The villa’s two-hundred-year-old dining room table groaned with food. Ornate oval platters offered up a roast leg of lamb as well as guinea hens stuffed with garlic and sage. Escarole leaves fried a golden brown held a pungent cargo of pine nuts, olives, anchovies, and raisins, while slivers of pancetta flavored a simple bowl of green beans. Fresh loaves of pane toscano spilled from a basket lined with antique linen towels bearing the family crest.

Despite the room’s grand arches and religious frescoes, the atmosphere was informal. The Briggs children chased tiny meat ravioli around their plates and stuffed themselves with wedges of homemade pizza. Ren demanded a second helping of the chestnut pasta, and Isabel indulged in an extra slice of polenta, grilled crisp on the outside but soft and steaming inside. There were creamy wedges of pecorino, chocolate-dipped figs, and wine—a lively red from their own vineyard and a fruity white Cinque Terre.

Ren was inherently Italian, therefore a man who enjoyed a good party, and he’d used the Briggs family’s impending departure the next morning as an excuse to invite company for dinner. Vittorio and Giulia sat at the table, along with the various members of Massimo and Anna’s family. Dr. Andrea Chiara was noticeably absent, even though Isabel had suggested he be invited.

Massimo talked about the vendemmia, the grape harvest that would begin in two days, while Anna and Marta jumped up and down to bring more food to the table. No one spoke of the statue. They’d finished searching the olive grove with the metal detectors and turned up nothing.

“You are always so nice to her,” Giulia said quietly to Isabel, so that Tracy, who was at the other end of the table, wouldn’t overhear. “If she had been Vittorio’s wife before me, I would hate her.”

“Not if Vittorio had tried to get rid of her as hard as Ren did,” Isabel replied.

“Even so . . .” Giulia flicked her hand. “Ah, I am not fooling you, I know. It is my jealousy that makes me not like her. Some women, they get pregnant just by looking at a man. Even Paolo’s granddaughter Josie is pregnant again.”

“I was with the children when you told Ren you’d spoken with her. What did she say?”

Giulia picked at a bread crust. “That she’s pregnant. Her second.” She gave Isabel a watery smile. “Sometimes I think everybody else in the world is pregnant. It makes me feel sorry for myself, which is not a good thing.”

“She didn’t know anything about the statue?”

“Very little. It wasn’t so easy for Josie to talk with Paolo after her mother died, because her Italian is not very good. But they still kept in touch, and he always sent her gifts.”

“Gifts? Do you think—”

“No statue. I asked, especially after she said she had a hard time getting pregnant with her first baby.”

“It might be good to have a list of everything he sent. There could be a clue somewhere. A map tucked in a book, a key—something.”

“I did not think of that. I will call her back tonight.”

“Potty!” Connor shrieked from his booster seat at the bottom of the table just as an apple cake appeared.

Harry and Tracy jumped up at once.

“I want man!” He jabbed his finger at Ren, who grimaced.

“Gimme a break, dude. Go with your dad.”

“Want you!”

Tracy flapped her arms like a frantic chicken. “Don’t argue with him. He’ll have an A-C-I-D-E-N-T.”

“He wouldn’t dare.” Ren gave the toddler his death glare.

Connor plopped his finger in his mouth and chuckled.

Ren sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

“It took him a while to get the idea, but he potty-trained in a day,” Tracy bragged to Fabiola as Ren carried Connor from the table. “I guess after four kids you finally figure out how to get the job done.”

Ren snorted from the next room.

One hour slipped into the next. A throat-searing grappa appeared along with a sweeter vinsanto for dipping the hazelnut-studded cantucci. The breeze coming in through the open doors had turned chilly, but Isabel had left her sweater at the farmhouse when she’d moved her things back that morning. She rose and touched Ren’s shoulder, briefly interrupting his discussion with Vittorio about Italian politics. “I’m going upstairs to borrow one of your sweaters.”

He nodded absentmindedly and returned to the conversation.

The villa’s master bedroom held dark, heavy furnishings, including a hand-carved wardrobe, gilded mirrors, and a bed with four fat posts. Yesterday afternoon she and Ren had stolen an hour between those posts while the Briggs family had gone sight-seeing. As a little shiver passed through her, she considered the possibility that she might be turning into a sex addict. But she knew that it was more likely an addiction to Lorenzo Gage.

She headed for the dresser, only to stop short as she spotted something on the bed. She moved closer to see what it was.

