Isabel resisted the urge to shove the postcard back into the rack. “I was just comparing this with something similar I saw recently. The one on the statue is so much more impressive.” Oh, now, that was a lie.

The sun glimmered off the lenses of his glasses as he smiled. “There are some pornographic calendars on that back rack, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m not.” She replaced the postcard and set off up the hill.

He fell into step beside her, moving as gracefully in the long robes as if he wore them every day, but then Lorenzo Gage was accustomed to being in costume. “If you want to confess your sins, I’m all ears,” he said.

“Go find some schoolboys to molest.”

“Sharp tongue this morning, Fifi. That’ll be a hundred Hail Marys for insulting a man of God.”

“I’m reporting you, Mr. Gage. It’s against the law in Italy to impersonate a priest.” She spotted a harried young mother emerging from a shop with a set of twins in hand and called out to her.
“Signora! This man isn’t a priest! He’s Lorenzo Gage, the American movie star.”

The woman looked at Isabel as if she were the lunatic, snatched up her children, and hurried away.

“Nice going. You probably traumatized those kids for life.”

“If it’s not against the law, it should be. That mustache looks like a tarantula died on your lip. And don’t you think the scar’s a little over the top?”

“As long as it lets me move around freely, I don’t really care.”

“If you want anonymity, why don’t you just stay at home?”

“Because I was born a wanderin’ man.”

She inspected him more closely. “You were armed the last time I saw you. Any weapons underneath that robe?”

“Not if you don’t count the explosives taped to my chest.”

“I saw that movie. It was awful. That whole scene was just an excuse to glorify violence and show off your muscles.”

“Yet it grossed a hundred and fifty million.”

“Proving my theory about the taste of the American public.”

“People who live in glass houses, Dr. Favor . . .”

So he’d figured out who she was.

He pushed the steel-framed glasses up on his perfect nose. “I don’t pay much attention to the self-help movement, but even I’ve heard of you. Is the doctorate real or phony?”

“I have a very real Ph.D. in psychology, which qualifies me to make a fairly accurate diagnosis: You’re a jerk. Now, leave me alone.”

“Okay, now I’m getting pissed.” He lengthened his stride. “I didn’t attack you that night, and I’m not apologizing.”

“You pretended to be a gigolo!”

“Only in your vivid imagination.”

“You spoke Italian.”

“You spoke French.”

“Go away. No, wait.” She rounded on him. “You’re my landlord, and I want my hot water back.”

He bowed to a pair of old women strolling arm in arm, then blessed them with the sign of the cross, something she was fairly certain would keep him locked in purgatory for an extra millennium or so. She realized she was standing there watching, which made her an accessory, and she started walking again. Unfortunately, so did he.

“Why don’t you have any hot water?” he asked.

“I have no idea. And your employees aren’t doing anything about it.”

“This is Italy. Things take time.”

“Just fix it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He rubbed the phony scar on his cheek. “Dr. Isabel Favor . . . Hard to believe I’ve been to bed with America’s New Age guardian of virtue.”

“I’m not New Age. I’m an old-fashioned moralist, which is why I find what I did with you so repugnant. But instead of dwelling on it, I’m going to chalk it up to trauma and try to forgive myself.”

“Your fiancé dumped you, and your career hit the skids. That qualifies you for forgiveness. But you really shouldn’t have cheated on your taxes.”

“My accountant’s the cheat.”

“You’d think somebody with a Ph.D. in psychology would be smarter about the people she hires.”

“You’d think. But as you might have noticed, I’ve developed a black hole when it comes to people smarts.”

His chuckle had a diabolic edge. “Do you let a lot of men pick you up?”

“Go away.”

“I’m not being judgmental, you understand. Just curious.” He blinked his good eye as they came out of the shady street into the piazza.

“I’ve never let a man pick me up. Never! I was just—I was crazy that night. If I picked up some awful disease from you . . .”

“I had a cold a couple of weeks ago, but other than that . . .”

“Don’t be cute. I saw that charming quote of yours. By your own admission, you’ve— Let’s see, how did you put it? ‘Screwed over five hundred women’? Even assuming some degree of exaggeration, you’re a high-risk sex partner.”

“That quote’s not even close to accurate.”

“You didn’t say it?”

“Now, see, there you’ve got me.”

She shot him what she hoped was a withering glare, but since she didn’t have much practice with that sort of thing, it probably fell short.

He blessed a cat that strolled by. “I was a young actor trying to stir up a little publicity when I gave a reporter that quote. Hey, a guy’s got to make a living.”

She itched to ask how many women there’d really been, and the only way she managed to restrain herself was to speed up her pace.

“A hundred max.”

“I didn’t ask,” she retorted. “And that’s disgusting.”

“I was kidding. Even I’m not that promiscuous. You guru people have no sense of humor.”

“I’m not a guru people, and I happen to have a very well developed sense of humor. Why else would I still be talking to you?”

“If you don’t want to be judged by what happened that night, you shouldn’t judge me that way either.” He grabbed her sack and poked inside it. “What’s this?”

“A tart. And it’s mine. Hey!” She watched him take a big bite.

