“You think that will work?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Probably. Italy’s too bureaucratic and the Italians know it, so they find ways around things. If they didn’t, nothing would ever get done.”

“Thanks.”

“I should warn you. Don’t insist that they do it for you. Entitlement is an American mind-set. Here it’s a cardinal sin. They’ll fight you just over principle and you’ll lose. But if you ask nicely, as a favor, most Italians will walk over broken glass for you.”

“Thanks again.”

“Did you come here for work?”

“Indirectly. I’m an author, so I can work anywhere. But I was hoping to find inspiration.”

Her face lit. “Really? I’m a voracious reader. What kind of books do you write?”

I looked at the cover of the book spread in her lap. “Probably what you’re reading.”

“Romanzi rosa? Love stories?”

I nodded.

“Are you famous?”

“Have you heard of me?”

She thought for a moment. “No.”

“If you have to tell someone you’re famous—you’re not.”

She laughed at this. “But you are published? You’re not just one of those guys who calls himself a writer to meet women?”

At this I laughed. I too had met such men. “No, I’m published. And happily married.”

“How are your books doing?”

“Not bad.”

“Have you ever written a best-seller?”

“A few.”

“I’m sorry, I should know you. I’ve just been reading Italian authors for the last decade.” She leaned over to get her bag. “Do you mind if I get your autograph?”

“Why would you want the autograph of someone you’ve never heard of?”

“Because I’ll regret it later if I don’t. And I want to tell my friends that I met a bestselling author.” She pulled a pen from her bag and handed it to me with the paperback she had been reading. “Just sign in the book, if that’s all right.”

“Certo.” I opened the book and scribbled my name across its fore page, then handed it back to her. “So how is this book?”

“I’ve read better. But once I start a book I can’t stop until I finish it. It’s a compulsion.”

“Do you have a favorite love story?”

She thought for a moment; then a smile slowly spread across her face. “Mine.”

“Yours?”

“I’ve yet to read a love story that compares with mine.”

“Really. Tell me about it.”

She did. This is Eliana’s story.

CHAPTER 1

“Ogni cuore ha il suo segreto.” Every heart has its secret.

—Italian Proverb

TWO YEARS EARLIER. JULY 1999. TUSCANY, ITALY.

Eliana released the clasp on the cedar shutters, then unlatched one side of the wood-framed window and pushed it open, welcoming a rush of fresh air into her second-story painting studio. In the window’s thick glass she saw her own pale reflection. Her umber hair, still unwashed, was pulled back and bound with elastic. Her usually beautiful eyes were puffy from another hard night. There are more beautiful things to see in Tuscany at six in the morning, she thought.