He took his time drawing away. “Are you ready to start talking about cooking, or do you intend to keep distracting me?”

She made a grab for the small spiral-bound notebook she’d left on the table. “Go ahead.”

“What’s that?”

“A notebook.”

“Well, put it away, for chrissa-for Pete’s sake.”

“These are supposed to be lessons, aren’t they? I need to understand the principles first.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do. Okay, here’s a principle for you: She who works, eats. She who writes crap in a notebook, starves. Now, get rid of that and start slicing up those vegetables.”

“Please don’t use the word ‘slice’ when we’re alone.” She opened the nearest drawer. “I need an apron.”

He sighed, grabbed a dish towel, and wrapped it around her waist. But when he’d finished tying it, his hands stayed on her hips, and his voice developed a husky note. “Get rid of your shoes.”

“Why?”

“Do you want to learn to cook or not?”

“Yes, but I don’t see- Oh, all right.” If she protested, he’d just say she was being rigid, so she kicked off her sandals. He smiled as she tucked them under the table, but she didn’t see anything amusing about leaving a pair of shoes out where anyone could trip over them.

“Now, open that top button.”

“Oh, no. We’re not doing-”

“Quiet.” Instead of arguing, he reached out and did the job himself. The material fell away just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and he smiled. “Now you look like a woman a man wants to cook for.”

She thought about buttoning it back up, but there was something intoxicating about standing here in a fragrant Tuscan cucina, wineglass in hand, rumple-haired, unbuttoned, barefoot, surrounded by beautiful vegetables and an even more beautiful man.

She set to work, and as she rinsed and sliced, she was conscious of the worn, cool tiles beneath her feet and the tickle of evening air brushing the tops of her breasts. Maybe there was something to be said for looking like a slattern, because she loved the way he kept gazing at her. It was oddly satisfying to be appreciated for her body instead of her brain.

They got their wineglasses mixed up, and when he wasn’t looking, she discreetly turned his so she could drink from the place where his lips had touched. The silliness pleased her.

Outside the garden door the evening turned the hills to lavender. “Have you already signed for your next film?”

He nodded. “I’ll be working with Howard Jenks. We start filming in Rome, then move on to New Orleans and L.A.”

She wondered when they’d begin, but she didn’t like the idea of having an invisible clock ticking over her head, so she refrained from asking. “Even I’ve heard of Howard Jenks. I assume this won’t be your standard slasher film.”

“You assume right. It’s the part I’ve been waiting my whole career to tackle.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Probably not, but I want to hear anyway.”

“This time I won’t be playing your garden-variety psychopath.” He began describing the role of Kaspar Street, and by the time he’d finished, she had chills. Still, she could understand his excitement. This was the kind of complex role actors stood in line for. “But you still haven’t seen the final script?”

“It should be here any day. It’s an understatement to say that I’m anxious to see what Jenks has done with it.”

He slid the chicken into the oven, then began placing the vegetables in a separate roasting pan. “As horrible as Street is, there’s almost something poignant about him. He genuinely loves the women he murders.”

Not her idea of poignant, but for once she was going to keep her mouth shut. Or almost shut. “I don’t think it’s good for you to always play such horrible men.”

“As I believe you’ve mentioned before. Now, dice up those tomatoes for the bruschetta.” He pronounced the word with the hard k of the Italians instead of the soft sh most Americans used.

“All right, but if you ever want to talk about-”

“Chop!”

While she was doing that, he cut thin slices from yesterday’s bread, then drizzled them with olive oil, rubbed them with a clove of garlic, and showed her how to toast them over the open flame of the stove. As they turned golden brown, he added bits of ripe olive and slivers of fresh basil to the tomatoes she’d diced, then spooned the mixture on the bread slices she arranged on a majolica plate.

While the rest of the dinner cooked in the oven, they carried everything into the garden, along with the earthenware jug holding the flowers she’d bought at the market. Gravel dug into her bare feet, but she didn’t bother going back for her shoes. They settled at the stone table, where the cats came up to investigate.

She leaned back and sighed. The last rays of light clung to the hills, and long purple shadows fell over the vineyard and the olive grove. She thought of the Etruscan statue in the museum, Shadow of the Evening, and tried to imagine that young boy roaming lean and naked over the fields.

Ren took a sloppy bite of bruschetta, then stretched out his legs and spoke with his mouth full. “God, I love Italy.”

She closed her eyes and breathed a soft amen.

A whiff of breeze carried the cooking smells from the oven into the garden. Chicken and fennel, onion and garlic, the sprig of rosemary Ren had tossed on top of the roasting vegetables.

“I don’t appreciate food when I’m home,” he said. “In Italy there’s nothing more important.”

Isabel knew what he meant. At home her life had been too highly scheduled for her to enjoy a meal like this. She was out of bed at five for yoga, then in the office before six-thirty so she could write a few manuscript pages before her staff arrived. Meetings, interviews, phone calls, lectures, airports, strange hotel rooms, falling asleep over her laptop at one in the morning trying to write a few more pages before she turned out the light. Even Sundays had become indistinguishable from weekdays. That Divine Slacker might have had time to rest on the seventh day, but He didn’t have Isabel Favor’s workload.

She let the wine roll over her tongue. She tried so hard to approach life from a position of strength, but all that effort had come at a price. “It’s easy to forget simple pleasures.”

“But you’ve done your best.” She heard something that sounded like sympathy in his voice.

“Hey, I’ve got a world to run.” She said the words lightly, but they still tried to catch in her throat.

“Permesso?”

