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  I was thrown into confusion by this question, but said, “Perhaps. My tour is leaving soon for Naples."

  A silver tinkle of laughter came along the wire, as clearly as if the Contessa sat right beside me. “How stupid of me! Of course he hasn't told you yet. He promised to bring Mr. Hansen to my little gala this evening. A few friends are coming around—drinks, perhaps dancing on the terrace if the weather continues fine. I told him to bring his American friends. I hope you can fit it into your schedule."

  “Thank you. We'd love to come."

  We rang off, very civilly. “He left half an hour ago, Nick. Where can he be?"

  I hadn't seen Nancy hovering at the door, but she heard me and wailed, “Conan's got him again!"

  “We'd better go rescue him,” Nick said, and we all ran to the car.

  CHAPTER 7

  Our timing couldn't have been worse. Roman traffic was back in full swing after its daily siesta. The city crawled by, a pastiche of old ochre buildings, crumbling stone fountains, policemen, pedestrians, cars, noise and motorbikes that shot out of nowhere in a desperate attempt to kill their drivers. I was surprised to learn a contessa would live in what is more or less a commercial district of shops and offices. The view, of course, was fantastic: the Piazza di Spagna spread below the famous Spanish Steps, the meeting place for tourists and half of Rome, judging from the number of bodies swarming there.

  “All these used to be noblemen's townhouses,” Nick explained. “That's the Contessa's there.” He pointed her house out as we glided by.

  Nancy and I rubbernecked to see how a contessa lived. It was a charming old russet-colored house, heavily vined and shuttered. There was a pretty stone railing with big flower-pots on top, but other than that, it could have been slipped into one of our fancier Connecticut suburbs without looking too out of place. I had been picturing old stone and columns.

  “No turrets? No ramparts? No nothing?” Nancy asked, disappointed.

  “The aristocracy keep a low profile in the city,” Nick explained. “Their country estates are probably larger. Even this house will be fancier inside. All this land was part of the Roman General Lucullus's estate in the first century B.C."

  Such tidbits of ancient lore were dropped nonchalantly by the tour guides, too. It was difficult to grasp, to integrate so vast a stretch of time and history into so small an area. Caesars and Luculluses belonged in fading textbooks.

  While I dreamed of history, Nancy's mind was more practically employed. “Let's park and walk past, see if we can spot Bert's motorcycle,” she suggested. “The Contessa might have been lying and have him locked up."

  I wanted a closer look myself and pretended to agree to this gothic hypothesis. Nick parked the car by the side of the road. I didn't see any Vietato Il Parcheggio signs, but I didn't see any parked cars either. We got out and crossed the street where other tourist gawkers were sightseeing, to lend us anonymity. There was a fair bit of green space around the villa, with fences concealed by vines. There were no motorbikes. Nancy ventured onto the grass and a roar of barking was set off behind the fence. What looked at a quick glance like a pack of leaping pit bull terriers’ gnashing teeth appeared above the vines. I never saw Nancy move so fast before in my life. Her bosoms were bouncing like jelly.

  “Why would she keep a pack of wild dogs if she isn't some kind of crook!” she huffed.

  “Maybe she's a dog lover,” Nick replied.

  Pit bull terriers are especially noted for their tenacity. They kept up such a bellow that we decided it might be a good idea to disappear. We strolled casually back to the car at about sixty miles an hour and scooted away.

  “Bert's probably back at Nick's place by now,” I said, to try to cheer Nancy. She sat in the backseat, chewing her thumb and worrying. “Why don't you phone your place, Nick?"

  He parked illegally, half of the car resting on the sidewalk by a phone box, and phoned. “Nope,” he said, coming back to the car. “My cleaning woman's there. He hasn't showed up. We'll try his apartment."

  Bert wasn't in his apartment, he wasn't in the pensione he had rented, and he wasn't at the gallery. The big question in my mind was: Was he with Boisvert, arranging some new stunt, or had Conan got him?

  “I'm going to call the police,” Nancy announced.

  “Maybe he's home by now. We'll call them from my place if he isn't,” Nick said, and drove home.

