Stephanie James - Renaissance Man(1).pdf - Stephanie James - SilverWitch

STEPHANIE

JAMES

Renaissance

Man

Published by Silhouette Books New York

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

SILHOUET T E BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster Division of GULF & WEST ERN CORP ORAT ION

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10.020

Distributed by Pocket Books

Silhouette Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10.020

ISBN: 0-671-44.821-8

First Silhouette Books printing November, 1982

10.987.654.321

All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

SILHOUETTE, SILHOUETTE DESIRE and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster.

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

Printed in the U.S.A.

In the end, Alina Corey decided with acute self-disgust, she had made it easy for him. She had surrendered her small

fortress without a battle, handed over the keys of the villa, unsuspectingly welcomed the enemy inside the castle

walls. In other words, she opened the door of her condominium one cool spring night in Santa Barbara, California, and

found Jared Troy standing on the doorstep.

She didn’t recognize him, of course. How could she? They had never met except through an exchange of fiery

letters begun after Troy had published an article in an obscure little Renaissance studies journal. The battle had been

initiated in the letters-to-the-editor column. But when neither had proved sufficiently tolerant to await succeeding

issues of the journal in order to wage the newest skirmish, the letters had become direct and even more impassioned.

But they had never set eyes on each other. So Alina smiled up at the intent, dark-haired man on the step and wondered

vaguely why she felt she knew him even as she realized she’d never seen him before in her life.

„Good evening,“ she said with a charm she later rued. „You must be Brad Dixon’s friend. Won’t you come in? You’

re a little late, but that’s all right There’s plenty of food left and the party’s just getting into full swing.“

For a long, silent second Alina had the sensation of being pinned like a butterfly beneath a pair of nearly green

eyes which seemed to flicker with an assessing hunger. The unexpected forcefulness of the man’s raking glance sent a

faint shiver down Alina’s spine. What was the matter with her? she wondered irritably. She was accustomed to the

passionate intellectual intensity of some of her academic friends. Hadn’t Brad said something about his acquaintance

being a poet? Burning glances were de rigueur for poets.

„Thank you,“ he finally murmured in a deep-timbred voice which fit him perfectly. And then he smiled. There was

something very unpoetic about mat smile, Alina decided as she politely stepped back to allow him entrance. The

slight, mocking twist of his hard mouth had the effect of a small dagger thrust „It’s kind of you to have me in on such

short notice.“

Alina rallied her uneasy forces, annoyed with herself for succumbing even briefly to her overactive imagination.

„No problem,“ she assured him warmly. „I’m not certain where Brad is at the moment, probably out in the kitchen fixing

himself another drink. I believe he said your name was John? I’m Alina Corey. Make yourself at home, John. You

know, you really don’t look like a poet, although Brad tells me you’re a very good one.“

He followed her as Alina led the way through a coolly tiled hall and into the uncluttered, almost Mediterranean

living room of her home. She had done the entire place in white and rich, chocolate browns, taking pleasure in creating

the atmosphere, if not a particularly precise imitation, of a villa by the sea.

Tonight her guests added the glittering contrast of brilliant color and intelligence which made the graceful,

restrained surroundings a perfect setting. The living room, with its wall of French glass doors opened to the balmy

night and the view of the city and the sea, was crowded with men and women in bright array. The sophisticated, lively

crowd of academics, artists, and writers had few inhibitions about expressing themselves and their life-style through

their clothes.

Alina decided her latest guest added a sober counterpoint to the brightly dressed people around him, and she

wondered at the conservative business suit, the dark tie, and the closely trimmed, cocoa-dark hair of Brad’s friend, the

poet Still, poets often tended to be a little different…

„What do I look like?“ the stranger asked interestedly as Alina led him to a table where several ice buckets held a

variety of chilled white wines.

„I beg your pardon?“ Alina pulled her hazel glance back from a satisfied perusal of the successful party and smiled

inquiringly.

