“I’m not stalking. I’m bored. And you’re the best entertainment in town. In case you haven’t noticed, people here don’t seem to like you.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“It’s because you look snotty.”
“I don’t look one bit snotty. They’re just closing ranks to protect their own.”
“You look a little snotty.”
“If I were you, I’d ask to see the rental records on your farmhouse.”
“Just what I want to do on my vacation.”
“Something underhanded is going on, and I think I know exactly what it is.”
“I feel better already.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Not.”
“Your farmhouse is supposed to be available for rent, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, if you investigate, I think you’ll discover that’s not been happening.”
“And you’re just aching to tell me why.”
“Because Marta regards the house as her own, and she doesn’t want to share it with anyone.”
“Dead Paolo’s sister?”
Isabel nodded. “People in small towns stick together against outsiders. They know how she feels, and they’ve been protecting her. I’d be surprised if she’s ever paid you a cent of rent for the place, not that you need it.”
“There’s a big hole in your conspiracy theory. If she’s kept the house from being rented, how come you—”
“Some kind of snafu.”
“Okay, I’ll go down there and throw her out. Do I have to kill her first?”
“Don’t you dare throw her out, even though she’s not my favorite person. And you’d better not start charging her rent either. You should pay her. That garden’s incredible.” She frowned as he grabbed one of her grocery sacks and began rummaging through it. “The point I’m trying to make—”
“Is there any more dessert in here?”
She snatched it back. “The point is, I’m the innocent party. I rented the farmhouse in good faith, and I expect hot water in return.”
“I told you I’d take care of it.”
“And I’m not snotty. They would have been hostile to anyone who’d rented the house.”
“Can I get back to you on that?”
She didn’t like his smugness. She had a reputation for being unflappable, but in comparison to him, she felt very . . . flappable. She swiped at him to retaliate. “That’s an interesting scar on your cheek.”
“You’re using your shrink voice, aren’t you?”
“I’m wondering if the scar might be symbolic.”
“Meaning?”
“An outward representation of the internal scars you’re carrying around. Scars caused by—oh, I don’t know—lechery, depravity, debauchery? Or maybe just a guilty conscience?”
She’d been thinking of the way he’d treated her, but as his amusement faded, she realized she’d hit a nerve, and she suspected that nerve had Karli Swenson’s name written all over it. She’d actually managed to forget about the actress’s suicide. Gage obviously hadn’t, and the corner of his mouth tightened.
“Just part of my actor’s bag of tricks.”
She felt him distance himself, which was exactly what she wanted, but the flash of unguarded pain she’d seen on his face before he’d wiped it away bothered her. She had many faults, but deliberate cruelty wasn’t one of them. “I didn’t mean—”
He checked his watch. “Time for me to hear confessions. Ciao, Fifi.”
As he turned to walk away, she reminded herself that he’d taken a dozen pokes at her, so she had no reason to make amends. Except that the poke she’d taken had drawn blood, and she was a healer by nature, not an executioner. Still, she was dismayed to hear herself call out to him. “I’m going to Volterra tomorrow to do some sightseeing.”
He looked back and cocked a brow. “Is this an invitation?”
No! But her conscience prevailed over her personal needs. “It’s a bribe to get my hot water back.”
“All right, I accept.”
“Fine.” She cursed herself. There must have been a better way to make amends than this. “I’m driving,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“In the morning?”
“Is that a problem?” A problem for her. According to the schedule, she should be writing at ten o’clock.
“You’re kidding, right? That’s before dawn.”
“Sorry you can’t make it. Maybe some other time.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready.” He started off, then looked back. “You’re not going to pay me to have sex with you again, are you?”
“I’ll do my best to resist the temptation.”
“Attagirl, Fifi. See you at dawn.”
She climbed into her car and shut the door. As she stared glumly through the windshield, she reminded herself that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, which qualified her to make a fairly accurate diagnosis: She was an idiot.
Ren ordered an espresso at the counter of the bar on the piazza. He carried the tiny cup to a round marble table and settled in to enjoy the luxury of sitting undisturbed in a public place. After giving the drink a few moments to cool, he downed it in one gulp just as his nonna used to. It was strong and bitter, exactly the way he liked it.
He wished he hadn’t let the feisty Dr. Favor get to him there at the end. He’d coasted along with ass-kissers for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to have to pay attention, but if he intended to hang around with her, he’d better get back into the habit. She sure wasn’t impressed by his fame. Hell, she didn’t even like his movies. And that moral compass strapped to her back was so heavy she could barely stand up straight. So did he really intend to spend the day with her tomorrow?
Yeah, he really did. How else was he going to get her naked again?
He smiled and toyed with his cup. The idea had taken hold the moment he’d seen her with that postcard. Her forehead had been furrowed in concentration, and she’d been nibbling those full lips she tried to downplay with boring lipstick. Her streaky blond hair had been neat as a pin except for a wayward lock curling across her cheek. Neither the pricey little cardigan she’d knotted around her shoulders nor her buttoned-up, toast-colored dress did all that great a job of concealing a body that was way too curvy to be wasted on a do-gooder.