“Good.” He spoke with his mouth full. “Like a juicy Fig Newton. Want some?”

“No thank you. Feel free to help yourself.”

“Your loss.” He demolished the tart. “Food never tastes as good in the States as it does here. Have you noticed that yet?” She had, but she’d reached the grocery, and she ignored him.

He didn’t follow her inside. Instead, she watched through the window as he knelt to stroke the ancient dog who ambled down the step to greet him. The friendly clerk of the honey pot was nowhere in sight. In her place stood an older man wearing a butcher’s apron. He glared at her as she handed over the list she’d made with the aid of an Italian dictionary. She realized that the only friendly person she’d encountered all day was Lorenzo Gage. A terrifying thought.

He was leaning against the side of the building reading an Italian newspaper when she came out. He tucked it under his arm and reached for her grocery sacks.

“No way. You’ll just eat everything.” She headed for the side street where she’d left her car.

“I should evict you.”

“On what grounds?”

“For being—what’s the word?—oh, yeah . . . bitchy.”

“Only to you.” She raised her voice toward a man taking the sun on a bench. “Signore! This man isn’t a priest. He’s—”

Gage grabbed her groceries and said something in Italian to the man, who clucked his tongue at her.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re either a pyromaniac or a pickpocket. I always get those words mixed up.”

“You’re not funny.” Actually, he was, and if he’d been anyone else, she would have laughed. “Why are you stalking me? I’m sure there are dozens of needy women in town who’d love your company.” A dapper man in the doorway of a Foto shop stared at her.

“I’m not stalking. I’m bored. And you’re the best entertainment in town. In case you haven’t noticed, people here don’t seem to like you.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s because you look snotty.”

“I don’t look one bit snotty. They’re just closing ranks to protect their own.”

“You look a little snotty.”

“If I were you, I’d ask to see the rental records on your farmhouse.”

“Just what I want to do on my vacation.”

“Something underhanded is going on, and I think I know exactly what it is.”

“I feel better already.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Not.”

“Your farmhouse is supposed to be available for rent, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, if you investigate, I think you’ll discover that’s not been happening.”

“And you’re just aching to tell me why.”

“Because Marta regards the house as her own, and she doesn’t want to share it with anyone.”

“Dead Paolo’s sister?”

Isabel nodded. “People in small towns stick together against outsiders. They know how she feels, and they’ve been protecting her. I’d be surprised if she’s ever paid you a cent of rent for the place, not that you need it.”

“There’s a big hole in your conspiracy theory. If she’s kept the house from being rented, how come you—”

“Some kind of snafu.”

“Okay, I’ll go down there and throw her out. Do I have to kill her first?”

“Don’t you dare throw her out, even though she’s not my favorite person. And you’d better not start charging her rent either. You should pay her. That garden’s incredible.” She frowned as he grabbed one of her grocery sacks and began rummaging through it. “The point I’m trying to make—”

“Is there any more dessert in here?”

She snatched it back. “The point is, I’m the innocent party. I rented the farmhouse in good faith, and I expect hot water in return.”

“I told you I’d take care of it.”

“And I’m not snotty. They would have been hostile to anyone who’d rented the house.”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

She didn’t like his smugness. She had a reputation for being unflappable, but in comparison to him, she felt very . . . flappable. She swiped at him to retaliate. “That’s an interesting scar on your cheek.”

“You’re using your shrink voice, aren’t you?”

“I’m wondering if the scar might be symbolic.”

“Meaning?”

“An outward representation of the internal scars you’re carrying around. Scars caused by—oh, I don’t know—lechery, depravity, debauchery? Or maybe just a guilty conscience?”

She’d been thinking of the way he’d treated her, but as his amusement faded, she realized she’d hit a nerve, and she suspected that nerve had Karli Swenson’s name written all over it. She’d actually managed to forget about the actress’s suicide. Gage obviously hadn’t, and the corner of his mouth tightened.

“Just part of my actor’s bag of tricks.”

She felt him distance himself, which was exactly what she wanted, but the flash of unguarded pain she’d seen on his face before he’d wiped it away bothered her. She had many faults, but deliberate cruelty wasn’t one of them. “I didn’t mean—”

He checked his watch. “Time for me to hear confessions. Ciao, Fifi.”

As he turned to walk away, she reminded herself that he’d taken a dozen pokes at her, so she had no reason to make amends. Except that the poke she’d taken had drawn blood, and she was a healer by nature, not an executioner. Still, she was dismayed to hear herself call out to him. “I’m going to Volterra tomorrow to do some sightseeing.”

He looked back and cocked a brow. “Is this an invitation?”

No! But her conscience prevailed over her personal needs. “It’s a bribe to get my hot water back.”

“All right, I accept.”

“Fine.” She cursed herself. There must have been a better way to make amends than this. “I’m driving,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“In the morning?”

“Is that a problem?” A problem for her. According to the schedule, she should be writing at ten o’clock.

“You’re kidding, right? That’s before dawn.”

“Sorry you can’t make it. Maybe some other time.”

