Only Massimo beat Ren to the vineyard the next morning, and not because Ren had gotten up so much earlier than everybody else, but because he’d never gone to bed. Instead, he’d spent the night listening to music and thinking about Isabel.

She appeared as if he’d conjured her, stepping out of the early-morning mist like an earthbound angel. She wore new jeans that still had fold marks across the knees. The flannel shirt she’d buttoned over her T-shirt belonged to him, and so did her Lakers cap. Still, she somehow managed to look tidy. He remembered the fan letters she’d received, and something burned in his chest, right behind his breastbone.

A car door slammed and Giancarlo arrived, sparing Ren the need to do more than give her a brief hello. As the others appeared, Massimo started issuing orders. The vendemmia had begun.

 

Isabel discovered that harvesting grapes was a messy business. As she tossed the heavy clusters into the basket, or paniere as it was called, juice threatened to trickle under her sleeves, and her pruning shears became so sticky they might as well have been glued to her palms. They were also treacherous, mistaking flesh for the tough grape stems. It wasn’t long before she had a Band-Aid on the end of one finger.

Ren and Giancarlo traveled the rows picking up the overflowing baskets and dumping them into the plastic crates that had been stacked on the small flatbed hitched to the tractor. They unloaded these at the old stone building beside the vineyard, where another group began crushing the grapes and pouring the must into vats to ferment.

The day was overcast and cool, but Ren had stripped down to a T-shirt printed with the logo from one of his films. He appeared beside her to collect the basket she’d just filled. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

In the next row one of the women held two bunches of grapes in front of her breasts and jiggled them, making everybody laugh. Isabel waved away the bee that kept buzzing her. “How many chances do I get to harvest grapes in a Tuscan vineyard?”

“The romance is going to wear off pretty quickly.”

It seemed that it already had, she thought, as he wiped his forehead and walked away.

She stared at the bee that had landed on the back of her hand. He hadn’t come to her last night. Instead, he’d phoned from the villa and told her he had work to do. She needed to work, too, but she’d brooded instead. The dark side of Ren’s past clung to him like cobwebs, getting in the way of any hope they had of a future together. Or maybe he’d just decided she was too much for him.

She was grateful when one of the younger women appeared to work next to her. Since the woman’s English was as limited as Isabel’s Italian, their conversation took all her attention.

By evening, with half the vineyard picked, she headed back to the house. She didn’t speak to Ren, who’d gone to share a bottle of wine with some of the men. When Tracy called to invite her to dinner, she declined. She was too tired to do more than eat a cheese sandwich and fall into bed.

Morning arrived before she was ready, and her muscles protested as she rolled over. She considered staying in bed, but she’d enjoyed the camaraderie yesterday. She’d also liked the sense of accomplishment she’d felt. It was something she hadn’t experienced for a long time.

The job went faster the second day. Vittorio showed up to help. Tracy appeared with Connor and filled Isabel in on the children’s first day of school, as well as Harry’s phone call from Zurich the previous night. Fabiola used her limited English to tell Isabel about her struggles to get pregnant. But Ren barely spoke to her. She wondered if he was working harder than everyone else because he owned the vineyard or because he wanted to avoid her.

The sun sank closer to the horizon. When there were only a few rows left, she made her way to the water table. As she filled her cup, a burst of laughter made her look up. She saw a group of three men and two women approaching from the villa.

Ren set down the crate he’d been unloading and waved as he walked toward them. “It’s about time you got here.”

Two of the three men were of the Adonis species, and they both spoke with American accents.

“When the big guy calls, the cavalry comes to the rescue.”

“Where’s the beer?”

An expensive-looking redhead with a pair of pricey sunglasses pushed on top of her hair threw Ren a kiss. “Hey, babe. We’ve missed you.”

“Glad you made it.” He brushed her cheek, then did the same to the other woman, a Pamela Anderson look-alike.

“I’m dying for a diet Coke,” she said. “Your heartless agent wouldn’t stop.”

The fourth man was small and thin, maybe in his mid-forties. His sunglasses dangled from a sport strap around his neck, and he held a cell phone pressed to his ear. At the same time he managed to pantomime to Ren that the caller was an idiot and he’d be off in a minute.

The redhead gave a throaty laugh and ran her index finger down Ren’s bare chest. “Oh, my God, sweetie, look at you. Is this real dirt?”

