“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.