 

Ren had drunk more than enough wine, so he passed on the grappa. He intended to be sober tonight when he got down and dirty with Dr. Isabel. He felt as if a giant clock had begun ticking over their heads, counting off the time they had left. In less than a week he had to leave for his meetings in Rome, and not long after, he’d be going for good. He looked around for her, then remembered that she’d gone to his bedroom to borrow one of his sweaters.

An alarm sounded in his brain. He shoved back from the table and made a dash for the stairs.

 

Isabel recognized his footsteps in the hallway. He had a distinctive walk, measured steps, light and graceful for such a tall man. He ambled through the doorway and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Find a sweater?”

“Not yet.”

“There’s a gray one in the bureau.” He wandered across the carpet. “It’s the smallest one I’ve got.”

She sat on the side of the bed holding the script she’d found. “When did you get this?”

“Maybe you’d rather have my blue sweater. That? A couple of days ago. The blue one’s clean, but I wore the gray a few times.”

“You didn’t say anything about it.”

“Sure I did.” He rummaged through the drawer.

“You didn’t tell me you’d received the script.”

“It’s been a little crazy around here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Not that crazy.”

He shrugged, pulled out a sweater, then dug for another.

She ran her thumb over the label. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“There’s been a lot going on.”

“We talk all the time. You didn’t say a word.”

“I guess I didn’t think about it.”

“I find that a little hard to believe, since I know how important this is to you.”

Although the motion was subtle, his body seemed to uncoil, almost like a snake before it struck. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation.”

“You told me how anxious you were to read the final script. It seems strange that you never mentioned it was here.”

“It doesn’t seem strange to me. My work is private.”

“I see.” Moments before, she’d been remembering their lovemaking with pleasure, but now she felt sad and a little cheap. She was the woman he slept with—not his friend, not even a real lover, because true lovers shared more than their bodies.

He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “You don’t like my films anyway. Why should you care?”

“Because you care. Because we talked about it. Because I tell you about my work. Pick one.” She tossed down the script and rose from the bed.

“You’re making too big a deal out of this. I just—Jenks changed directions a little, that’s all. I’m still processing. You’re right. I should have said something. But I guess I didn’t want to have to get into it with you again. Frankly, Isabel, I’m a little tired of having to defend what I do for a living.”

First his anger, then his guilt, and now he’d gone on the attack. Classic. She wanted to retaliate, but that’s not how healthy relationships were built, and she needed this relationship to be healthy so much she couldn’t breathe.

“All right. That’s fair.” She fingered her bangle and took a deep breath. “I have been judgmental, and I need to stop. But I don’t like being shut out.”

He pushed in the bureau drawer with his knee. “Jesus, you make it sound like we’re—like we have— Shit.”

“A relationship?” Her palms were clammy. “Is that what you’re trying to say? I’m making it sound like we have a relationship?”

“No. We do have a relationship. A great relationship. I’m glad about it. But . . .”

“It’s just sex, right?”

“Hey! You’re the one who set the rules, so don’t turn this back on me.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“What I think you’re doing is treating me like one of your goddamn patients.”

She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t stay calm and listen. She couldn’t feed back what he was telling her, then process it using the principles she believed in so deeply. He was right. She’d made the rules, and now she was violating them. But those rules had been set an emotional lifetime ago.

She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. “Excuse me. Apparently I’ve overstepped.”

“You expect too much, that’s all. I’m not a saint like you, and I’ve never pretended to be, so lay off, will you?”

“Of course.” She made her way to the door, but before she got there, he called out from behind her.

“Isabel—”

A saint would have turned back so they could settle this, but she was no saint, and she kept walking.

 

Ren stood in the darkened doorway gazing out at the marble statues faintly lit by the moonlight washing the garden. The villa was quiet except for Dexter Gordon’s heartbreaking saxophone playing behind him. Harry and Tracy had moved back in for the night so Isabel could have the farmhouse to herself again, but they’d gone to bed hours ago. Ren rubbed his eyes. Dr. Isabel Favor, the great believer in talking things out, had turned her back on him and walked away. Not that he blamed her. He’d been a prick.

His amazon had too many tender spots, and he was starting to bruise every one of them. But it was either bruise or get bruised, right? And he couldn’t let her poke around in his psyche again, delving into all those pockets of self-disgust he’d been carrying around for as long as he could remember. She’d set the conditions of their relationship. “This is only about sex,” she’d said. “A short- term physical commitment.”

