Yes, that was probably it. Wasn’t there an old adage about men usually flocking to a woman, the second she stopped looking for one?
That thought nestled firmly in her mind, she turned toward the window and watched as the train station was left behind. Only a mile or so later, the buildings of Florence gave way to rolling countryside and vineyards. Cows and livestock roamed stone-fenced meadows, and ramshackle barns and farmhouses studded the verdant green fields. In the distance, the magnificent Dolomites rose up, their snow-capped ridges scraping the bright blue sky.
“Scusi,” a voice said suddenly, stirring her from her awe.
She looked up, expecting it was the waiter, ready to take her order. But it was a tall, slim, dark-haired man in a suit jacket, with a leather bag over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes?”
“American?” He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. He pointed to the seat across from her. “Is that seat taken?”
“No. Not at all.”
She shifted her drink and book closer to her, to make room for him, but he held up a hand as he slipped off his jacket. “Not necessary, thank you,” he said politely in a clipped Italian accent, then slipped in the seat and let out a tired sigh.
“You’ve been traveling a lot,” she observed.
He looked down at himself and laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
She shook her head, immediately embarrassed for making him feel self-conscious. He was very clean, really, considering. She’d looked and felt far worse after her jaunt across the Atlantic. But he had more than a five o’clock shadow, studded with gray hair, and his eyes were a bit bleary. “Not at all. You just look tired.”
He laughed. “I should be. I’ve been flying since yesterday morning. Just got in from New York.”
“Oh? I’m from New York myself. You’re from Italy?”
“Yes,” he said, motioning to the waiter and ordering an espresso. “Verona is my home. Very happy to be returning. I am Marcello.”
He reached out a hand. She took it. “Diana.”
He shook it lightly, slowly, and with meaning, dipping his head with reverence, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her knuckles. “Lovely to meet you, Princess Diana.”
The gesture was so unexpected, a giggle erupted from Diana’s throat. “Um. Just Diana is fine.”
“But you look like a princess. Like you should have an entourage of admirers.”
Diana blinked. She’d heard Italian men were forward with women, taking what they wanted. So . . . did that mean that Marcello wanted her? She started to flush and looked away.
“It is my first visit,” Diana said. “And it’s fortunate you sat down here because I was wondering what I should see. I’m only in town for the day, I’m thinking. I’ll be taking a late train back to Florence. Of course, if you’d rather rest . . .”
“No, no.” He laughed. “I am happy to tell you. Verona is the most beautiful town, full of tradition and history. You will like. You go to Castle Vecchio, of course.”
Diana wasn’t sure she wanted to go to anything Vecchio, at all, since Ponte hadn’t worked out so well for her. But Vecchio was Italian for “old,” so she assumed that if she wanted to absorb the country’s history, she needed to break with that fear as soon as possible. “Is it nice?”
The waiter came with his espresso, and he lifted the tiny cup. “Very. You like. Very nice ponte, there, too. Lovely views of the river.”
“Ponte?” Her stomach roiled as her head swam with flashbacks of the last Ponte.
“Bridge. Si.”
Hmm. The last thing she wanted was to think about her interaction with Evan and Vidal. “Any other ideas?”
“Let’s see. You can go to the Piazza delle Erbe to do some shopping, eh? Or . . . Piazza Bra, which is beautiful and historic. Oh. And you must come to the Shakespeare Festival. It is so good. Music, wine, food, dancing. Period costumes. Very famous.”
She smiled, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to see a period costume again in her lifetime. She’d done that in Versailles, and the adventure had turned out far from the romantic time she’d been expecting. “That sounds nice. I’d heard about it. I was definitely thinking of stopping by.”
“You should,” he said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “It is something you will always remember!”
She laughed at his enthusiasm and obvious love for his hometown. But Versailles had turned out to be something she’d always remember, too, and not for all good reasons, either. In fact, it’d been a bit scary for a time, considering she’d wound up a suspect in a murder and jewel theft. “What were you doing in New York?”
“Oh.” He laughed. “Not for much good, I am afraid. I had an audition for a play. Broadway.”
“You’re an actor?”
He nodded. “Yes. The timing, though, was no good. I did badly. But it was for the part of a lifetime, so I had to take it.” He seemed to drift off for a moment, likely remembering something he’d done in the audition, and shook his head in a self-deprecating way. “It was a disaster.”
“Oh. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she said. The man was handsome, an Italian Pierce Brosnan. Of course he was an actor. Something told Diana that he’d immediately captivate any audience, in any room he walked into. Yes, he’d likely done just fine in that audition.
“Ah. You weren’t there. I forgot my lines. I—” He laughed. “I was exhausted. It’s my fault for flying in that morning after dress rehearsal the night before.”
“Dress rehearsal?”
“Yes. It was terribly inconvenient that my agent scheduled it that way, considering it was on the eve of . . .” He stopped, as if remembering something. “Diana.”
She blinked. He was staring at her as if he had something very important to tell her. Odd, considering they’d just met. “Yes?”
He reached into the pocket of his bag and pulled out a ticket. “You like Shakespeare?”
She nodded. “Very much.”
“Then you must be my guest. I am performing in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Arena di Verona this afternoon. It is our famous open-air theater, and I tell you, it is thrilling just to be there inside it. Even better than the Colosseum in Roma! It is opening night. Do me the honor of being my guest?”
She looked at the ticket. It was front seat, center. The idea was exactly up her alley. She’d always wanted to go to Broadway plays, but Evan had never liked them. Though Broadway was only a short drive away, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in to watch a performance. The last was Cats, in the 1980s, and that had been, well . . . weird.
But she’d always loved A Midsummer Night’s Dream, from the moment she’d read it in high school. In fact, of all of Shakespeare’s plays, it’d been her favorite, since it was so magical and mysterious. She’d always wanted to see it performed. In Italy, at the famous Arena di Verona? That would be a big plus. “Who do you play?”
He smiled. “I’m a mechanical. Peter Quince, the carpenter. It’s quite a good production.”
“Oh.” That was a good role. He had to be very experienced. Well, she supposed him jetting off to New York to audition said that he was a serious actor. And clearly, he was different from Evan, who never understood the arts. That was a definite plus. She took the ticket. “You know, A Midsummer Night’s Dream takes place in Athens. Not Verona. That’s Romeo and Juliet.”