A Hidden Fire
Page 12
“Well then,” he replied, “how can I refuse? But I insist you call me Giovanni, Señora De Novo.” He was pleased the opportunity for further research had presented itself so conveniently. “If I’m going to escort you for the evening, that is.”
“You must call me Isadora, then.”
“Oh brother,” Giovanni heard Beatrice mutter, as she chuckled and shook her head.
“Are you from Houston originally?” Isadora asked.
He glanced with a smile from Beatrice to a Warhol painting on his left. “I grew up primarily in Northern Italy, though my father traveled frequently for his work and I often went with him. I moved to Houston three years ago,” he replied, turning to meet Isadora’s keen gaze. They measured each other for a few moments in the bright light of the gallery.
“Grandma,” Beatrice broke in. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave soon.”
Isadora’s gaze finally left Giovanni’s, and she smiled at her granddaughter. “Of course. It was such a pleasure meeting you. The art center on Main Street tomorrow? We’ll be there around seven o’clock.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Such a pleasure to meet you, and to see you, Beatrice.” He nodded at them and allowed his eyes to meet Beatrice’s dark brown ones. They were narrowed in annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t quite tell, but he winked at her before she turned and led her grandmother toward the lobby.
He stayed at the museum until closing, planning his objectives for the following night. He suspected Beatrice’s grandmother thought she was playing matchmaker between Beatrice and the handsome book-dealer. He was more than happy to play along, as a grandmother would readily give information to a polite young man interested in her attractive granddaughter.
She was also more likely to have information on her son and what he had been working on in Italy. Beatrice had only been a child when her father was killed, but Isadora had not.
As he swam laps that evening, he thought about the girl. She was far too young for him, even if he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her behavior was a curious mix of innocence and wariness, and he wondered how much experience she had with men. She kept to herself, but he had the distinct impression she was no wallflower.
Beatrice De Novo was intriguing, and he found her humor and intelligence far more compelling than the average college student. He knew from her physical response to him that she found him attractive, and he was comfortable using that as he determined what she knew and how it could be of use in his own search.
“Caspar?” he called out when he returned to the house after his swim.
“Yes?” he replied from the library.
Giovanni walked upstairs and stood in the doorway. Caspar had started another fire, and the familiar smell tickled his nose. Doyle was curled up in his favorite chair; the cat looked up, blinked at Giovanni, and closed his eyes again.
“Any word back from Rome?”
Caspar looked up from his book and shook his head. “You know how slow Livia can be. Added to that, she refuses electronic correspondence, even for her day staff. I suspect we might see some sort of response by the new year.”
Giovanni scowled in frustration but knew his friend was probably correct.
“So you really think the girl’s father was turned?” Caspar asked.
He nudged the cat off his chair.
“How many American Dante scholars were killed under mysterious circumstances in northern Italy in 1992? It’s far too coincidental. If the rumors about the book are true…”
“But why are you interested in the girl?”
“Don’t fret, Caspar. She’s perfectly safe. And you know how nostalgic the young ones can be. He was rumored to have access to books that are rightfully mine. Now I have access to his human daughter. If I can use the connection to trade for information…or more, I will.”
“But do you really think he knows about your books?”
Giovanni stared into the flames as the heat began to lift the water from his skin and dry his towel. “If it’s him, and he has what was rumored, then yes. It sounded genuine. Livia will know, and she’ll know who sired him. No one turns a human in that part of Europe without her knowing about it, even if it’s against their will.”
“And whoever sired him—”
“No one stumbles across a library that ancient and that valuable when they’re that young. The sire is who I’m looking for.”
“So we wait.”
“Well,” he mused, “we might be able to do more than that. I’m meeting with the girl and her grandmother tomorrow night.”
“What? On a Friday?”
“I’m going out later.” He shrugged. “Don’t fret, old man.”
Caspar raised his eyebrows. “A divergence from routine, Gio? What is the world coming to?”
Shaking his head, he rose and walked toward the door.
“See if you can prod some of Livia’s day people tomorrow over the phone.”
