“Pia went looking for you,” I told her when she did.
“Yes, um, I saw her.”
“Are you staying?”
“The tour bus left, so I suppose it’s that or try to find another way back to Sienna.” She looked over her shoulder several times.
“Everything okay?”
“What? Yes. Everything’s fine.”
I was delighted when she took the seat across from me, only so I could look at her, study her, stare at her.
When Pia returned, she was carrying a platter. “This is Nonna Bella’s white bean and prosciutto bruschetta,” she said, setting it on the table. It looked fantastic.
We were served two more courses, and with each, Pia refilled our glasses. The wine had loosened Tara up, and while the haunted look in her eyes never went away entirely, she laughed easily and was animated in our conversations.
At one point, she stiffened when something outside caught her eye. Pia noticed it too and looked to see what it was.
“That is Georgio,” she grumbled. “He is our winemaker.”
“You sound as though you aren’t happy he is,” I commented.
Pia sighed. “I’ve known Georgio all my life. We were childhood playmates, but…”
“But what?” asked Tara.
“We are no longer friends.”
I looked outside and saw the man on his phone, looking this way. Tara excused herself from the table and went to the lavatory.
Her instincts were telling her she was being watched. While Georgio definitely appeared to be up to something, his target was Pia.
“I don’t recall meeting him, but he looks familiar,” I said to her. “What’s his last name?”
“Rossi.” She turned her head from the window and toward me. “What brings you to Italy?”
“Work,” I answered. Not a lie.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist.” Definitely a lie, but that was my cover.
She raised a brow. “A journalist? Interesting. I would’ve thought you would be…something in law enforcement perhaps.”
I laughed. However, her assessment hit a little too close to home. “Why would you think that?”
She waved her hand in the direction of my chest. “You are…molto muscoloso.”
“I like to stay fit.”
“Fit? You are more than fit. You could be…how do you call it…? Mister Universe?”
Laughing again, I shook my head. “Not even close, but thank you.”
She studied me. “Are you writing about Italy?”
“Yes.”