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.”