He knew from their initial discussions that Howard’s intention was to challenge audiences with the film’s fundamental question: Was Kaspar Street simply a psychopath, or, more disturbing, was he the inevitable by-product of a society that took violence for granted? Even Saint Isabel would have to approve of that message. He smiled as he remembered the way she’d looked less than an hour ago, with the sun shining in her hair and those beautiful eyes drinking him in. He loved the way she smelled, like spice, sex, and human goodness. But he couldn’t think about her now, not when his entire career was about to open up. He settled back and began to read.
Two hours later he was in a cold sweat. This was the best work Jenks had ever done. The part of Street had dark twists and subtle nuances that would stretch Ren’s acting chops to the limit. It was no wonder every actor in Hollywood had wanted a shot at this film.
But there’d been a major change since they’d last spoken, a change Howard hadn’t discussed with Ren. With one brilliant stroke he’d intensified the film’s theme and turned it into an existential nightmare. Instead of being a man who preyed on the women he loved, Kaspar Street was now a child molester.
Ren leaned back and shut his eyes. The change was pure genius, but…
No buts. This was the part that would put him on the A-list of every top director in Hollywood.
He grabbed some paper to begin making notes on the character. This was always the first step for him, and he liked to do it immediately after his initial reading, while his impressions were still fresh. He’d jot down sensory memories, ideas about costume and physical movement, anything that came to mind that would eventually help him build the character.
He toyed with the cap of the pen. Usually the ideas flowed, but the change Jenks had made had thrown him off balance, and nothing was happening. He needed more time to absorb it. He’d try again tomorrow.
Several hours later, as he headed back to the farmhouse, he decided not to mention the change to Isabel. No sense in getting her all riled up. Not now. Not when their long waiting game was about to come to an end.
Isabel ignored Ren’s suggestion that she wear something sexy and chose her most conservative black sundress, then added a black fringed shawl scattered with tiny gold stars to cover her bare shoulders. She was feeding the cats when she heard movement behind her. A tiny pulse jumped in her throat. She turned to see an angsty-looking intellectual standing in the doorway. With his rumpled hair, wire-rimmed glasses, clean but wrinkled shirt, well-worn khakis, and the backpack slung over one shoulder, he looked like Ren Gage’s poetically inclined younger brother.
She smiled. “I was wondering who my date would be tonight.”
He took in her subdued outfit and sighed. “I knew a miniskirt was too much to hope for.”
Outside she saw a silver Alfa-Romeo parked behind her Panda. “Where did this come from?”
“My car won’t be ready for a while, so I had this delivered to hold me over.”
“People buy candy bars to hold them over, not cars.”
“Only poor people like you.”
The city of San Gimignano sat like a crown on the hilltop, its fourteen watchtowers dramatically outlined against the setting sun. Isabel tried to imagine how the pilgrims on their way from Northern Europe to Rome must have felt as they caught their first sight of the city. After the hazards of the open road, this would have looked like a haven of strength and security.
Ren’s thoughts had apparently taken the same path as hers. “To do this right, we should really approach by foot.”
“I don’t think these heels were designed for pilgrimages. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“The best-preserved medieval town in Tuscany. In case you didn’t have time to read your guidebook, that’s a lucky accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was an important city until the Black Death wiped out most of the population.”
“Just like the castle.”
“Definitely a tough time to go without antibiotics. San Gimignano was no longer a major stop on the pilgrimage route and lost its status. Fortunately for us, the few citizens who survived didn’t have the money to modernize the place, which is why so many of the watchtowers are still standing. Parts of Tea with Mussolini were filmed here.” A tour bus whizzed by in the opposite direction. “That’s the new Black Death,” he said. “Too many tourists. But the town’s so small that most of them don’t stay overnight. Anna told me it clears out by late afternoon.”
“You talked to her again?”
“I gave her permission to have the wall taken apart starting tomorrow, but only if I’m around to supervise.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t like that.”
“Ask me if I care. I put Jeremy in charge of guard duty.”
Ren parked in the lot just outside the ancient walls and slung the backpack over his shoulders. Although his angsty intellectual’s disguise didn’t hide as much of him as his other disguises had, most of the sightseers had left, and he didn’t attract too much attention as they toured the town.
He shared what he knew about the frescoes in the twelfth- century Romanesque church and was remarkably patient as she poked into the shops. Afterward they walked through the narrow, hilly streets to the Rocca, the town’s ancient fortress, and climbed its surviving tower to gaze out at the view of distant hills and fields, spectacular in the fading evening light.
He pointed toward the vineyards. “They’re growing grapes for vernaccia, the local white wine. What do you say we sample some of it with our dinner while we have that talk you’re so keen on?”
His slow smile made her skin prickle, and she nearly told him she wanted to forget both the wine and their talk so they could go straight to bed. But she was too bruised to handle any more blows, and she needed to do this right.
The small dining room at the Hotel Cisterna had stone walls, peach linen tablecloths, and another of the spectacular views that Tuscany gave away for free. From their table tucked in a corner between a set of windows, they could look down on the sloping, red tile rooftops of San Gimignano and watch the lights come on in the houses and farms that surrounded the town.
He lifted his wineglass. “To talking. May this conversation be mercifully short and wildly productive.”
As she took a sip of the crisp vernaccia, she reminded herself that women who didn’t claim their own power got stomped on. “We’re going to have an affair.”
“Thank you, God.”
“But we’re doing it on my terms.”
“Now, there’s a surprise.”
“Do you have to be sarcastic about everything? Because if you do, I need to tell you right now that it’s not attractive.”
“You’re just as sarcastic as I am.”
“Which is why I know how unappealing it is.”
“Just go on, will you? I can tell you’re dying to lay out your terms. And I’m hoping ‘lay’ is the operative word here, or is that too sarcastic for you?”
He was already enjoying himself.
“Here’s what we need to be clear about.” She ignored the fact that his eyes were flashing a dozen different kinds of amusement. She didn’t care. Too many women lost their spirit to their lovers, but she wouldn’t be one of them. “First… you can’t criticize.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“Because I’m not the sexual triathlete you are, and because I threaten you, which you don’t like.”
“Okay. No criticism. And you don’t threaten me.”
“Number two… I won’t participate in anything kinky. Just straightforward sex.”