He lit a cigarette. Why did she have to be so damned pushy? She’d go ballistic when she realized he’d be playing a child molester. Not only that, but she knew how much time he’d spent with the girls. She’d put two and two together in a heartbeat and figure out he’d been playing with them as part of his research. Then all hell really would break loose, and just like that he’d lose what little of her respect he’d been able to gain. The story of his life . . .

He took a deep drag. This was his punishment for getting involved with a righteous woman. All that nutty goodness had sucked him in, and now he was suffering for it. Food didn’t taste as good when they weren’t together; music didn’t sound as sweet. He should be getting bored with her. Instead, he was bored without her.

He could get back into her good graces with a simple apology. Sorry I held out on you. It wouldn’t occur to her to hang on to a grudge, and unlike him, she didn’t know how to sulk. She deserved an apology, but then what? God help her, she was falling in love with him. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, even to himself, but she telegraphed her emotions. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. The smartest woman he knew, and she was falling in love with a man who was leaving invisible smudge marks on her skin whenever he touched her. And the worst thing—the thing he couldn’t forgive himself for—was how good it felt to receive the love of a righteous woman.

His anger, as misplaced as it was, resurfaced. In so many ways she knew him better than anyone, so why hadn’t she protected herself? She deserved someone with a clean past. A Boy Scout, a student-council president, someone who’d spent spring break building houses for the poor instead of getting wasted.

He took a final drag and flicked the butt onto the loggia. Acid burned in the pit of his stomach. Any villain worth his stripes would take advantage of the situation. Enjoy what he could get and walk away without a qualm. Villains were easy to figure out. But what would the hero do?

The hero would walk away before the heroine could get hurt anymore. The hero would make the break as clean as he could and do it in a way that would leave the heroine with a sense of relief that she’d escaped disaster so easily.

“I heard music.”

He whipped around and saw Steffie padding across the marble floor toward him. This was her last night here. With the kids gone, he’d finally have some peace and quiet, except he’d already told them they could come back every day to swim.

She wore a faded yellow nightgown printed with some kind of cartoon character he supposed he should be able to identify but couldn’t. Her dark, pixie cut was sticking up at the cowlick, and she had a crease on her cheek. As she came to his side, he knew he’d have to rely on all the acting technique he’d ever learned to play Street, because no matter how much research he did, he’d never be able to understand how anyone could hurt a kid. “What are you doing up?”

She pulled her nightdress to her thighs, and he saw a thin scratch on her calf. “Brit’ny kicked me while she was sleeping and cut my leg with her toenail.”

He needed a drink. He didn’t want pixie-haired little girls coming to him for comfort in the middle of the night. During the day it was different. He could detach and observe. But not at night, when he already felt a thousand years old. “You’ll live. Go back to bed.”

“You’re crabby.”

“Go see your mom and dad.”

Her dark brows slammed together. “They locked their door!”

He had to smile. “Yeah, well, life’s tough.”

“What if I saw a spider?” she said indignantly. “Who’d kill it?”

“You would, pal.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You know what I used to do when I was a kid and saw a spider?”

“Stomp on it hard.”

“No. I’d scoop it up and take it outside.”

Her eyes grew round and horrified. “Why’d you do that?”

“I like spiders. I had a pet tarantula once.” It had died, of course, because he’d stopped taking care of it, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Most spiders are pretty nice bugs.”

“You’re weird.” She squatted down to pick at some chipped blue glitter nail polish on her big toe. Her vulnerability worried him. Just like Isabel, she needed to toughen up.

“Time to cut the crap, Stef. That spider stuff is old news. You’re smart, and you’re strong enough to handle it without running to Mommy and Daddy in the middle of the night like a big baby.”

She gave him the haughty look she’d learned from her mother. “Dr. Isabel says we need to talk about our feelings.”

“Yeah, well, we all know how you feel about spiders, and we’re tired of hearing it. You’re doing some kind of emotional transfer thing anyway.”

“That’s what she said. Because I was worried about my mom and dad.”

“You sure don’t need to worry about them now.”

“You don’t think I should be scared of spiders anymore?” She looked both accusatory and skeptical, but he also thought he detected a hint of hope.

“You don’t have to like them, but stop making them so important. It’s better to face what’s scaring you than to keep running from it.”

