Breathing Room (34 page)

She made a throaty exclamation as he dropped his head to suckle. Then she slipped her hand between his legs. "Oops. I lose."

His control broke, and their clothing flew. She gave him a hard shove, and he fell back on the bed. Her hair tumbled in an inky cloud over one shoulder as she mounted him, and then she lifted a bit so he could have the access she knew he craved. He stroked her with his fingers, moving up and down the wet, musky valley before he delved inside.

The memory of what they'd almost lost made them fierce. He touched her everywhere, and she did the same to him. They gazed into each other's eyes, treasuring what they saw.

"I love you forever," he whispered.

"And ever," she whispered back.

Then their bodies found a perfect rhythm, and speech became impossible. Together they tumbled into the beautiful darkness.

Chapter 20

The villa's two-hundred-year-old dining room table groaned with food. Ornate oval platters offered up a roast leg of lamb as well as guinea hens stuffed with garlic and sage.

Escarole leaves fried a golden brown held a pungent cargo of pine nuts, olives, anchovies, and raisins, while slivers of pancetta flavored a simple bowl of green beans.

Fresh loaves of panetoscano spilled from a basket lined with antique linen towels bearing the family crest.

Despite the room's grand arches and religious frescoes, the atmosphere was informal. The Briggs children chased tiny meat ravioli around their plates and stuffed themselves with wedges of homemade pizza.Ren demanded a second helping of the chestnut pasta, and Isabel indulged in an extra slice of polenta, grilled crisp on the outside but soft and steaming inside. There were creamy wedges of pecorino, chocolate-dipped figs, and wine

– a lively red from their own vineyard and a fruity white Cinque Terre.

Ren was inherently Italian, therefore a man who enjoyed a good party, and he'd used the Briggs family's impending departure the next morning as an excuse to invite company for dinner. Vittorio and Giulia sat at the table, along with the various members of Massimo and Anna's family. Dr. Andrea Chiara was noticeably absent, even though Isabel had suggested he be invited.

Massimo talked about thevendemmia , the grape harvest that would begin in two days, while Anna and Marta jumped up and down to bring more food to the table. No one spoke of the statue. They'd finished searching the olive grove with the metal detectors and turned up nothing.

"You are always so nice to her," Giulia said quietly to Isabel, so that Tracy, who was at the other end of the table, wouldn't overhear. "If she had been Vittorio's wife before me, I would hate her."

"Not if Vittorio had tried to get rid of her as hard as Ren did," Isabel replied.

"Even so..." Giulia flicked her hand. "Ah, I am not fooling you, I know. It is my jealousy that makes me not like her. Some women, they get pregnant just by looking at a man.

Even Paolo's granddaughter Josie is pregnant again."

"I was with the children when you told Ren you'd spoken with her. What did she say?"

Giulia picked at a bread crust. "That she's pregnant. Her second." She gave Isabel a watery smile. "Sometimes I think everybody else in the world is pregnant. It makes me feel sorry for myself, which is not a good thing."

"She didn't know anything about the statue?"

"Very little. It wasn't so easy for Josie to talk with Paolo after her mother died, because her Italian is not very good. But they still kept in touch, and he always sent her gifts."

"Gifts? Do you think—"

"No statue. I asked, especially after she said she had a hard time getting pregnant with her first baby."

"It might be good to have a list of everything he sent. There could be a clue somewhere.

A map tucked in a book, a key – something."

"I did not think of that. I will call her back tonight."

"Potty!" Connor shrieked from his booster seat at the bottom of the table just as an apple cake appeared.

Harry and Tracy jumped up at once.

"I want man!" He jabbed his finger at Ren, who grimaced.

"Gimme a break, dude. Go with your dad."

"Want you!"

Tracyflapped her arms like a frantic chicken. "Don't argue with him. He'll have an A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T."

"He wouldn't dare." Ren gave the toddler his death glare.

Connor plopped his finger in his mouth and chuckled.

