“Much better.”
The voice, I realized from my place on the ground, had an American accent. A split second later I realized the room was now flooded with light, and that the dog had stopped growling. Glancing up, I saw that the man was standing near the wall, his hand hovering near a light switch, the reason there was suddenly enough light to see. In his other hand, I belatedly saw, was a flashlight. Okay, so maybe I’d overreacted a bit. I sheepishly began to pull myself up off the floor, wiping dirt and pebbles from my hands and knees. The dog watched me with interest.
“You must be the web person,” the man said, his voice cheerful “I see you’ve discovered the basement.”
“I’m a digital archivist,” I explained. “My name is Tanner Florin, and yes, Signor Santelli invited me here to digitize his manuscript collection.”
Standing fully now, I looked more closely at the man, blinking a little in the bright light. He was taller than me, I noted approvingly. He had that‘tall, dark, and handsome’ vibe going for him. Well, maybe not the handsome part, I decided, noting the too-large nose and a jutting chin that was probably a sign of a stubborn nature. Still, there was something about him. He had what my mom would have called rugged appeal. And broad shoulders. . His shoulders were most definitely broad.
He was wearing a rough leather jacket over his broad shoulders, and a pair of well-worn boots. I couldn’t help comparing him to a younger, fitter Indiana Jones. The only things missing were the Fedora and the whip. I almost laughed out loud, then spotted a thin, faint scar snaking down the left side of his face, close to the hairline. Intrigued, my eyes traced its path from its inception just below his brow to just above his ear, where it disappeared. I found myself wondering how he’d gotten it. His eyes were a startling shade of green, their color bright in the overhead lightand he had full, sensual lips, curved in a polite smile as if amused by the entirely obvious way I was giving him the once-over.
At this last thought, I felt my skin heat and knew I was probably turning bright red. Flustered, I blurted out the first thought that popped into my head.
“Why is this poor dog down here by himself without food or water? That’s animal abuse, you know.” That’s right, I told myself, acting like a crazed PETA representative will definitely impress him.
“I can assure you that the dog receives adequate food and water,” the man replied. His voice was stern, but I noticed his lips twitching and wondered if he found our conversation amusing. He still hadn’t told me his name, I realized. As if he’d read her mind, he continued. “I’m Alfredo Tarantos, by the way. I’m Signor Santelli’s private secretary.”
Private secretary? The man looked like he rustled steer for a living. I was having trouble picturing him answering phones and taking diction for an elderly art collector.
“Are you American?”
“I am,” he confirmed. “But I have family in Florence and speak fluent Italian. Plus, I’m really good with a keyboard,” he grinned at me and I felt my heart give an odd little flip.
“So, you can tell me why this dog is down here?” I pointed to the dog, who was now seating between us, ears flopping as he grinned up at us. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world and I figured that, for the moment, he didn’t. He had a full bowl of water and two humans nearby. It was probably the most company he’d had in ages. The thought made me angry all over again. “What’s his name?”
Alfredo looked momentarily uncertain. “Good question, I don’t know that he has one.”
For some reason, this made me angrier than anything else.
“How can you have a dog and not give him a name? That’s ridiculous!”
“Well, I suppose you’d have to ask Signor Santelli that question.” Alfredo’s tone was mild and he seemed unperturbed at the thought of a nameless dog. “But, to answer your first question, the dog is here for protection.”
“What’s he protecting down here? All the valuables are upstairs. It makes no sense to keep him down here,” I knew this was none of my business, but I knew I couldn’t just walk away, either.
“There’s a door that opens directly into the gardens there,” Alfredo pointed behind me and down the opposite end of the corridor. “Signor Santelli has had problems with break-ins before, and they’ve always managed to get in through that basement door, so that’s why the dog is down here.”
“It seems like a lonely existence for Bruno.”
“Bruno?” Alfredo looked confused.
“The dog,” I explained. “You said he didn’t have a name, so I decided to name him.”
“Just like that?” Alfredo looked bemused.
“Just like that,” I confirmed. “See how easy it is to name a dog?”
“Clearly,” Alfredo’s lips were twitching again, and I tried to tamp down a growing sense of irritation. Was her consideration for a dog so amusing to him, then? What did I care what an Indiana Jones look-alike thought of me, anyway? Especially one who didn’t seem to have any affinity for animals. That was a big red flag, in my book.
“So, the dog is here for protection, and you’re here to handle Signor Santelli’s appointment book?” I had no idea why she was being so antagonistic. Alfredo Tarantos seemed to be bringing out the worst in me.
To his credit, he only laughed and didn’t seem at all put out by the question.
“As personal secretary, I’m responsible for Signor Santelli’s duties as they relate to his financial concerns and to his estate. So yes, I would be responsible for any appointments made in relation to his estate. Have you visited the grounds, by the way?”
The abrupt topic shift threw me for a moment.
“I went out this morning and walked around a bit. While I was having breakfast, Marcella told me the villa was one of the Medici’s properties, which I hadn’t known. It’s exciting to be staying in one of the homes of one of Florence’s most famous families.”
“Yes, this villa has a lot of history. I suggest visiting the gardens on the far side of the grounds, near the greenhouse. If you’re a fan of medieval gardens, you’re in for a treat.