Hypocrite. When had he ever made himself face that decades-old emptiness inside him?

She scratched her hip. “Did you know we get to go to school here?”

“I heard.” Jeremy had apparently led his sisters in a rebellion against Tracy’s homeschooling attempts, which had ended up with Harry writing a check to the local officials so the kids could attend the school in Casalleone until they left at the end of November. When Harry had asked his opinion, Ren had pointed out that they already spoke enough Italian for minimal exchanges, and he thought it would be a good experience for them.

“Are you going to marry Dr. Isabel?”

“No!”

“Why not? You like her.”

“Because Dr. Isabel is too nice for me, that’s why.”

“I think you’re nice.”

“That’s because you’re a pushover.”

She yawned and slipped her hand in his. “Tuck me back in bed now, okay?”

He gazed down at the top of her head, then pulled her to his side for a quick squeeze. “Okay, but only because I’m bored.”

 

They all gathered in front of the villa the next morning to see the Briggses off, even though they weren’t going far. Ren slipped Jeremy a couple of CDs he knew the kid liked, accepted a sticky kiss from Connor, admired Brittany’s final cartwheel, and gave Steffie a last-minute pep talk about not being a wimp. Isabel stayed busy, talking to everyone but him. He wasn’t surprised she was still pissed. In her world the fact that he hadn’t mentioned the arrival of the script counted as a major betrayal.

As the car disappeared down the lane, she waved at Anna, then turned to head back to the farmhouse. Marta was moving in with Tracy to help take care of the kids, and Isabel would be alone there. As he watched her walk toward the path, the roll he’d eaten for breakfast settled into a hard lump in his stomach. He might as well get this over with. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”

She turned. He took in the black sweater she’d knotted around her waist, the sleeves neatly crossed. Everything about her was tidy, except her feelings for him. Hadn’t she figured out yet that she’d gotten caught up in the lure of the forbidden? And she wasn’t the only one.

He picked up the script he’d left between the rails of the balustrade, carried it over to her, and held it out. “Take it.”

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at it.

“Go on. Read it.”

She didn’t get sarcastic as he would have. Instead, she nodded and tucked it under her arm.

As he watched her walk away, he reminded himself he was doing the right thing. But, God, he’d miss having her in his life. He’d miss everything about their time together . . . except the nagging certainty that he’d somehow corrupt her.

He spent the rest of the morning in the vineyard so he could avoid smoking his way through the nearest pack of cigarettes. As he listened to Massimo, he tried not to think about which scene Isabel might be reading at that moment or how she’d be reacting to it. Instead, he watched the old man glance at the sky and ruminate on all the disasters that could still transpire before the next day’s vendemmia—a sudden squall, an early frost that would turn the ripe fruit into dripping slime.

When he could no longer handle Massimo’s gloom, he headed back to the villa, but it felt depressingly empty without the kids running around. He’d just decided to go for a swim when Giulia showed up looking for Isabel.

“She’s at the farmhouse,” he told her.

“Would you give this to her? She wanted me to call Paolo’s granddaughter again and ask about the gifts he sent. I talked to Josie last night, and this is everything she remembered.”

Ren took the piece of paper she held out and studied the list. It was made up of practical items, things for the house and garden: clay pots, a set of fireplace tools, a bedroom lamp, a key rack, bags of dried porcini, wine, olive oil. He tapped the paper with his finger. “This lamp . . . maybe the base . . .”

“Alabaster—and too small. I asked.”

“It was worth a try.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Even though he had no belief in the statue’s powers, he didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t been able to help them find it. As the current lord of the manor, he somehow felt as if he should have come up with a way to get it done.

After Giulia left, he headed for the pool to swim some laps. The water was chilly, but not cold enough to numb him, something he would have welcomed. When he got tired, he flipped to his back, and that was when he saw Isabel sitting by the umbrella.

She’d crossed her ankles and tucked them off to the side. Her straw hat shaded her face, and the script lay in her lap. He dove under, then resurfaced as far away from her as he could get in a cowardly desire to postpone the inevitable. Finally he pushed himself up onto the deck and grabbed his towel.

She watched him come toward her. Normally her battle to keep her eyes from drifting to his crotch would have amused him, but today he didn’t feel like laughing.

“It’s a great script,” she said.

Apparently she’d decided to lull him before she went in for the kill. He played the world-weary movie star, sprawling down next to her, tilting his head back, and shutting his eyes against the sun. “Yeah.”

