“No plans. Just frozen pizza. It can wait.”

She smiled. “Then how about seven?”

“Seven will be great.”

“Well then, Alessio and I will be looking forward to it. Good night.”

“Good night, Eliana.”

As she walked back to her apartment, a smile bent her lips. She liked the way he said her name. Or maybe she just liked that he knew it.

CHAPTER 11

“Chiusa fiamma e più ardente e se pur cresce.” A silent passion increases more ardently.

—Italian Proverb

The next day was Ross’s busiest yet at the Uffizi. He led four large tours—three groups from the UK and one American. Between his tours, and sometimes during them, he thought about Eliana. On the way home from the Uffizi, he drove his scooter past the villa to the nearby hamlet of Impruneta, where he stopped at a restaurant and purchased a bottle of red wine, then, realizing that he didn’t know the night’s menu, returned and bought a bottle of white as well. He went home, took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes as the Tuscan heat tended to wilt everything before sunset. Even though he usually didn’t give his attire more than a few moments’ thought, tonight he had trouble deciding what to wear. He finally selected a black shirt and jeans. You can’t ever go wrong with black, the woman who sold him the shirt had told him. Black is confident. Black is slimming, she said like a daily affirmation, then added, Not that you need it.

He knocked on Eliana’s door at the top of the hour. As she opened the door, his first thought was how remarkably different she looked than she had the night before. She was wearing light makeup and her hair was styled, carefully pulled back to accent the curvature of her face. She wore a satin blouse buttoned only halfway up like the young Italian women did and a dark skirt. For a woman naturally beautiful, she was stunning with a little work.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you.” She had been thinking the same about him but the words wouldn’t come. “I must have been a fright the other evening.”

“No, you weren’t. You looked pretty then too.”

It had been a while since anyone other than strangers had told her that, and she blushed. “You brought wine.”

Ross glanced down at the bottles. “Sì. I didn’t know what you were planning, so I brought red and white.”

“You’re very thoughtful. Here, come in.”

Ross stepped inside. The house smelled of sage, oregano, basil and other enticing odors, rich and sweet, that he could not identify.

“It smells buono,” he said.

“It’s not frozen pizza, but you might find something you like,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m running a little behind.”

“You’re right on time for Italy.”

“Vero.” True. “I’m making spaghetti carbonara, and it’s best if you wait to finish it just when you’re ready to eat. I’ll only be a minute. Look around the house, if you like.”