  The motorbike was chained to the post in the driveway when we got there. Our relief was liberally mixed with exasperation when we went in and found Bert lolling at his ease on the sofa, sipping a cool beer. He looked up and said, “Where the devil have you guys been? I've been waiting for ages. You might have left a note at least. I bought us some beer, since the gin and Campari are probably doctored. I emptied the bottles down the sink."

  It occurred to me that we could have had the dregs analyzed, but since Nick obviously had no intention of going to the police, there didn't seem much point. After the three of us had finished reviling Bert, he spread out his hands to demand silence. “Thanks for worrying about me, folks. You are very special people, all of you. Really unique. I appreciate it, but I escaped him this time."

  “Conan?” Nancy asked, eyes sparkling.

  “He chased me from one end of Rome to the other, but I kept ahead of him. Finally lost him in the crowds at the Colosseum. I know it inside-out from my tour days. I popped into the ladies’ can, paid a guide to move the bike a block away, and got away without a scratch. Except on my shins when I climbed over the window of the john."

  “What happened at Lingini's place?” Nick asked after Bert had repeated his story a few times, and pulled up his trouser leg to show Nancy the scratch. His leg was red, which sort of convinced me he was telling the truth.

  “Wow! What a shack! The place looks like a quarry. Marble from one end to the other. Even the doorways are marble. Anyway, she's mighty interested in getting hold of an early Hansen. I told her we only had two, and some French guy was hot after them. ‘Fellow named Boisvert,’ I told her, peering from the corner of my eye. Nothing. Zilch. Zippo. She didn't bat an eyelash. ‘I'll pay you more’ is all she said. Didn't even ask what Boisvert was offering. That being the case...” he said, with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows.

  “I'll have to get some acrylics and canvas,” Nick replied.

  “I'm way ahead of you. Where do you think Luigi found me? I stopped at the art shop and got all that stuff. Put it on your tab."

  I noticed that Nick was planning to forge a new “old” painting, but as all his business acquaintances were crooks of one sort or another, I didn't blame him. “I thought Luigi was supposed to work at some academy or something,” I said. “How come he's free to follow you all over town, Bert?"

  “He has a desk and a title. It doesn't involve much work. It's known as nepotism, Lana. His uncle runs the place—state owned. Maria tells me he comes from a very influential family."

  Nancy looked alert. “When did you see Maria?"

  “I'm talking ancient history here,” he assured her. “I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. The family dinner she invited me to was enough to cool my passion, even without Luigi. She has five sisters, four brothers, about six dozen aunts and uncles and cousins. Oh, and four grandparents. They all get together on birthdays. There must have been eighty-nine Italians around the table, spooning pasta and gargling wine and shouting. It was like a mob scene at Cinecittà."

  We all had a bottle of beer and sat around, discussing what we now called “the case.” Nick felt he should be looking for Boisvert. I felt he should call the police. Nancy thought Bert should report Conan. No one mentioned Naples or Salerno. What really occupied both my and Nancy's minds was the thrilling knowledge that we were going to a party at a contessa's villa that night. Maybe Marcello Mastroianni would be there. This extremely vague possibility required a shampoo and a hairdo. It required a fresh shave of the legs and repairing of nail polish. Men had no idea how many parts of a woman's body had
to be washed, shaved, polished, buffed, crimped, curled, and otherwise disguised before they could creditably appear in public.

  “I'm going to shower now,” Nancy said. “When and where are we eating?"

  “I asked my cleaning lady to make dinner and leave it,” Nick said. “It's not her day to clean, but she does some cooking for me when I have company. I thought you might like to try some real Italian cuisine."

  “The ladies will be busy for hours, making themselves presentable,” Bert said. “This is your chance to do the Frageau, Nick."

  Nick flexed his long, artistic fingers. “I'm kind of looking forward to it. I wonder if I still know how to use acrylics."

  “What are you going to do, Bert?” Nancy asked. “Maybe you should use this time to tend to some of your other artists."

  “What other artists? I'm Nick's exclusive agent."

  And obviously Nick was his exclusive artist, despite his boast of managing “a stable of artists,” when he first met us. I wasn't surprised that the stable held only one horse, but Nancy looked disappointed.

