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.