Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

when he’d seen her at Villa Gloria, and her face showed shadows of color brushed around the cheekbones. The meeting had likely been dinner. When she saw him she put down the magazine, rose to her feet, and brushed back her hair even though it was perfectly in place. They exchanged air kisses.

“So nice of you to stop by, Donatella. Why don’t we go into the bar? I trust you have already had dinner.”

“I did, but a nightcap is just what I need.”

They walked from the brightness of the lobby into a bar whose light was indirect and cozy. A few stools stood empty in front of a bar where a bored bartender looked up from his newspaper. He quickly stubbed out a cigarette while watching the couple walk to one of three empty booths that took up a side wall. Donatella slipped off her coat and tossed it onto the seat. Rick could not decide if her dress was wool, silk, or a blend of the two, not that the fabric content mattered. It clung to her body like a second skin, its long lines broken only by a wide belt that settled at a slight angle over her hips. Before sliding onto the leather she smoothed the dress as if she was used to wearing much shorter attire. When she was seated Rick sat down opposite her. The waiter approached the table, put small paper napkins in front of each of them, and asked what they would like.

“Cognac.” Donatella’s eyes studied Rick’s face.

Rick looked up from her gaze, nodded for the same, and gave the man his room number for the bill. “Do you come into the city often?” he asked, when the barman departed.

“I have friends in Volterra and my work brings me here frequently. I also drive to Florence several times a month and occasionally to Milan.” Once again she brushed her hair, sending the light scent of her perfume in his direction. “But I enjoy living alone. Well, alone except for Dario, and Anna, who cooks and cleans.”

He was not surprised that Donatella didn’t cook or clean house herself. The barman returned and placed two snifters on the table, their brown liquid sloshing slowly. Between them he set a small dish of round truffled canapés, their creamy cheese the color of fine alabaster. After clinking glasses carefully and swirling the cognac, they took small sips.

The liquid burned softly in Rick’s throat. “Did you really want to talk business, Donatella?”

She laughed. “If we are to do business we should first get to know each other better, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell me how you are enjoying our wonderful city. You are enjoying it, Ricky, despite your involvement in that tragic incident?”

He was surprised by the “Ricky.” Unless his memory was failing, it had been “Riccardo” at the villa. With Italians he was always called Riccardo—even his mother used it—and with his American friends and Beppo he was Rick. Only Erica used the name Ricky. Could they have talked? It would make sense if Erica had called her friend, especially after she knew Rick had gone to Villa Gloria, but exactly what would they have talked about? He tried to put it out of his mind.

“I haven’t seen much, really. The important buildings, yes, but only from the outside.”

“Not even the cathedral?”

“Well…” He took another sip of his cognac to quiet his nerves, wondering what was coming next. “Yes, I did get into the cathedral for a few minutes.” He hoped her question was innocent and coincidental. It would make sense that any local would mention the cathedral; they are the pride of most cities and Volterra would be no exception.

“The deposition—the wooden carving near the altar—I hope you had a chance to see it up close.”

“Yes, I did. A beautiful piece.” His memory wasn’t totally failing him; he recalled that it was Santo’s favorite work in the cathedral.

“And the Rosso in the art museum? I’m sure Erica told you about it, she being the Mannerist professor.” There was a hint of playfulness in her voice which Rick chose to ignore.

“I haven’t had the time for any museums.” He decided not to mention the Etruscan museum. “How did you come to settle in Volterra, Donatella? I had assumed, since you studied in Rome, that you’re from Rome.”

“My mother is a romana, but my father was Tuscan. They separated when I was in the liceo, and I went to live with her in Rome. He died a few years later and left me the villa, so after the university I returned here. I suppose I’m a country girl at heart.”

A true country girl, Rick thought as he studied her across the table. All she was missing were manure-stained jeans and pieces of straw stuck in her hair.

“But tell me about your real business, Ricky. You said you were doing this buying trip only as a favor to your friends at the gallery.” She swirled her drink but didn’t sip it.

“Translations and interpreting, English to Italian or vice versa. Sometimes tedious and boring with the written translations, but often I meet interesting people when I do the interpreting. International seminars, visiting dignitaries, that kind of thing.”

“It sounds fascinating.”

“It can be.”

“But your trip here, has it tempted you to go into the art field?”

Not the art field, he thought, but possibly police work. Here he was sitting with a beautiful woman in an ancient Tuscan city, drinking fine cognac, and all his expenses were covered. True, as a deputized art cop he was dutifully trying to get into Donatella’s head rather than her bed, but he was having a good time all the same.

“No, I’ll leave that to professionals like you. You and Erica.” Her expression changed slightly with the mention of her friend. “And your business, Donatella? From the look of your collection, it seems to be doing well.”

She shrugged. “Some months are good, some not. Like anything, the art market fluctuates greatly. The