I wondered what she'd consider more inappropriate than white spray paint. I regarded her arms. Oh, right. Spray paint without sleeves.

She removed what looked like a writing pen from her knit shoulder bag, held it to her mouth, and began speaking into it. "If you're visiting religious sites in Italy, check to see if there's a dress code. Bare arms and hairy legs aren't permitted in the church proper of St. Peter's, however, the clothes police might let it pa.s.s if you're planning to play bingo in the bas.e.m.e.nt." She snapped the tape recorder off. "They play bingo here, don't they? It's a Catholic church. What Catholic church doesn't play bingo? Can you imagine the haul? I mean, this place can accommodate sixty thousand!"

She held her mini-recorder up for my perusal. "Doesn't this rock? It's the perfect thing to help me chronicle your every move. I'll be James Boswell to your Samuel Johnson."

Ever since Jack had become Jackie, she'd been searching for her new niche in life. After ending up on the same tour in Ireland with me last month, she'd decided she might like a job like mine, so she signed up for this tour of Italy in the hopes of recording the dos and don'ts of the successful tour escort. I tried not to let it go to my head, but it was kind of flattering.

I looked from the deep copper of her arm to the pale ivory of my own and felt a pang of envy resurface. Sunbathing with Jack had always been depressing. He'd turn warm and golden; I'd turn red and crispy. It didn't seem fair. "Where'd you get the great tan? I thought Binghamton was cloudy all the time."

She struck a glamour pose, pointing her high-heeled foot like a ballerina in toe shoes. "Flash Bronzer Magic Mousse."

"It's a fake bake?"

"Come on, Emily. n.o.body tans for real anymore. Why do it naturally when you can achieve the same effect by doing it chemically? And the best part is, the chemicals they use in sunless tanning products haven't even killed anyone yet." She flashed me a smile that suddenly turned to horror. "Oh, my G.o.d! Where's your shoulder bag?"

"Mom has it. She wanted to free up my hands to take pictures. And bless myself."

"You gave it to your mother? Jeez, that was brave of you. I wouldn't dare let my bag out of my sight." She cast a furtive look around her. "Especially in this place."

I followed her gaze and swallowed slowly. "You wouldn't?"

"No way. I've read about what can happen here."

I forced myself to remain calm. "But this is the safest place in Italy. Nana said so."

"Where'd she hear that?"

"She read it. In a travel guide." I tried to swallow again but there seemed to be a hairball in my throat that I couldn't get around. "From the library."

"Jeez, I haven't checked anything out of the library for years. You know how current the stuff they let you take home is. The 1952 Mobile Travel Guide. The 1964 edition of Frommers Frommers. You're gonna find a lot of useful information in those babies."

A sudden disturbing thought struck me. What if the information Nana read was out-of-date? What if St. Peter's wasn't the safest place in Italy anymore? Oh, my G.o.d! What if someone s.n.a.t.c.hed my shoulder bag? My phone. My sunblock. MY AIRPORT CONTACT NUMBERS FOR MY MISSING LUGGAGE! I knew something bad was going to happen with my luggage. I knew it!

I broke out in a cold sweat as I searched out mom's face in the crowd. "You have to help me find my mother. I need to get my shoulder bag back."

"How come?"

I stared at her, wide-eyed. "Because of the thieves, thieves, Jack! Someone might steal my bag!" Jack! Someone might steal my bag!"

"I thought Mrs. S. told you this was the safest place in Italy."

"She did! But you said--" I hesitated, my mouth hanging open and my mind a sudden blank. I cleared my throat self-consciously. "What did you read could happen here?"

"That you can get picked up by some really hot Italians."

I waited a beat before thwacking her on the arm with the back of my hand. "Jack!"

"What? I read it in Europe's s.e.xiest Men and Where to Find Them." Europe's s.e.xiest Men and Where to Find Them."

"You're married! married! What are you doing looking for men?" She'd eloped a month ago with a hair designer named Tom whose specialty was corrective color and infliction of the choppy cut on unsuspecting heads. What are you doing looking for men?" She'd eloped a month ago with a hair designer named Tom whose specialty was corrective color and infliction of the choppy cut on unsuspecting heads.

