temptation in florence 04 - expected in death (26 page)

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Authors: beate boeker

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When the taxi stopped, and her amiable driver indicated with a move of the head that she had reached her destiny, she fumbled out some unfamiliar Euro notes and pressed them into his hands. His fingers were red, like sausages. The sausages disappeared in a black zip-bag and reappeared with some change.

"Grazie." Anne's voice trembled.

With a sigh, the taxi driver heaved himself out and went to the back of the car.

Anne clutched her handbag hard. Now. Her new life was about to begin.

Get out
, she told herself.
Don't be a coward
.

But her legs were frozen stiff. She was unable to move.

Oh, it would be so nice if she could find a mouse hole somewhere. Just a little mouse hole, well hidden; that would do.

Peter Grant pulled up the collar of his raincoat and sped past the Dome without a single glance at its marble beauty. He swerved by a Vespa, jumped across a puddle and finally stormed into the Da Marco bar on via de' Tosinghi. After the call from Garibaldi, he had felt the need to leave his office immediately, to get some fresh air and a change of walls, but for once, the familiar smell of coffee and fresh bread failed to charm him. With an effort, he smiled. "Buongiorno, Marco."

Marco waved his blue checkered dishcloth, finished polishing the glass in his hands and put it down with practiced care. It clinked on the glass top, only audible because the bar was still empty.

"Peetarrr." He smiled across his gleaming glass counter that allowed a glimpse of crisp pannini bread and sweet dolci. "Come vai?"

Peter's reply came automatic. "Tutto a posto. All is well." Which was a lie. Nothing was well, nothing at all, but he couldn't very well tell Marco so, who had once declared him to be the only cheerful English guy he had ever met.

Peter shifted on his wooden bar stool and leaned his back against the wall painted in faded orange. The smell of Marco's panninis made his mouth water. He ordered an expresso and a pannini with prosciutto. "Henry not here yet?"

Marco shook his head without looking up from the hissing espresso machine. "Enrique will come soon." He slipped the expresso in front of him.

Peter immediately tossed it back. When he looked up, he spotted Henry through the glass front of the bar. His cream-colored raincoat moved like a swift cloud through the rain. With him, the smell of exhaust came into the bar.

Marco shivered. "Che tempo brutto!"

Yes
,
the weather is awful
. Peter sighed.
But it'll go away, unlike the news I got this morning.

Henry smiled at them both, took off his raincoat, shook out its folds one by one, then hung it on the curlicued brass hook Marco had fixed on the wall just for him. He bent across the glass display and gave Marco his order, then came over to Peter. Just as he seated himself, Marco brought Peter's sandwich and served Henry his usual, a salad with bacon strips.

Henry pushed the plate away until it stood at a neat angle in front of him, padded down his blond hair that didn't need any padding, slanted a glance at Peter and said, "Everything all right?"

Peter shook his head. "No."

Henry speared a piece of tomato and lifted his fork. "Is it Maria?"

Peter stared at him. "Maria? Who's Ma . . .?" He stopped and choked. "Oh. Maria. Why on earth do you think it's Maria?"

Henry put the tomato into his mouth and chewed. "The last time you looked like that, Maria was the reason."

Peter laughed without mirth. "It's been ages . . . I believe I've last heard from Maria a year ago." He took a bite off his pannini and smiled a bit. "And I sure don't complain." The smoky taste of the prosciutto filled his mouth but failed to give him a feeling of satisfaction.

Henry nodded and cut the salad into rectangular pieces. "So it's Garibaldi?"

Peter clenched his teeth. "Lo stronzo." He hissed out the word.

Henry threw a look at Marco who had moved to the other end of the counter to greet a new customer. "Be careful."

"Oh, you can trust Marco." Peter bit off another piece of his pannini as if he wanted to tear it apart.

Henry nodded. "Yeah. But still, I wouldn't run around and call my employer an asshole. Particularly not if it's someone like Garibaldi."

"But he is one." Peter narrowed his eyes.

"I know. What did he do this time to put you in such a fury?"

Peter took a deep breath. "You remember Angela? My secretary who worked half time?"

"I thought she'd left?"

"Yeah." Peter finished his pannini and wiped his fingers on the white paper napkin. "She left a month ago, and I've been badgering Garibaldi ever since to allow me to employ a full-time secretary."

Henry winced. "Oh, no. Don't tell me you've been going without a secretary for a full month?"

Peter grinned. "It's pandemonium."

"I can imagine. Why don't you find a half-time secretary until Garibaldi agrees?"

"Because as soon as I have one, he'll think it's fine and will stop doing what little he might have done. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to her, would it?"

Henry took a sip of his coffee and grinned. "And now he said since you seem to manage nicely, you can do without one altogether?"

"No. Worse."

"Worse? What can be worse?"

"He's sending me his niece."

The hiss of the espresso machine almost drowned his last words.

Henry stared. "Did you say his niece?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus." Henry arranged his knife and fork in perfect parallels on his empty plate and pushed it away.

Peter looked up. "That all you say?"

Henry blinked. "You'll have to be darn careful. First of all, you have to stop calling him Stronzo all the time."

Peter shrugged. "If that was all, I'd be fine."

Henry waved at Marco. "Un Grappa, per favore, Marco." Then he turned back to Peter. "What do you mean, that's not all?"

"He doesn't have a niece."

"What's that?"

Marco arrived and placed the tiny glass with Grappa in front of Henry who pushed it to Peter.

Peter eyed it for an instant, then tossed it off. "Thanks."

Henry frowned. "Now let's start again, please; you've lost me completely. You say Garibaldi foists a niece upon you, a niece he doesn't have?"

Peter shrugged. "Lo stro... Garibaldi called this morning, said he had wonderful news; he has found a secretary for me. She'll work full time. What's more, she's already on her way and will arrive tonight." He drew his hand through his hair. "And while I'm still collecting my thoughts to ask if she has ever worked in a hotel, if she has any references, not to mention that I would like to have a say in the matter as well, he says she's his niece!" He spat out the word. "When I know perfectly well he has neither brothers nor sisters, so he can't have a niece, not in a million years!"

"So who do you think she is?" Henry opened his eyes wide.

"She's one of his floozies, of course. Tall, blond, and so stupid you start to eat your desk in desperation if you have to talk to them for five minutes on end. They're all like that." He shrugged. "I guess he got bored with her, for once finds it difficult to shake her off, so he offers her a job in Florence." He changed his voice to a high-pitched sing-song, "Wonderful city, my dear, you'll work in a fabulous four star hotel, oh, so exclusive, a gorgeous historical Palazzo," Peter drew his hand through his hair again and returned to his normal voice. "And I don't even know if she speaks Italian, for God's sake!" He beat the top of the bar with his fist.

Henry shook his head. "He wouldn't send you a secretary who doesn't speak Italian, Peter. Even Garibaldi can't do that."

Peter lifted his eyebrows. "Oh, wouldn't he?" He grabbed a tooth pick from a white porcelain holder next to his elbow and started to turn it around in his fingers. "Those bimbos are barely able to speak their mother language, let alone any other!"

"Maybe she's Italian," Henry said.

Peter shook his head. "No way." He twiddled the tooth pick in his fingers. "Not with a name like that." He stared at the glossy table top in front of him.

"Come on, don't keep me in suspense." Henry nudged his arm. "What's her name?"

Peter looked at his friend and drew a grimace. "Elizabeth Tiffany Mary Anne Smith." He drew out each word. "Doesn't sound Italian to me." The tooth pick snapped in two between his fingers. "And she's never worked in a hotel in all her life."

End of Excerpt
A New Life by Beate Boeker

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