Free The Caravaggio Conspiracy by Walter Ellis Page A

her. She wasn’t that kind of girl – or so it seemed. But she was happy enough to spend time in his company. This was their second lunch date and the next step, apparently, was to go to a movie.
    They had met in front of the Fontana del Moro, at the southern end of the Piazza Navona. Now, as they made their way past jugglers, human statues and several prostrate beggars to the Tre Scalini restaurant, she again hooked her arm under his so that he thought they must look like two young lovers. It felt good. Maya, like nearly all upper-class Swiss, was an accomplished linguist, born and raised in the German-speaking canton of Schaffhausen, near the border with Baden-Württemberg. Twenty-six years old, she had the most startling green eyes and thick black hair. Her designer clothes were from the Milan fashion houses and her shoes from Bologna. Today, she wore a high-waisted, pale-lemon skirt that ended some three inches above her knees and a white, ruffled blouse, the top three buttons of which were undone, exposing a deep and well-defined cleavage. She made Dempsey, in his jeans, blue shirt and sneakers, feel like a peasant. But it wasn’t just her clothes. A lawyer by training, she had recently returned to Europe from the United States, where she had earned an MBA at the Harvard Business School. In the meantime, she had been recruited to a job in the legal department of UBS Bank in Zurich and was due to start work in September. So even if they ended up having a summer romance, Dempsey doubted that he’d ever see her again much past the autumn. Still, that still left a good eight weeks and he was determined to make the most of it.
    He didn’t like to admit it, but he was nervous. It was almost two years since he’d been with a woman. He felt like a born-again virgin.
    When they reached the Tre Scalini, with its unrivalled view of Bernini’s Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi he realized, too late, that he should have booked. The day was hot and sticky and the tables beneath the big umbrellas were hopelessly crowded.
    But then Maya smiled at the major-domo in his crisp linen jacket, and seconds later a table appeared, as if by magic, followed by a waiter bearing a complimentary bottle of Pellegrino. The grateful diners ran their eyes quickly down the lunch menu and ordered pasta and a bottle of Frascati.
    Though Dempsey imagined Maya to be somewhat ‘proper’ in her attitude to men – a product, perhaps, of her Swiss upbringing – the reality was very different. There had been a string of lovers during her student days, in all of whom she lost interest as soon as the thrill of conquest faded. At Harvard, a little older and wiser, she had slept with three of her fellow graduate students and conducted a protracted, on-off affair with her director of studies. The fact of the matter was, she was waiting for the young Irishman to make the first move. She knew that he had been through hard times since his trauma in Iraq and probably hadn’t been with a woman for at least a year. She wouldn’t blame him if he lacked confidence. Who wouldn’t, she told herself, after spending twelve months in reconstructive surgery? But so far as she was concerned, he was quite exceptionally attractive. In one sense, he was conventionally handsome, with strong, regular features and a thick mane of hair. But it was his eyes that had really drawn her attention. They looked haunted, as if they had seen too much of the world’s horror. She could imagine him playing a brilliant, but vulnerable young doctor in an afternoon TV drama, or maybe a soldier – which, of course, was what he had been. She didn’t doubt that sooner or later – preferably sooner – they would go to bed together. What happened after that was anybody’s guess.
    The Frascati had arrived and Dempsey poured each of them a glass.
    ‘ Sláinte !’ he said.
    ‘ Sláinte chugat – good health to you.’
    ‘Jesus Christ! Do you speak Irish as well?’
    This made her laugh. ‘No,’