At the end of the room an arched doorway much grander than the one in the farmhouse opened to a loggia, the source of the blaring music. A man stood inside the arch, his shoulder resting against the frame as he gazed out toward the sunlight. She squinted against the glare and saw that he wore jeans and a rumpled black
T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. His profile was so classically chiseled it might have belonged on one of the room’s statues. But something about his rebel’s slouch, the liquor bottle tilted to his mouth, and the pistol dangling from his free hand told her this might be a Roman god gone bad.
With a wary eye on the gun, she cleared her throat. “Uh . . . scusi? Excuse me.”
He turned.
She blinked against the sun. Blinked again. Told herself it was only a trick of the light. Just a trick. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. . . .
6
But it was. The man who’d called himself Dante stood slouched in the doorway. Dante of the hot, glazed eyes and decadent touches. Except this man’s hair was shorter, and his eyes were a silvered blue instead of brown.
“Son of a bitch.”
She heard American English—movie-star English—spoken in the deep, familiar voice of the Italian gigolo she’d met the night before last in the Piazza della Signoria. Even then it took a moment before she understood the truth. Lorenzo Gage and Dante the gigolo were the same man.
“You . . .” She swallowed. “You’re not . . .”
He gazed at her with assassin’s eyes. “Shit. Leave it to me to pick up a stalker.”
“Who are you?” But she’d seen his movies, and she already knew the answer.
“Signore Gage!” Anna Vesto burst into the room. “This woman! She would not leave when I told her to. She is—she is—” The English language couldn’t contain her indignation, and she released a torrent of Italian.
Lorenzo Gage, the philandering movie star who’d driven Karli Swenson to suicide, was also Dante, the Florentine gigolo, the man she’d allowed to taint a corner of her soul. She slumped into one of the chairs along the wall and tried to breathe.
He growled at the housekeeper in Italian.
She replied with wild gestures.
Another growl from him.
The woman huffed and swept from the room.
He stomped out onto the loggia and snapped off the music. When he returned, a lock of inky hair had fallen over his forehead. He’d left the bottle behind, but the pistol still hung from his hand.
“You’re trespassing, sweetheart.” His lips barely moved, and his deadly drawl sounded even more menacing in real life than it did in digital SurroundSound. “You really should have called first.”
She’d had sex with Lorenzo Gage, a man who’d bragged in a magazine article that he’d “screwed five hundred women.” And she’d let herself become five hundred and one.
Her stomach heaved. She buried her face in her hands and whispered words she’d never before spoken to another human being, never even thought to speak. “I hate you.”
“That’s how I make my living.”
She sensed him coming closer and dropped her hands, only to find herself staring at the pistol.
It wasn’t exactly pointed at her, but it wasn’t exactly not pointed at her either. He held it loosely near his hip. She saw that it was an antique, probably several hundred years old, but that didn’t necessarily make it any less deadly. Look what he’d nearly done to Julia Roberts with a samurai sword.
“Just when I think the press can’t sink any lower. What happened to your non parler anglais, Frenchy?”
“The same thing that happened to your Italian.” She sat straighter, finally focusing on what he was saying. “The press? You think I’m a reporter?”
“If you wanted an interview, all you had to do was ask.”
She jumped up from the chair. “You think I went through all that just to get a story?”
“Maybe.” Faint alcohol fumes wafted her way. He planted his foot on the chair she’d vacated. She gazed at the pistol resting on his thigh and tried to decide whether he was threatening her or he’d forgotten it was there.
“How did you find me, and what do you want?”
“I want my house.” She took a step back, then was angry with herself for doing it. “Is this how you get your kicks? Disguising yourself so you can pick up women?”
“Believe it or not, Fifi, I can do that without a disguise. And I was worth a hell of a lot more than those fifty euros you left.”
“A matter of opinion. Is that gun loaded?”
“Beats me.”
“Well, put it down.” She gripped her hands.
“I don’t think so.”
“Am I supposed to believe you’ll shoot me?”
“Believe whatever you want.” He yawned.
She wondered how much he’d had to drink and wished her legs didn’t feel so boneless. “I won’t tolerate being around guns.”
“Then leave.” He sprawled into the chair, legs extended, shoulders slouched, pistol on his knee. A perfect portrait of decadence in the Villa of the Angels.
No power on earth would make her leave until she understood what had happened. She clenched her hands tighter to keep them from trembling and managed to drop into the chair across from him without knocking it over. She finally knew what hatred felt like.
He studied her for a moment, then pointed the pistol toward a wall-size tapestry of a man on horseback. “My ancestor, Lorenzo de’ Medici.”
“Big deal.”
“He was a patron of Michelangelo. Botticelli, too, if the historians are right. When it comes to Renaissance men, Lorenzo was one of the best. Except . . .” He stroked the stock with his thumb and regarded her with narrow-eyed menace. “He let his generals sack the city of Volterra in 1472. Medicis aren’t good people to piss off.”
He was nothing more than an egocentric movie star going through his paces, and she wouldn’t be intimidated. Not much, anyway. “Save your threats for the ticket buyers.”