  “Is that all you do?” she asked.

  “Of course not! I'm a freelance businessman. This brain for hire."

  “What else do you do?” she persisted.

  Nick and I looked away in embarrassment.

  “I fill in when World Travel needs an extra guide. The tips are fantastic. I take the customers to certain shops that give me a cut. Old Bert has plenty of irons in the fire, don't you worry.

  “Oh."

  Nancy and I began our preparations for the party. By the time she was in full rig, our room looked as if a cyclone had torn through it, and Nancy looked as if she had stepped right off a movie screen. The blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders. The pound or so of mascara on her lashes made them droopy, but in the low-slung, white floating dress, it wasn't likely any man would be looking at her eyelashes. I wore the one evening outfit I'd brought with me, viz a pale blue calf-length dress with a full skirt and braided straps. Low-key elegance was the best that could be said for it, if a viewer was feeling generous. I realized that elegance ran a poor second to sexy. Nancy used her blow dryer to entice my hair into waves. I even used mascara, which was a waste of time as I knew I'd resort to my glasses before the evening was over. I wanted to be able to see the Contessa's marble villa. My evening sandals rubbed on my healing blister, which made it necessary for me to wear two Band-Aids, and pantyhose to hold them in place.

  Nick was still busy in the studio when we finished, but Bert was dressed in a white dinner jacket, which surprised me, and a red cummerbund, which didn't. “I dashed home and packed a suitcase while you ladies were dressing, since I'll be staying with Nick awhile,” he explained.

  He looked quite ... presentable. He was drinking from a wineglass, leaning against a wall that gave him a view of himself in the mirror across the room. I knew he was thinking how debonair he looked, as if he'd already made his million. He gave us a practiced once-over and nodded in satisfaction.

  “Very classy, Bert,” I said.

  He beamed his gratitude. “What, this? You really need formal duds in Europe. Especially since I'm managing Nick. I got this for his first show. And you are both looking très chic, ladies,” he added. In this debonair mood, we “girls” had become “ladies.” “Can I get you a glass of vino?"

  We had the vino while Nick showered and dressed. He wore a navy blazer of slender cut and impeccable tailoring and looked fantastic. When he took it off to go and heat up dinner, I noticed the label said Armani.

  I went to the kitchen to help him with dinner. “Are we over-dressed for this party?” I asked.

  “Nowadays anything goes. There'll be everything from T-shirts to black-tie. Some of the guests will be at formal do's before they drop in. You look fine, Lana. In fact,” he added with a replica of Bert's head-to-toe examination, “you look marvelous. Blue suits you. I'd like to paint you in blue."

  I felt a warm blush course up my neck. “I'm flattered, but it'll have to be a quick sketch; I can't stay much longer."

  “America's only a plane ride away. My father's still in America. I visit him."

  My vitals began simmering as he looked at me with his liquid black eyes. “Or perhaps nude, with the blue sky behind you. In that gown, you look like a Botticelli grace. You wouldn't mind posing nude?"

  While I stood with my jaw hanging, he opened the microwave and slid a big covered dish in. “In America, this would be called lamb stew,” he said. “Here we call it agnello al verdetto. There should be a salad ready in the fridge."

  I got out the salad, mostly romaine, with olives and pimento. His woman had set the dining room table before she left, and I put the wooden bowl in the middle of the rose-colored linen cloth. Everything looked beautiful—the fine china wasn't what we had used for our indoor picnic. Minton, it said on the bottom of the plate. The etched wineglass let off the tinkle of crystal when I pinged one with my finger. The cutlery was baroque-looking old sterling, and felt heavy in my hand. But all this was done on a superficial level. Inside my skull, it wasn't china and crystal and silver I was thinking about. It was me, starkers under a blue sky, posing for Nick, trying to cover all my vitals with only two hands. I didn't have long hair like Botticelli's Venus.

  It was stupid to be squeamish about it. If the painting were to be done in Italy, I thought I might hack it. But in Troy, New York? I didn't hear Nick glide into the room. I didn't know he was there, behind me, till I felt his arms go around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His lips nuzzled my ear, sending gushers of lava into my chest.

