Isabel flew across the marble floor, but the man had only caught a shoulder, and Ren was already back on his feet, every muscle in his body focused on annihilation. She shot an incredulous look at his assailant. “Are you out of your mind?”

Ren made a leap for him just as the words the man had spoken sank into Isabel’s brain. “Ren, stop! Don’t hit him.”

He already had the man by the throat. “Give me one good reason.”

“It’s Harry Briggs. You can’t kill him unless Tracy says so.”

His grip eased, but he didn’t let go, and fury still glimmered in his eyes. “Do you want to explain that punch before or after I take you apart?”

She had to give Briggs credit for standing his ground in the face of what could be a very painful death. “Where is she, you son of a bitch?”

“No place where you can touch her.”

“You made her miserable once. You’re not going to do it again.”

“Dad!”

Ren quickly released his hold as Jeremy rushed in. The boy dropped the broken roof tile he’d been carrying and flung himself into his father’s arms, the sulky expression he wore most of the time vanishing.

“Jeremy.” Briggs drew him close, sinking his hands into his son’s hair and closing his eyes for a moment.

Ren rubbed his shoulder and watched.

Despite the foolhardy punch he’d thrown, Harry Briggs didn’t look too dangerous. He stood a few inches shorter than Ren, with a slim build and pleasant, regular features. As Isabel studied him, she sensed a neat freak like herself, except this one had fallen into a bad spell. His straight, conservatively cut brown hair hadn’t been near a comb recently, and he needed a shave. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were tired, and he’d worn his rumpled khakis and tan polo shirt a day too long. He didn’t look like a philanderer, but that wasn’t exactly something you could see on a person’s face. He also seemed to be one of the least likely men on earth to be married to a dazzler like Tracy.

As he rubbed his son’s shoulders, she noticed a serviceable watch and a plain gold wedding band. “Have you been taking care of everybody?” he asked Jeremy.

“I guess.”

“We need to talk, buddy, but I have to see your mother first.”

“She’s down at the pool with the brats.”

Harry tilted his head toward the front door. “See if I put any dings in the car while I was driving down here, will you? There were some gravel roads.”

Jeremy looked troubled. “You won’t leave or anything without me, will you?”

Once again Harry touched his son’s hair. “Don’t worry, pal. Everything’s going to be fine.”

As the boy set off, Isabel noticed that Harry hadn’t answered his question. When Jeremy was out of earshot, he turned his attention back to Ren, and all the softness he’d displayed to the boy vanished. “Where’s the pool?”

The heat of Ren’s anger seemed to have burned off, although she suspected it could reignite at any moment. “Maybe you’d better cool down first.”

“Never mind. I’ll find her myself.” Harry stalked past them.

Ren picked up the piece of broken roof tile Jeremy had dropped, stared at it for a moment, then gave a martyr’s sigh. “We can’t leave him alone with her.”

Isabel patted his arm. “Life’s never simple.”

 

Tracy saw Harry coming. Her heart did an instinctive skip-hop before it settled into the pit of her stomach. She’d known he’d show up sooner or later. She just hadn’t expected him to find her so quickly.

“Daddy!” The girls came flying out of the water. Connor squealed when he spotted him, and his fat diaper bobbled from side to side as he rushed to greet his favorite person in the world, not knowing that same person hadn’t wanted him to be born.

Harry somehow managed to scoop up all three. He was particular about his clothes, but not when it came to the kids, and he didn’t seem to mind getting wet. The girls lavished him with sloppy kisses. Connor knocked his glasses askew. Tracy’s heart ached as she watched him return their kisses and offer them the same single-minded attention he’d given her in the days when they’d still been in love.

Ren appeared. It didn’t hurt to look at him the way it did to look at Harry. This older Ren was tougher and smarter than the boy who’d taught her how to smoke a joint, but he was also more
cynical. She couldn’t imagine how this business with Karli Swenson had affected him.