The menace vanished, replaced by boredom. “Okay, Fifi, if you’re not the press, what are you up to?”
Now that she’d dug in, she realized she couldn’t talk about the night before last—not yet, not ever. The house. That’s why she’d come here in the first place.
“I’m here to settle a disagreement about the house I rented.” She tried to put more authority behind her words, something that came normally to her but wasn’t so easy now. “I paid for two months, and I’m not leaving.”
“Why, exactly, am I supposed to care about this?”
“It’s your house.”
“You rented this house? I don’t think so.”
“Not this house. Your farmhouse. But your employees are trying to kick me out.”
“What farmhouse?”
“The one down the hill.”
His lip curled. “I’m supposed to believe the woman I accidentally met in Florence two nights ago just happened to rent a house I own. Maybe you’d better come up with a better story.”
Even she found it hard to swallow, except that the tourist heart of Florence was small, and she’d run into the young couple she’d met in the Uffizi at two other sites that same day. “Sooner or later every tourist in Florence ends up in the Piazza della Signoria. We just happened to get there at the same time.”
“Lucky us. You look familiar. I thought so last night.”
“Do I?” This was a topic she didn’t care to pursue. “I rented your farmhouse in good faith, but as soon as I arrived, I was told to leave.”
“Are you talking about that place where old Paolo used to live, down by the olive grove?”
“I don’t know who old Paolo is. A woman named Marta seems to be living there now, which I don’t like but am prepared to tolerate.”
“Marta . . . Paolo’s sister.” He spoke as if he’d dredged up a distant memory. “Yeah, I guess that is part of this property.”
“I don’t care who she is. I paid my money, and I�
��m not leaving.”
“Why are you being kicked out?”
“Something about trouble with a sewer.”
“I’m surprised you want to stay, considering what happened between us. Or maybe you’re just pretending to be pissed off.”
His words jolted her back to reality. Of course she couldn’t stay. She’d violated the essence of who she was with this man, and it would be unbearable to run into him again.
A crushing sense of disappointment joined her other painful emotions. In the farmhouse garden she’d experienced her first peace in months, and now it was being ripped away from her. She still had a little pride. If she had to leave, she’d at least do it in a way that wouldn’t let him think he’d won. “You’re the actor, Mr. Gage. Not me.”
“I guess that remains to be seen.” A crow cawed a warning note from the gardens. “If you’re staying, you’d better keep away from the villa.” He rubbed his thigh with the barrel of the pistol. “And don’t let me find out you’re lying. You won’t like the consequences.”
“That sounds like a line from one of your horrible movies.”
“Glad to know I have a fan.”
“I’ve only seen them because of my ex-fiancé. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the connection between his bad taste in films and his sexual wanderlust until it was too late.” Now, why had she said that?
He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair. “So our sexcapade was your way of getting back at him.”
She began to deny it, but he’d hit too close to the truth.
“Let me see . . .” He laid the pistol on the table. “Exactly who was the wronged party two nights ago? Was it you, the vengeful female, or me, the innocent pawn in your lust for revenge?”
He was actually enjoying himself. She rose so she could look down at him, then wished she hadn’t, because her legs still weren’t steady. “Are you drunk, Mr. Gage?”
“I’m way past drunk.”
“It’s barely one o’clock.”
“Ordinarily you’d have a point, but I haven’t been to bed yet, so this is technically still nighttime drinking.”
“Whatever works for you.” She had to either sit down again or get out of here, so she headed for the door.
“Hey, Fifi.”
She turned, then wished she hadn’t.
“The thing is . . .” He picked up the polished marble ball that had been resting on a stone plinth next to him and ran his thumb over it. “Unless you want my fans crawling all around that little farmhouse, I suggest you keep your mouth shut about my being here.”
“Believe it or not, I have better things to do than gossip.”
“Let’s make sure it stays that way.” He squeezed the marble ball in his fist in case she hadn’t gotten the message.
“Overacting a bit, aren’t you, Mr. Gage?”
The menace evaporated, and he laughed. “Nice meeting you, Fifi.”
She made it to the salon door without bumping into anything, but she couldn’t resist one glance back.
He was tossing the marble ball from one hand to the other, a gorgeous Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
The stitch in her side forced her to slow down before she reached the farmhouse. Gravel had sifted through the toes of her Kate Spade sandals, probably the last pair she’d ever be able to afford. She was glad she hadn’t crumbled in front of him, but the fact was, she had to leave. If she packed up now, she could be back in Florence by four o’clock.
And then what?
The house came into view. Bathed in golden light, it looked solid and comforting, but also somehow magical. It looked like a place where the vision of a new life could be born.
She turned away and followed a branch of the path into the vineyard. The deep purple grapes, fat with juice, hung heavy on the vines. She picked one and put it in her mouth. It burst against her tongue, startling in its sweetness. The seeds were so small she didn’t bother spitting them out.
She pulled off a small cluster and walked deeper into the vineyard. She needed her sneakers. The heavy clay soil felt like rocks beneath her thin sandals. But she wouldn’t think of what she needed, only of what she had—the Tuscan sun over her head, warm grapes ripe in her hand, Lorenzo Gage in the villa at the top of the hill. . . .