Ren sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

"It took him a while to get the idea, but he potty-trained in a day,"Tracybragged to Fabiola as Ren carried Connor from the table. "I guess after four kids you finally figure out how to get the job done."

Ren snorted from the next room.

One hour slipped into the next. A throat-searing grappa appeared along with a sweeter vinsanto for dipping the hazelnut-studded cantucci. The breeze coming in through the open doors had turned chilly, but Isabel had left her sweater at the farmhouse when she'd moved her things back that morning. She rose and touched Ren's shoulder, briefly interrupting his discussion with Vittorio about Italian politics. "I'm going upstairs to borrow one of your sweaters."

He nodded absentmindedly and returned to the conversation.

The villa's master bedroom held dark, heavy furnishings, including a hand-carved wardrobe, gilded mirrors, and a bed with four fat posts. Yesterday afternoon she and Ren had stolen an hour between those posts while the Briggs family had gone sight-seeing. As a little shiver passed through her, she considered the possibility that she might be turning into a sex addict. But she knew that it was more likely an addiction to Lorenzo Gage.

She headed for the dresser, only to stop short as she spotted something on the bed. She moved closer to see what it was.

*

Renhad drunk more than enough wine, so he passed on the grappa. He intended to be sober tonight when he got down and dirty with Dr. Isabel. He felt as if a giant clock had begun ticking over their heads, counting off the time they had left. In less than a week he had to leave for his meetings inRome, and not long after, he'd be going for good. He looked around for her, then remembered that she'd gone to his bedroom to borrow one of his sweaters.

An alarm sounded in his brain. He shoved back from the table and made a dash for the stairs.

*

Isabel recognized his footsteps in the hallway. He had a distinctive walk, measured steps, light and graceful for such a tall man. He ambled through the doorway and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Find a sweater?"

"Not yet."

"There's a gray one in the bureau." He wandered across the carpet. "It's the smallest one I've got."

She sat on the side of the bed holding the script she'd found. "When did you get this?"

"Maybe you'd rather have my blue sweater. That? A couple of days ago. The blue one's clean, but I wore the gray a few times."

"You didn't say anything about it."

"Sure I did." He rummaged through the drawer.

"You didn't tell me you'd received the script."

"It's been a little crazy around here, in case you haven't noticed."

"Not that crazy."

He shrugged, pulled out a sweater, then dug for another.

She ran her thumb over the label. "Why didn't you mention it?"

"There's been a lot going on."

"We talk all the time. You didn't say a word."

"I guess I didn't think about it."

"I find that a little hard to believe, since I know how important this is to you."

Although the motion was subtle, his body seemed to uncoil, almost like a snake before it struck. "This is starting to sound like an interrogation."

"You told me how anxious you were to read the final script. It seems strange that you never mentioned it was here."

"It doesn't seem strange to me. My work is private."

"I see." Moments before, she'd been remembering their lovemaking with pleasure, but now she felt sad and a little cheap. She was the woman he slept with – not his friend, not even a real lover, because true lovers shared more than their bodies.

He didn't quite meet her eyes. "You don't like my films anyway. Why should you care?"

"Because you care. Because we talked about it. Because I tell you about my work. Pick one." She tossed down the script and rose from the bed.

"You're making too big a deal out of this. I just – Jenks changed directions a little, that's all. I'm still processing. You're right. I should have said something. But I guess I didn't want to have to get into it with you again. Frankly, Isabel, I'm a little tired of having to defend what I do for a living."

First his anger, then his guilt, and now he'd gone on the attack. Classic. She wanted to retaliate, but that's not how healthy relationships were built, and she needed this relationship to be healthy so much she couldn't breathe.

"All right. That's fair." She fingered her bangle and took a deep breath. "I have been judgmental, and I need to stop. But I don't like being shut out."

He pushed in the bureau drawer with his knee. "Jesus, you make it sound like we're – like we have— Shit."

"A relationship?" Her palms were clammy. "Is that what you're trying to say? I'm making it sound like we have a relationship?"

