Breathing Room

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “You’ve got a great body. Don’t worry about it.” He devoured another of the razor clams he’d ordered.

  “A great body? Hardly.”

  “I’ve seen it, Fifi. I’m entitled to an opinion.”

  “Would you stop bringing that up?”

  “Relax, will you? It’s not like you killed someone.”

  “Maybe I killed a little corner of my soul.”

  “Spare me.”

  His faint air of boredom grated on her. She set down her fork and leaned closer. “What I did violated everything I believe in. Sex is sacred, and I don’t like being a hypocrite.”

  “God, it must be hard being you.”

  “You’re going to say something smarmy, aren’t you?”

  “Just making an observation about how tough it has to be to stay on that narrow path to perfection.”

  “I’ve been taunted by bigger bullies than you, and I’m impervious. Life is precious. I don’t believe in drifting through it.”

  “Well, charging through it doesn’t seem to be working right now, does it? From what I can see, you’re disgraced, broke, and unemployed.”

  “And where has your live-life-for-the-moment philosophy gotten you? What have you contributed to the world that you’re proud of?”

  “I’ve given people a few hours of entertainment. That’s enough.”

  “But what do you care about?”

  “Right now? Food, wine, and sex. The same things you do. And don’t even try to deny the sex. If it hadn’t been important, you wouldn’t have let me pick you up.”

  “I was drunk, and that night didn’t have anything to do with sex. It was about confusion.”

  “Bull. You weren’t that drunk. It was about sex.” He paused, cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’re about sex.”

  She swallowed. “We’re not about sex.”

  “Then what are we doing here right now?”

  “We’ve just formed an odd sort of friendship, that’s all. Two Americans in a foreign country.”

  “This isn’t a friendship. We don’t even like each other that much. What’s between us is sizzle.”

  “Sizzle?”

  “Yeah, sizzle.” He drew out the word until it sounded like a caress.

  A little shiver passed through her, which made it a challenge to sound offended. “I don’t sizzle.”

  “I noticed.”

  Well, she’d left herself wide open for that one.

  “But you want to.” He suddenly seemed very Italian. “And I’m prepared to help.”

  “My eyes are misting from emotion.”

  “I’m just saying that I’d like a second shot.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I don’t want blemishes on my employment record, and I didn’t do the job you hired me for.”

  “I’ll settle for a refund.”

  “Against company policy. We only give even exchanges.” He smiled. “So you’re not interested?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I thought honesty was basic to the Four Cornerstones.”

  “You want honesty? All right. Admittedly you’re a great-looking man. Dazzling, actually. But only in that impossible, movie-star, fantasy way. And I outgrew movie-star fantasies when I was thirteen.”

  “Is that how long you’ve had your sexual hang-ups?”

  “I hope you’re done with lunch, because I am.” She tossed her napkin onto the table.

  “And here I thought you were too evolved to get huffy.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “All I’m proposing is that you stretch your boundaries a little. Your bio says you’re thirty-four. Don’t you think that’s a little old to carry around so much baggage?”

  “I don’t have sexual hang-ups.”

  The knowing arch of his brow made her uncomfortable. He stroked the corner of his mouth. “In the interest of serving another human being—a philosophy you should appreciate—I’m prepared to help you work through every one of those hang-ups.”

  “Hold on. I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever had a more insulting offer. No. This is it.”

  He smiled. “It’s not an insult, Fifi. You turn me on. There’s something about the combination of a great body, a first-class brain, and a snotty personality that does it for me.”

  “I’m getting all misty again.”

  “When we met in town yesterday, I had this fantasy of seeing you naked again, and—I hope I’m not being too explicit here—spread-eagled.” The slow smile that curled the edges of his mouth looked more boyish than evil. He was having a great time.

  “Ahh . . .” She tried for sophistication—young Faye Dunaway—but he was definitely getting to her. This man was bottled sex, even when he was being outrageous. She’d always applauded people who were clear about their goals, so it seemed wiser to let the more rational Dr. Favor take over. “You’re proposing that we establish a sexual liaison.”

  He stroked the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “What I’m proposing is that we spend every minute of every night for the next few weeks engaged in either foreplay, afterplay, or . . . play.” He lingered over the word, teasing it with his lips. “What I’m proposing is that all we talk about is sex. All we think about is sex. All we do is—”

  “Are you making this up on the spot, or is it from a script?”

  “Sex until you can’t walk and I can’t stand up straight.” His voice delivered a thousand volts of smolder. “Sex until we’re both screaming. Sex until every hang-up you have is gone and your only goal in life is to come.”

  “My lucky day. Free smut.” She tilted her sunglasses higher on her nose. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll pass.”

  His index finger made a leisurely journey around the rim of his wineglass, and his smile spoke of conquest. “I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  9

  Even Ren’s tough morning workout didn’t burn off his restless energy. He took a slug from the water bottle and gazed at the pile of brush Anna wanted moved away from the villa’s garden. She’d planned to ask her husband, Massimo, who supervised the vineyard, to do it, or her son, Giancarlo, but Ren needed activity, and he’d volunteered.

