Free The Girl With the Botticelli Eyes by Herbert Lieberman Page B

what he felt was more than disappointment. He wondered what he’d tell Osgood. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to change your mind?”
    She shook her head, causing her gold loop earrings to sway gently against her cheeks. “It serves no earthly purpose, and, as I told you, this is an awkward time for me.”
    “It’s none of my business,” he said, “but who was that young man at your place yesterday?”
    “You’re right,” she said firmly. “It is none of your business.” Then, regretting her brusqueness, she added, “It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it myself.”
    While they had coffee and she a sorbet, he studied her. The long, angular face seemed more Nordic than Italian, more Modigliani than Botticelli. For some reason, he felt sad, unable to think of another thing to say. The long silence between them heightened the sense of awkwardness.
    “I suppose, then,” he said, “given what you’ve just told me about these people, I’m also at some risk.”
    “As someone in the business of carrying masterworks of art out of this country, I should think you are.”
    Her frankness was disarming, yet bracing—like a blast of cold air that clears cobwebs from one’s brain.
    “I’m flying back home on Monday,” he said, signaling at the same time for his check. “If, for any reason, you have a change of heart, give me a ring.” He scribbled his number at the Excelsior on the back of his business card. “You can also reach me at the museum. My number’s right there on the card. “Oh, and here”—he rummaged in his inside pocket—“take these.”
    Looking down at the envelope, she recoiled slightly. “What’s this?”
    “Reservations for a round-trip flight from Milan to New York.”
    “But I’ve already told you—”
    “Yes, I know.” His manner grew curt and businesslike. “The ticket’s good for the next two months. If you don’t use it, I’d appreciate your mailing it back to me. The show opens on the evening of September twenty-second.”
    She thrust the envelope back at him, but he evaded it, instead seizing her hand and pinning it to the table. “Please. Just hold on to it. That’s surely not too much to ask.”
    They sat that way for a moment, he still pinning her hand, she staring hard at him until the tension in her arm relaxed. When he released her hand, she opened her bag and crammed the ticket into it.
    By then, he’d signed the bill and had had his credit card returned. With a swift, almost angry motion, he drained the dregs of his espresso and rose. “May I take you home?”
    “It’s better I go myself. If you’ll just have them call me a taxi.”
    They sat, not speaking, until the waiter shortly reappeared and told them the taxi was out front.
    They edged their way out through a narrow aisle of festive late-evening diners packed cheek by jowl into the cozy little enoteca. Manship noted a large, unkempt gentleman with closely cropped sandy-colored hair in a distant corner of the restaurant. Seated by himself, he was poring over a wine list. Manship had no idea what had drawn his eye to him. But in the next instant, she was talking again and he’d forgotten the man entirely.
    It was still early, at least early for Florentines, who tend to dine late even on weekday nights. The evening was warm. Manship felt full from dinner and peeved at its unsuccessful outcome. Instead of taking a taxi, he decided to walk back to the hotel.
    His way took him across the bridge, crowded with shoppers and strolling couples. All the way down the embankment to his hotel, he was plagued with a feeling of annoyance, impatience with himself, a sense of having fumbled some crucial maneuver. He was not accustomed to such feelings. Had he misplayed his hand? Had he overplayed it? He’d more or less taken it for granted that if his offer was proffered, it would be accepted. When it wasn’t, he was surprised, but not unpleasantly. Quite the contrary. That was the puzzling part of