Isabel came to his side looking cool and capable in her sleeveless blouse, biscuit-colored slacks, and straw hat. Her boundless competence would have been intimidating if she weren’t so kind. The kids had adored her on sight, generally a good sign of a person’s character. Just like every other woman who stepped into Ren’s orbit, she was fascinated by him, but unlike the others, she was fighting it. Tracy gave her high marks for trying, even if she didn’t stand a chance, not when Ren’s desire was so obvious. In the end she wouldn’t be able to resist him, which was a shame, because a fling wouldn’t be enough for her. She was the kind of woman who wanted all the things Ren didn’t have to give, and he’d eat her up before she realized it. Not just in a good way either.

It was less agonizing to feel sorry for Isabel than herself, but Harry was here now, and she could only hold off her pain for so long. Who are you? she wanted to ask. Where is the sweet, tender man I fell in love with?

She hoisted herself out of her chair, 158 pounds of beached whale. Fifteen more pounds and she’d outweigh her husband. “Girls, take Connor and go find Signora Anna. She said she was making cookies.”

The girls clung tighter to their father and glared at her resentfully. From their point of view she was the wicked witch who’d taken them away from him. A hard, tight knot stuck in her throat.

“Go on,” he said to the girls, still not looking at her. “I’ll come in and see you soon.”

They didn’t give him trouble like they gave her, and she wasn’t surprised when they took Connor and set off toward the house. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she said when they were gone.

He finally looked at her, but his eyes were as cold as a stranger’s. “You didn’t leave me any choice.”

This was the man she’d shared her life with, the man she’d believed would always love her. They used to stay in bed all weekend, talking and making love. She remembered the joy they’d shared when Jeremy and the girls were born. She remembered the family outings, the holidays, the laughter, the quiet times. Then she’d gotten pregnant with Connor, and things had begun to change. But even though Harry hadn’t wanted more children, he’d still fallen in love with their youngest son the moment he’d slipped from her body. At first she’d been certain he’d fall in love with this one, too. Now she knew different.

“We talked about it, and we agreed. No more kids.”

“I didn’t get pregnant by myself, Harry.”

“Don’t you dare blame this on me. I wanted a vasectomy, remember? But you threw a fit, so I backed off. My mistake.”

She cupped her hand over his mistake and rubbed the taut skin.

“Would you like me to help you pack,” he said levelly, “or do you want to do it yourself?”

He was as remote as a distant planet. Even after all these months she couldn’t get used to his coldness. She remembered the day he’d told her that his company wanted him to go to Switzerland and oversee an important acquisition. Not only did it mean the promotion he’d been working toward, but it would also give him an opportunity to do the kind of work he was best at.

Unfortunately, her pregnancy stood in his way. He’d be gone from August through November, and the baby was due at the end of October. Since Harry Briggs always did the right thing, he said he was turning down the job. But she’d refused to let him be a martyr, and she told him she was packing up the kids and coming with him. Women had babies in Switzerland, didn’t they? She’d have hers there, too.

It had been a mistake from the beginning. She’d hoped their time away from home would bring them close again and mend the hurts, but it had only driven them further apart. The apartment the company had found was too small for a large family. The kids had no one to play with, and as the weeks passed, their misbehavior escalated. She planned weekend excursions—EuroDisney, boat trips down the Rhine River, cable-car rides—but she ended up taking the children by herself, because Harry worked constantly. He was gone nights, Saturdays, even sometimes on Sunday. Still, she hadn’t fallen apart until two days ago, when she’d caught him at a restaurant with another woman.

“Do you want me to help you pack?” he repeated, in the overly patient voice he used when he was reprimanding one of the children.

“I’m not leaving, Harry, so I don’t need to pack.”

“Yes you do. You’re not staying here.” No emotion registered on his face. She heard no pain in his voice, no caring, nothing but the cold, flat statement of a man compelled to do his duty.

“Watch me.”

Ren was standing just behind Harry, and he frowned. She knew he didn’t want her here, but if he said a word about it in front of Harry, she’d never forgive him.

Harry’s eyes stayed on her even as he addressed Ren. “I’m surprised you want her. Setting aside the fact that she’s seven and a half months pregnant, she’s just as spoiled and irrational now as she was when you were married to her.”

“As opposed to being a controlling, cheating bastard?” she shot back.

A muscle twitched in the side of his jaw. “Very well. I’ll pack the children’s things myself. Feel free to stay as long as you like. The kids and I will do fine without you.”