  The day was hot, the Madonna-blue sky cloudless, but even as he fell into the rhythm of the task, he couldn’t shake off thoughts of Karli. If he’d tried harder to reach her, she might still be alive; but he’d always taken the easy way out. He’d been careless with women, careless with friendships, careless about everything except his work.

  “I don’t want you around my children,” his father had said when Ren was twelve. Ren had retaliated by stealing the old man’s wallet.

  Granted, he’d cleaned up his act in the past ten years, but old habits were hard to break, and he’d always have a sinner’s heart. Maybe that was why he felt so relaxed around Isabel. She wore her goodness like armor. She might feel vulnerable now, but she was tough as iron, so tough that even he couldn’t corrupt her.

  He loaded up the wheelbarrow again and pushed it to the edge of the vineyard, where he emptied it into one of the empty metal drums used to burn brush. As he set it on fire, he gazed in the direction of the farmhouse. Where was she? A day had passed since they’d gone to Volterra, and she still didn’t have electricity, mainly because he hadn’t bothered to tell Anna to get it fixed. Hey, good deeds hadn’t gotten him where he was today, and this seemed the easiest way to get Ms. Perfect on his turf.

  He wondered if she’d wear her hat when she finally came charging up the hill to confront him about her power problems, or if she’d let those curls she hated fly free. Stupid question. Nothing about Isabel Favor would ever fly free. She’d be buttoned up neat as a pin, looking capable and sophisticated, and she’d probably be waving a sheaf of legal papers that threatened to lock him up for life for being a slumlord. So where was she?

  He briefly considered going down to the farmhouse to check on her, but that defeated the purpose. No, he wanted Ms. Perfect coming to him. A villai
n always preferred luring the heroine to his lair.

  Isabel found a small chandelier decorated with metal flowers tucked away in a cupboard. Its white paint had flaked with age, and the original bright colors had faded to dusty pastels. She removed the old lightbulbs and fitted the sockets with candles, then found some strong cord and hung it from the magnolia tree.

  When she was done, she looked around for something else to keep herself busy. She’d finished her hand wash, organized the books on the shelves in the living room, and tried to bathe the cats. So far her schedule was a joke. She couldn’t summon the concentration to write, and meditating was an exercise in futility. All she heard was that seductive, low-pitched voice luring her to decadence.

  “Sex until we’re both screaming. . . . Sex until every hang-up you have is gone . . .”

  She reached for the dish towel to polish the glassware and considered phoning Anna Vesto again, but she suspected that Ren was calling the shots now. Walking up to the villa to confront him in person was exactly what he wanted her to do—making her dance to his tune. But even electricity wasn’t worth that. He might have cunning on his side, but she had the Four Cs on hers.

  Suppose she lost her mind and gave in to the urge to dance with him on the dark side? It didn’t bear thinking about. She’d sold her soul once. She wouldn’t do it again.

  A movement outside caught her attention. She made her way to the open kitchen door and watched two workmen come into the olive grove. She’d never welcomed a distraction more, and she went down to investigate.

  “Are you here to see about the electricity?”

  The older man had a road-map face and wiry, graying hair. The younger was stocky, dark-eyed, and olive-skinned. He set down his pick and shovel as she approached. “Electricity?” He looked her over in the way of Italian males. “No, signora. We come to see about problem with the well.”

  “I thought the problem was with the sewer.”

  “Si,” the older man said. “This is my son’s bad English. I am Massimo Vesto. I take care of the land here. And this is Giancarlo. We do the survey now to see if we can dig.”

  She glanced at the pick and shovel. Odd surveying equipment. Or maybe Massimo had his English mixed up as well.

  “Will be much noise,” Giancarlo said, flashing his teeth at her. “Much dirt.”

  “I’ll live with it.”

  She returned to the villa. A few minutes later Vittorio appeared, his long black hair swinging free in the breeze.

  “Signora Favor! Today is your lucky day.”

  By the time the afternoon heat drove Ren inside, he was in a black mood. According to Anna, Isabel had driven off in a red Fiat with a man named Vittorio. Who the hell was Vittorio, and why was Isabel going anyplace when Ren had his own plans for her?

  He took a swim, then returned his agent’s phone call. Jaguar wanted him for commercial voice-over work, and Beau Monde was considering a cover story. More important, the script for the Howard Jenks film was finally on its way.

  Ren had talked at length with Jenks about the role of Kaspar Street. Street was a serial killer, a darkly complex man who preyed on the very women he fell in love with. Ren had signed on to the project without seeing the final script because Jenks, who was notoriously secretive about his work, hadn’t finished tinkering with it. Ren couldn’t remember ever having been more excited about a film than he was about Night Kill. Not so excited, however, that he could forget about Isabel and the man in the red Fiat.

  Where was she?

  “Thanks, Vittorio, I had a wonderful afternoon.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He beamed his charmer’s smile. “Soon I will show you Siena, and then you will know you have seen heaven.”