“Okay, I’ll be ready.” He started off, then looked back. “You’re not going to pay me to have sex with you again, are you?”

“I’ll do my best to resist the temptation.”

“Attagirl, Fifi. See you at dawn.”

She climbed into her car and shut the door. As she stared glumly through the windshield, she reminded herself that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, which qualified her to make a fairly accurate diagnosis: She was an idiot.

 

Ren ordered an espresso at the counter of the bar on the piazza. He carried the tiny cup to a round marble table and settled in to enjoy the luxury of sitting undisturbed in a public place. After giving the drink a few moments to cool, he downed it in one gulp just as his nonna used to. It was strong and bitter, exactly the way he liked it.

He wished he hadn’t let the feisty Dr. Favor get to him there at the end. He’d coasted along with ass-kissers for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to have to pay attention, but if he intended to hang around with her, he’d better get back into the habit. She sure wasn’t impressed by his fame. Hell, she didn’t even like his movies. And that moral compass strapped to her back was so heavy she could barely stand up straight. So did he really intend to spend the day with her tomorrow?

Yeah, he really did. How else was he going to get her naked again?

He smiled and toyed with his cup. The idea had taken hold the moment he’d seen her with that postcard. Her forehead had been furrowed in concentration, and she’d been nibbling those full lips she tried to downplay with boring lipstick. Her streaky blond hair had been neat as a pin except for a wayward lock curling across her cheek. Neither the pricey little cardigan she’d knotted around her shoulders nor her buttoned-up, toast-colored dress did all that great a job of concealing a body that was way too curvy to be wasted on a do-gooder.

He kicked back in his chair and let the idea settle in. Something had gone wrong the first time he and the good doctor had made love, but he’d make sure it didn’t go wrong again, which meant he might have to take it a little slower than he’d like.

Contrary to popular opinion, he had a conscience, and he gave it a quick check. Nope. Not even a twinge. Dr. Fifi was an adult, and if she hadn’t been attracted to him, she wouldn’t have gone off with him that night. Still, she was resisting him right now, and did he really want to work hard enough to get past that?

Yeah, why not? She intrigued him. Despite her sharp tongue, she had a decency about her that was oddly alluring, and he’d bet the farm that she believed what she preached. Which meant that—unlike last time—she’d expect some sort of relationship first.

God, he hated that word. He didn’t do relationships, at least not with any degree of sincerity. But if he were just straightforward enough, without letting down his guard for a second, and—it went without saying—being completely devious the whole time, he might be able to slide through the relationship thing.

It had been a long time since he’d been around a woman who interested him, not to mention one who offered genuine entertainment. Last night he’d had his first decent sleep in months, and so far today he hadn’t felt the need to pull out his emergency cigarette. Besides, anybody could see that Dr. Fifi would benefit from a little corruption. And he was just the man for the job.

 

A rush of hot water greeted Isabel the next morning. She reveled in a warm bath, taking her time as she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs. But her gratitude toward her landlord faded when her hair dryer wouldn’t go on, and she discovered the house had no electricity.

She stared in the mirror at her towel-dried hair. Blond ringlets had already started to form at her ears. Without her hair dryer and brush, she’d end up with a headful of curls that all the gels and conditioners in the world couldn’t tame. In twenty minutes she’d look just as messy as her mother used to look after she’d come home from one of her extracurricular tutoring sessions with a studly undergrad.

The psychological roots behind Isabel’s need for order weren’t buried very deeply. Being a neat freak was a fairly predictable outcome for someone who’d grown up in chaos. She considered phoning the villa and canceling the trip, but Gage would think she was afraid of him. Besides, she wasn’t that neurotic about her hair. She simply didn’t like the way untidiness made her feel.

To compensate, she dressed in a simple black mock-neck sundress cut high on her shoulders. With the addition of slimly sculpted mules, her gold BREATHE bangle, and a natural straw sun hat pulled low over her curls, she was ready to go. She wished she’d been able to meditate that morning to calm herself first, but her mind had refused to quiet.

Although she’d planned to arrive at the villa fifteen minutes late, just for the pleasure of making Mr. Movie Star wait, she was habitually punctual, and at 10:05, she started to hyperventilate and had to head for her car. She glanced into the rearview mirror as she pulled up to the front entrance of the villa. The curls peeking out from beneath her hat made her want to rush back to the farmhouse and organize something.

She noticed a man skulking in the shrubbery—a very badly dressed tourist, by the look of him. She felt an unwilling flash of sympathy for Gage. Despite his disguise yesterday, he hadn’t been able to keep his hiding place a secret from his fans.

The fan wore an ugly checked sport shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts that nearly brushed his knees, and thick, crepe-soled sandals with white socks. A Lakers cap shadowed his face, and a camera hung from a strap around his neck. His purple fanny pack sagged like a bruised kidney at his waist. He spotted her car and began walking toward it, shifting his weight from side to side in the awkward gait of the overweight and out of shape.

She braced herself for a confrontation, then looked more closely. With a groan, she banged her forehead against the top of the steering wheel.

He stuck his head in the door and grinned. “Morning, Fifi.”