turned to face him. “So, what’s the story here?”
“I assumed your father would tell you—and, frankly, as you said at dinner, I feared you’d think I was following you.”
“Were you?” she challenged.
“Justine, you know I’ve wanted to get back into the field for a long time . . . but there is some truth in your hunch. I did want to be nearer to you.” He stepped closer, moonlight catching the side of her face, her white blouse.
“So you relied upon my father to be the intermediary? To inform me of your intentions?” Her voice rose, eyes flashing. She reached over and turned on the table lamp. “I think you know I don’t like being treated like a little girl, especially when my father is concerned. Please don’t communicate with me through him.”
Amir looked confused, miserable, angry. “Why are you overreacting like this? I thought you’d be glad to see me!” He grabbed her by the shoulders. Their fiery eyes met, and held. Her body stiffened—then, breathing deeply, relaxed.
She let her head drop onto his chest. He softened his grip, wrapped his arms around her, holding her, and both began weeping, exhausted by the old desire that now seized them. They began breathing together, the near panting that marked longing. Finally, he raised her chin to meet his and kissed her tenderly, the embrace long, delicious, leading to hunger, then to demand. Shivering, she pushed him back, enveloping him with her eyes. He was handsome, sensual beyond belief. Slowly she began to unbutton her blouse.
He took her in his arms, spun her back toward the bed and let them both fall, press into her quilt. He kissed her with near desperation, born of unrequited obsession.
She held him tightly as they embraced, her legs wrapped around him now, and rolled on the bed. They slowed as they flourished in each other’s bodies, exploring with touch, caressing, finding the heat of buried passion. Shadows danced across the walls, then stilled. No words were spoken before they fell into a deep sleep.
Do you know how it feels to want something you think you can’t have; Or to awake in the morning only to find the day does not belong to you?
—L.S. McFadden
JUSTINE SPED NORTH from highway A1 across Florence toward San Domenici. It was another one of those glorious days, morning mist clinging to the cypress like billowing skirts. Turning the convertible onto Via Giuseppe Mantellini, she ascended the main road climbing up to Fiesole. The vibrant and abundant foliage reminded her of the Nile Delta in early summer. Her body shuddered as she recalled making love with Amir the night before. She was a little embarrassed by her initial immature behavior. She had left Cerveteri early, sneaking out before either Amir or her father were awake. What would it be like now to work with her father—and Amir? Last night she’d had a long, satisfying evening with both of the men in her life. Now it might be difficult to face Amir when they both came to dinner tonight.
At Largo Leonardo Da Vinci, just below Villa San Michele, Justine squinted into the sun and turned onto Via Maiano, a narrow street hugged by ten-foot-high stone walls. A left turn into the third driveway with its towering cypresses brought her to the winding road that led home, up to Villa Cellini. Before she could turn off the motor, Prego opened her door.
“Good morning, signorina. Your friend here. Come in last night. Prego,” he said, reaching for her small suitcase.
“Grazie, Prego. Is my mother home also?”
“In the garden, signorina.”
“Andrea!” Justine cried out as she burst through the door, dragging her bag. She had not seen Andrea since their meeting at the Cairo Marriott the previous fall. Andrea was the visiting professor of linguistics at the American University in Cairo whom Ibrahim had drawn into translating the codex. Justine had been surprised to learn that Andrea had known Lucrezia for many years and had occasionally co-hosted salons with her in Paris and Fiesole.
“Justine!” Andrea walked out of the breakfast room, still in her lavender dressing gown. Even without makeup she looked much younger than her forty-eight years. She often reminded Justine of the French actress Juliette Binoche with her high forehead, over which she had taken to wearing half bangs, which complimented her pronounced cheekbones and impish grin. Andrea’s father had sculpted her when she was a teenager, but both of her parents had died in a car accident before she was out of secondary school.
“How did you get here so quickly? Never mind. It’s wonderful to see you. You look like a real anthropologist in those khakis. Just great.” She pulled Justine to her and kissed her profusely on both cheeks, then held her at arm’s length, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.
Justine hugged her fiercely in return. “So what’s new, my friend?” she asked as she leisurely removed her boots and wiggled her toes. “Have you fallen in love? Translated more secret diaries? Been followed by cloaked villains?”
“Touché, my beautiful friend. Your mother and I caught up on our secrets last night, I am now ready to hear yours.” Andrea folded the length of her dressing gown between her white legs before sitting down. “You were with your dad in Cerveteri?”
“I was. He’s back from Peru and is part of a new UNESCO team searching for Etruscan ruins. He and another member of the team will be joining us for dinner tonight. Also, to my surprise, Amir is here, as Dad’s new archaeologist.”
“You mean that dashing, sexy man with the curly hair and flashing black eyes? Ibrahim’s grandson? I could eat him up,” said Andrea.
Justine blushed. “The very one,” she said flatly, turning toward the stairs.
Andrea stared at her but changed tack. “Well . . . that gives us the day together—I’ve so many questions. And a few ideas.”
Whatever you know, I’m bound not to hear all of it at once, thought Justine with affection. Andrea revealed information slowly, a habit that had driven Justine crazy until she’d taught herself to tolerate the power play as an affectation. “I’ll change and meet you in the garden. Mom will want to be part of this conversation.”
Once back, in black linen shorts, a white cotton shirt, and carrying her buckskin sandals, Justine moved gingerly down the stepping-stones into the garden. Her damp hair corkscrewed into ringlets around her face. In the small patch of lush grass halfway down the garden, Andrea stood talking with Lucrezia, who was on her knees weeding a patch of herbs: oregano, winter savory, sage, and chives.
“Put on your sandals, my dear. You know bare feet are scandalous in Italy,” cautioned her mother without looking up. Lucrezia seemed consumed by her renegade herbs.
“I have trouble following rules that I don’t understand.” Nonetheless, she sat down on a stone and slipped into her sandals. “This is nonsense.”
Her mother ignored her.
“Justine, the independent woman,” Andrea teased, ignoring the frowns from both women. She changed the subject. “All right. I want to know what was in that little brown package you left Cairo