  She smiled as she watched him drive away. She still couldn’t decide how deeply involved he was in the effort to remove her. His behavior had been above reproach, charming and just flirtatious enough to be flattering but not encroaching. He’d told her his clients had canceled for the day, and insisted on taking her to see the tiny town of Monteriggioni. As they’d wandered through the charming little piazza, he’d made no effort to talk her into moving into Casalleone. Still, he’d managed to get her out of the house for the afternoon. The question was, what had happened while she’d been gone?

  Instead of going inside, she walked down to inspect the olive grove. She couldn’t see any signs of digging, but the ground had been trampled near a stone-front storehouse built into the side of the hill. Scuff marks in the dirt outside the wooden door indicated they’d been here, but she couldn’t tell whether or not they’d gone inside, and when she tried the latch, she discovered it was locked.

  She heard the crunch of gravel and glanced up to see Marta standing at the edge of the garden watching her. She felt guilty, as if she’d been caught snooping. Marta stared at her until Isabel finally moved away.

  That night she waited until the old woman had disappeared into her room before she began her search for the key to the storehouse. But without electricity she couldn’t see into the drawers or the backs of cupboards, so she decided to try again in the morning.

  As she headed upstairs to bed, she wondered what Ren was doing. Probably making love with a beautiful signora from the village. The idea depressed her more than she wanted it to.

  She leaned outside to open the shutters that Marta insisted on closing every night and saw the steady glow of incandescent light seeping through the slats covering the older woman’s window. Apparently not everyone in the farmhouse had lost electrical power.

  She tossed and turned all night, obsessing about electricity and Ren and pretty Italian women. As a result, she didn’t awaken until nearly nine, once again throwing off her schedule. She took a quick shower and then, her frustration at the boiling point, called the villa and asked for him.

  “Signore Gage is not available,” Anna said.

  “Could you tell me what’s being done about my electricity?”

  “It will be taken care of.” She broke the connection.

  Isabel itched to charge up to the villa and confront him, but he was wily, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was trying to manipulate her. Look at the way he’d lured Jennifer Lopez into his evil clutches.

  She hurried to the garden, filled a tub with soapy water, and marched off to catch a cat. If she didn’t keep busy, she would jump right out of her skin.

  Ren reached into his pocket for his emergency cigarette, then realized he’d already smoked it, not a good sign, since it was barely eleven in the morning. He had to admit that she’d proved harder to manage than he’d figured. Maybe he should have taken into account the fact that she was a psychologist. But, damn it, he wanted her coming to him, not the other way around.

  He could either wait her out, which he no longer had the patience for, or concede this round. The idea galled him, but in the long run what difference did it make? One way or another they were going to fulfill their sexual destiny.

  He decided to take a walk in his olive grove. Just a casual walk. No big deal. If she happened to be in the garden, he’d say something like, Hey, Fifi, is that electricity problem all taken care of? It isn’t? Well, damn . . . Tell you what, why don’t you come up to the house with me, and we’ll talk to Anna together?

  But luck wasn’t with him. All he saw in the garden was a trio of angry cats.

  Maybe a shot of espresso and a newspaper would settle him down, although what he really wanted was another cigarette. As he climbed into his Maserati, visions of a red Fiat danced through his head. With a scowl, he shoved the key into the ignition and started down the drive.

  He’d just reached the end when he saw her. He slammed on his brakes and jumped out. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  She gazed up at him from underneath the brim of her straw hat. Despite her work gloves, she looked more dignified than a queen. “I’m picking up roadside litter.” She plopped an empty limonata bottle into the plastic sack she was carrying.

  “Why i
n God’s name are you doing that?”

  “Please don’t invoke God’s name in anger. She doesn’t like it. And litter is a blight on the environment, no matter what country it’s in.”

  The gold bangle on her wrist glimmered in the sunlight as she reached into a clump of wild fennel for a crumpled cigarette wrapper. Her spotless white-on-white print top was tucked into a pair of trim, buff-colored shorts that showed off her shapely legs. All in all, she looked a little dressy for the litter squad.

  He crossed his arms and gazed down at her, finally beginning to enjoy himself. “You don’t have a clue how to relax, do you?”

  “Of course I know how to relax. This is very relaxing. It’s contemplative.”

  “Contemplative, my ass. You’re strung so tight you twang.”

  “Yes, well, not having even the most basic of modern conveniences could make anyone tense.”

  He went into full Actors Studio—a blank stare followed by a nearly imperceptible widening of the eyes capped with a subtle frown. “Are you trying to tell me your electricity isn’t fixed? I don’t believe this. Damn it, I told Anna to take care of it. Why didn’t you let me know there was still a problem?”

  They didn’t pay him the big bucks for nothing. She studied him for a moment and then bit. “I assumed you knew.”

  “Thanks a lot. I guess that shows what you think of me.”

  He should have quit while he was ahead, because her eyes narrowed with suspicion. He made a quick grab for his cell and placed a call to his housekeeper, deliberately speaking English.

  “Anna, I’m talking to Isabel Favor, and there’s no electricity at the farmhouse. Get it fixed by the end of the day, will you? I don’t care what it costs.”

  He disconnected and leaned against the side of the car. “That should take care of it. Let’s go for a drive while you’re waiting. I’ll check everything out when we get back to make sure it’s done.”