„You said I don’t look like a poet,“ he reminded her calmly, accepting the glass of Chardonnay she handed him. „I

was wondering how I do appear to you.“

„Oh.“ Alina narrowed her eyes a fraction and smiled blandly. „Will you be offended if I tell you that you could pass

for a prosperous capitalist?“

„A businessman?“ His daggerlike smile flashed briefly and he shrugged as he sipped the wine. „Not at all. I

understand you’re – uh – in trade, yourself.“

Alina laughed up at him. „We dealers in books like to think of ourselves as above the common level of commerce.“

„Well,“ he conceded lightly, „if it’s any consolation to you, I will admit you don’t look like a business woman.“

„I’m almost afraid to ask how I do appear,“ Alina murmured dryly, conscious of a light flush at his appraising

expression.

She knew how he looked to her. Poet or not, he did have the aura of the quietly ruthless businessman who has

made it to the top over a few bodies. A man who looked as if he would be totally professional about the bloodletting

along the way. Five hundred years ago, dressed in a suit of armor, this poet could have been mistaken for one of

Renaissance Italy’s condottieri, the soldiers of fortune hired by wealthy city-states to fight the unceasing battles with

their neighbors.

The deep-set green eyes were shadowed by surprisingly thick lashes, which lay along the ridge of strong,

thrusting cheekbones. The angular line of his jaw had a grim cast that would have looked quite appropriate under an

iron helmet Not a handsome face but one which might have been capable of inspiring more than a little wariness in an

opponent The extra fillip of experience emanated as an almost tangible force from him. He must have been around

thirty-eight, perhaps a year older, Alina decided. The edging of silver at his temples would probably mark the heavy,

cocoa-brown pelt of his hair rather heavily in another couple of years.

He was dark and he had an intensity that suggested power, but this poet had none of the sulky, brooding quality

she expected from one of his profession.

„You look quite right for the setting you’ve created,“ the stranger said quietly. „A modern-day Renaissance

hostess, surrounded by a glittering court of dilettantes.“

Alina raised a curious, faintly quelling eyebrow. It was all very well for her to relate herself and the world around

her to the fifteenth century, but what could this man possibly know of her private passion? Perhaps Brad had

mentioned something of her personal interests to him.

„I’ll assume that’s a compliment,“ she said dryly, scanning the crowd for Brad. It was about time he appeared to

take his poet friend off her hands. Normally it was second nature for her to make a guest feel welcome in her home, but

for some reason, tonight Alina was beginning to feel edgy about this poet who didn’t look or act like a poet.

„It is,“ he assured her unsmilingly, studying her once again. „You’d have fit very well into a Medici court Your hair

is a little too brown, perhaps. Not quite the blond ideal of the period, but there’s a nicely burnished look to it In the

right light I expect it’s almost a tawny color.“

Alina’s head snapped around as she stared at him, startled by the determined cataloging of her features. It was all

she could do to keep from putting a hand to the smooth sweep of light brown hair which she had caught in a

deceptively casual swirl at the back of her head. Before she could say anything he was continuing.

„Good eyes,“ he said with an approving nod as he assessed her slightly slanting hazel glance. „Nice, strong nose.

Chin a little on the challenging side but that’s all right A woman of spirit is always preferable to the simpering sort as

long as a man is prepared for the occasional battle….“

„John… whatever your name is,“ Alina began very forcefully, „I don’t think…“ She didn’t need to be told her

features were short of the ideal of delicate perfection, especially by a poet whose last name she didn’t even know. She

had enough self-honesty at the age of thirty to know that her face could most charitably be described as attractively

intelligent. But there was no stopping the mysterious John.

„The dress isn’t Renaissance style, of course, but the mood is: not-quite-restrained opulence.“ His gleaming eyes

swept the gold-edged cognac silk with its deep purple hem. He even took in the low-heeled, bronze leather shoes with

their delicate metallic inserts across the toes.

