Breathing Room

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Ren noticed them, too, and stepped around a broken table to take a closer look. “Someone’s moved these crates away from the wall. Go up to the house, will you, and see if you can find a flashlight? I want a better look.”

  “Here.” She pulled out the small flashlight she’d stuck in her pocket.

  “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

  “I’ll try not to do it again.”

  He played the flashlight across the walls, pausing to study the places where the rock had been reinforced with stones and mortar. “Look at this.”

  She moved closer and saw scratch marks around the stones, as if someone had tried to pry them out. “Well, well . . . What do you think of my imagination now?”

  He ran his fingers over the marks. “Maybe you’d better tell me what this is about.”

  She gazed around the dark space. “Didn’t you try to kill somebody once in a place like this?”

  “Brad Pitt. Worst luck, he got me instead. But in a contest between you and me, Fifi, I’m going to win, so start talking.”

  She brushed away a spiderweb and walked over to investigate the opposite wall. “Massimo and Giancarlo are supposed to be digging a well in the olive grove, but this doesn’t look like the olive grove to me.”

  “It sure is an odd place for a well.”

  They poked around a bit more but found nothing else suspicious. She followed him out into the sunshine, where he switched off the flashlight. “I’m going to have a talk with Anna,” he said.

  “She’ll stonewall you.”

  “This is my property, and if there’s something going on, I want to know about it.”

  “I don’t think confronting her is the best way to get information.”

  “You have a better way? Stupid question. Of course you do.”

  She’d already thought it over. “It might be more productive to act as though we haven’t noticed anything odd, then make ourselves scarce and watch what happens from someplace we can’t be seen the next time Massimo and Giancarlo show up.”

  “Spy, you mean. Now, that has to violate every Cornerstone you ever made up and a few you haven’t even thought about.”

  “Not exactly true. The Personal Relationship Cornerstone calls for aggressively pursuing your goals, and the Professional Responsibility Cornerstone encourages out-of-the-box thinking. Also, something very dishonest seems to be going on here, and the Spiritual Discipline Cornerstone advocates total honesty.”

  “Spying, of course, being a great way to practice that.”

  “Which has always been a problem with the Four Cs. They don’t give you a lot of wiggle room.”

  He laughed. “You’re making this way too complicated. I’m talking to Anna.”

  “Go ahead, but I’m telling you right now, you won’t get anywhere.”

  “Is that so? Well, you’ve forgotten one thing, Ms. Know-It-All.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I have ways of making people talk.”

  “Then be my guest.”

  Unfortunately, his ways didn’t work with Anna Vesto, and Ren returned to the farmhouse later that evening with no more information than when he’d left.

  “I told you so,” she said to punish him for the afternoon she’d spent sitting in the arbor thinking about that vineyard kiss instead of working on an outline for her book about overcoming personal crisis.

  He refused to take the bait. “She said there’d been some small landslides, and the men can’t start digging until they make certain the hill’s stable.”

  “Strange that they had to go inside the storehouse—undoubtedly the most stable part of that slope—to begin making reinforcements.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  They were standing in the kitchen, where Ren had just begun dinner preparations. He’d moved into her house, mess and all, and she hadn’t done anything to stop it.

  She took a sip of the wine he’d poured, and leaned against the counter to watch as he pulled the chicken he’d bought from the small refrigerator. He sharpened a wicked-looking carving knife with a steel he found in a drawer. “When I mentioned to Anna that the storehouse didn’t seem like the most logical place to start making reinforcements, all I got were shrugs, along with the suggestion that Italian workmen knew a lot more about landslides and well-digging than a worthless American movie star does.”

  “Except more politely stated.”

  “Not much. Then that five-year-old exhibitionist came running in and flashed me. I swear, I’m not going up there again without a personal bodyguard—meaning you.”

  “Brittany’s just trying to get attention. If everyone would ignore her negative behavior and reinforce the positive, she’d stop doing it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one being stalked.”

  “You do have a way with women.” She smiled and took another sip of wine. “How are Tracy and Harry doing?”

  “She wasn’t there, and Harry ignored me.” He pushed aside a yellow plate holding the pears he’d bought at the market. “Okay, this is how we’re going to solve the mystery of what’s going on around here. We’re announcing to everyone that we’re driving to Siena for the day. Then we’ll pack up the car, head off, and when we get far enough away, double back and find a vantage point where we can watch the olive grove.”

  “Interesting plan. My plan, as a matter of fact.”

  “Actually, that’s what I’m going to do.” He took a whack at the chicken breast. “You’re staying in the car and driving to Siena.”

  “Okay.”

  He cocked one of those screen-idol eyebrows. “In the movies this is where the liberated woman tells the macho hero that he’s crazy if he thinks he’s going on that dangerous mission without her.”

  “Which is why you, the bad guy, are always able to abduct those foolhardy females.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry too much about Massimo or Giancarlo abducting you. Tell Father Lorenzo the truth. You don’t want to compromise your principles with spying, so you’re making me do the dirty work.”

