Read Online Breathing Room by Susan Elizabeth Phillips - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Elizabeth Phillips
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make it any less deadly. Look what he'd nearly done to Julia Roberts with a samurai sword.
"Just when I think the press can't sink any lower. What happened to yournon parler anglais , Frenchy?"
"The same thing that happened to your Italian." She sat straighter, finally focusing on what he was saying. "The press? You think I'm a reporter?"
"If you wanted an interview, all you had to do was ask."
She jumped up from the chair. "You think I went through allthat just to get a story?"
"Maybe." Faint alcohol fumes wafted her way. He planted his foot on the chair she'd vacated. She gazed at the pistol resting on his thigh and tried to decide whether he was threatening her or he'd forgotten it was there.
"How did you find me, and what do you want?"
"I want my house." She took a step back, then was angry with herself for doing it. "Is this how you get your kicks? Disguising yourself so you can pick up women?"
"Believe it or not, Fifi, I can do that without a disguise. And I was worth a hell of a lot more than those fifty euros you left."
"A matter of opinion. Is that gun loaded?"
"Beats me."
"Well, put it down." She gripped her hands.
"I don't think so."
"Am I supposed to believe you'll shoot me?"
"Believe whatever you want." He yawned.
She wondered how much he'd had to drink and wished her legs didn't feel so boneless. "I won't tolerate being around guns."
"Then leave." He sprawled into the chair, legs extended, shoulders slouched, pistol on his knee. A perfect portrait of decadence in the Villa of the Angels.
No power on earth would make her leave until she understood what had happened. She clenched her hands tighter to keep them from trembling and managed to drop into the chair across from him without knocking it over. She finally knew what hatred felt like.
He studied her for a moment, then pointed the pistol toward a wall-size tapestry of a man on horseback."My ancestor, Lorenzo de Medici."
"Big deal."
"He was a patron of Michelangelo. Botticelli, too, if the historians are right. When it comes to Renaissance men, Lorenzo was one of the best. Except..." He stroked the stock with his thumb and regarded her with narrow-eyed menace. "He let his generals sack the city ofVolterrain 1472. Medicis aren't good people to piss off."
He was nothing more than an egocentric movie star going through his paces, and she wouldn't be intimidated. Not much, anyway. "Save your threats for the ticket buyers."
The menace vanished, replaced by boredom. "Okay, Fifi, if you're not the press, what are you up to?"
Now that she'd dug in, she realized she couldn't talk about the night before last – not yet, not ever. The house. That's why she'd come here in the first place.
"I'm here to settle a disagreement about the house I rented." She tried to put more authority behind her words, something that came normally to her but wasn't so easy now.
"I paid for two months, and I'm not leaving."
"Why, exactly, am I supposed to care about this?"
"It's your house."
"You rented this house? I don't think so."
"Not this house. Your farmhouse. But your employees are trying to kick me out."
"What farmhouse?"
"The one down the hill."
His lip curled. "I'm supposed to believe the woman Iaccidentally met inFlorencetwo nights ago just happened to rent a house I own. Maybe you'd better come up with a better story."
Even she found it hard to swallow, except that the tourist heart ofFlorencewas small, and she'd ruin into the young couple she'd met in the Uffizi at two other sites that same day.
"Sooner or later every tourist inFlorenceends up in the Piazza della Signoria. We just happened to get there at the same time."
"Lucky us. You look familiar. I thought so last night."
"Do I?" This was a topic she didn't care to pursue. "I rented your farmhouse in good faith, but as soon as I arrived, I was told to leave."
"Are you talking about that place where old Paolo used to live, down by the olive grove?"
"I don't know who old Paolo is. A woman
"Just when I think the press can't sink any lower. What happened to yournon parler anglais , Frenchy?"
"The same thing that happened to your Italian." She sat straighter, finally focusing on what he was saying. "The press? You think I'm a reporter?"
"If you wanted an interview, all you had to do was ask."
She jumped up from the chair. "You think I went through allthat just to get a story?"
"Maybe." Faint alcohol fumes wafted her way. He planted his foot on the chair she'd vacated. She gazed at the pistol resting on his thigh and tried to decide whether he was threatening her or he'd forgotten it was there.
"How did you find me, and what do you want?"
"I want my house." She took a step back, then was angry with herself for doing it. "Is this how you get your kicks? Disguising yourself so you can pick up women?"
"Believe it or not, Fifi, I can do that without a disguise. And I was worth a hell of a lot more than those fifty euros you left."
"A matter of opinion. Is that gun loaded?"
"Beats me."
"Well, put it down." She gripped her hands.
"I don't think so."
"Am I supposed to believe you'll shoot me?"
"Believe whatever you want." He yawned.
She wondered how much he'd had to drink and wished her legs didn't feel so boneless. "I won't tolerate being around guns."
"Then leave." He sprawled into the chair, legs extended, shoulders slouched, pistol on his knee. A perfect portrait of decadence in the Villa of the Angels.
No power on earth would make her leave until she understood what had happened. She clenched her hands tighter to keep them from trembling and managed to drop into the chair across from him without knocking it over. She finally knew what hatred felt like.
He studied her for a moment, then pointed the pistol toward a wall-size tapestry of a man on horseback."My ancestor, Lorenzo de Medici."
"Big deal."
"He was a patron of Michelangelo. Botticelli, too, if the historians are right. When it comes to Renaissance men, Lorenzo was one of the best. Except..." He stroked the stock with his thumb and regarded her with narrow-eyed menace. "He let his generals sack the city ofVolterrain 1472. Medicis aren't good people to piss off."
He was nothing more than an egocentric movie star going through his paces, and she wouldn't be intimidated. Not much, anyway. "Save your threats for the ticket buyers."
The menace vanished, replaced by boredom. "Okay, Fifi, if you're not the press, what are you up to?"
Now that she'd dug in, she realized she couldn't talk about the night before last – not yet, not ever. The house. That's why she'd come here in the first place.
"I'm here to settle a disagreement about the house I rented." She tried to put more authority behind her words, something that came normally to her but wasn't so easy now.
"I paid for two months, and I'm not leaving."
"Why, exactly, am I supposed to care about this?"
"It's your house."
"You rented this house? I don't think so."
"Not this house. Your farmhouse. But your employees are trying to kick me out."
"What farmhouse?"
"The one down the hill."
His lip curled. "I'm supposed to believe the woman Iaccidentally met inFlorencetwo nights ago just happened to rent a house I own. Maybe you'd better come up with a better story."
Even she found it hard to swallow, except that the tourist heart ofFlorencewas small, and she'd ruin into the young couple she'd met in the Uffizi at two other sites that same day.
"Sooner or later every tourist inFlorenceends up in the Piazza della Signoria. We just happened to get there at the same time."
"Lucky us. You look familiar. I thought so last night."
"Do I?" This was a topic she didn't care to pursue. "I rented your farmhouse in good faith, but as soon as I arrived, I was told to leave."
"Are you talking about that place where old Paolo used to live, down by the olive grove?"
"I don't know who old Paolo is. A woman
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