“Twelfth century,” was all she said, correcting what Gray had just told them. He had said that the Castello di San Giorgio had been built in the fourteenth century, and he turned his head to look at who had spoken when he heard her. A tall, exotic-looking woman was sitting at a table next to them. She was wearing a red T-shirt, sandals, and a full white cotton skirt. Her hair was dark, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin. And when he turned to look at her, she was laughing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “that was rude of me. I just happen to know it's the twelfth century, not the fourteenth. I thought I ought to say something. And I agree with you, it's one of my favorite structures in Italy, if only for the view, which I think is the best in Europe. The
“Are you an art historian?” Gray asked with interest. She was a very attractive woman, although not young or eligible by Gray or Charlie's standards. She looked about forty-five years old, maybe a little younger, and she was with a large table of Europeans who were speaking Italian and French. She had been speaking both fluently with them.
“No, I'm not,” she answered his question. “Just a busybody who comes here every year. I own a gallery in New York.” Gray squinted at her then, and realized who she was. Her name was Sylvia Reynolds, and she was well known in the art scene in New York. She had launched a number of contemporary artists, who were now considered important. Most of what she sold was very avant-garde, and very different from Gray's work. He had never met Sylvia before, but had read a lot about her, and was impressed by who she was. She glanced at him, and the two men at his table, with a look of interest, and a warm smile. She seemed to be full of life, energy, and excitement. She was wearing an armful of silver and turquoise bracelets, and everything about her said she had style. “Are you an artist? Or did you get paint on the T-shirt painting your house?” She was anything but shy.
“Probably both.” Gray smiled back at her, and held out a hand. “I'm Gray Hawk.” He introduced the others to her, and she smiled easily in their direction and then back at Gray. She responded instantly to his name.
“I like your work,” she said with a warm tone of praise. “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Are you staying at the Splendido?” she asked with interest, momentarily ignoring her European friends. There were several attractive women in the group, and a number of very good-looking men. There was also a very pretty young woman speaking to the man next to her in French. Adam had noticed her when they sat down, and couldn't decide if the man next to her was her husband or her father. She seemed to be on very close terms with him, and that sector of the group was obviously French. Sylvia appeared to be the only American in the group, which didn't seem to bother her at all. She seemed equally at ease in French, Italian, and English.
“No, we're on a boat,” Gray explained in answer to her question about where they were staying.
“Lucky you. One of those nice big ones, I assume,” she said, teasing them. She didn't really mean it, and at first Gray didn't answer, he just nodded. He knew that she'd been joking, and he didn't want to show off. She looked like a nice woman, and her reputation was that, in spite of her success, she was.
“Actually, we came here in a rowboat from France, and we're pitching a tent on the beach tonight,” Charlie quipped amiably, and she laughed. “My friend was embarrassed to tell you. We managed to scrape up enough for dinner, but couldn't manage the hotel. The story about staying on a boat was just to impress you. He lies constantly, whenever he finds women attractive.” She laughed at him, and the others smiled.