„I am prepared,“ Alina stated in an even tone laced with annoyance, „to permit a certain amount of latitude to the

artistic temperament I am not prepared to tolerate outright rudeness!“

„Naturally not,“ he agreed at once. „Rudeness has no place in the courtly illusion, does it? Even the direst of

challenges must be issued with well-bred civility and wit“

An electric tension lanced across the small space separating them as Alina met the stranger’s direct gaze.

„Are you issuing a challenge of some sort?“ she drawled with a cool humor that only she knew was a trifle forced.

Deliberately she tried to make him feel like a minor curiosity. Where was Brad? If he didn’t show up soon to take

responsibility for his increasingly irksome friend, Alina would hunt him down.

„Not yet At the moment I’m still assessing the strength of my opponent…“

Before he could finish his startling sentence, the green-eyed man was interrupted by a cheerful, masculine voice.

„Hey, Alina! Have you seen any sign of my friend yet? He should have been here by now. I gave him very explicit

directions….“

Brad Dixon politely shouldered his way through a group of writers vehemently arguing over the merits of the East

Coast style of novel. His sandy blond hair and blue eyes were a perfect foil for the dark, royal blue shirt and

close-fitting black slacks.

He nodded briefly at the man beside Alina and went on quickly. „He probably got wrapped up in the call of his

Muse. Not like him to turn down free food and wine, though!“

Alina’s eyes widened as she took in the implications of Brad Dixon’s remarks along with his obvious lack of

recognition of the stranger at her side. „I was under the impression that your acquaintance had already arrived,“ she

murmured in a chilling little voice.

„I don’t see him. You can’t miss him when he’s around Full beard, kind of short…“ Brad broke off as he realized

Alina’s assumption. He smiled. „No, this, sure as heck, isn’t him! Hello. I’m Brad Dixon. 1 don’t believe we’ve met A

friend of Alina’s?“ He stuck out his hand.

„Not yet,“ the man admitted calmly, ignoring Alina’s sizzling look in favor of shaking hands briefly with Brad

„Alina and I are still in the process of getting to know each other. I’m Jared Troy.“

„Jared Troy!“ Alina sucked in her breath, her fingers tightening dangerously around the stem of her glass. The

wave of guilt-inspired panic that washed over her took an incredible amount of willpower to subdue. Jared Troy! And

she’d invited him into her house as if he were a welcome guest!

„I’m afraid so,“ he said half apologetically as Brad excused himself and left in search of the missing poet Jared eyed

her with a trace of what might have passed for amusement „You didn’t give me a chance to introduce myself.“

„You made no effort to correct my false impression,“ she countered icily.

There was no need to panic. He might not know what she had done. He might only have dropped by to meet her

since he happened to be in the area. After all, their correspondence had been going on for over three months. Yes, if

he were passing through Santa Barbara he might have decided to stop and introduce himself to his feisty opponent.

„It seemed the easiest way to get myself invited inside,“ Jared acknowledged quietly.

The haunting music of a lute playing a fifteenth-century ballad filtered through the crowded room from the stereo.

For an instant Alina felt as if she had been transported back in time. But it wasn’t because of the feeling invoked by

the lute. Her response was a direct reaction to the probing, speculative, and somehow satisfied glitter in the green eyes

of Jared Troy. He might, indeed, have been a condottiere who had just successfully breached the fortress walk

without firing a shot.

„Did you think I would have refused to allow you inside my home simply because of our ongoing disagreement?“

she managed with a commendable touch of humor.

„It occurred to me that you might be a little hesitant to continue the discussion face to face,“ he said slowly.

„Nonsense,“ she retorted spiritedly, deciding to take the offensive right from the start „Ours is a purely intellectual

quarrel. I would hardly have taken such a matter so personally as to bar my opponent from my home!“

„As Battista did to Francesco?“ he murmured, sipping his Chardonnay meditatively.

The names of the Renaissance condottiere and the lively, intelligent lady he had wanted were all it took to kindle

the fires of battle in Alina’s eyes. It was over these two relatively unknown footnotes to history that she had found

herself engaged in such passionate battle with Jared Troy.