  “Good theory, but wrong. When it comes to a choice between boiling in the hot sun all day and strolling through the shady streets of Siena, guess which one I’d rather do?” Besides, strolling the streets of Siena wouldn’t present the same temptation as spending hours alone with Ren. Even though she’d almost positively decided to have an affair with him, she wanted to give herself another chance to regain her sanity.

  “You’re the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever met.”

  She took an olive from the bowl on the counter. “Why are you so anxious to send me off to Siena?”

  He pushed aside a thigh with the edge of his blade. “Are you nuts? About five minutes into the stakeout you’d be dusting the weeds and rearranging the leaf piles. Then, when you finished all that, you’d start trying to tidy me up, and I’d have to shoot you.”

  “I know how to relax. I can do it if I concentrate.”

  He laughed. “So do you plan to just stand around entertaining me, or do you want to learn something about cooking?”

  She smiled despite herself. “I’ve actually been thinking about taking a few cooking classes.”

  “Why take classes when I’m here?” He washed the chicken from his hands in the sink. “Start cleaning those vegetables, then cut up the pepper.”

  She gazed at the chicken he’d just finished dismembering. “I’m not sure I want to do any activity with you that involves knives.”

  He laughed, but as he gazed down at her, his amusement faded. For a moment he seemed almost troubled, but then he dropped his head and slowly, thoroughly, kissed her. She tasted wine on his lips and something else that was distinctly Lorenzo Gage—strength, cunning, and a thinly veiled vicious streak. Or maybe she’d made up that last one to try to terrify herself out of what she wanted to do with him.

  He took his time drawing away. “Are you ready to start talking about cooking, or do you intend to keep
distracting me?”

  She made a grab for the small spiral-bound notebook she’d left on the table. “Go ahead.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A notebook.”

  “Well, put it away, for chrissa—for Pete’s sake.”

  “These are supposed to be lessons, aren’t they? I need to understand the principles first.”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet you do. Okay, here’s a principle for you: She who works, eats. She who writes crap in a notebook, starves. Now, get rid of that and start slicing up those vegetables.”

  “Please don’t use the word ‘slice’ when we’re alone.” She opened the nearest drawer. “I need an apron.”

  He sighed, grabbed a dish towel, and wrapped it around her waist. But when he’d finished tying it, his hands stayed on her hips, and his voice developed a husky note. “Get rid of your shoes.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to learn to cook or not?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see— Oh, all right.” If she protested, he’d just say she was being rigid, so she kicked off her sandals. He smiled as she tucked them under the table, but she didn’t see anything amusing about leaving a pair of shoes out where anyone could trip over them.

  “Now, open that top button.”

  “Oh, no. We’re not doing—”

  “Quiet.” Instead of arguing, he reached out and did the job himself. The material fell away just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and he smiled. “Now you look like a woman a man wants to cook for.”

  She thought about buttoning it back up, but there was something intoxicating about standing here in a fragrant Tuscan cucina, wineglass in hand, rumple-haired, unbuttoned, barefoot, surrounded by beautiful vegetables and an even more beautiful man.

  She set to work, and as she rinsed and sliced, she was conscious of the worn, cool tiles beneath her feet and the tickle of evening air brushing the tops of her breasts. Maybe there was something to be said for looking like a slattern, because she loved the way he kept gazing at her. It was oddly satisfying to be appreciated for her body instead of her brain.

  They got their wineglasses mixed up, and when he wasn’t looking, she discreetly turned his so she could drink from the place where his lips had touched. The silliness pleased her.

  Outside the garden door the evening turned the hills to lavender. “Have you already signed for your next film?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be working with Howard Jenks. We start filming in Rome, then move on to New Orleans and L.A.”

  She wondered when they’d begin, but she didn’t like the idea of having an invisible clock ticking over her head, so she refrained from asking. “Even I’ve heard of Howard Jenks. I assume this won’t be your standard slasher film.”

  “You assume right. It’s the part I’ve been waiting my whole career to tackle.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Probably not, but I want to hear anyway.”

  “This time I won’t be playing your garden-variety psychopath.” He began describing the role of Kaspar Street, and by the time he’d finished, she had chills. Still, she could understand his excitement. This was the kind of complex role actors stood in line for. “But you still haven’t seen the final script?”

  “It should be here any day. It’s an understatement to say that I’m anxious to see what Jenks has done with it.”

  He slid the chicken into the oven, then began placing the vegetables in a separate roasting pan. “As horrible as Street is, there’s almost something poignant about him. He genuinely loves the women he murders.”

  Not her idea of poignant, but for once she was going to keep her mouth shut. Or almost shut. “I don’t think it’s good for you to always play such horrible men.”

  “As I believe you’ve mentioned before. Now, dice up those tomatoes for the bruschetta.” He pronounced the word with the hard k of the Italians instead of the soft sh most Americans used.

  “All right, but if you ever want to talk about—”

  “Chop!”

  While she was doing that, he cut thin slices from yesterday’s bread, then drizzled them with olive oil, rubbed them with a clove of garlic, and showed her how to toast them over the open flame of the stove. As they turned golden brown, he added bits of ripe olive and slivers of fresh basil to the tomatoes she’d diced, then spooned the mixture on the bread slices she arranged on a majolica plate.

