the house, down a narrow gallery where ancestral portraits in heavy frames juggled for space with baroque landscapes, across an elegant reception room wallpapered in brown and gold stripes. She whipped by grim frescoes of hunting scenes and grimmer portraits of martyred saints. Her sandals left scorch marks on the marble floors and singes in the fringes of the kilim rugs. A Roman bust trembled on its pedestal as she rushed by.Enough is enough!
She came to a halt inside a less formal salon at the back of the house. The polished chestnut floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and the frescoes showed harvest scenes instead of boar hunts. Italian rock music accompanied the shafts of sunlight spilling in through long open windows.
At the end of the room an arched doorway much grander than the one in the farmhouse opened to a loggia, the source of the blaring music. A man stood inside the arch, his shoulder resting against the frame as he gazed out toward the sunlight. She squinted against the glare and saw that he wore jeans and a rumpled black T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. His profile was so classically chiseled it might have belonged on one of the room's statues. But something about his rebel's slouch, the liquor bottle tilted to his mouth, and the pistol dangling from his free hand told her this might be a Roman god gone bad.
With a wary eye on the gun, she cleared her throat."Uh...scusi?Excuse me."
He turned.
She blinked against the sun. Blinked again. Told herself it was only a trick of the light.
Just a trick. It couldn't be. It couldn't....
Chapter 6
But it was. The man who'd called himself Dante stood slouched in the doorway. Dante of the hot, glazed eyes and decadent touches. Except this man's hair was shorter, and his eyes were a silvered blue instead of brown.
"Son of a bitch."
She heard American English – movie-star English – spoken in the deep, familiar voice of the Italian gigolo she'd met the night before last in the PiazzadellaSignoria . Even then it took a moment before she understood the truth. Lorenzo Gage and Dante the gigolo were the same man.
"You..." She swallowed. "You're not..."
He gazed at her with assassin's eyes. "Shit. Leave it to me to pick up a stalker."
"Who are you?" But she'd seen his movies, and she already knew the answer.
"Signore Gage!" Anna Vesto burst into the room. "This woman! She would not leave when I told her to. She is – she is—" The English language couldn't contain her indignation, and she released a torrent of Italian.
Lorenzo Gage, the philandering movie star who'd driven Karli Swenson to suicide, was also Dante, the Florentine gigolo, the man she'd allowed to taint a corner of her soul. She slumped into one of the chairs along the wall and tried to breathe.
He growled at the housekeeper in Italian.
She replied with wild gestures.
Another growl from him.
The woman huffed and swept from the room.
He stomped out onto the loggia and snapped off the music. When he returned, a lock of inky hair had fallen over his forehead. He'd left the bottle behind, but the pistol still hung from his hand.
"You're trespassing, sweetheart." His lips barely moved, and his deadly drawl sounded even more menacing in real life than it did in digital Surround-Sound. "You really should have called first."
She'd had sex with Lorenzo Gage, a man who'd bragged in a magazine article that he'd
"screwed five hundred women." And she'd let herself become five hundred and one.
Her stomach heaved. She buried her face in her hands and whispered words she'd never before spoken to another human being, never even thought to speak. "I hate you."
"That's how I make my living."
She sensed him coming closer and dropped her hands, only to find herself staring at the pistol.
It wasn't exactly pointed at her, but it wasn't exactly not pointed at her either. He held it loosely near his hip. She saw that it was an antique, probably several hundred years old, but that didn't necessarily
She came to a halt inside a less formal salon at the back of the house. The polished chestnut floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and the frescoes showed harvest scenes instead of boar hunts. Italian rock music accompanied the shafts of sunlight spilling in through long open windows.
At the end of the room an arched doorway much grander than the one in the farmhouse opened to a loggia, the source of the blaring music. A man stood inside the arch, his shoulder resting against the frame as he gazed out toward the sunlight. She squinted against the glare and saw that he wore jeans and a rumpled black T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. His profile was so classically chiseled it might have belonged on one of the room's statues. But something about his rebel's slouch, the liquor bottle tilted to his mouth, and the pistol dangling from his free hand told her this might be a Roman god gone bad.
With a wary eye on the gun, she cleared her throat."Uh...scusi?Excuse me."
He turned.
She blinked against the sun. Blinked again. Told herself it was only a trick of the light.
Just a trick. It couldn't be. It couldn't....
Chapter 6
But it was. The man who'd called himself Dante stood slouched in the doorway. Dante of the hot, glazed eyes and decadent touches. Except this man's hair was shorter, and his eyes were a silvered blue instead of brown.
"Son of a bitch."
She heard American English – movie-star English – spoken in the deep, familiar voice of the Italian gigolo she'd met the night before last in the PiazzadellaSignoria . Even then it took a moment before she understood the truth. Lorenzo Gage and Dante the gigolo were the same man.
"You..." She swallowed. "You're not..."
He gazed at her with assassin's eyes. "Shit. Leave it to me to pick up a stalker."
"Who are you?" But she'd seen his movies, and she already knew the answer.
"Signore Gage!" Anna Vesto burst into the room. "This woman! She would not leave when I told her to. She is – she is—" The English language couldn't contain her indignation, and she released a torrent of Italian.
Lorenzo Gage, the philandering movie star who'd driven Karli Swenson to suicide, was also Dante, the Florentine gigolo, the man she'd allowed to taint a corner of her soul. She slumped into one of the chairs along the wall and tried to breathe.
He growled at the housekeeper in Italian.
She replied with wild gestures.
Another growl from him.
The woman huffed and swept from the room.
He stomped out onto the loggia and snapped off the music. When he returned, a lock of inky hair had fallen over his forehead. He'd left the bottle behind, but the pistol still hung from his hand.
"You're trespassing, sweetheart." His lips barely moved, and his deadly drawl sounded even more menacing in real life than it did in digital Surround-Sound. "You really should have called first."
She'd had sex with Lorenzo Gage, a man who'd bragged in a magazine article that he'd
"screwed five hundred women." And she'd let herself become five hundred and one.
Her stomach heaved. She buried her face in her hands and whispered words she'd never before spoken to another human being, never even thought to speak. "I hate you."
"That's how I make my living."
She sensed him coming closer and dropped her hands, only to find herself staring at the pistol.
It wasn't exactly pointed at her, but it wasn't exactly not pointed at her either. He held it loosely near his hip. She saw that it was an antique, probably several hundred years old, but that didn't necessarily
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