"No. We do have a relationship. A great relationship. I'm glad about it. But..."

"It's just sex, right?"

"Hey! You're the one who set the rules, so don't turn this back on me."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"What I think you're doing is treating me like one of your goddamn patients."

She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't stay calm and listen. She couldn't feed back what he was telling her, then process it using the principles she believed in so deeply. He was right. She'd made the rules, and now she was violating them. But those rules had been set an emotional lifetime ago.

She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself. "Excuse me. Apparently I've overstepped."

"You expect too much, that's all. I'm not a saint like you, and I've never pretended to be, so lay off, will you?"

"Of course." She made her way to the door, but before she got there, he called out from behind her.

"Isabel—"

A saint would have turned back so they could settle this, but she was no saint, and she kept walking.

*

Renstood in the darkened doorway gazing out at the marble statues faintly lit by the moonlight washing the garden. The villa was quiet except for Dexter Gordon's heartbreaking saxophone playing behind him. Harry and Tracy had moved back in for the night so Isabel could have the farmhouse to herself again, but they'd gone to bed hours ago. Ren rubbed his eyes. Dr. Isabel Favor, the great believer in talking things out, had turned her back on him and walked away. Not that he blamed her. He'd been a prick.

His amazon had too many tender spots, and he was starting to bruise every one of them.

But it was either bruise or get bruised, right? And he couldn't let her poke around in his psyche again, delving into all those pockets of self-disgust he'd been carrying around for as long as he could remember. She'd set the conditions of their relationship."This is only about sex," she'd said."A short-term physical commitment."

He lit a cigarette. Why did she have to be so damned pushy? She'd go ballistic when she realized he'd be playing a child molester. Not only that, but she knew how much time he'd spent with the girls. She'd put two and two together in a heartbeat and figure out he'd been playing with them as part of his research. Then all hell really would break loose, and just like that he'd lose what little of her respect he'd been able to gain. The story of his life...

He took a deep drag. This was his punishment for getting involved with a righteous woman. All that nutty goodness had sucked him in, and now he was suffering for it. Food didn't taste as good when they weren't together; music didn't sound as sweet. He should be getting bored with her. Instead, he was bored without her.

He could get back into her good graces with a simple apology.Sorry I held out on you . It wouldn't occur to her to hang on to a grudge, and unlike him, she didn't know how to sulk. She deserved an apology, but then what? God help her, she was falling in love with him. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, even to himself, but she telegraphed her emotions. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. The smartest woman he knew, and she was falling in love with a man who was leaving invisible smudge marks on her skin whenever he touched her. And the worst thing – the thing he couldn't forgive himself for – was how good it felt to receive the love of a righteous woman.

His anger, as misplaced as it was, resurfaced. In so many ways she knew him better than anyone, so why hadn't she protected herself? She deserved someone with a clean past. A Boy Scout, a student-council president, someone who'd spent spring break building houses for the poor instead of getting wasted.

He took a final drag and flicked the butt onto the loggia. Acid burned in the pit of his stomach. Any villain worth his stripes would take advantage of the situation. Enjoy what he could get and walk away without a qualm. Villains were easy to figure out. But what would the hero do?

The hero would walk away before the heroine could get hurt anymore. The hero would make the break as clean as he could and do it in a way that would leave the heroine with a sense of relief that she'd escaped disaster so easily.

"I heard music."

He whipped around and saw Steffie padding across the marble floor toward him. This was her last night here. With the kids gone, he'd finally have some peace and quiet, except he'd already told them they could come back every day to swim.

She wore a faded yellow nightgown printed with some kind of cartoon character he supposed he should be able to identify but couldn't. Her dark, pixie cut was sticking up at the cowlick, and she had a crease on her cheek. As she came to his side, he knew he'd have to rely on all the acting technique he'd ever learned to play Street, because no matter how much research he did, he'd never be able to understand how anyone could hurt a kid.

"What are you doing up?"