"I'm married, Emily. I'm not dead." She hugged her shoulder bag close to her body. "So you can bet I'm not letting my bag out of my sight. With all these hunky guys wandering around, a girl never knows when she might need to touch up her mascara."

I rolled my eyes, thinking if I came down with another case of hives anytime soon, I was going to kill her.

"Okay, I made a list, and the next 'must see' in the basilica is"--she consulted a paper in the side pocket of her bag--"this way." She banded her hand around my arm and dragged me down the center nave. We stopped before a mammoth five-sided pillar to regard a bronze statue of a fuzzy-haired man with a beard. "St. Peter," said Jackie. He was seated in a marble chair beneath an ornate canopy, one hand raised solemnly like Al Gore in a vice-presidential debate, the other clutching a set of keys. I'd read someplace that the body of the statue might originally have been that of a Roman senator, with the haloed head and hands soldered on later. I had to compliment the Italians. St. Peter looked pretty darned good considering he might have been pieced together like Robocop.

"We need to get in line so we can kiss his toe," Jackie instructed.

I remembered back to my grammar school catechism and wondered what kind of spiritual reward we might receive for paying obeisance to this great saint. Partial indulgence? Plenary indulgence? In the days of the old church, the faithful acc.u.mulated indulgences like frequent flyer miles and could use them to get out of h.e.l.l free. You didn't hear much about indulgences anymore. Wasn't that always the way? You just get locked into a great reward system and boom, boom, all the perks expire. all the perks expire.

"What significance does kissing his toe have?" I asked.

Jackie shrugged. "I thought it was the Italian version of kissing the Blarney Stone. Hey, look. There's some of the people on our tour up near the front of the line. You see the tall guy in the rose-colored polo shirt? Silver hair. George Hamilton tan. Looks like an aristocrat? That's Philip Blackmore, executive vice-president of Hightower Books. They tell me he's a legendary marketing genius. He's supposedly the one behind Hightower's switch from literary to more commercial fiction."

It was Hightower Books who was sponsoring this ten-day holiday to promote its unprecedented venture into the historical and contemporary romance market. The theme of the tour was Pa.s.sion and Pasta Pa.s.sion and Pasta and it provided an opportunity for romance fans and unpublished writers to rub shoulders with established writers, editors, agents, and other publishing luminaries. Guests were promised exciting excursions to historic venues, as well as daily lectures from the experts on how to write a best selling romance. My group of Iowans weren't particularly interested in the romance market, but when a slew of cancellations in the main tour occurred a couple of months ago, Landmark Destinations needed to fill up the empty seats, so they offered me some great discount prices and I'd scooped them up. and it provided an opportunity for romance fans and unpublished writers to rub shoulders with established writers, editors, agents, and other publishing luminaries. Guests were promised exciting excursions to historic venues, as well as daily lectures from the experts on how to write a best selling romance. My group of Iowans weren't particularly interested in the romance market, but when a slew of cancellations in the main tour occurred a couple of months ago, Landmark Destinations needed to fill up the empty seats, so they offered me some great discount prices and I'd scooped them up.

"And you see the woman standing to the right of Blackmore?" Jackie continued. "The one in the floral moo-moo with the horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and Cleopatra hair? That is none other than Marla Michaels. The The Marla Michaels. I'm dying. Marla Michaels. I'm dying. Dying!" Dying!"

I gave the woman a quick look-see. "Who's Marla Michaels?"

Jackie stared at me in disbelief. "Emily! Do you live under a rock? Marla Michaels. The Barbarian's Bride? The Viking's Vixen?" The Barbarian's Bride? The Viking's Vixen?"

"Oh. The The Marla Michaels. The world renowned"--Barbarian? Viking? Of course!--"opera singer." Marla Michaels. The world renowned"--Barbarian? Viking? Of course!--"opera singer."

Jackie threw up her hands. "Marla Michaels is only only the most famous historical romance diva in the world! Hightower lured her away from her old publisher by offering her a very lucrative contract that includes theme park rights and extended author tours to exotic places." the most famous historical romance diva in the world! Hightower lured her away from her old publisher by offering her a very lucrative contract that includes theme park rights and extended author tours to exotic places."

"She's a romance writer? How was I supposed to know that? I don't read romances." I c.o.c.ked my head and smiled coyly. "But it seems one of us does. How do you you know about her?" know about her?"