Indignation swept through Isabel. That was Ren’s chest the woman was making free with. Isabel took in the redhead’s low- riding pants, killer shoes, endless legs, and perfectly exposed belly button. Why hadn’t Ren mentioned that he’d invited these people?

She was standing just far enough away that he could easily have ignored her, but he called her over instead. “Isabel, I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

Tracy had teased Isabel about always looking tidy, but she didn’t feel tidy at the moment. As she moved toward them, she wished she could freeze time just long enough to take a bath, do her hair, put on makeup, slip into something elegant, and saunter over with a martini in her hand. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake. I’m a little the worse for wear.”

“These are friends of mine from L.A.,” Ren said. “Tad Keating and Ben Gearhart. The bozo on the cell is my agent, Larry Green.” He indicated the redhead first. “This is Savannah Sims.” Then the Pamela Anderson look-alike. “And that’s Pamela.”

Isabel blinked.

“I just look like her,” Pamela said. “We’re not related.”

“This is Isabel Favor,” Ren said. “She’s been staying in that farmhouse over there.”

“Oh, my God!” Pamela shrieked. “Our book club did two of your books last year!”

The fact that someone who looked like Pamela was also smart enough to belong to a book club could have given Isabel another reason to detest her, but she rose above it. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You’re a writer?” Savannah drawled. “That’s so cute.”

Okay, this one she was allowed to detest.

“I don’t know about all of you,” Ren said, “but I’m ready to party tonight. Isabel, why don’t you come to the villa after you get cleaned up? Unless you’re too tired.”

She hated it when anyone over the age of twenty-one used “party” as a verb. Even more, she hated the way he was making her feel like an outsider. “I’m not tired at all. As a matter of fact, I can’t wait. Woo, woo. Party hearty.”

Ren looked away.

When she got back to the house, she took a bath, then lay down for a quick nap, only to fall into a deep sleep. By the time she awakened, it was after nine. She shook off the cobwebs and began to dress. Since she couldn’t compete with the women in the hottie department; she didn’t try. Instead, she wore her simplest black dress, brushed her hair smooth, fastened on her bangle, grabbed her shawl, and set off for the villa with a sense of dread.

Because she felt like a guest, she rang the bell instead of simply walking in as she’d been doing. A blast of music hit her as Anna opened the door. “It is good you are here, Isabel,” she said, her posture stiff with disapproval. “These people . . .” She made a sound like air escaping from a tire.

Isabel gave her a sympathetic smile, then followed the music to the back of the house. When she got to the archway leading to the rear salon, she paused.

Ren’s agent lay facedown on the carpet with Pamela straddling him, her skirt riding to the top of her thighs as she gave him a back rub. The lights were low, the music loud. Abandoned food lay all around, and a black bra draped the marble bust of Venus. Next to it, Tad the Adonis was making out with the sultry young woman who worked in the cosmetic shop in town. Ben, the other Adonis, held a gnawed drumstick like a microphone and sang drunkenly along with the music.

Ren was dancing with Savannah and didn’t seem to notice Isabel’s arrival, maybe because the redhead’s breasts were plastered to his chest and she had both arms wrapped around his neck. A crystal tumbler filled with something lethal-looking dangled from his fingers as he rested his hand at her waist. Isabel watched his other hand slip down along her bony hip.

So . . .

“Hey, girlfriend!” Pamela waved from her perch on Larry Green’s back. “Larry loves twozies. Want to do his feet?”

“No, I don’t believe I do.”

Ren turned languidly as she spoke, and Savannah moved with him. He was elegantly dissolute in a pair of tailored black slacks and a white silk shirt open one button more than necessary. He took his time letting Savannah go. “There’s food on the table if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks.”

A lock of hair fell over his forehead as he made his way to the chest and refilled his glass from one of the liquor bottles that sat on a silver tray. He took a sip, then lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around his head like a tarnished halo. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

She slipped off her shawl and laid it over the back of the chair. “Miss a chance to party? No way. Just tell me I’m not too late for spin the bottle.”

His eyes swept over her, smoke trickling from his devil’s nostrils. Savannah of the haughty expression and endless legs regarded Isabel’s simple black dress with cool amusement. Pamela laughed and hopped off Larry Green’s back. “Isabel, you’re too funny. Hey, did you ever play that drinking game when you were in college where every time Sting sings ‘Roxanne,’ you chug?”