  While the rest of the dinner cooked in the oven, they carried everything into the garden, along with the earthenware jug holding the flowers she’d bought at the market. Gravel dug into her bare feet, but she didn’t bother going back for her shoes. They settled at the stone table, where the cats came up to investigate.

  She leaned back and sighed. The last rays of light clung to the hills, and long purple shadows fell over the vineyard and the olive grove. She thought of the Etruscan statue in the museum, Shadow of the Evening, and tried to imagine that young boy roaming lean and naked over the fields.

  Ren took a sloppy bite of bruschetta, then stretched out his legs and spoke with his mouth full. “God, I love Italy.”

  She closed her eyes and breathed a soft amen.

  A whiff of breeze carried the cooking smells from the oven into the garden. Chicken and fennel, onion and garlic, the sprig of rosemary Ren had tossed on top of the roasting vegetables.

  “I don’t appreciate food when I’m home,” he said. “In Italy there’s nothing more important.”

  Isabel knew what he meant. At home her life had been too highly scheduled for her to enjoy a meal like this. She was out of bed at five for yoga, then in the office before six-thirty so she could write a few manuscript pages before her staff arrived. Meetings, interviews, phone calls, lectures, airports, strange hotel rooms, falling asleep over her laptop at one in the morning trying to write a few more pages before she turned out the light. Even Sundays had become indistinguishable from weekdays. That Divine Slacker might have had time to rest on the seventh day, but He didn’t have Isabel Favor’s workload.

  She let the wine roll over her tongue. She tried so hard to approach life from a position of strength, but all that effort had come at a price. “It’s easy to forget simple pleasures.”

  “But you’ve done your best.” She heard something that sounded like sympathy in his voice.

  “Hey, I’ve got a world to run.” She said the words lightly, but they still tried to catch in her throat.

  “Permesso?”

  She turned to see Vittorio coming through the garden. With his black hair tied in a ponytail and his elegant Etruscan nose, he looked like a gentle Renaissance poet. And walking just behind him was Giulia Chiara.

  “Buona sera, Isabel.” He opened his arms in greeting.

  She smiled automatically, discreetly fastened her top button, and rose to have her cheeks kissed. Even though she didn’t trust Vittorio, there was something about him that made her look forward to his company. Still, she doubted it was coincidental that he’d shown up tonight with Giulia. He knew that Isabel had spotted them together, and he was here to do damage control.

  Ren looked less than friendly, but Vittorio didn’t seem to notice. “Signore Gage, I am Vittorio Chiara. And this is my beautiful wife, Giulia.”

  He’d never said a word about being married, let alone being married to Giulia. He’d never even told Isabel his last name. Most men who hid the existence of wives did it so they could hit on other women, but Vittorio’s flirtatiousness had been harmless, so he’d had another reason.

  Giulia was dressed in a plum-colored miniskirt and striped top. She’d tucked her light brown hair behind her ears, and gold hoops swung from her lobes. Ren’s scowl gave way to a smile, which made Isabel resent Giulia even more than she’d resented her for the unanswered phone calls.

  “My pleasure,” Ren said. Then, to Vittorio, “I see word’s gotten out that I’m here.”

  “Not too much. Anna is very discreet, but she needed help wi
th preparations for your arrival. We’re family—she is my mother’s sister—so she knows I’m very trustworthy. The same is true of Giulia.” He lavished his wife with a smile. “She is the best agente immobiliare in the area. Homeowners from here to Siena trust her to handle their rental properties.”

  Giulia gave Isabel a strained smile. “I understand you were trying to find me. I’ve been out of town and didn’t get your messages until this afternoon.”

  Isabel didn’t believe it for a moment.

  Giulia tilted her head at a charming angle. “I trust Anna took care of everything while I was away.”

  Isabel made a noncommital murmer, but Ren was suddenly all hospitality. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Are you sure we won’t be a bother?” Vittorio was already steering his wife toward a chair.

  “Not at all. Let me get some wine.” Ren set off for the kitchen and quickly returned with more glasses, the wedge of pecorino, and some fresh slices of bruschetta. Before long they were settled around the table laughing at Vittorio’s stories of his experiences as a guide. Giulia added her own tales centering on the wealthy foreigners who rented villas in the area. She was more reserved than her husband but just as entertaining, and Isabel began to set aside her earlier resentment and enjoy the young woman’s company.

  She liked the fact that neither of them questioned Ren about Hollywood, and when Isabel was guarded about her own work, they didn’t press. After several trips to the kitchen to check the oven, Ren invited them to stay for dinner, and they accepted.

  While he sautéed the porcini, Giulia put out the bread, and Vittorio opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water to accompany the wine. It was getting dark, so Isabel found some chunky candles to set in the middle of the table, then asked Vittorio to climb on a chair and light the candles in the chandelier she’d hung in the trees. Before long, glimmers from the flames were dancing through the magnolia leaves.