“It’s not too difficult to figure out why you didn’t want me to see it.”

A surly attitude was the quickest way to bring this to its ugly conclusion. “I’m not looking for any lectures.”

“I won’t give you any. This isn’t a film I’d stand in line to watch, but I know I’ll be the exception. The critics are going to love it, and so will audiences.”

He popped open one eye. Instead of coming at him directly, she was setting him up for a sneak attack.

“I can see why you’re excited about it,” she went on. “This part is going to push you to your limits. You’re at the place in your career right now where you need that.”

He couldn’t take any more, and he shot out of his chair. “He’s a child molester!”

She blinked her eyes. “I know that’s not what you signed on for, but it’ll be an amazing performance challenge.” She had the balls to smile at him. “You’re sublimely talented, Ren, and you’ve been waiting your whole career for something like this.”

He shoved a chair out of his way and headed across the pool deck. At that moment he almost hated her. She was so relentlessly reasonable, so unmercifully fair, and now he was going to have to spell out the details. “It seems to have escaped your attention that I was spending all that time with Tracy’s girls because I’ve been using them for research.”

“Yes, I figured that out.”

He whirled on her. “Steffie and Brittany! Those great little girls. Don’t you understand? I’ve been trying to get inside Street’s skin and see them through his eyes.”

The brim of her hat shaded her face, so he thought he mistook her expression. Then she shifted her head, and he saw he hadn’t been mistaken at all. Her eyes were filled with sympathy. “I can only imagine how difficult that must have been for you.”

Right then he lost it. It wasn’t enough for her to rip his skin off. She had to gnaw at his bones, too. “Goddamn it!” He hated her goodness, her compassion. He hated everything that set her apart from him. He had to get away, except his feet wouldn’t move, and the next thing he knew, she had her arms wrapped around his waist.

“Poor Ren.” She lay her cheek to his chest. “For all your sarcasm, you adore those little girls. Getting ready for this part must be awful.”

He wanted to push her away, but she was balm to his wounds, and he drew her close instead. “They’re so damn trusting.”

“And you’re completely trustworthy.”

“I’ve been using them.”

“You’re scrupulous about your work. Of course you need to understand children to play the part. You haven’t been a threat to those girls, not for a second.”

“God, I know that, but . . .” She wasn’t going to walk away. In the back of his mind he knew that meant he’d have to start all over again. But not today, not right now.

It defied logic, but he wanted to talk to her about it. He took a few steps back, putting just enough distance between them so he didn’t have to worry about corrupting her. “The script . . . It’s much better than Jenks’s original concept. There are times the audience will actually be rooting for Street, even though he’s a monster.”

“That’s what makes it brilliant and horrifying.”

“It shows how seductive evil can be. Everybody who sees the film is going to have to look inside themselves. Jenks is brilliant. I know that. I just . . .” His mouth seemed to dry up.

“I understand.”

“I’m turning into a goddamn wimp.”

“Don’t swear. And you’ve always been a wimp. But you’re such a wonderful actor nobody’s figured that out.”

Isabel had hoped to make him smile, but he was too caught up in his inner turmoil for smiles. This explained why he’d been so prickly lately. As much as he wanted to play the part, he was also repulsed by it.

“It’s Street’s film,” he said. “Nathan, the hero, is basically white wallpaper.”

“You’ve never had any problem detaching from your characters in the past, and you won’t have a problem detaching from this one.”

She’d intended her words to comfort him, but he looked even more troubled.

“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You should hate this. Aren’t you the big proponent of only sending good fairy dust out into the world?”

“That’s the way I want to live my own life. But nothing’s simple when it comes to art, is it? Artists have to interpret the world as they see it, and their vision can’t always be beautiful.”

“Do you think this film is art?”

“Yes. And so do you, or you wouldn’t be putting yourself through this.”

“It’s just . . . I wish . . . Hell, I wish my agent had forced them to put my name over the title.”

His bluster didn’t fool her, and her heart ached for him. The fact that he was so obviously conflicted might mean he’d finally gotten tired of skulking down dark alleys. Maybe he’d be ready to play someone heroic when this was over. It was time he moved past his narrow view of himself, both as an actor and as a human being.

Now, however, his gaze held nothing but cynicism. “So you’re giving me absolution for the sin I’m about to commit.”

