Cold Tuscan Stone, David Wagner [i read book txt] 📗

not get the credit they deserve. Even the more educated collectors blindly prefer their French counterparts.”

“Signora Minotti, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Please call me Donatella.”

If this visit had been purely business, without his Erica connection, would Donatella have dispensed so quickly with the formalities? The soft smile went with her voice and body, but that was where the softness stopped. There was something in her manner, despite the feminine exterior, that said “tough.” Make that a very feminine exterior. She lowered herself to the sofa and gestured for him to take a seat on one of the chairs. Strange, she had said two sentences and he’d come to the conclusion that she was not the kind of woman he’d want to negotiate a real business deal with. Fortunately his role as an art buyer was just that, a role.

Erica was correct, Donatella was certainly attractive. And as would be expected of a passport photo, the image he’d seen at the ministry briefing did not do her justice. She slipped off the pair of black loafers, leaned her knees to one side, and tucked her bare feet under the designer jeans. It struck him as an almost girlish gesture, perhaps done on purpose, like she’d been told by someone to soften her manner. Brushing the dark hair from her eyes, she pushed up the sleeves of her wool sweater as if to indicate that the business part of the encounter should begin. But even the most serious of meetings had to start with the necessary social exchanges. This was Italy, after all.

“Dario said you didn’t want any refreshment. Can I change your mind?”

Somehow the man’s name fit. “Thank you, no.”

“And how is the lovely Erica? Doing well, I trust.” Too much emphasis on the word lovely.

“She is, thank you, and she sends her warmest regards.” The comment did not, he noted, change the smile on Donatella’s face. Had there been a rivalry? “She is hoping to change her schedule to come up and join me.” The smile tightened. The rivalry was still there.

“That would be wonderful, I would love to see her. So, tell me about this business of yours.” So much for a discussion of Erica, Rick thought, and just when it was starting to be fun.

He explained his buying venture while Donatella settled deeper into the cushions. She interrupted him a few times to ask questions, but mostly let him talk. By the end of his explanation she was nodding and smiling more than when he began. This time genuine smiles.

“There may be something I can help you with, Riccardo. I deal mainly in traditional Etruscan motifs, though not the smaller pieces you might see in the tourist shops like bronze geese and lizards. My clients are interested in one-of-a-kind larger pieces. Ones that look like they have been taken from a tomb.”

If the comment was made to get a reaction from him, it worked.

“Donatella, that may be just what would interest the gallery. Is it possible to see the kind of art work you have in mind?”

“Of course.” She stood up, slipped on her shoes, pulled down her sweater, and walked toward Rick, who was already on his feet. “Let me take you back to one of my storage rooms.” Though there was enough room between the chairs, she brushed him with her hip as she passed. “I’ll lead the way.” He knew he was expected to notice her tight jeans, and, being a good guest, he obliged.

Rick followed her down a long hallway and they came to a heavy metal door. It was clear that Donatella had planned for Rick to see this room; waiting for them was the butler, majordomo, or whatever title the huge man carried. Dario removed two large keys from his dark coat and inserted them into separate locks before pushing open the door and reaching inside to flip a light switch. He stood aside to let Rick and Donatella enter.

“This room contains pieces which could be described as the business inventory rather than my personal collection.” She stepped into the room, adding, “But that doesn’t mean I value them less. Everything I own has been chosen with care and love, and is relinquished with no small amount of regret.” It was a good line, and Rick wondered how many times she’d used it.

The windowless storage room had an eclectic mixture of art that gleamed under the light of various neon lamps in the ceiling. Against the left wall, paintings hung on rolling wood panels that could be pulled out like large vertical files. The other walls supported shelves of various sizes holding works in stone, metal, and wood. In the center stood a rectangular table covered with a thick felt, so that items could be pulled from their storage spots and examined more closely. After looking around the room Rick glanced down at the spongy carpet which covered the floor. It and the hum of the room’s invisible dehumidifier served to soften the sound of Donatella’s voice when she spoke.

“The carpet has saved more than one piece of fine art when dropped by a clumsy client. I trust that you will be more careful than they were.” Before he could answer she walked to the right corner of the room. “The Etruscan pieces are over here.”

Two shelves held stone sculptures in various sizes, some quite large, all with that mixture of Greek and Etruscan styles that only a specialist could sort out. Three bowls were decorated with figures carrying shields and swords, a stone panel depicted a hunter spearing a boar, and a small square of painted ceramic tile showed two women dancing. Rick scanned the shelves quickly.

Without thinking, he said, “I don’t see any burial urns.”

“No, I don’t have any at the moment. Giachi didn’t do that many, and they have been snatched up by other collectors.”

“Giachi?”

She gave Rick a puzzled look. “Francesco Giachi, of course. The most famous of the 18th century forgers of Etruscan work. Most of the