He kicked back in his chair and let the idea settle in. Something had gone wrong the first time he and the good doctor had made love, but he’d make sure it didn’t go wrong again, which meant he might have to take it a little slower than he’d like.
Contrary to popular opinion, he had a conscience, and he gave it a quick check. Nope. Not even a twinge. Dr. Fifi was an adult, and if she hadn’t been attracted to him, she wouldn’t have gone off with him that night. Still, she was resisting him right now, and did he really want to work hard enough to get past that?
Yeah, why not? She intrigued him. Despite her sharp tongue, she had a decency about her that was oddly alluring, and he’d bet the farm that she believed what she preached. Which meant that—unlike last time—she’d expect some sort of relationship first.
God, he hated that word. He didn’t do relationships, at least not with any degree of sincerity. But if he were just straightforward enough, without letting down his guard for a second, and—it went without saying—being completely devious the whole time, he might be able to slide through the relationship thing.
It had been a long time since he’d been around a woman who interested him, not to mention one who offered genuine entertainment. Last night he’d had his first decent sleep in months, and so far today he hadn’t felt the need to pull out his emergency cigarette. Besides, anybody could see that Dr. Fifi would benefit from a little corruption. And he was just the man for the job.
A rush of hot water greeted Isabel the next morning. She reveled in a warm bath, taking her time as she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs. But her gratitude toward her landlor
d faded when her hair dryer wouldn’t go on, and she discovered the house had no electricity.
She stared in the mirror at her towel-dried hair. Blond ringlets had already started to form at her ears. Without her hair dryer and brush, she’d end up with a headful of curls that all the gels and conditioners in the world couldn’t tame. In twenty minutes she’d look just as messy as her mother used to look after she’d come home from one of her extracurricular tutoring sessions with a studly undergrad.
The psychological roots behind Isabel’s need for order weren’t buried very deeply. Being a neat freak was a fairly predictable outcome for someone who’d grown up in chaos. She considered phoning the villa and canceling the trip, but Gage would think she was afraid of him. Besides, she wasn’t that neurotic about her hair. She simply didn’t like the way untidiness made her feel.
To compensate, she dressed in a simple black mock-neck sundress cut high on her shoulders. With the addition of slimly sculpted mules, her gold BREATHE bangle, and a natural straw sun hat pulled low over her curls, she was ready to go. She wished she’d been able to meditate that morning to calm herself first, but her mind had refused to quiet.
Although she’d planned to arrive at the villa fifteen minutes late, just for the pleasure of making Mr. Movie Star wait, she was habitually punctual, and at 10:05, she started to hyperventilate and had to head for her car. She glanced into the rearview mirror as she pulled up to the front entrance of the villa. The curls peeking out from beneath her hat made her want to rush back to the farmhouse and organize something.
She noticed a man skulking in the shrubbery—a very badly dressed tourist, by the look of him. She felt an unwilling flash of sympathy for Gage. Despite his disguise yesterday, he hadn’t been able to keep his hiding place a secret from his fans.
The fan wore an ugly checked sport shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts that nearly brushed his knees, and thick, crepe-soled sandals with white socks. A Lakers cap shadowed his face, and a camera hung from a strap around his neck. His purple fanny pack sagged like a bruised kidney at his waist. He spotted her car and began walking toward it, shifting his weight from side to side in the awkward gait of the overweight and out of shape.
She braced herself for a confrontation, then looked more closely. With a groan, she banged her forehead against the top of the steering wheel.
He stuck his head in the door and grinned. “Morning, Fifi.”
8
I refuse to be seen in public with you!”
His knees bumped the dash as he folded himself into her Panda. “Believe me, you’ll enjoy the day more this way. I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but the Italians love my films.”
She gazed at his geeky outfit. “You have to lose the fanny pack.”
“I can’t believe I’m out of bed this early when I don’t have to work.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes.
“I mean it. The fanny pack goes. I can deal with the white socks and those sandals, but not that fanny pack.” She looked again. “No, I can’t deal with the white socks either. They both have to go.”
He yawned. “Okay, let’s see . . . how will the story play out on Entertainment Tonight?” He dropped his voice into television-announcer mode. “The recently disgraced Dr. Isabel Favor, who’s apparently not as wise as she wants her legions of worshippers to believe, was seen in Volterra, Italy, with Lorenzo Gage, Hollywood’s dark prince of dissolute living. The two were spotted together—”
“I love the fanny pack.” She threw the Panda into gear.
“What about the sandals and white socks?”
“A retro fashion statement.”
“Excellent.” He squinted, then fumbled with the zipper on the pack. She wondered how someone so tall fitted into a Maserati.
“What were you doing in the shrubbery?”
He stuck on a pair of clunky black sunglasses. “There’s a bench back there. I was taking a nap.” Despite his complaining, he looked healthy and rested. “Nice hair this morning. Where did the curls come from?”
