Shield's Lady

did you study?” Verity demanded suspiciously.
    “The Renaissance, with a specialization in military history. I’m an expert on arms and strategy.” He seemed totally occupied with the dishes he was rinsing.
    “Sure. And if I believe that, you’ve got some waterfront property down in Arizona you can sell me, right?”
    Water splashed in the sink. “It’s the truth. You can check it out with a phone call to the records office at Vincent College. I taught there for a while after I graduated.”
    A scholar in the field of Renaissance history. Verity was hopelessly intrigued in spite of herself. A part of her had always been deeply fascinated by that bloody, brilliant, world-changing era. She suddenly realized that she had been right earlier when she had looked at him and found her head filled with images of gilded rapiers and Florentine gold.
    She forced the mental pictures from her mind and said sternly, “I’ll check it out here and now. Tell me something about Renaissance history.”
    “Do you speak Italian?” he asked politely.
    “Not much.”
    “Okay, then I’ll translate for you.” Jonas paused, apparently gathering his thoughts, and then he quoted smoothly:
“My Lady wounds me with her doubts.
Each sigh, each glance, a rapier’s thrust.
I yearn to give her love’s sweet joys,
But she must first gift me with trust.”
    Verity leaned against the doorway, crossed her arms over her breasts, and tried for a fierce expression. “What is that supposed to be?”
    “A quick, rough translation of a bit of little-known Renaissance poetry. Impressed?” Jonas gave her a hopeful glance.
    Verity’s sense of humor was threatening to get the better of her. It was hard to dislike a man who could quote Renaissance love poetry. Of course, it paid to remember that some of the most ruthless men of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries had not only quoted such poetry, but had written it. There was no law in nature that said killers couldn’t write poetry, and in those days, Verity knew, a true gentleman was expected to be as good at composing verse as he was at wielding a rapier.
    “The poem must be quite obscure. I’ve read some Renaissance poetry and I don’t recall that little ditty.”
    “All the more reason for you to be impressed,” he retorted smoothly.
    “I’m impressed, but I’m not sure if knowing a smattering of Renaissance love poetry is much of a qualification for dishwashing,” she murmured.
    “I can quote a little Machiavelli if you’d prefer. Perhaps something on the art of governing through fear? He taught that it was politically more expedient for a leader to be feared rather than loved. I suppose that applies to running a restaurant.”
    “Never mind. I’ve read enough Machiavelli to know I don’t run this place along his principles.”
    “I’m not so sure about that,” Jonas drawled meaningfully. “How did you happen to read his stuff, though?”
    “My father always claimed Machiavelli’s theories on how to survive politically are still the foundation of modern government. He thought I ought to study them,” Verity answered absently. She examined the resumé again. “You’ve done a lot of bartending, I see. The Green Witch Bar in the Virgin Islands?”
    “A tourist trap. I’ve had a lot of experience with tourists,” Jonas said modestly.
    “The Harbor Lights Tavern in Tahiti?”
    “We catered to a slightly less genteel crowd there.”
    “The Seafarer Bar and Grill in Manila?”
    “The clientele there consisted mostly of U.S. sailors on shore leave. I picked up a lot of diplomatic techniques. I’m very good at quelling brawls and riots.”
    “I’ll bet,” Verity said mildly. She was fascinated, in spite of herself. If nothing else, Jonas Quarrel had a vivid imagination. “How about The Get Leid Tavern in Hawaii?”
    “Another military hangout, although we got our share of tourists. A little classier than the Seafarer.”
    “You’d never know it from the name. The Crystal Bell in Singapore?”
    “A place where expatriates gathered.”
    Verity scanned the next entry on the resumé and caught her breath. Then she looked up slowly. “The El Toro Rojo Cantina?”
    “Got a lot of expatriates there, too. You know, the would-be writers and artists who go to Mexico to create their art and wind up swimming in cheap tequila instead.”
    “I know the type,” Verity said stiffly. “I also know this cantina. I was in Puerto Vallerta a few months ago and stumbled