“Okay, what else?” he said to his mother as he headed to the staircase.

Once upstairs, he went to the bathroom window, which afforded the best possible view of his neighbors’ backyard. There, only half listening to his mother, Carter pressed his forehead against the screen of the open window to see what he could spy.

The maple tree in the backyard partially obscured his line of sight. Just the same Carter could plainly see Sheila as she kicked off her sandals and wriggled out of the shorts she wore over her bikini bottom. She sat on the edge of the chair, opened a bottle of suntan lotion, and squeezed some out into her hands. With long, deliberate strokes, she spread the lotion all across her arms and legs. Distracted by the smooth, sensual motion of her hands, Carter did not quite hear the next item on his mother’s list.

“Say that again, Mom,” he said, trying to pay attention, and failing in the effort.

Maddeningly, Sheila just at that moment tossed the suntan lotion aside, turned the chair in the opposite direction, and raised its back. She drew in her legs and settled down onto the chair, so that all Carter could see of her was the top of her head and the tips of her toes. Disappointed he gave a sigh, went to straighten up, and in the process struck his head with a rather loud knock on the bottom edge of the raised window. The impact gave him a jolt and jarred the telephone from his hands.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m still here,” he said once he had retrieved the handset. “So, what else did you say we need?”

Later, after he had hung up the phone, a much annoyed Carter stripped and went back into the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror and passed his hand over the painful welt on the back of his head. For a few moments he stayed there, considering the bump and the circumstances that had led to it. His thoughts suddenly turned to Elena, and his head felt all the worse.

“Nothing less than you deserved,” he grumbled.

Then he pulled open the shower curtain and turned on the cold water.

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

It was a truth acknowledged—if not universally, then at least by a consensus of his friends and relations, particularly those of the female persuasion—that by virtue of his being in possession of a comfortable home, a respected profession, and yet a moody, temperamental disposition, Giancarlo must be in need of a wife. There was no other explanation, so went popular opinion, for the air of self-imposed exile that seemed to perpetually shadow the man like a gloomy gray cloud. It followed him everywhere, throwing a shroud over the sun’s every attempt to let the light shine through, and it was generally held with great conviction that only the care and comfort of a good woman would be able to dispel it.