"The seminar last night? She gave a talk? She autographed books? If you'd been less interested in complaining about your missing luggage and more interested in the theme of the tour, you'd know about her, too. So there." She nodded her head once, like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence.

"Right. You read romances, don't you, Jack?"

She ignored me.

"Oh, my G.o.d. I bet you were reading them when we were married! That's why you were sneaking into the bathroom so much in the middle of the night. You weren't treating your athlete's foot. You were reading bodice-rippers!" Wow. He'd kept a lot of things hidden in the closet back then.

Jackie narrowed her eyes at me. "This is the thanks I get for cleaning sc.u.m from the toilet and scrubbing mold off the tile? We had the tidiest bathroom in the apartment building, Emily. How do you think it got that way? I'll give you a clue. Unlike an oven, it wasn't self-cleaning!"

"Hey, you didn't have to be so fastidious!"

"Yes, I did! You know how obsessive-compulsive I am!"

"Are you guys in line?" I heard a chirpy voice inquire behind me.

She was one of ours--a flaming redhead in her twenties who was snapping gum like a kid snaps rubber bands. The wording on her pink Landmark Destinations name tag read, Hi! My name is Keely. Hi! My name is Keely.

"You're on the tour!" she said, aiming a finger at Jackie. "I recognize you from the seminar. I would kill for that leather bustier you were wearing last night. Can you believe this? Marla Michaels and Gillian Jones in the same room together? Did we luck out or what?"

"Gillian Jones?" I asked tentatively. "Another romance writer?"

"I'll say." Keely popped a bubble then sucked it back into her mouth. "Sixty-four weeks on the New York Times New York Times bestseller list for bestseller list for A Cowboy in Paris. A Cowboy in Paris. Eighty-six weeks for Eighty-six weeks for A Cowboy in Sydney. A Cowboy in Sydney. The reviewers said books about cowboys wouldn't have global appeal. Boy, were they wrong. She's the most successful writer of contemporary romance, ever." The reviewers said books about cowboys wouldn't have global appeal. Boy, were they wrong. She's the most successful writer of contemporary romance, ever."

"She's standing behind Marla in line." Jackie pointed her out.

Gillian Jones was waifishly pet.i.te with platinum hair cut close to her head and huge cactuses hanging from her ears. I suspected the over-sized earrings might be her trademark. Zorro's was a mask. Gillian's was desert vegetation.

"Marla and Gillian supposedly hated each other for a lot of years," Keely explained, "but now that they've signed on with the same publisher, I've heard they've become the best of friends. I want to learn so much from them. I don't mean to brag, but I've won every regional First Chapter contest ever offered."

"That's great," I enthused. I had a hard time writing postcards, so I admired anyone who could actually win a contest for putting words on paper. "But you're unpublished at the moment?"

"Pre-published," she corrected. "Unpublished gives the wrong impression."

Right. I guess it would give the impression that...you're not published.

"But I'm this close"--she flashed a quarter-inch s.p.a.ce between her thumb and forefinger--"to getting published."

"Have you had any nibbles?" Jackie asked with girlish excitement.

"Not exactly." Keely blew a bubble the size of her head, then had to use her fingers to shove it all back into her mouth. "I need to complete the ma.n.u.script first, but finishing up should be a piece of cake."

"Are you close to the end?" Jackie wanted to know.

"Real close. Only thirteen chapters to go."

Thirteen to go? to go? I couldn't imagine the fort.i.tude it took to sit down every day and grind out page after page of fiction. I regarded her with even greater respect than before. "How many chapters have you written so far?" I couldn't imagine the fort.i.tude it took to sit down every day and grind out page after page of fiction. I regarded her with even greater respect than before. "How many chapters have you written so far?"

"One. But like I told you, it's award-winning." She blew another bubble. I gritted my teeth. If she did that one more time, I'd be forced to make a finger puppet of her gum and stick it in her ear. "What I really need is an agent," Keely confessed. "That's part of the reason I'm on this trip. Gillian Jones's agent is here, so I signed up for an appointment with her. I'm hoping if she reads my stuff, she'll like it well enough to represent me. Her name's Sylvia Root. Ever heard of her? They call her 'the barracuda.' High-powered. Ruthless. She's every author's dream. The funny thing is, she looks nothing like you'd expect. I thought I saw her in line earlier."

