.”

  Flora sighed. “What should I do?”

  “If I were you, I’d invite him in. But you know your place better than I do. I’d at least make him some brownies.”

  “Brownies? Seriously?”

  “I never joke about brownies.”

  “Chances are, by the time the brownies are done, they’ll have gotten bored and left.”

  “How long have they been there?”

  “Four hours.”

  Sicily laughed. “They’re not going anywhere until you do. How’s this? You make the brownies, and if they’re still there by the time the brownies are done, you either invite them in, or let him take you to his hotel.”

  Flora agreed, but not before she gave her stove a worried glance.

  ZANE WOKE UP WHEN HE heard a fire engine roaring down the street. Marco had already jumped from the car and was pounding down the steps that led to Flora’s hovel.

  Acrid smoke rolled from the windows and flames flickered in the corner where the kitchenette had been. Flora burst out the door and launched herself at Zane. She wore a large white T-shirt that came to her mid-thighs, and as far as he could tell, not much else. She felt warm and fragile in his arms. He pulled away so he could look at her face. Cupping her face with one hand, he used his thumb to brush away her tears.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  A tight-lipped Marco pushed past them both and stalked around the tiny apartment like a beagle at the airport searching for drugs. A fire engine pulled up and a crew of firefighters jumped out. Zane took Flora’s hand and guided her away from the hubbub.