“I think I missed that one.”

“You were probably studying while I was hanging out in bars. I wanted to be a vet because I love animals, but the classes were really hard, and I finally dropped out.”

“Basic math is such a drag,” the Queen of the Bitches drawled.

“No, it was organic chemistry I couldn’t handle,” Pamela replied good-naturedly.

Adonis Ben abandoned his drumstick microphone for some air guitar. “Come on over here an’ love me, Pammy, ’Cause I’m an animal.”

Pamela giggled. “Take over with Larry, will you, Isabel?”

Savannah curled herself around Ren like a python. “Let’s dance.”

He slipped his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and gave Isabel a shrug. This time he locked his hands at the back of Savannah’s waist and began a slow grind.

Larry gazed up at Isabel from the floor. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to take over where Pam left off.”

“I think we should talk first to see if we’re compatible.”

Ren snorted.

Larry groaned and eased up. “Jet-lagged. The rest of them slept on the plane.” He shook her hand. “I’m Larry Green, Ren’s agent. I was on the phone when we were introduced. I haven’t read any of your books, but Pam was filling me in on your career. Who handles you?”

“Until recently, Ren.”

Larry laughed, and she noticed that his eyes were shrewd but not unkind. The rhythm of the music changed, and Ren slid his palm a few inches lower on Savannah’s hip.

Larry tilted his head toward the liquor chest. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Wine would be nice.” She took a seat on the couch. Her last meal had been eight hours ago, and she needed to eat, not drink, but she’d lost her appetite.

The music changed to a rhythmic ballad, and Savannah rubbed herself against every part of Ren she could reach. Larry handed Isabel a drink and took a seat next to her on the couch. “So I hear your career’s in the crapper.”

“On its final flush.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“That seems to be the million-dollar question.”

“If you were my client, I’d tell you to reinvent yourself. It’s the fastest way to get the energy back. Create a new persona.”

“Good advice, but unfortunately I seem to be a one-persona person.”

He smiled, and they began to talk about careers while she tried not to watch Ren and Savannah. She asked Larry about his work as an agent, and he asked her about life on the lecture circuit. Ren stopped dancing to show Savannah some of the antiques in the room, including the pistol he’d terrified Isabel with during her first visit. To her relief, he put it away, but as he moved closer, she realized that his speech had gotten slurred. He gestured toward Larry with his liquor glass. “Why th’ hell didn’t you bring some grass with you?”

“An irrational fear of foreign prisons. And since when do you . . . ?”

“Next time bring some goddamn grass.” He refilled his glass, not caring that he splashed half of it onto the tray as he poured. He took a swig, then curled his hands around Savannah’s hips. They began another slow, sexual dance. Isabel decided it was a good thing she hadn’t eaten, because anything she’d swallowed would have come right back up.

“You want to dance?” Larry asked, more because he felt sorry for her, she was certain, than from any desire to move beyond the couch. She shook her head.

One of Ren’s hands curved around Savannah’s bottom. Savannah tilted her face and parted her lips. That was all the encouragement Ren needed, and he dove right in.

Isabel had seen enough. She rose purposefully from the couch and gathered up her shawl. Then she spoke just loudly enough so she could be heard over the music. “Ren, would you step outside with me for a moment?”

An uneasy silence fell over the room. Ren slowly disengaged himself from Savannah’s lips. “Don’t be a drag,” he drawled.

“Yes, well, Drag is my middle name, and this won’t take long.”

He picked up his drink, looking bored and very drunk, took a deep swig, then set it down. “All right, let’s get this over with.” As he made his way unsteadily toward the doors that led to the loggia, he lit another cigarette.

Which she promptly snatched from his mouth as soon as they were outside.

“Hey!”

She stomped it out. “Kill yourself on your own time.”

He bristled with drunken belligerence. “I’ll kill myself any goddamn time I want.”

“I’m so annoyed with you.”

“You’re annoyed?”

“Did you expect me to be happy?” She drew her shawl tighter. “You’ve actually given me a headache. As for eating . . . I couldn’t swallow a bite.”

“I’m way too drunk to care.”

“You’re not drunk. Those drinks were mainly ice, and you spilled every time you poured. If you want to walk away from me, just come out and say so.”

