Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler Page A

quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, I guess you just have that New York look about you. Sort of tense, uptight.”
    “Oh? And you don’t?”
    “Sure I do. I haven’t been here long enough yet to lose it.”
    He signaled one of the village girls in her frilly apron for more wine, then handed me a glass. I took a sip; it smelled like warm berries and tasted like dark red velvet.
    “What do you do, in New York?” He leaned back against the balustrade, his eyes still fixed on me.
    “Isn’t that precisely the kind of rude question you are not supposed to ask at a party?” I took another sip, staring challengingly at him over the rim of my glass.
    “Probably, but after all, I’ve seen you half naked. I hardly feel like a stranger.”
    That stupid hot blush rose all the way from my chest. “So what do you do?” I asked abruptly.
    “I paint.”
    “Then you could work here. The villa could do with a good paint job.”
    He nodded ruefully. “Okay, touché.”
    Despite myself, I grinned. “That’s all right. I’d heard you were an artist.”
    He looked surprised, and I added, “My mother asked the headwaiter at the Hassler. She thought you were Italian aristocracy. In fact, she was devastated when she found out you weren’t. Nonna is, you see. Italian, I mean, not aristocracy.” I was rambling on like a ditsy schoolgirl. “We’re here visiting our roots,” I added lamely.
    “Don’t tell me your family is from Bella Piacere?”
    “Two generations ago. Momma wanted to come back to see her old village again. Before she dies,” I added automatically.
    “Fascinating.” He looked as though he meant it. “But what do you do anyway, besides being a mother?”
    “Besides that? I work in a hospital.”
    “You’re a nurse?”
    I swung an upward glance at him from under my lashes, then realized, shocked, that I was actually flirting with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.
    “I’m a jack-of-all-trades, really. An emergency room physician. We get everything from the homeless hoping for a bed for the night, to sick babies, to killers cuffed to the gurney, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds.”
    He looked impressed. “That’s quite a job, even for a jack-of-all-trades.”
    Out of the blue, attraction flickered between us. I dismissed it immediately. Some guys get all goofy when you tell them you’re a doctor; he was probably going through his symptoms mentally and was about to ask me for a free opinion on the state of his health.
    Silence hung between us, tangible as cigarette smoke. “Sorry, I’m not much good at party talk,” I said. “The only conversations I have are with a daughter full of teenage angst and semicomatose patients in trauma after an incident. An incident,” I added thoughtfully. “Now there’s a polite euphemism for highway slaughter, street murder, and domestic violence. It covers everything nicely. Like a shroud.”
    He whistled softly. “That must be one tough job you have, Doc.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Oh, puh-lease —don’t call me Doc . I feel like I’m on a TV sitcom.”
    “Sorry, Miss, Mrs…. you know, we haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m Ben Raphael.” He held out his hand.
    “Gemma Jericho.” His hand was warm and firm, but not smooth and manicured the way I had expected. The skin was rough, as though he worked with his hands. “Since this is now an even playing field,” I said, “may I ask exactly what you do, Mr. Raphael?”
    “Oh, puh-lease ,” he mocked me, perfect white teeth gleaming in a smile, greenish eyes gleaming with what might have been malice. “You mean you’ve never heard of me?”
    I opened my eyes wide in faux innocence. “Are you a famous artist?”
    He heaved another sigh and took a sip of his wine. “No, I’m not a famous artist, and I’m obviously not as well known as I thought I was.”
    “So?” I let the question dangle, and he laughed.
    “I’m a failed artist, or at least an artist manqué.”
    “What does