„That,“ she declared with ringing conviction, „was hardly an intellectual disagreement! The man had seduced her

and then blithely taken his leave! He had a hell of a nerve coming back a year later to try the same stunt all over again!

Battista had every right to have the villa doors barred against him!“

„Francesco had a job to do,“ Jared pointed out with suspicious reasonableness.

„Signing a contract to go fight somebody else’s war is hardly the same as catching the eight-o-five commuter train

into the city!“

„Battista was a professional courtesan. She knew what she was doing!“

„She was a courtesan because there weren’t any other well-paying professions open to intelligent women in those

days! Don’t equate her with a prostitute. She ran a small palace, had a retinue of servants to feed, responsibilities. Her

literary salons were greatly admired, you know. Poets and historians and philosophers came from all over to

participate, your Francesco was damn lucky to even get in the door the first time. She rarely took up with anyone who

wasn’t as well educated as she was, and Francesco was, after all, merely a member of the condottieri!“

„He was good enough to go to bed with her! There is no indication that he resorted to rape! She accepted him as a

lover….“

„He seduced her!“

„Battista was the professional seductress!“ Jared protested forcibly. His tone was still low but there was an

underlying intensity that indicated he was as wrapped up in the argument now as Alina.

„Exactly! And as a professional, she would never have wasted time on anyone who wasn’t up to her usual

standards unless she had fallen in love. Francesco convinced her that he was in love with her, that he would marry

her! He seduced her, dammit!“

„And when he got back a year later he found her with another man.“

„Someone had to pay the rent on the villa and feed all those servants. There is no evidence that Francesco

bothered to send home a scudo of his pay!“ Alina replied loyally. „He simply showed up a year later expecting

everything to be as he left it“

„Instead of which he was obliged to fight a duel with Battista’s current lover!“ Jared was all coldly possessive

male, as if it had been he himself, rather than a long-forgotten soldier of fortune, who had fought the duel to regain the

woman he wanted.

„Typical male approach to the situation. As you may recall, killing off her latest source of revenue didn’t exactly

endear Francesco to Battista! She still refused to let him into the villa!“

Jared lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug and swallowed a third of his glass of wine. „He got inside in the

end.“

In spite of herself, Alina smiled up at him with poorly concealed triumph. „You don’t know that for certain.“

„Yes, I do. I know Francesco as if he were a close friend….“

„Or as if you were his incarnation?“ Alina suggested with acid sweetness.

„You’re the one who seems to be having the identification problem,“ he retorted smoothly, glancing significantly

around the gracious, colorful room. „A small change of costume and this could easily be one of Battista’s grand

literary salons, couldn’t it?

Loads of bright, witty, well-dressed and well-mannered people busy impressing each other and decorating your

living room. How far have you carried the identity mix-up in your own mind, Alina?“ The strongly etched lines at the

edge of his hard mouth tightened as he scanned the guests.

Alina felt the color wash momentarily out of her face and then return in a vivid wave of red. With great mental

effort and a firm reminder of how Battista might have managed the situation, she got control of the hand that itched to

slap the intruder’s face. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she looked up at him through her lashes, hazel eyes

glittering.

„Are you asking me which of the men present is paying my upkeep? Unlike poor Battista, I have other means of

earning my living. A few things have changed in the world since her time. I’m not obliged to choose my lovers

according to their bank accounts. I do try, however,“ she concluded in a lofty tone, „to maintain her other high

standards of selection.“

She could have sworn that a dull flush briefly marked Jared’s tanned cheekbones, but he didn’t apologize. Instead

he went back on the attack.

„Don’t forget that the one time Battista chose a lover without regard for his bank account, she picked Francesco,

not one of her effete, scholarly admirers.“

„A momentary lapse from which she soon learned her lesson. Francesco did not get back inside the villa a year

later when he finally saw fit to return for a little R and R!“

Stephanie James - Renaissance Man(1).pdf

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