that last statement. She moderated her voice, dug deep and found amusement. ‘‘I don’t have my heart set on a flaming affair. I may have hopes, but no definite plans.’’
‘‘That, I gather, is supposed to reassure me.’’ Gemma’s voice was tart. ‘‘You are going to be hurt.’’
‘‘Hey.’’ Rose dropped a kiss on her aunt’s soft cheek. ‘‘I’m supposed to be the seer around here. No dire predictions, please. I don’t expect to be hurt, but if I am, what of it? Most women my age have stumbled in and out of a few heartaches.’’
‘‘Bah. I don’t know why I try. Once you have your mind made up, there’s no reasoning with you. Oh, here, you’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.’’ She gave Rose a little push, turning her to face the mirror again, picked up a hairbrush and began drawing the bristles firmly through Rose’s hair. ‘‘I’ll braid it for you.’’
‘‘Thank you, Zia,’’ Rose said meekly, then, ‘‘Ouch! Do you mean to discourage Drew by making me bald before he gets here?’’
‘‘It wouldn’t pull if you’d hold still. At your great age you should be able to stand quietly a few minutes… Did you want me to use the clasp you have out? No, hold on to it a moment, I’m not quite ready. No one is born blocked, you know. Somehow, sometime, he was hurt.’’
Rose’s heart felt suddenly larger as it filled with warmth for this dear woman who could no more hold on to anger than she could add a column of figures and come up with the same answer twice. ‘‘Now you’re worrying about him.’’
‘‘I’m quite capable of worrying about more than one person. And I’m ready for the clasp…thank you. I don’t know when I’ve seen someone so completely blocked—well, there’s my cousin Pia, poor soul. And old Arturo Domino, but he’s crazy.’’
Amused, Rose said, ‘‘I doubt that Drew talks to aliens on a regular basis. He has a solid feel to him, don’t you think?’’
The busy hands gave one last tug to Rose’s braid, then Gemma stepped back. ‘‘How would I know? How would you, when he keeps himself fully to himself?’’
‘‘A hunch?’’ She turned, smiling mischievously.
‘‘Where would you find a hunch when you can’t read him, not at all? Sitting out on the stoop, waiting for you to pick it up? Unless… Rose, have you dreamed him?’’
‘‘No. How do I look?’’
‘‘Mia felicitá.’’ Gemma’s eyes were moist. ‘‘So beautiful. Maybe I should be worrying about Lord Andrew. Tonight, you could break a man’s heart.’’
So of course she had to hug Gemma. ‘‘If you make me cry, my mascara is going to run.’’
‘‘It would serve you right. Oh, go on, finish getting ready.’’ Gemma pulled away. ‘‘You don’t have your shoes or your purse, and he will be here any minute. I suppose you had better borrow my Spanish shawl. It won’t keep you warm in that dress, but it will look pretty.’’
Gemma hurried out. Rose went to get her evening bag and heels from her room, her steps slowed by guilt. The shawl was one of her aunt’s chief treasures, a lacy extravagance purchased on a long-ago trip. Gemma had been twenty and still hoping to find a man, the right man. For the women in their family, there was only ever one man. Gemma’s mother had traveled with her to Greece, Italy and Spain. So had her younger sister, who eventually became Rose’s mother.
Gemma had found love on that trip. And lost it. He had died before they could marry, this man Gemma seldom spoke of but had never forgotten. Yet the shawl held only happy memories for her.
I didn’t lie, Rose told herself as she stepped into her heels. Not exactly. True, Drew had appeared in her vision, but the sending had been about the bombing, not the man. But she didn’t want to tell Gemma about the hand that had touched her during the time that wasn’t. Gemma would fuss, wanting Rose to enter into a fire-trance to find the truth. She would assume Drew was tied somehow to Rose’s Gift.
In a sense, he was. Because of her Gift, he might be the only man she would ever be able to go to bed with.
Summer days were long in the southern Mediterranean. At seven in the evening the air was warm as a baby’s bath, the light slanting but still rich. Voices called greetings and chatted in high-speed Italian or the musical English that was the island’s official tongue, punctuated here and there with German, Greek or Spanish from tourists wandering from shop to shop.
Not as many tourists as usual. Fear had kept many away, a situation that wouldn’t be helped by the recent bombing. Drew was considering the economic consequences as he strolled along with the tourists and the natives. It was easier than thinking about what he planned to do that night. And the woman he planned to do it with…or to.
Sex was a mutual activity. Deceit wasn’t.
It was hard not to like her. That was a problem he hadn’t anticipated. He reminded himself that she wasn’t, couldn’t be, what she seemed. She’d known about the bomb before it went off, which meant she was connected, somehow, to the Brothers of Darkness. Maybe she wasn’t really part of them. She might have heard of the attack through a lover or a friend—but if so, she hadn’t given the investigators the name of that friend or lover. Whether her silence came from complicity or misguided loyalty, she was guilty of protecting killers. And his own guilt was misplaced.
Drew returned his attention to the street and the people on it. He’d had to park a few blocks away. Rose Giaberti’s shop was on one of the old streets, tight and twisty, that made no provision for such modern intrusions as automobiles.
There were streets like this in England, narrow and crowded by buildings leaning comfortably into old age, but the light was different. So were the faces—smiling, frowning, emotions flowing freely, with hands gesturing to support a point or touch a friend. People stood closer to each other here. This communal urge toward intimacy might have made a man like him uneasy. Instead, in Montebello he relaxed as he seldom could at home. Here, he was known to be different—British, and therefore foolish about some things. His reserve, therefore, was a national trait, not a personal failing.
Her shop was still open, he noticed when he reached the two-story stone building. A girl with a pretty smile and short, shaggy hair was ringing something up on the antiquated cash register as he passed the big window. As instructed, Drew climbed the stairs on the side of the house. The balustrade was wooden and old. The steps were much older, and stone.
At the top of the stairs was a small balcony and a yellow door, which opened at his knock. The aunt invited him in without apologizing for her home, which he liked. Her parlor was modest and colorful, not terribly neat, and a fierce, inexplicable wish suddenly split him, leaving half his mind making sure he said what he should while the other half longed to sit in the faded blue armchair and talk with this warm, silly woman. Just sit and talk, in comfort.
Foolishness.
Rose, she said, would be ready in a moment. She made proper if slightly scattered conversation and offered him a seat, but she didn’t sit down herself, so courtesy kept him standing. He didn’t find out if the blue armchair would welcome him as this woman, however polite, did not.
Gemma Giaberti might be silly, but she was no fool. She didn’t trust him. Maybe he should have tried to charm or reassure her, but that particular deceit was beyond him. The woman was right to worry. He would almost certainly hurt her niece.
Some small noise must have alerted him. Or maybe it was her scent, sensed but not consciously noted, that made him turn to look at the doorway just as she reached it.
She wore black.
For once Drew’s inability to show his feelings was a blessing. His reaction couldn’t be concealed entirely, of course—there were some things no man could hide—but his dress slacks fit loosely enough to offer some concealment.
‘‘I’m