Her ears rang, and her breath caught on a hiss. “If you think for one minute that you’re going to walk off with my children . . .”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Over my dead body.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d object. You’ve done nothing but complain about them since we arrived in Zurich.”

The injustice nearly choked her. “I never get a break! I’m with them all day and all night. And all weekend while you’re cuddled up with your anorexic girlfriend!”

Her anger didn’t even make him flinch. “It was your choice to come with me, not mine.”

“Go to hell.”

“If that’s the way you want it, I’m leaving. I’ll take the four children we have. You can keep the new one.”

Tracy felt as if he’d slapped her. This is it, she thought. This is the darkest moment of my life.

She heard Isabel make a quiet sound of distress. Ren, her old childhood friend, stepped forward. “You’re not taking anybody anywhere, pal.”

Harry’s jaw set in the stubborn line Tracy had seen so often. He knew that Ren could flatten him without even breathing hard, but he was Harry, and he turned toward the house anyway.

Ren began to move. Tracy started to cry out, but Isabel got to it first. “Both of you, stop right there!”

Isabel sounded like every authority figure Tracy had spent her childhood rebelling against, but she’d never been more grateful for anyone’s interference.

“Ren, please step aside. Harry, come back here, would you? Tracy, you need to sit down.”

“Who are you?” Harry said, cold and hostile.

“I’m Isabel Favor.”

Tracy wasn’t clear exactly how Isabel made it happen, but Ren moved aside, Harry walked back toward the pool, and Tracy sank down at one of the tables.

Isabel took another step forward, speaking softly but firmly. “The two of you need to stop trading insults and start talking about what matters.”

“I don’t believe that either of us asked for your opinion,” Harry said, prickly as hell.

“I am,” Tracy heard herself say. “I’m asking.”

“I’m not,” Harry retorted.

“Then I’ll speak on behalf of your children.” Isabel projected a confidence that Tracy envied. “Although I’m not an expert on child behavior, I think I can safely say that what the two of you are doing is going to damage five small lives in ways you can’t even imagine.”

“Parents get divorced all the time,” Harry retorted, “and their kids turn out fine.”

Pain shot into the very depths of Tracy’s heart. Divorce. As bad as it had gotten, neither of them had ever spoken that word, not until now. But what had she expected? She’d left, hadn’t she? Still, she’d never imagined this. She’d just wanted to get Harry’s attention. She’d wanted to cut through that layer of ice that had formed a block around him so thick she didn’t know how else to chisel through it.

Harry no longer looked quite as detached, but it was hard to tell what he was feeling. He kept his emotions neatly tucked away until it was convenient for him to deal with them. She, on the other hand, hung hers out for the world to see.

“People do get divorced,” Isabel said. “And sometimes it’s unavoidable. But when five children are involved, don’t you think parents need to suck it up and do their best to figure out how they can stay together? I know it may seem tempting right now, but you both forfeited your chance to run off and follow your bliss a long time ago.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Tracy retorted.

If anything, Isabel’s expression grew more sympathetic. “Do you hit each other? Is there physical abuse?”

“Of course not,” Harry snapped.

“No. Harry won’t even set a mousetrap.”

“Is either of you abusive to your children?”

“No!” they said together.

“Then everything else can be solved.”

Tracy’s bitterness rose to the surface. “The problems we have are too big to be solved. Betrayal. Adultery.”

“Immaturity. Paranoia,” Harry countered. “And problem-
solving requires logic. That leaves Tracy out.”

“It also requires some knowledge of human emotions, and Harry hasn’t felt an emotion in years.”

“Are you listening to yourselves?” Isabel’s gentle shake of the head left Tracy feeling faintly ashamed. “You’re both adults, and it’s obvious you love your children. If your marriage isn’t working the way you want it to, then fix it. Don’t run away from it.”

“It’s too late for that,” Tracy said.

Isabel’s expression remained sympathetic. “Right now you can’t afford a disposable relationship. You have sacred responsibilities, and no amount of wounded pride justifies walking away from them. Only the most selfish and immature parents would use beautiful children as weapons in a power struggle.”

Harry had never been called immature in his life, and he looked as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of guppies. Tracy had more experience, so it didn’t sting quite so badly.

Isabel bore in. “It’s time to transfer your energy from arguing to figuring out how you’re going to live together.”