“Of course.” Caspar paused for a moment. “Is it worth it, Gio? The books? This obsession? All these years?”
“What do you hold in your hands, my son?”
“You must call me Isadora, then.”
“Oh brother,” Giovanni heard Beatrice mutter, as she chuckled and shook her head.
“Are you from Houston originally?” Isadora asked.
He glanced with a smile from Beatrice to a Warhol painting on his left. “I grew up primarily in Northern Italy, though my father traveled frequently for his work and I often went with him. I moved to Houston three years ago,” he replied, turning to meet Isadora’s keen gaze. They measured each other for a few moments in the bright light of the gallery.
“Grandma,” Beatrice broke in. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave soon.”
Isadora’s gaze finally left Giovanni’s, and she smiled at her granddaughter. “Of course. It was such a pleasure meeting you. The art center on Main Street tomorrow? We’ll be there around seven o’clock.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Such a pleasure to meet you, and to see you, Beatrice.” He nodded at them and allowed his eyes to meet Beatrice’s dark brown ones. They were narrowed in annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t quite tell, but he winked at her before she turned and led her grandmother toward the lobby.
He stayed at the museum until closing, planning his objectives for the following night. He suspected Beatrice’s grandmother thought she was playing matchmaker between Beatrice and the handsome book-dealer. He was more than happy to play along, as a grandmother would readily give information to a polite young man interested in her attractive granddaughter.
She was also more likely to have information on her son and what he had been working on in Italy. Beatrice had only been a child when her father was killed, but Isadora had not.
As he swam laps that evening, he thought about the girl. She was far too young for him, even if he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her behavior was a curious mix of innocence and wariness, and he wondered how much experience she had with men. She kept to herself, but he had the distinct impression she was no wallflower.
Beatrice De Novo was intriguing, and he found her humor and intelligence far more compelling than the average college student. He knew from her physical response to him that she found him attractive, and he was comfortable using that as he determined what she knew and how it could be of use in his own search.
“Caspar?” he called out when he returned to the house after his swim.
“Yes?” he replied from the library.
Giovanni walked upstairs and stood in the doorway. Caspar had started another fire, and the familiar smell tickled his nose. Doyle was curled up in his favorite chair; the cat looked up, blinked at Giovanni, and closed his eyes again.
“Any word back from Rome?”
Caspar looked up from his book and shook his head. “You know how slow Livia can be. Added to that, she refuses electronic correspondence, even for her day staff. I suspect we might see some sort of response by the new year.”
Giovanni scowled in frustration but knew his friend was probably correct.
“So you really think the girl’s father was turned?” Caspar asked.
He nudged the cat off his chair.
“How many American Dante scholars were killed under mysterious circumstances in northern Italy in 1992? It’s far too coincidental. If the rumors about the book are true…”
“But why are you interested in the girl?”
“Don’t fret, Caspar. She’s perfectly safe. And you know how nostalgic the young ones can be. He was rumored to have access to books that are rightfully mine. Now I have access to his human daughter. If I can use the connection to trade for information…or more, I will.”
“But do you really think he knows about your books?”
Giovanni stared into the flames as the heat began to lift the water from his skin and dry his towel. “If it’s him, and he has what was rumored, then yes. It sounded genuine. Livia will know, and she’ll know who sired him. No one turns a human in that part of Europe without her knowing about it, even if it’s against their will.”
“And whoever sired him—”
“No one stumbles across a library that ancient and that valuable when they’re that young. The sire is who I’m looking for.”
“So we wait.”
“Well,” he mused, “we might be able to do more than that. I’m meeting with the girl and her grandmother tomorrow night.”
“What? On a Friday?”
“I’m going out later.” He shrugged. “Don’t fret, old man.”
Caspar raised his eyebrows. “A divergence from routine, Gio? What is the world coming to?”
Shaking his head, he rose and walked toward the door.
“See if you can prod some of Livia’s day people tomorrow over the phone.”
“Of course.” Caspar paused for a moment. “Is it worth it, Gio? The books? This obsession? All these years?”
“What do you hold in your hands, my son?”
