“But I’ve got reading to do,” she said.

“You’re American,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “So are you. I was sure you were Italian or Spanish.”

I liked that she had imagined a backstory for me, even an incorrect one. I angled my head to read one of her book titles, Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death. “A real hoot. I’ve read it.”

“You have not!”

“Swear to God.” I made the sign of the cross. “Give me a good book about the bubonic plague, and I’m one happy guy.”

She laughed, full lips parting over straight white teeth.

Chiara aimed a finger at us.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” the blond whispered.

“Sorry,” I whispered back. “But you know that book is in paperback and in English. You don’t have to read it here.”

“Oh, but I love it here.”

“Me too. It’s just that you can read about the aftereffects of the plague on artists anywhere,” I said, showing off a little.

“Oh.” She affected a pout. “Now you’ve spoiled the ending.”

I laughed, and Chiara glared at us again.

“One coffee,” I whispered, “before she throws us out.”

With no windows in the research room, I’d had no sense of the weather since I’d arrived this morning when it had been cloudy and looked like rain. Now the sky over San Lorenzo was a pale watercolor blue with cotton-ball clouds, though the chill lingered.

“Is that real?” I asked, watching her wrap the fur scarf around her neck.

“If you consider rabbit real.”

“I think most rabbits would.”

“You’re not going to report me to PETA, are you?”

I laughed as we headed down one of the streets that radiated off the square, this one narrow and angled and lined with shops—a fancy shoe store, a gelato stand, a trendy men’s clothing shop, even a Foot Locker. Just beyond it, a small café, where I suggested we stop.

“But the weather has gotten so nice. Let’s walk a bit.”

“Sure,” I said.

“You’re easy,” she said.

“I like to think so.” I added a grin.

“Oh, you’re worse than the Italian men. Have you been here long, or are you always like this?”

“Sorry,” I said. “No, just a few days. By the way, I’m Luke Perrone.”

“So you are Italian.”

“Italian American. Does that count?”

Her answer was a raised eyebrow and half smile; one more time, I felt as if she were studying me or looking through me. “Does Luke ever have a nickname?”

“Nope,” I said, though I thought back. My buddies in Bayonne had called me “Lucky,” something I’d dropped the day I left, along with my Jersey accent and everything else I associated with the place.

“Luke then. It suits you,” she said. She extended her hand without removing her glove. The leather felt soft and expensive. “Alexandra Greene,” she said. “With an E.”

“You ever Alex or Ali?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I like you or not.” She looked me up and down. “I haven’t decided yet.”