“Ignoring the fact that you are completely out of line,” Harry said, “what kind of life would it be to grow up with parents who can’t stand living together?”

His words made Tracy want to cry. He was bailing out on her. Harry Briggs, the most hardworking, stubborn, decent man she’d ever known, was bailing out.

“You can live together,” Isabel said firmly. “You just have to figure out how you’re going to do it.” She zeroed in on Harry. “You have some priorities to sort out, I think. Call up the people you work with and tell them you won’t be in for a few days.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” Tracy said. “Harry never misses work.”

Isabel ignored her. “There are plenty of bedrooms in the villa, Mr. Briggs. Pick one and unpack.”

Ren’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey!”

Isabel ignored Ren’s protest. “Tracy, you need some time to yourself. Why don’t you take a drive? Harry, your children have missed you. You can spend the afternoon with them.”

Harry was indignant. “Wait a minute. I’m not going to—”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Physically, Isabel might be the smallest person beside that pool, but she was angry now, and that made her formidable. “You’ll do this because you’re decent and because your children need you. And if that’s not good enough”—she bore down on him—“you’ll do it because I’m telling you to.” She held his eyes for what must have seemed like forever, then turned and marched away. Ren, who hated emotional upheaval nearly as much as Harry did, couldn’t follow her fast enough.

Harry swore under his breath. Being alone with him was more than Tracy could tolerate right now, and she rushed toward the house. Isabel was right. She needed to be by herself for a while.

Church bells rang in the distance, and Tracy’s heart felt so bruised it was hard to breathe. What happened to us, Harry? Our love was supposed to last forever.

But forever seemed to have passed them by.

 

Ren followed Isabel as she swept through the villa’s garden and down the slope toward the vineyard. The soft bounce of her hair beneath her straw hat was at odds with her purposeful stride. Ren wasn’t normally attracted to warrior goddesses, but nothing about his attraction to her had been normal from the beginning.

Why couldn’t an ordinary woman have rented that farmhouse? A good-time woman who understood that sex, was just sex, and didn’t have squirrelly ideas about how everybody in the world should live their lives. Most of all, a woman who didn’t pray when she was with him. Today he’d received the distinct impression she was actually praying for him, and what kind of crap was that to have to put up with from a woman you wanted for sex?

He pulled up next to her. “I just saw the Four Cornerstones in action, didn’t I?”

“They’re both wounded right now, but they have to get over it. Personal responsibility is at the heart of any well-lived life.”

“Remind me never to piss you off. Oh, wait, I already did that.” He resisted the urge to destroy that silly hat. Women like Isabel shouldn’t wear hats. They should go about the world bareheaded, with a sword in one hand, a shield in the other, and a chorus of angels singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” behind them. “Was it my imagination or did you really call those little monsters from hell ‘beautiful children’?”

Instead of smiling, she looked so troubled he wanted to stick a red rubber ball on his nose and grab a seltzer bottle.

“You think I should have stayed out of it, don’t you? That I was pushy and dictatorial. Possibly even driven, demanding, and difficult?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.” He didn’t really mean it. She’d been terrific with them. Still, if he gave her an inch, she’d take over the world. “Didn’t any of those psych classes teach you to butt out of other people’s lives unless they ask you for advice?”

As her steps slowed, she seemed to get angry all over again. “When did we get the idea that disposable marriages were all right? Shouldn’t people have figured out by now that it’s not going to be easy? Marriage takes hard work. It takes sacrifice and commitment. Couples need—”

“He’s screwing around on her.”

“Is he? Am I the only one who’s noticed that Tracy doesn’t seem to be the most reliable source? And from what I saw today, they haven’t talked through a single one of their issues. Did you hear either of them mention a word about counseling? Because I didn’t. What I saw was wounded pride wrapped up in all kinds of hostility.”

“Which—and correct me if I’m wrong—doesn’t seem like the best way to keep a marriage going.”

“Not if the hostility’s genuine. I grew up that way, and believe me, that kind of warfare poisons everything it touches, especially children. But Tracy and Harry aren’t in my parents’ league.”