His lips tightened. The drunken swagger faded, and his speech rang clear as a bell. “All right. I want to walk away.”

She gritted her teeth. “You have no idea what you want.”

“Who says?”

“I do. And right now I seem to be the only one of us even remotely in touch with our feelings.”

“Did you open your eyes in there?” He jabbed his hand toward the doorway, and his words shot out like bullets. “That’s my real life. This time in Italy has been a vacation. Don’t you get it?”

“That’s not your real life. It might have been at one time, but not now. Not for a while. That’s what you want me to believe is your real life.”

“I live in freakin’ L.A.! Women tuck their panties in my pockets when I go to clubs. I have too much money. I’m shallow and egotistical. I’d sell my fucking grandmother for a Vanity Fair cover.”

“You also have a potty mouth. But nobody’s perfect. I can be starchy.”

“Starchy?” He looked like he was going to erupt. He took a step toward her, gritting his teeth. “You listen to me, Isabel. You think you know everything. Well, try this on for size. Suppose what you’re saying is true? Suppose I invited them here—went through all this—just to show you it’s over. Don’t you get it? The bottom line stays exactly the same. I’m trying to get rid of you.”

“Obviously.” She couldn’t quite keep the quiver out of her voice. “The question is, why put yourself through all this to do it?Why not just give me a ‘hasta la vista, baby’? You know what I think? I think you’re scared. Well, so am I. Do you think I’m comfortable with this relationship?”

“How the hell should I know what you think? I don’t understand anything about you. But I do know this: When you put a saint and a sinner together, you’re asking for trouble.”

“A saint?” She couldn’t take it anymore. “Is that really what you think I am? A saint?”

“Compared to me, you sure as hell are. You’re a woman who needs to have all her ducks in a row. You don’t even like having your hair messed up. Look at me. I’m chaos! Everything about my life is insane. And I like it that way.”

“You’re not that bad.”

“Well, I’m no walk in the park, sister.”

She hugged herself. “We care about each other, Ren. You can try all you want to deny it, but we really care.” Her feelings weren’t shameful, and she wouldn’t treat them as if they were. Still, she had to take a deep breath before she could go on. “I more than care. I’ve fallen in love with you. And I’m definitely not happy about it.”

He didn’t bat so much as an eyelash. “Come on, Isabel, you’re smart enough to know what’s going on. It’s not really love. You’re a woman who has ‘savior’ plastered all over you. You see me as a big rescue project.”

“Is that so? Well, what exactly am I supposed to rescue? You’re talented and competent. You’re one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever known. Despite that little soap opera you wanted me to believe, you’re not a womanizer, you don’t do drugs, and I’ve never seen you drunk. You’re great with children in your own bizarre way. You have steady employment and the respect of your peers. Even your ex-wife likes you. Other than a weakness for nicotine and a foul mouth, I don’t get what’s so terrible about you.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re so blind to people’s faults it’s a wonder you’re still allowed outside without a leash.”

“The fact is, you’re afraid of what’s happening between us, but instead of trying to work through it, you decided to behave like an idiot. And as soon as you get inside, you’d better scrub your mouth and brush your teeth to get rid of that woman’s germs. You also need to apologize to her. She’s a very unhappy woman, and it wasn’t right to use her the way you were.”

He shut his eyes and spoke in a whisper: “God, Isabel . . .”

The moon slithered from under a cloud, casting angular shadows over his face. He looked tortured and somehow defeated. “The scene in there. It isn’t all that much of an exaggeration.”

She resisted the urge to touch him. She couldn’t solve this for him. He had to work it through, either his own way or not at all. “I’m sorry. I know how sick you are of living like that.”

He made a soft, almost inaudible sound and pulled her hard against him, but she barely felt the heat of his body before he released her.

“I have to go to Rome tomorrow,” he said.

“Rome?”

“Howard Jenks is there now finalizing locations.” He patted his hip, searching for a missing cigarette pack. “Oliver Craig is flying in—the Brit who’s playing Nathan—and Jenks wants us to read together. We’ve got costume fittings, some makeup tests. I promised to do a couple of interviews. I’ll be back in time for the feast.”

The feast was a week away. “I’m sure Anna will appreciate that.”

“In there”—he tilted his head toward the house—“you didn’t deserve that. I just . . . You needed to understand, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

And so was she. More than he could imagine.