She turned to see Vittorio coming through the garden. With his black hair tied in a ponytail and his elegant Etruscan nose, he looked like a gentle Renaissance poet. And walking just behind him was Giulia Chiara.

“Buona sera, Isabel.” He opened his arms in greeting.

She smiled automatically, discreetly fastened her top button, and rose to have her cheeks kissed. Even though she didn’t trust Vittorio, there was something about him that made her look forward to his company. Still, she doubted it was coincidental that he’d shown up tonight with Giulia. He knew that Isabel had spotted them together, and he was here to do damage control.

Ren looked less than friendly, but Vittorio didn’t seem to notice. “Signore Gage, I am Vittorio Chiara. And this is my beautiful wife, Giulia.”

He’d never said a word about being married, let alone being married to Giulia. He’d never even told Isabel his last name. Most men who hid the existence of wives did it so they could hit on other women, but Vittorio’s flirtatiousness had been harmless, so he’d had another reason.

Giulia was dressed in a plum-colored miniskirt and striped top. She’d tucked her light brown hair behind her ears, and gold hoops swung from her lobes. Ren’s scowl gave way to a smile, which made Isabel resent Giulia even more than she’d resented her for the unanswered phone calls.

“My pleasure,” Ren said. Then, to Vittorio, “I see word’s gotten out that I’m here.”

“Not too much. Anna is very discreet, but she needed help with preparations for your arrival. We’re family-she is my mother’s sister-so she knows I’m very trustworthy. The same is true of Giulia.” He lavished his wife with a smile. “She is the best agente immobiliare in the area. Homeowners from here to Siena trust her to handle their rental properties.”

Giulia gave Isabel a strained smile. “I understand you were trying to find me. I’ve been out of town and didn’t get your messages until this afternoon.”

Isabel didn’t believe it for a moment.

Giulia tilted her head at a charming angle. “I trust Anna took care of everything while I was away.”

Isabel made a noncommital murmer, but Ren was suddenly all hospitality. “Would you like to join us?”

“Are you sure we won’t be a bother?” Vittorio was already steering his wife toward a chair.

“Not at all. Let me get some wine.” Ren set off for the kitchen and quickly returned with more glasses, the wedge of pecorino, and some fresh slices of bruschetta. Before long they were settled around the table laughing at Vittorio’s stories of his experiences as a guide. Giulia added her own tales centering on the wealthy foreigners who rented villas in the area. She was more reserved than her husband but just as entertaining, and Isabel began to set aside her earlier resentment and enjoy the young woman’s company.

She liked the fact that neither of them questioned Ren about Hollywood, and when Isabel was guarded about her own work, they didn’t press. After several trips to the kitchen to check the oven, Ren invited them to stay for dinner, and they accepted.

While he sautéed the porcini, Giulia put out the bread, and Vittorio opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water to accompany the wine. It was getting dark, so Isabel found some chunky candles to set in the middle of the table, then asked Vittorio to climb on a chair and light the candles in the chandelier she’d hung in the trees. Before long, glimmers from the flames were dancing through the magnolia leaves.

Ren hadn’t misrepresented his abilities as a chef. The chicken was perfect, juicy and flavorful, and the roasted vegetables held subtle undertones of rosemary and marjoram. As they ate, the chandelier swayed gently from the tree limb above them, and the flames flickered happily. Crickets sang, the wine flowed, and the stories grew more outrageous. It was all very relaxed, very merry, very Italian. “Pure bliss.” Isabel sighed, as she bit into the last of the meaty porcini.

“Our funghi are the best in the world,” Giulia said. “You must come and hunt the porcini with me, Isabel. I have secret places.”

Isabel wondered if Giulia’s invitation was genuine or another gambit to get her away from the house, but she was too relaxed to care.

Vittorio chucked Giulia under the chin. “Everyone in Tuscany has secret places to find porcini. But it’s true. Giulia’s nonna was one of the most famous fungarola in the area-what you would call a mushroom hunter-and she passed on everything she knew to her granddaughter.”

“We will all go, yes?” Giulia said. “Very early in the morning. It is best after we’ve had a little rain. We will put on our old boots and take our baskets and find the best porcini in all of Tuscany.”

Ren brought out a tall, narrow bottle of golden vinsanto, the local dessert wine, along with the plate of pears and a wedge of cheese. One of the candles in the tree chandelier sputtered out, and an owl made a soft whoo nearby. The meal had passed the two-hour mark, but it was Tuscany, and no one seemed in a rush to finish. Isabel took a sip of vinsanto and sighed again. “The food has been too delicious for words.”

“Ren’s cooking is much better than Vittorio’s,” Giulia teased.

“Better than yours, too,” her husband responded, mischief in his smile.

“But not as good as Vittorio’s mamma’s.”

“Ah, my mamma’s.” Vittorio kissed his fingers.

“It is a miracle, Isabel, that Vittorio is not one of the mammoni.” At Isabel’s puzzled expression, Giulia explained, “These are the… How do we say this in English?”

Ren smiled. “The mama’s boys.”

Vittorio laughed. “All Italian men are mama’s boys.”

“So true,” Giulia replied. “By tradition, Italian men live with their parents until they marry. Their mamas cook for them, do their laundry, run their errands, treat them like little kings. Then the men don’t want to get married because they know younger women like me won’t cater to them like their mammas.”

“Ah, but you do other things.” Vittorio traced her bare shoulder with his finger.

Isabel’s own shoulder tingled, and Ren gave her a slow smile that made her blood rush. She’d seen that smile on the screen, usually just before he led some unsuspecting woman to her death. Still… not the worst way to go.