He didn’t like to think about her growing up with hostility. It was one thing for him to have been raised by jerks—he’d learned to tune it out. But she cared too deeply about the people around her, and it made her more vulnerable.

Her expression grew stormier. “I hate it when people try to bail out without a fight. It’s emotional cowardice, and it violates everything our lives should be about. They loved each other enough to conceive five children, but now they want to throw up their hands and take the easy way out. Doesn’t anybody have a backbone anymore?”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just your sex partner, remember?”

“You’re not my sex partner.”

“Not at this exact moment, but the future’s looking good. Except you have to stop that praying crap. It turns me off. You, however, turn me on.”

She lifted her face to the heavens. “Please, God, don’t strike this man with lightning, even though he deserves it.”

He smiled, glad he’d finally managed to cheer her up. “Knock it off. You want me. Admit it. You want me so bad right now that you can’t stand it.”

“Women who want you end up dead and buried.”

“The strong survive. Unbutton your blouse.”

Her lips parted, and her eyes got big. Momentarily, at least, he’d made her forget the Briggses’ troubles.

“What did you say?”

“It’s not smart to argue with me. Just unbutton it.”

In less than a heartbeat her expression shifted from confused to calculating. She had his number, and if he weren’t careful, she’d carve it in his chest with the tip of one of those polished little fingernails.

He gave her a half-lidded sneer, then thinned his lips with just enough menace to get her blood pumping.

Her jaw set in a stubborn line that boded no good.

He shifted his weight until he loomed over her, something he’d already figured out she didn’t like. Then he lifted his hand and, with sinister slowness, traced her jugular with his thumb.

Now her nostrils flared.

Damn, he was having a good time. Except . . . what the hell was he doing? He went out of his way to avoid intimidating women in real life, yet here he was deliberately baiting this one in the most aggressive way he could. Even more surprising, the indignant sparks in those honey-brown eyes indicated she just might be appreciating his effort.

He switched to his whispery, beyond-the-crypt voice. “I believe I gave you an order.”

“So you did.”

She was snotty as all hell. Okay, now she was asking for it. “There’s no one around. Do what I said.”

“Unbutton my blouse?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Let me think about it.” She didn’t. “No.”

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this.” He trailed his finger past the open button at the collar of her blouse. She wasn’t so indignant, he noticed, that she backed away. “It seems I’m going to have to remind you of the obvious.” He built the tension with a long pause. God, he hoped he was turning her on, because he sure as hell was turning himself on. “It seems I’m going to have to remind you of how much you want to. Of how it’s going to feel.”

Her lashes flickered, and that full bottom lip parted from its mate. Oh, yeah . . .

She moved a fraction of an inch closer. “I, uh, stand reminded.”

He suppressed a smile. Not so sassy now, are you, sweetheart? “Let’s be sure about that.”

He gazed at those puffy lips and thought about how good they were going to feel against his own. “Imagine the sun beating down on your bare breasts. Feel me watching you. Touching you.” He was sweating beneath his shirt, and his groin felt thick and heavy. “I’m going to pick the fattest grapes I can find and squeeze the juice on your nipples. Then I’m going to lick off every drop.”

The honey in her eyes darkened to syrup. He tipped her chin, bent his head beneath the brim of her hat, and closed his mouth over hers. It was so much better than he remembered. He tasted sun, the grape juice he’d imagined, and a heady dose of righteous, turned-on woman. He felt a primitive urge to take her right in the vineyard. To lay her down in the ancient soil of his ancestors, shaded by these old vines. To plunge into her the way one of his Medici ancestors might have taken a willing peasant woman. Or an unwilling one, for that matter, but he sure didn’t have to worry about that right now, because this woman had molded herself right to him.

He pushed off her hat, let it fall to the ground, and tunneled his fingers through her disorderly curls. She was killing him, and he released her just enough to whisper against her lips. “Let’s go to the house.”

“Let’s . . . not.” Even to Isabel’s own ears her words sounded like a sigh. But she didn’t want to go anyplace. She wanted to kiss. And then she wanted to open her blouse just as he’d said, and let him do exactly what he wanted with her breasts.