She ranged her eyes over the people at the front of the line. "I don't see her now, but she's easy to miss. Medium height. Average weight. Hair the color of dishwater. Baggy clothes. No makeup. She kinda blends into her surroundings. You'd never guess she had cajones cajones the size of Jupiter. Whoops, there's my roommate. Gotta run. She's supposed to take a picture of me in front of some famous pope's tomb." the size of Jupiter. Whoops, there's my roommate. Gotta run. She's supposed to take a picture of me in front of some famous pope's tomb."

The queue to reach St. Peter moved quickly. I kissed his little bare toe first, then pondered what other part of the statue I'd be kissing if the early Romans had worn wingtips instead of sandals. "If kissing the Blarney Stone imparts the gift of gab," I commented when Jackie and I were through the line, "what gift do you suppose kissing St. Peter's toe imparts?"

"I don't know, but if you start speaking in tongues, I'm outta here." She wiggled her finger at my lips. "You left all your lipstick on Peter's foot."

I scrutinized her own glossy lips. "How'd you manage not to rub any of yours off?"

"You don't think I'd actually put my mouth where everyone else has put theirs, do you?"

I narrowed my gaze at her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that was the point!" point!"

"Hey, I got the job done! I kissed my forefinger and rubbed that that over his toe. Which reminds me." She dug into her shoulder bag and yanked out a small plastic bottle. "You want some hand sanitizer?" over his toe. Which reminds me." She dug into her shoulder bag and yanked out a small plastic bottle. "You want some hand sanitizer?"

After oohing and ahhing over the magnificence of the dome and snapping some photos of the gilded candle sconces surrounding St. Peter's tomb, we headed back toward the entrance. "Hi, Jackie," gushed two blonde women wearing blue Landmark Destinations name tags.

"Hi there!" Jackie replied, waving her fingers enthusiastically. "See you on the bus."

A minute later a pony-tailed man with a trim beard and green name tag nodded at Jackie. "Ms. Thum."

"Mr. Fox." She nodded back.

I slanted a curious look at Jackie. "How do all these people know you?"

"It's called networking, Emily. Isn't that what a good travel club escort is supposed to do? Smile a lot. Be friendly. I attended the seminar last night, introduced myself to all the guests, and the dividend is"--she shot me a toothy smile--"they remember me."

"Of course course they remember you! You were wearing a leather bustier!" they remember you! You were wearing a leather bustier!"

"If you lower your voice, I'll let you borrow it sometime." She sidled closer to me and spoke in a whisper. "That man who just acknowledged me? He's apparently a real real biggie in the industry. Gabriel Fox. He's the senior editor at Hightower and is supposed to be editing both Marla and Gillian. Boy, I wouldn't want that job. Can you imagine the egos? Anyway, they call him the 'book doctor.' Isn't that cute? If there's anything wrong with a book, he's the guy who's supposed to be able to fix it. But you know what I don't get?" biggie in the industry. Gabriel Fox. He's the senior editor at Hightower and is supposed to be editing both Marla and Gillian. Boy, I wouldn't want that job. Can you imagine the egos? Anyway, they call him the 'book doctor.' Isn't that cute? If there's anything wrong with a book, he's the guy who's supposed to be able to fix it. But you know what I don't get?"

I could see the red and green umbrella of our tour leader bobbing conspicuously in the air near the front entrance. "What don't you get?"

"All these wannabe writers are all in compet.i.tion with each other, right? So how come they want to help each other so much? I mean, you should have been there last night. It was a lovefest! When a guy's in compet.i.tion with you, he stabs you in the back and steamrolls you into the pavement. When a woman's in compet.i.tion with you, she becomes your best friend! It makes no sense to me."

"Maybe you need to boost your estrogen level." I spied everyone in my group huddled around Duncan Lazarus and his umbrella. Even the newcomers were all in attendance. The Severid twins, Britha and Barbro, who were absolutely identical except for one characteristic, which they stubbornly refused to reveal. Holver Johnson, my high school English teacher. Anfin and Inger Amenson, owners of Windsor City's only independent bookstore. Mom, tilted at an odd angle with my bag slung over her shoulder. OH, THANK G.o.d! I breathed a grateful sigh of relief. When I got close enough, I was going to grab that bag off her shoulder and not let it out of my sight for the rest of the trip, no matter how how much she insisted on helping me. much she insisted on helping me.