  “You didn't give me your answer,” he murmured.

  “No, I didn't, did I?” I looked at my hands, and saw I was holding one of the forks, lifted to read if it was sterling.

  “It's genuine,” he assured me, with a forgiving smile. “So's the china."

  “I know. I've already looked.” This needed some explanation. “I've always loved this kind of stuff. I look at it in antique shops and covet it. Dishes so beautiful you'd cry if you broke one."

  “You don't want dishes, Lana. You want a baby you can eat off of. A great aunt left all this stuff to me when she died. It's half the reason I bought the house. They needed a home. Possessions are a great nuisance. I half wish I didn't have them."

  “That sounds Freudian.” He frowned. “You're the one who compared them to children. You don't want responsibilities."

  “Haven't you heard, Freud is dead?"

  “I thought that was God."

  “Freud has outlived his usefulness, too. Someone is killing all my old friends. If I hear of Charlie Brown going down the tubes, I'll quit the human race."

  “Or maybe be forced to grow up."

  “Same thing, isn't it?” In the same matter-of-fact way, he continued, “It doesn't have to be nude. It was just an idea. Actually textiles can be very sensuous, too.” His hands began feeling my hips, not for the sensuous quality of polyester I think.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Do you think—a red wine with the casserole?"

  “It's already breathing on the side table."

  It was the heavy breathing in my ear that I was more aware of. Nibbling kisses invaded my neck, and his silky hair tickled my jaw. “I had planned to visit Dad for Christmas,” he said softly, in that cashmere voice. “But autumn is beautiful in Massachusetts. Is it beautiful in Troy, too?"

  “It's a busy time for me. School starts in September. At Christmas I have a week off.” My voice was ragged.

  “Good—that's long enough for you to visit me here."

  A transatlantic affair had an undeniable charm to a small-town woman, but the logistics—mainly the expense—were difficult, to say the least. Already my devious mind was figuring that there wouldn't be any hotel bills to pay, just the plane fare.

  Bert appeared in the doorway. “Is it nearly chow time?” he asked.

  I jumped guiltily. Nick kept his arm around my waist, but lifted his head. “In a minute. You
might as well sit down.” Then he gazed lovingly at me, as if I were a well-seasoned dish of pasta. “We'll talk about it later,” he said.

  I had planned to help him serve, but was reluctant to chase him back into the kitchen. He might think I was following him. Bert sat down (without calling Nancy) and gave me a knowing look.

  “I see you and Nick are beginning to hit it off. He must have pulled the old ‘he'd love to paint you’ stunt. What a guy. I wish I were an artist. That one gets them every time. Just a word to the wise—don't give in too easily, or he'll want to paint you au naturel."

  I gave him a bored look while seething inside. I had to be rude to somebody, and poor Bert got it between the eyes. “Would your mind be able to breathe if you ever let it out of the gutter, or would the atmosphere be too rarefied for it?"

  Bert laughed. “Yup, he did it."

  “Aren't you going to call Nancy, or did you plan to let her starve?"

  “Somebody's in a bitchy mood—and we know why."

  He called Nancy, and I sat planning my revenge on Nick. The initial move was to withhold my compliments on the casserole, which was divine. Little puddles of olive oil floated on top of the sauce. Green herbs, dark from the oven, floated in the wine sauce. The smell of garlic, etc., caused my stiff mouth to water. The bread was a puff of white cloud, held in by brown crust. I nibbled silently.

  “Don't you like it, Lana?” Nick asked, all eager concern.

  “It's fine. Really."

  Nick poured wine. I found it fine, too—really. Nancy made up in exuberance for my lack of praise. Everything was “just fabulous.” By some strange synchronicity, she had just been thinking of lamb.

  “I'm so glad we stayed, aren't you, Lana? I wouldn't have missed this for anything. The whole adventure, I mean, not just this fantastic meal. And tonight we're going to a party at a contessa's villa. It's like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Boy, nothing like this ever happens in Troy."

  “That's true,” I agreed blandly. “Things are livelier here. I've never been shot at in Troy, not once.” Nor had I ever been propositioned. I blame it on my profession.