The scents and sensations overwhelmed her. The heat of the Tuscan sun, the smell of ripe grapes, of soil, and, mostly, of man. She felt drunk with him, his kiss, his erotic verbal foreplay, the hint of menace that shouldn’t have excited her but did—and she had no intention of analyzing that. His tongue slipped past her teeth into her mouth. A soul kiss. Exactly the right term for a kiss that was too intimate to be offered to just anyone.

His hands were on her hips now, pulling her against his erection. “Unbutton,” he whispered. And she couldn’t resist.

She did it slowly, working from bottom to top. He inched back enough to let the fabric part, revealing her lacy, nude-toned bra. There was no triumph in his eyes, merely honest male anticipation. She flicked the center clasp, pushed the lacy cups away, and let the sun fall on her breasts.

He made a quiet sound of suppressed need, lifted his hands, and cradled her breasts so they lay like pale ivory offerings in his palms. His thumbs brushed the nipples, and they pebbled. He reached into the vines and plucked a grape.

She didn’t understand what he was doing until he squeezed the grape between his fingers. The juice spurted, then trickled in a gleaming rivulet down the slope of her breast and over the tip. She shuddered. Tried to catch her breath. But he wasn’t done.

Slowly, he rubbed the sun-hot pulp over the nipple, making
circles, each one coming closer to the erect tip. She let out a hiss of pleasure when he reached his goal.

He slipped the bruised fruit—pulp and skin—over the end and squeezed. Grape. Pulp. Tiny seeds. He rolled it all between his fingers, abrading her flesh in the sweetest pain she’d ever felt. Her breath came quicker, and edgy waves of pleasure cut through her bloodstream. His tongue licked at the inside of her mouth, then slipped away to her breast. He played there, sucking and teasing, eating what was left of the fruit, tormenting her flesh, until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

“God . . .” He breathed the word like a prayer, drawing back to gaze at her. Juice stained his cheek. His eyes were heavy-lidded and slumberous, his lips slightly swollen. “I want to push a grape inside you and eat it from your body.”

Her pulses kicked. She was heady with need and a ferocious joy. This was what real passion felt like, this mindless saturnalia of the senses. He cupped her through her slacks and rubbed. She arched against his hand in a slow, holy dance. Her flesh was sticky from the juice, and her body felt as swollen as the grapes.

Abruptly, he jerked away. The sudden motion left her dazed and disoriented. With a rough growl he grabbed her hat from the ground, thrust it at her, and spun her toward the farmhouse. “I’m way too old for this.”

He was rejecting her?

“Signore Gage!”

She glanced back and saw Massimo approaching. Not a rejection, after all, but a hideously untimely interruption. She clutched her blouse together and hurried to the farmhouse, stumbling on the path. She’d never experienced anything like this, and she wanted more.

She reached the farmhouse, rushed to the bathroom, and turned on the cold water. She splashed her face, then rested the heels of her hands on the sink to catch her breath. The memory of her own voice mocked her.

“If we don’t ever push the parameters of our lives, how can we grow as human beings, my friends? God smiles at us when we reach for the stars, even if we don’t quite manage to touch them. Our very willingness to make the attempt shows we aren’t taking life for granted. That we’ve kicked up our heels, howled at the moon, and honored the sacredness of this gift we’ve been given. . . .”

She peeled off her crumpled, juice-stained blouse. Her lust for Lorenzo Gage wasn’t sacred. On the other hand, her desire to howl at the moon had become irresistible.

After she’d tidied herself, she jumped into the Panda and drove to town. As she wandered through the market that had been set up in the piazza, she tried to turn her jumbled feelings into a prayer, but the words wouldn’t take shape. She could pray for other people again, but she still couldn’t manage to pray for herself.

Breathe. . . . She focused on the piles of fresh produce, where eggplants lay sleek and fat in their purple skins, and ruby heads of radicchio nested between lacy bundles of leaf lettuce. Tubs of wrinkled black olives sat next to pyramids of apples and pears. Straw baskets held porcini mushrooms with earth still clinging to the stems. Gradually, she could feel herself calm.

Until she’d come to Tuscany, she hadn’t thought much about her inadequacies as a cook, but in a culture where food was everything, she was missing out on something important and life-affirming. Maybe she could redirect some energy by taking a few cooking classes when she wasn’t writing. And despite Ren’s scoffing, she would write.

