A Man of Mystery

The view from the hotel’s rooftop terrace was stunning.  I was so distracted by Tall, Fair and Handsome's good looks and the panoramic view of Florence, I immediately took a sip of my martini and tried to settle down.  I felt like a school-girl. 

He watched me admiring the view as I sipped my cocktail. When I glanced back at him, he was still staring at me.  And he was very quiet, unnerving me a little.

“So, what brings you to Florence?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

He sipped his scotch slowly.  “Business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

His eyes drifted away from me. 

“I’d rather not say.”

“Really?”

Thinking back to our train ride from Venice to Florence, the conversation flowed.  I didn’t understand the change.  And then it occurred to me.  He was asking lots of questions, making me speak.  I did all of the talking without realizing it, interpreting that as interest.  Hmmm, I thought, this guy is really good. And handsome, making me lose my composure for a moment.

“I’m confused.  You rescued me from a lunatic on a train, helped me to the hotel and invited me for cocktails…and you’re so quiet,”  I giggled nervously.  It was like pulling teeth.  If I were a dentist, he’d be toothless and needing implants.

“I’d rather talk about you,” he said smiling.  “You are far more interesting.”

That line would have worked in my twenties…but not now.  I didn’t know what to think.

He took my hand.  “Look, I don’t wish to be evasive.  Can’t we just leave it at that?”

I raised an eyebrow-a subliminal message-to indicate a response which he obviously missed or ignored.  I exhaled and took a large sip of my martini and nervously nibbled on the olive that was in the drink.

“Anyway, does it really matter?”

Does it really matter? echoed in my ears. It’s just like having your cake and not eating it, too.  I just don’t get it.  Why did he invite me for cocktails and dinner?  I was certainly curious about him and then my imagination got the best of me.  What if he was an FBI or CIA agent working with Interpol on a secret mission?  Or better yet, what if he was a jewel thief like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief!   He certainly was equally stunning.

I glanced down at my naked fingers, devoid of jewelry, thankful I never wear the good stuff when I travel.

“So you’re a man of mystery?”

“At least for the time being,” he said with a wink.

I suddenly had an uneasy feeling.  Was he dangerous?  No, how could he be?  He came to my rescue on the train and had been an absolute gentleman.  I suppose Charlie Manson’s neighbors would have said he seemed like a good man, always quiet and kept to himself.  Oh, goodness.  I was scaring myself.  Or, maybe he was just being playful?

After we finished our cocktails, he said, “I made reservations at Golden View Open Bar on Ponte Vecchio.  Ready?”  He extended his hand.

My curiosity was getting the best of me as it always does. So, how could I refuse?