instead of dwelling on it, I’m going to chalk it up to trauma and try to forgive myself.”
“Your fiance 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. “
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.
“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
“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