“A sudden and mysterious electrical failure that rendered my hair dryer ineffective. Thanks for the hot water. Now may I have my electricity back?”
“You don’t have electricity?”
“Strangest thing.”
“It could be accidental. Anna said they’ve had water problems at the farmhouse all summer, which is why they need to dig.”
“And why she told you I have to move to town.”
“I believe she mentioned it. Dump the hat, will you?”
“Not a chance.”
“It’ll draw too much attention to us. Besides, I like those curls.”
“Be still, my heart.”
“You don’t like curls?”
“I don’t like messiness.” She gave his clothes a telling glance.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just ‘ah.’ ”
“Keep your ‘ahs’ to yourself so I can enjoy the scenery.”
“Be glad to.”
It was a beautiful day. Hills stretched to the horizon on either side of the road. Oblong bales of wheat sat in one field. A tractor moved through another. They passed acres of sunflowers drying in the sun but not yet plowed under. She would’ve loved to see them in bloom, but then she would’ve missed the sight of the grapes ready for harvest.
“My friends call me Ren,” he said, “but today I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Buddy.”
“That’s gonna happen.”
“Or Ralph. Ralph Smitts from Ashtabula, Ohio. It has a certain ring to it. If you have to wear a hat, I’ll buy you something a little less eye-catching when we get there.”
“No thanks.”
“You’re one uptight chick, Dr. Favor. Is that a building block of your philosophy? ‘Thou shalt be the most uptight chick on the planet’?”
“I’m principled, not uptight.” Just saying it made her feel stuffy, and she wasn’t stuffy, not really, not in her heart anyway. “What do you know about my philosophy?”
“Nothing until I got on the Web last night. Interesting. From what I read in your bio, you built your empire the hard way. I’ve got to hand it to you. Nobody seems to have given you anything for free.”
“Oh, I got a lot for free.” She thought of all the people who’d inspired her over the years. Whenever she’d reached a low point in her life, the universe had always sent her an angel in one form or another.
Her foot slipped off the accelerator.
“Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Either pay attention to the road or let me drive,” he grumbled. “Which you should have done in the first place, because I’m the man.”
“I noticed.” She gripped the wheel more tightly. “I’m sure my life story is boring compared to yours. Didn’t I read that your mother’s royalty?”
“A countess. One of those meaningless Italian titles. Mainly she was an irresponsible international playgirl with too much money. She’s dead now.”
“I’ve always been fascinated with the influences of childhood. Do you mind an intrusive question?”
“You want to know what it was like growing up with a mother who had the maturity level of a twelve-year-old pothead? I’m touched by your interest.”
She’d imagined herself staying aloof today instead of chatting away. Still, what else could he do to her? “Professional curiosity only, so don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Let’s see, maternal influence . . . I can’t remember the first time I got drunk, but it was around the time I grew tall enough to pick up the liquor glasses her party guests left around.” She didn’t hear any bitterness, but it had to be lurking around in there somewhere. “I smoked my first joint when I was ten, and a lot more after that. I’d seen a few dozen porn films before I was twelve, and don’t think that doesn’t screw up your adolescent sexual expectations. In and out of boarding schools all along the East Coast. Totaled more cars than I can count. Arrested for sh
oplifting twice, which was ironic because I had a fat trust fund and way too much disposable income for a snot-nosed punk. But, hey, anything to get attention. Oh . . . snorted my first line of coke when I was fifteen. Ah, the good old days.”
A lot of pain hid behind his chuckle, but he wasn’t going to let her see a bit of it. “What about your father?” she asked.
“Wall Street. Very respectable. He still goes to work every day. The second time around he made sure he married more responsibly—a blueblood who wisely kept me as far away as possible from their three kids. One of them’s a decent guy. We see each other occasionally.”
“Did any angels show up in your childhood?”
“Angels?”
“A benevolent presence.”
“My nonna, my mother’s mother. She lived with us off and on. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be in prison now.”
As it was, he seemed to have made his own kind of creative prison, playing only villainous parts, maybe to reflect his self-image. Or maybe not. Psychologists had a bad habit of oversimplifying people’s motivations.
“What about you?” he asked. “Your biography said you’ve been on your own since you were eighteen. Sounds tough.”
“It built character.”
“You’ve come a long way.”
“Not far enough. I’m currently broke.” She reached for her sunglasses, hoping to deflect the conversation.
“Worse things can happen than being broke,” he said.
“I’m guessing you’re not speaking from personal experience.”
“Hey, when I was eighteen, the interest check from my trust fund was lost in the mail. It got pretty ugly.”
She’d always been a sucker for self-deprecating humor, and she smiled, even though she didn’t want to.
Half an hour later they reached the outskirts of Volterra, where a castle of forbidding gray stone appeared on the hill above them. Finally a safe topic of conversation. “That must be the fortezza,” she said. “The Florentines built it in the late 1400s over the original Etruscan settlement, which dated to around the eighth century B.C.”
Breathing Room Page 8