“Making this film isn’t a sin. And I’m hardly in a position to offer absolution.”

“You’re the best I’ve got.”

“Oh, Ren.” She walked over to him and reached up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “When are you going to start seeing yourself for who you are instead of who you think you are?”

“Man, are you ever a pushover.”

She reminded herself she was his lover, not his therapist, and it wasn’t her job to fix him, especially when she hadn’t made a dent in healing herself. She began to take a step backward, but he snagged her arm, his grip so tight it almost hurt. “Let’s go.”

She saw something that looked almost like desperation on his face. He pulled her to the farmhouse, to the bedroom. She knew that something was wrong, but she caught his fever anyway and tore at her clothes as urgently as he tore at his.

As they fell onto the mattress, she drew him upon her. She wanted him to drive away the premonition that it was all coming to an end faster than either of them could stop it. He gripped her behind the knees and spread her legs. Her orgasm was shattering but not joyous—a shadow racing across the sun.

 

Ren wrapped a towel around his waist and headed down to the kitchen. He’d expected a lot of reactions out of her after she’d read the script, but acceptance—not to mention actual encouragement—hadn’t been on the list. Just once he’d like her to behave the way he expected, but the fact that she never did was one more reason he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

He’d begun to feel something like . . . the word “panic” crept into his head, but he pushed it away. He didn’t do panic, not even at the end of the film when he was enduring a predictably violent death. He just felt . . . unsettled, that was it.

Upstairs he heard water running as she began to fill the tub. He hoped she scrubbed hard at the smudge marks he’d left on her skin—the ones she couldn’t see but he knew were there.

He tapped his hip, looking for cigarettes, only to remember he was wearing a towel. As he made his way to the sink to get a glass of water, a stack of letters lying on the counter caught his attention. Next to them a padded mailing envelope bore the return address of her New York City publisher. He glanced at the one on top.

Dear Dr. Favor,

I’ve never written to a famous person before, but I heard your lecture when you came to Knoxville, and it changed my whole attitude toward life. I started going blind when I was seven . . .

He finished the letter and reached for the next one.

Dear Isabel,

I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, but I feel like you’re my friend, and I’ve been writing this letter to you in my head for a long time. When I read in the paper about all the trouble you’ve been having, I decided I needed to write it for real. Four years ago when my husband left me and our two kids, I got so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. Then my best friend brought me this audiotape of one of your lectures she got at the library. It was all about believing in yourself and it changed my life. I have my GED now, and I’m taking classes . . .

He rubbed his stomach, but the queasiness he felt there had nothing to do with the fact that he’d forgotten to eat.

Dear Mrs. Favor,

I’m sixteen and a couple months ago I tryed to kill myself because I think I might be gay. Somebody left this book you wrote at Starbucks, and I picked it up. I think you might of saved my life.

As he settled down at the table, he realized he’d started to sweat.

Dear Isabel Favor,

Could you send me an autographed picture of yourself? It would mean alot. When I got laid off at work . . .

Dr. Favor,

My wife and I owe our marriage to you. We were having money problems, and . . .

Dear Miss Favor,

I never wrote a famous person before, but if it hadn’t of been for you . . .

All the letters had been written after Isabel’s fall from grace, but the writers didn’t care about that. They only cared about what she’d done for them.

“Pretty pathetic, right?” Isabel stood in the doorway, knotting her robe at the waist.

The constriction in his stomach had risen to his throat. “Why would you say that?”

“Two months. Twelve letters.” She sank her hands into the robe’s pockets and looked unhappy. “In my golden days, sonny boy, they came in by the boxload.”

The letters hit the floor as he shot up from the table. “Saving souls is based on quantity rather than quality, is that it?”

She regarded him oddly. “I only meant that I had so much, and I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow anything! Read these letters. Just read the fucking things, and stop feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself.”

He was acting like a bastard, and any other woman would have torn into him. But not Isabel. Not the fucking Holy Woman. She didn’t even wince. She just looked sad, and it cut right through him.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said.

She turned away slightly. He was starting to apologize when he saw her eyes drift shut. He couldn’t handle this. He knew how to deal with women who cried, women who yelled, but how was he supposed to deal with a woman who prayed? It was time to think like a hero again, no matter how much it went against his nature. “I have to get back. I’ll see you in the morning at the vendemmia.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t answer, and who could blame her? Why talk to the devil when God was your companion of choice?