butler, or chauffeur, depending on which activity he was taking part in at the time. Anyhow, he had arrived the very next day bearing a ceramic terrine and a little note saying, “I do hope you enjoy this rabbit paté—it’s fresh!”
Well, that was Maggie for you, and even as he watched, she soared aloft again, laughing and waving to the crowd below. Maggie brought life with her wherever she went, and he loved her for it.
He glanced along the terrace and did a double take. Wasn’t that the woman from the Hassler? The enigma in the big dark glasses with the so-what-if-it’s-a-party attitude? She certainly wasn’t mingling; in fact, she seemed barely to be there. She was staring at the green valley stretched below, seemingly lost in her thoughts. And she certainly didn’t give a damn about the way she looked: the crumpled linen dress, the sandals, and the touch of lipstick were an obvious concession to a party to which she had been dragged unwillingly.
He noticed her legs were long and shapely, albeit still pale from an endless New York winter, and that she had a kind of lanky grace. And he also noticed there was a soft look about her mouth, a tenderness as she caressed, with a single finger, the ancient lichen-covered balustrade on which she was leaning.
Somehow he got the impression that this woman was more temperamental than a movie star, more sulky than her daughter, and more unforgiving than even his ex-wife. And besides, she was definitely not his type.
Curious, he strolled toward her. “How d’you like the villa?” he said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Gemma
I was so lost in my thoughts, the voice from behind made me jump. I spun around, silly as a startled colt, and looked right into the eyes of the Michelangelo from Long Island.
I stared at him for a long, silent moment, as though I were looking to see if the pupils were normal or mere clinical pinpoints. Except this time it wasn’t the doctor in me that was checking, and all I was seeing was that those eyes were an intense dark greenish hazel with tiny flecks of gold.
He was immaculate in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to show tanned arms sprinkled with crisp dark hair. He wore worn Levi’s that fit as though they had been tailored for his narrow butt, and those brown suede loafers I had noticed before, but without socks this time. His hair had a slight wave in it and was brushed back, showing that elegant little touch of silver at the temples. His eyes were narrow under bushy brows, his jaw had a hint of stubble, and his mouth…well, it was nice. Actually, it was very nice, kind of firm yet sensual, if you know what I mean. He also looked, I thought, like a man who had got where he was going. I saw all this in a flash, though of course I wasn’t really interested in him. It was purely clinical. A doctor’s reaction, you might say.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted, and knew immediately that I’d blown my cover, because as I remembered from my teen-flirt years, a girl should never let on that she was even aware a man existed.
“Same as you, I guess. Vacation.” He leaned companionably on the balustrade next to me. “So how do you like the villa?”
“Like it?” I put my elbows on the stone rail, leaned my chin in my hands, and sighed. “I think I’m in love.”
He laughed, showing a gleam of excellent white teeth, and I thought how handsome he was. Too handsome for his own good, probably. Men like him just sailed through a woman’s world leaving devastation in their wake. He was so darn full of himself he sent prickles of antagonism up my spine. Yet at the same moment, he made me feel I was the only woman in his orbit.
“That’s the way I feel about it too,” he said. “It sure beats New York when the humidity’s climbing and the heat radiates from the sidewalks and everybody’s angry at the weather and at themselves. But you know what I mean.”
“How do you know I’m from New York?”
He gave me a long
Well, that was Maggie for you, and even as he watched, she soared aloft again, laughing and waving to the crowd below. Maggie brought life with her wherever she went, and he loved her for it.
He glanced along the terrace and did a double take. Wasn’t that the woman from the Hassler? The enigma in the big dark glasses with the so-what-if-it’s-a-party attitude? She certainly wasn’t mingling; in fact, she seemed barely to be there. She was staring at the green valley stretched below, seemingly lost in her thoughts. And she certainly didn’t give a damn about the way she looked: the crumpled linen dress, the sandals, and the touch of lipstick were an obvious concession to a party to which she had been dragged unwillingly.
He noticed her legs were long and shapely, albeit still pale from an endless New York winter, and that she had a kind of lanky grace. And he also noticed there was a soft look about her mouth, a tenderness as she caressed, with a single finger, the ancient lichen-covered balustrade on which she was leaning.
Somehow he got the impression that this woman was more temperamental than a movie star, more sulky than her daughter, and more unforgiving than even his ex-wife. And besides, she was definitely not his type.
Curious, he strolled toward her. “How d’you like the villa?” he said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Gemma
I was so lost in my thoughts, the voice from behind made me jump. I spun around, silly as a startled colt, and looked right into the eyes of the Michelangelo from Long Island.
I stared at him for a long, silent moment, as though I were looking to see if the pupils were normal or mere clinical pinpoints. Except this time it wasn’t the doctor in me that was checking, and all I was seeing was that those eyes were an intense dark greenish hazel with tiny flecks of gold.
He was immaculate in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to show tanned arms sprinkled with crisp dark hair. He wore worn Levi’s that fit as though they had been tailored for his narrow butt, and those brown suede loafers I had noticed before, but without socks this time. His hair had a slight wave in it and was brushed back, showing that elegant little touch of silver at the temples. His eyes were narrow under bushy brows, his jaw had a hint of stubble, and his mouth…well, it was nice. Actually, it was very nice, kind of firm yet sensual, if you know what I mean. He also looked, I thought, like a man who had got where he was going. I saw all this in a flash, though of course I wasn’t really interested in him. It was purely clinical. A doctor’s reaction, you might say.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted, and knew immediately that I’d blown my cover, because as I remembered from my teen-flirt years, a girl should never let on that she was even aware a man existed.
“Same as you, I guess. Vacation.” He leaned companionably on the balustrade next to me. “So how do you like the villa?”
“Like it?” I put my elbows on the stone rail, leaned my chin in my hands, and sighed. “I think I’m in love.”
He laughed, showing a gleam of excellent white teeth, and I thought how handsome he was. Too handsome for his own good, probably. Men like him just sailed through a woman’s world leaving devastation in their wake. He was so darn full of himself he sent prickles of antagonism up my spine. Yet at the same moment, he made me feel I was the only woman in his orbit.
“That’s the way I feel about it too,” he said. “It sure beats New York when the humidity’s climbing and the heat radiates from the sidewalks and everybody’s angry at the weather and at themselves. But you know what I mean.”
“How do you know I’m from New York?”
He gave me a long
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