"Estrogen, smestrogen," Jackie sniped as she tried to keep up with me. "Women act really weird sometimes. And to think of all the money I spent to become one of you. I should demand a rebate."

I suspected Duncan must be from the Midwest because at precisely three o'clock he stabbed his umbrella in the direction of St. Peter's Square and led the charge out of the basilica. A wave of humanity followed him out the door, but I worried about the head count. Not everyone on the tour was from Iowa. What if someone was late getting back? Uff da. Uff da. Was that the disaster I'd been sensing all day? Not that my luggage was going to stay missing, but that someone was going to get left behind? Was that the disaster I'd been sensing all day? Not that my luggage was going to stay missing, but that someone was going to get left behind?

Why is he walking so fast?" Jackie fretted as we emerged into blinding sunshine. "Jeez, he has old people on this tour. And young people wearing extremely s.e.xy but very very impractical stiletto slides." impractical stiletto slides."

"Why don't you lose the shoes? Barefoot might be easier on your feet."

"Oh, sure. With all the pigeon p.o.o.p around here? I don't think so." She clattered down the ramp that funneled tourists into the square and stopped short when she noticed something in the service road that flanked the ramp. She motioned to me furiously. "Emily, you've gotta see this."

I scurried over. "Swiss guardsman," I said, cringing at the idea of having to wear blue-and-gold striped balloon pants with matching doublet and spats to work every day. I knew the guard formed a small army that protected the pope, but I figured if they expected to be taken seriously by an invading force, they might need to rethink their uniforms. I mean, that's why GI Barbie wore fatigues instead of spandex, right?

Jackie snapped a picture of the pike-holding sentry standing before his little guard house. "Emily, would you take a picture of me standing beside him? Maybe Tom can hang it up in the salon to show his clients what I'm up to these days."

I glanced back toward the entrance of the basilica. I didn't see any Pa.s.sion and Pasta Pa.s.sion and Pasta people lagging behind, but waiting a few minutes for stragglers probably wasn't a bad idea. I didn't remember seeing Keely leave with the crowd. Her red hair wasn't exactly hard to miss. Could she still be snapping gum in front of some tomb? I could be a big help to Duncan here. In fact, if I could prevent some tour guest the agony of getting left behind, I'd be a real hero, which would kind of make up for my not attending the seminar last night and introducing myself to the immediate world. people lagging behind, but waiting a few minutes for stragglers probably wasn't a bad idea. I didn't remember seeing Keely leave with the crowd. Her red hair wasn't exactly hard to miss. Could she still be snapping gum in front of some tomb? I could be a big help to Duncan here. In fact, if I could prevent some tour guest the agony of getting left behind, I'd be a real hero, which would kind of make up for my not attending the seminar last night and introducing myself to the immediate world.

"Okay," I said to Jackie. "Hand over your camera."

I kept one eye on the front of the basilica and one eye on Duncan's umbrella as Jackie scooted down the ramp and up the service road toward the guard house. She said something to the sentry, who ignored her completely, then posed close beside him and smiled up at me. "Pizza!" she yelled.

CLICK. I listened to her camera rewind itself. "You're out of film!" I yelled.

"You gotta take one more for insurance!" She fished inside her shoulder bag and brandished another cartridge in the air at me. "You want me to throw it to you?"

I gauged the distance between the guard house and me. Unh-oh. Not a good idea. Given her recent s.e.x change, she probably threw like a girl. "I'll come down and get it!"

Casting a final look behind me at the basilica, I hurried down the ramp. The rest of the group was filing helter-skelter through the nearest columns and emerging onto what looked like a street beyond, where the bus would no doubt pick us up. I jogged toward the guard house, reloaded Jackie's camera, and snapped a shot of her standing on the other side of the guardsman.

"Thanks, Emily." She took her camera back. "You want me to get a shot of you with Mr. Personality here?"

I waved her off. There was only one man I wanted to have my picture taken with, and he was in Switzerland.

As we hotfooted it back down the road, Jackie threw on her sungla.s.ses and looked perplexed as she glanced around her. "Where'd everybody go?"