“I ran to Ren because I knew I could count on him.”
“Is that so? Well, he didn’t look like he was all that happy to see you.”
“You couldn’t understand what Ren Gage is feeling in a million years.”
She finally had him at a disadvantage, so he naturally decided to change the subject. “You’re the one who insisted I take the job in Zurich. And you also insisted on coming with me.”
“Because I knew how much it meant to you, and I wasn’t going to have it thrown back in my face that I’d sabotaged your career because I got pregnant again.”
“When have I ever thrown anything back at you?”
Never. He could have blasted her with a long list of grievances from the early days of their marriage, when she was still figuring out how to love someone, but he’d never done it. Until she’d gotten pregnant with Connor, he’d always been so patient with her. She desperately wanted that patience back. Patience, reassurance, and, most of all, the love she’d always thought was unconditional.
“That’s right,” she said bitterly. “I’m the one who holds grudges. You’re perfect, which is why it’s a shame you got stuck with such an imperfect wife.” She threw her swimsuit over her shoulder, grabbed her cover-up, and fled to the bathroom. When she came out, he’d disappeared, but as she headed for the kitchen to check on the children, she heard him call out to Jeremy in the garden. They were playing catch.
Just for a moment she let herself pretend that everything was all right.
“You saw a what?”
“A ghost.” Isabel took in Ren’s sweat-soaked T-shirt. It was a deep navy, and it turned his eyes a particularly ominous shade of silver. She gazed at him for a moment too long before she began putting away the plates Marta had left on the drainboard after she’d come down from the villa to clean up. “Definitely a ghost. How can you run in this heat?”
“Because I got up too late to run when it was still cool. What kind of ghost?”
“The kind that throws pebbles at my window and runs around in the olive trees wearing a white sheet. I waved.”
He wasn’t amused. “This has gone on long enough.”
“Agreed.”
“Before I went running, I called Anna and told her you and I were going to Siena today. That should give everybody plenty of warning that the house’ll be empty.” He grabbed the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice she’d foolishly left unguarded, downed it, and headed for the stairs. “I need ten minutes to shower, and then I’ll be ready to leave.”
Twenty minutes later he returned in jeans, a black T-shirt, and his Lakers cap. He stared suspiciously at her gray drawstring knit pants, sneakers, and the charcoal T-shirt she’d reluctantly filched from him. “You don’t look like you’re dressed for sight-seeing.”
“Camouflage.” She grabbed her sunglasses and headed for her car. “I changed my mind and decided to go on the stakeout with you.”
“I don’t want you with me.”
“I’m going anyway. Otherwise you’ll fall asleep and miss something important.” She opened the driver’s door. “Or you’ll get bored and start pulling the legs off a grasshopper or setting butterflies on fire or-what was that thing you did in Carrion Way?”
“I have no idea.” He moved her aside and climbed behind the wheel himself. “This car’s a disgrace.”
“Not all of us can afford a Maserati.” She walked around to the other side and slid in. The incident with the pseudoghost last night indicated an uncomfortable degree of desperation, and she had to see this through, even if it meant being alone with him in a place where those mind-shattering kisses wouldn’t be interrupted by grape growers, children, or housekeepers.
Only the two of them. Just thinking about it made her blood pound. She was ready-more than ready-but first they needed to have a serious conversation. Regardless of what her body was saying, her brain knew she had to set limits. “I brought some things for a nice picnic. They’re in the trunk.”
He shot her a disgusted look. “Nobody but girls brings a picnic to a stakeout.”
“What should I have brought?”
“I don’t know. Stakeout food. Cheap doughnuts, a thermos of hot coffee, and an empty bottle to pee in.”
“Silly me.”
“Not a pop bottle either. A big bottle.”
“I’m going to try to forget that I’m a psychologist.”
Ren waved to Massimo as he pulled up the drive, then swung toward the villa. “I need to see if the script’s arrived yet from Jenks. I’ll also make our pending absence known.”
She smiled as she watched him disappear into the house. She’d laughed more in these few days with Ren Gage than in all three years she’d spent with Michael. Her smile faded as she poked at the leftover wounds from her broken engagement. They hadn’t healed yet, but they hurt in a different way. It wasn’t the hurt of a broken heart, but the hurt of wasting so much time on something that had never been right from the beginning.
Her relationship with Michael had been like a pool of stagnant water. Never any churn or hidden eddies, no rocks jutting up to force either of them to change direction or move in new ways. They’d never quarreled, never challenged each other. There’d been no excitement and-Michael was right-no passion either.
With Ren it would all be passion… passion churning through an ocean full of rocks. But just because the rocks were there didn’t mean she had to let herself run into any of them.
He returned to the car looking luscious and harried. “The little nudist found my shaving cream and squirted herself a bikini.”
“Inventive. Was the script there?”
“No, damn it. And I think I have a broken toe. Jeremy found my hand weights and left one on the stairs. I don’t know how Tracy puts up with them.”
“I think it’s different when they’re your own.” She tried to imagine Ren with children and saw gorgeous little demons who’d tie up baby-sitters, set off stink bombs, and prank-call the elderly. Not a pretty picture.
She gazed over at him. “Remember that you weren’t any prize as a kid.”
“True. The shrink my father sent me to when I was eleven explained that the only way I could get either of my parents’ attention was by acting up. I perfected misbehavior early on to keep myself in the spotlight.”
“And you carried that same philosophy into your career.”
“Hey, it worked for me as a kid. Everybody remembers the villain.”
This wasn’t the time to talk about their relationship, but it might be a good time to put a gentle rock in his path-not to capsize him, merely to make him more aware. “You understand, don’t you, that we develop dysfunctions as children because we see them as essential to our survival?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Part of our maturity process is getting past that. Of course, the need for attention seems to be a common factor with most great actors, so in this case your dysfunction became highly functional.”
“You think I’m a great actor?”
“I think you have the potential, but you can’t be truly great as long as you keep playing the same part.”
“That’s bull. Every part has its own nuance, so don’t tell me they’re all the same. And actors have always loved playing villains. It gives them a chance to pull out the stops.”
“We’re not talking about actors in general. We’re talking about you and the fact that you’re not willing to play any other kind of part. Why is that?”
“I already told you, and it’s too early in the morning for this discussion.”
“Because you grew up with a distorted view of yourself. You were emotionally abused as a child, and now you need to be very clear about your motivation for choosing those parts.” Another small rock to toss in his direction, and then she’d leave him alone. “Are you doing it because you love playing those sadists or because on some level you don’t feel worthy to play the hero?”