“Just like a man,” I said, somewhat breathlessly, because his hands were squeezing my ribs. “When you are losing an argument, you resort to physical violence!”
“Oh, no,” Stefano said. “The physical violence is only a preliminary. This is how I counter arguments such as yours.”
He kissed me. I felt as if my bones were melting.
It took me some time to recover. We were sitting on the bench, with his arm around me and my head on his shoulder, before I could speak sensibly again.
“It was very presumptuous of you to do that,” I murmured. “What made you suppose that I would tolerate it?”
“I wouldn’t have dared if I hadn’t happened to meet Miss Perkins in the hall,” Stefano said frankly. “She told me to do it.”
“Miss Perkins? Oh, come now!”
“Well, perhaps not in so many words. But she implied in her tactful fashion that you might not be violently opposed to the idea.”
“She was kinder to you than to me,” I said. “For days and days I have been trying to get her—or anyone—to reassure me as to how you felt about me.”
“If you did not know, you were one of the few who didn’t. Andrea taxed me with it weeks ago. Miss Perkins read my thoughts as if my head were made of glass. Even the Contessa knew. Why do you suppose she abandoned her schemes for me to marry Galiana?”
“So that is what Miss Perkins meant,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t understand her then. But how could I have known? You were horrid to me.”
“As you were to me.”
“I have been in love with you for a long time. I can’t imagine why you didn’t notice.”
“With me—or with that poor mountebank the Falcon?” Stefano turned me in the circle of his arm and looked straight into my eyes. “I hope you did not fall in love with a myth, Francesca, for that person never really existed. I cannot tell you how glad I am to be done with him at last.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said, half in jest, half in earnest. “The role you played here was the hard one. You had a wonderful time being the Falcon; don’t tell me you didn’t. He is a part of you, just as the sober scholar is a part. Don’t cast him off altogether.”
Stefano’s eyes took on a reminiscent sparkle as I spoke; but he shook his head.
“I am really a very dull fellow, my darling. And you are so young. God willing, you may have me on your hands for forty or fifty years. Do you think you can endure it?”
“I don’t know how I can convince you,” I said helplessly.
He put his arms around me and drew me close.
“Try,” he said.
Praise for the novels of
Barbara Michaels
“Barbara Michaels is a consummate storyteller.”
MARY HIGGINS CLARK
“Simply the best living writer of ghost stories and thrillers in this century.”
MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY
“Michaels has a fine sense of atmosphere and storytelling.”
NEW YORK TIMES
“With Barbara Michaels, you always get a great story.”
OCALA STAR-BANNER (FLORIDA)
“Michaels has a fine downright way with the supernatural.”
SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
“This writer is ingenious.”
KIRKUS REVIEWS
About the author
ELIZABETH PETERS (writing as BARBARA MICHAELS) was born and brought up in Illinois and earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago's famed Oriental Institute. Peters was named Grand Master at the inaugural Anthony Awards in 1986, Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America at the Edgar® Awards in 1998, and given the Lifetime Achievement Award at Malice Domestic in 2003. She lives in an historic farmhouse in western Maryland. You can visit her website at www.mpmbooks.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Books by Barbara Michaels
Other Worlds
The Dancing Floor