She’d given herself away so cheaply. How would she ever get past that?
Not by running away.
Her stubborn streak set in. She was tired of her sadness. She’d never been a coward. Was she going to let herself be chased away from something precious by a degenerate movie star? The encounter had been meaningless to him. He obviously disliked her, so he’d hardly come searching her out. And she needed to be here. Every instinct told her this was the place she had to stay, the only place where she could find both the solitude and the inspiration that would let her figure out how to set her life on a new course.
Right then she made up her mind. She wasn’t afraid of Lorenzo Gage, and she wouldn’t let anyone force her to leave here until she was ready.
Ren put away the seventeenth-century flintlock he’d taken out to examine just before Fifi had barged in. He could still hear the echo of those efficient little heel taps as she’d swept from the room. He was supposed to be the devil, but unless he was mistaken, Ms. Fifi had left the scent of brimstone behind her.
He chuckled, then closed the cabinet door. The pistol was a beautiful piece of workmanship, one of many priceless objects in the villa. He’d inherited the place two years ago, but this was his first chance to visit since his Aunt Philomena had died. He’d originally planned to sell the property, but he had good memories from his three visits here as a kid. It didn’t seem right to sell the place without seeing it again. He’d been impressed with both the housekeeper and her husband when he’d spoken with them on the phone, and he’d decided to wait.
He retrieved his bottle of scotch from the table on the loggia so he could resume the drinking Ms. Fifi had interrupted. He’d enjoyed giving her a hard time. She was so uptight she vibrated, yet her visit had left him feeling almost relaxed. Weird.
He stepped through one of the loggia’s three arches out into the garden and made his way along the clipped hedges toward the swimming pool, where he sank into a chaise. As he absorbed the quiet, he thought about all the people who usually surrounded him: his faithful posse of assistants, business managers, and the bodyguards the studios occasionally wanted him to keep around. A lot of celebrities encircled themselves with aides because they needed reassurance that they were stars. Others, like himself, did it to make life easier. Aides kept overzealous fans at bay, which was useful but came at a price. Few people spoke the truth to the person responsible for their paycheck, and all the brown-nosing had gotten old.
Ms. Fifi, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know anything about brown-nosing, and that had been oddly restful.
He’d pushed aside the bottle of scotch without uncapping it and sank deeper into the chaise. Slowly his eyes drifted shut. Very restful . . .
Isabel cut a wedge from the aged pecorino she’d purchased in town. This was the sheep’s cheese so beloved by the Tuscan people. While she’d counted out her money to pay for it, the female store clerk had pressed a tiny pot of honey on her. “It is the Tuscan way,” she’d said. “Honey with the cheese.”
Isabel couldn’t imagine it, but wasn’t she trying to be less rigid? She arranged the cheese and honey pot on a ceramic plate, along with an apple. All she’d eaten today were those few grapes she’d picked on the way back from the villa three hours ago. Her encounter with Gage had stolen her appetite. Maybe a little food would make her feel better.
She discovered half a dozen crisp linen napkins in a drawer, removed one, then arranged the others in a tidier pile. She’d already unpacked her suitcases and organized the bathroom. Although it was barely four o’clock, she opened the Chianti Classico she’d picked up in town. Chianti could only be termed classico, she’d learned, if it had been pressed from grapes grown in the Chianti region that lay
a few miles to the east.
She found stemless wineglasses in the cupboard. She wiped off a water spot, filled one, and carried everything out to the garden.
The delicate scents of rosemary and sweet basil drifted up from the gravel path as she made her way toward the old table that sat in the shade of the magnolia. Two of the garden’s three cats came up to greet her. She settled down and gazed out over the ancient hills. The plowed fields that had been grayish brown in the morning had turned to lavender in the late-afternoon sun. So beautiful.
Tomorrow she would begin to follow the schedule she’d set up for the next two months. She didn’t need to check the notes she’d made to remember how she planned to organize her days.
Awaken at 6:00
Prayer, Meditation, Gratitude, and Daily Affirmations
Yoga or brisk walk
Light breakfast
Morning chores
Work on a new book
Lunch
Sight-seeing, window-shopping, or other pleasurable activity (Be impulsive)
Revise morning writing
Dinner
Inspirational reading and evening chores
Bed at 10:00
REMEMBER TO BREATHE!
She wouldn’t worry about the fact that she had no idea what kind of book she would write. That’s why she needed to stay here, so she could unblock her mental and emotional channels.
The wine was full and fruity, and it melted on her tongue, but as she leaned back to savor it, she noticed a dusty film on the marble tabletop. She jumped up and went back inside for a rag. When she’d wiped it off, she sat back down again.
She inhaled the wine and the rosemary. In the distance a road curled against the hills in a pale, smoky trail. This beautiful place . . . To think that only yesterday she hadn’t wanted to be here.
On top of a hill off to her right she noticed what might have been part of a village but now looked like ruins with a crumbling wall and the remains of a watchtower. She started to get up so she could find her opera glasses, then reminded herself she was supposed to be relaxing.
Breathing Room Page 6