The Villa

rush of blood in her head. "Why are you doing this?"
    "I'm sorry. Someone called here, said perfectly vile things to Rene. She's very upset." He had to shout over the shrieks. "Of course, I told her you'd never do such a thing, but she… she's upset," he repeated, sounding frazzled. "I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow."
    "She's upset," Pilar whispered, and began to rock as the dial tone buzzed in her ear. "Of course she has to be soothed. What about me? What about me?"
    She hung up the phone, tossed back the covers before she gave in to her first instinct and curled into a defensive ball under them.
    She was trembling as she yanked on a robe, as she dug deep into her lingerie drawer for her secret emergency pack of cigarettes. Stuffing them in a pocket, she pushed through the French doors and rushed out into the night.
    She needed air. She needed a cigarette. She needed, Pilar thought as she ran across her terrace and down the stone steps, peace.
    Wasn't it enough that the only man she'd loved, the only man she'd ever given herself to hadn't cherished her? Hadn't respected her enough to keep his vows? Did she have to be plagued now by her latest replacement? Awakened in the middle of the night and screamed at, sworn at?
    She strode away from the house, through the gardens, keeping to the shadows so that if anyone in the house was awake they wouldn't see her through the windows.
    Pretenses, she thought, furious to find her cheeks were wet. We must maintain pretenses at all cost. Wouldn't do to have one of the servants see Ms. Giambelli smoking in the shrubbery in the middle of the night. Wouldn't do for anyone to see Ms. Giambelli doing her best to stave off a nervous breakdown with tobacco.
    A dozen people might have called Rene, she thought bitterly. And she very likely deserved the abuse tossed out at her by each and every one. From the tone of Tony's voice, Pilar knew he had a pretty good idea just who'd made the call. Easier, she supposed bitterly, to let Rene believe it was the discarded wife rather than a more current lover.
    Easier to let the long-suffering Pilar take the slaps and the insults.
    "I'm not fifty," she muttered, fighting with her lighter. "Or a goddamn virgin."
    "Me neither."
    She whirled, dropping the lighter with a little crash of metal on stone. Temper warred with humiliation as David Cutter stepped from shadow to moonlight.
    "I'm sorry I startled you." He bent down for her lighter. "But I thought I should let you know I was here before you continued your conversation."
    He flicked the lighter on, studying her tear-stained cheeks and damp lashes in the flare. Her hands were shaking, so he steadied them.
    "I couldn't sleep," he continued. "New place, new bed. Took a little walk. Want me to keep on walking?"
    It was breeding, she supposed, that prevented her from a fast, undignified retreat. "I don't smoke. Officially."
    "Neither do I." Still he took a deep, appreciative sniff of the smoke-stung air. "Quit. It's killing me."
    "I've never smoked officially. So I, occasionally, sneak outside and sin."
    "Your secret's safe with me. I'm very discreet. Sometimes venting to a stranger works wonders." When she only shook her head, he tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. "Well, it's a nice night after the rain. Want to walk?"
    She wanted to run back inside, bury herself under the covers until this new mortification passed. She had plenty of reason to know embarrassments faded quicker when you stood up and moved on.
    So she walked with him.
    "Are you and your family settling in?" she asked as they fell into step together.
    "We're fine. Period of adjustment. My son got into some trouble in New York. Kid stuff, but there was a pattern to it. I wanted to change the canvas."
    "I hope they'll be happy here."
    "So do I." He dug a handkerchief out of his jeans, silently passed it to her. "I'm looking forward to getting a good look at the vineyards tomorrow. They're spectacular now, with a bit of moon and a hint of frost."
    "You're good at this," she murmured. "At pretending you didn't come across an hysterical woman in the middle of the night."
    "You didn't look hysterical. You looked sad, and angry." And beautiful, he thought. White robe, black night. Like a stylized photograph.
    "I had an upsetting phone call."
    "Is someone hurt?"
    "No one but me, and that's my own fault." She stopped, stooped to crush the cigarette and bury it under the mulch on the side of the path. Then she turned, took a