She approached the market’s flower stalls and chose a country bouquet. As she paid for it, she noticed Vittorio emerging from a shop across the piazza with Giulia Chiara, her ineffective real-estate agent. As she watched, he drew Giulia against him and kissed her, a kiss of passion, not friendship.

They were both young and attractive, so there was nothing surprising about their being together, especially since Casalleone was a small town. But when Isabel had mentioned Giulia in connection with the various utility problems, Vittorio hadn’t said a word.

“Thanks for ditching me.”

A pulse jumped in her throat. She turned and saw a tall, shabbily dressed workman with a frayed eye patch and a flat cap pulled over his dark hair. She wished he’d left her alone until she’d had a chance to reorient herself. “I had things to do. How did you get here? I thought your car was in the garage.”

“I borrowed Anna’s.” He acted as if their erotic encounter hadn’t been more than a handshake, another reminder of the emotional chasm that existed between them. And she intended to make love with this man . . .

The knowledge jarred her, and she banged her elbow against a metal post.

“Watch yourself.”

“I’m trying to!” She’d spoken too loudly, and several people turned to stare at her. She had a death wish. That was the only explanation. But what was the use in pretending? The incident today proved that it was only a matter of time before she gave in to something that was guaranteed to add even more turbulence to her life. Unless . . .

Unless she was very clear about her goal. This would be a time to celebrate her body. Only her body. She would keep her spirit, her heart, and especially her soul safely tucked away. Not that it would be too difficult, since Ren wasn’t interested in any of those parts. What a dangerous man. He reeled women in, then dismembered them. And she was voluntarily giving him space in her life.

Because she still felt vulnerable, she blistered him with a frown. “Do you just happen to keep things like eye patches lying around, or did you steal that from someone who actually needs it?”

“Hey, the minute the guy fell down, I gave him back his white cane.”

“You’re demented.” But her irritation faded.

“Look at all this great food.” He surveyed the market stalls. “I’m not eating with anybody named Briggs tonight, so I’ll let you cook for me.”

“I wish. Unfortunately, I’ve been too busy building my empire to learn anything about cooking.” She looked around and saw that Vittorio and Giulia had disappeared.

“I must be losing my hearing. Is there actually something you don’t know how to do?”

“Lots of things. For example, I haven’t the slightest idea how to gouge out someone’s eyeballs.”

“Okay, you win this round.” He took the bouquet from her and sniffed. “Sorry about that interruption earlier. Really sorry. Massimo wanted to give me a progress report on the grapes and to ask my opinion about when we should pick them, knowing full well that I have no clue. He suggested you might like to help with the vendemmia.”

“What’s that?”

“The harvest. It’ll start in about two weeks, depending on weather, the position of the moon, birdcalls, and a few other things I don’t understand. Everyone helps out.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like work, something I’d rather avoid. You, on the other hand, will no doubt volunteer to organize the entire event, even though you know absolutely nothing about harvesting grapes.”

“I do have a talent.”

He snorted and started negotiating with an old woman selling eggplant. Once that purchase was complete, he began gathering up other vegetables, ripe pears, a gnarled wedge of pecorino, and a crusty loaf of pane toscano. His meat purchase was accompanied by a great deal of discussion with the butcher and the butcher’s wife about the pros and cons of various preparation methods.

“Do you really know how to cook, or are you faking it?” she finally asked.

“I’m Italian. Of course I know how to cook.” He steered her away from the butcher. “And this evening I’m making you a great dinner.”

“You’re only half Italian. The rest of you is a rich movie star who grew up on the East Coast surrounded by servants.”

“And a grandmother from Lucca with no granddaughter she could pass the old ways on to.”

“Your grandmother taught you to cook?”

“She wanted to keep me busy so I wouldn’t impregnate the maids.”

“You’re not nearly as rotten as you want me to believe.”

He gave her his bone-melting smile. “Baby, all you’ve seen is my good side.”

“Stop it.”

“That kiss really threw you into a tailspin, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.” He laughed, which made her more peevish, so she threw Michael’s words at him. “I’m schizo when it comes to sex. Sometimes I get into it, and sometimes I can’t get it over with fast enough.”

“Cool.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Will you just relax? Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to.”

Exactly what she was afraid of.