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ruined it, she had saved him with a spontaneous act of kindness.
    “What are you reading?” he finally said, and she started, glancing toward him.
    “You’re awake,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
    “What is that book?” he persisted, and she held it up for his inspection.
    “Faust in Hell ,” he read aloud, “ The Tragedy of Christopher Marlowe. Why tragedy?”
    “Oh, because he died so young, in such a senseless way. He might have been greater than Shakespeare, if he had lived.”
    “‘Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,’” Matteo recited. “Is your name a coincidence?”
    Helen shook her head, putting the book aside. “No, my father is a Marlowe buff; he named me. Dad also introduced me to his work when I was young.” She smiled ruefully. “I think it’s the only interest we have in common.”
    “Something, anyway,” Matteo said gently, and she nodded.
    “I have to get through this during the next week or so to remain on schedule,” she said, standing up.
    “What schedule?”
    “My own. I’m working on my thesis and I have it all mapped out, what areas to cover and how long each should take.” She folded her arms and examined the patient. “You’re looking remarkably chipper today. I have to go to the store; we’re out of food. It won’t take me long. I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”
    He forced her to meet his eyes. She seemed to know what was coming, but he said it anyway. “Helen, I’d like you to get me some clothes. I have to take a shower and get dressed.”
    “You’re going to leave soon,” she responded.
    “Yes.”
    “Today?” she asked dismally.
    “We’ll see,” he said quietly, relenting. He studied her clouded face and added, “I have no money.”
    “I do,” she replied simply. “What should I get?”
    He looked thoughtful, trying to remember his American sizes. “Shirt: fifteen and a half, thirty-four. Pants: waist, thirty-four; inseam, uh, thirty-two, I guess. And shoes, see if you can get that tennis kind, what do you call them...”
    “Sneakers?” Helen supplied.
    “That’s right, sneakers. Size ten. Is that all right?”
    “Fine,” she replied briskly, turning for the door.
    “Helen,” he said.
    She paused.
    “I have to go. I don’t want to, but I must.”
    She didn’t answer, merely left the room and went across the hall to change. He heard her leave a few minutes later.
    As soon as she was gone he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand. His knees gave way and he had to grab for the back of Helen’s chair to steady himself, but he was on his feet for the first time in days. He maneuvered into position and sat down slowly, stretching his long legs in front of him. It felt good to be out of the bed, but even he had to question whether he was going to be doing any traveling right away. He felt punchy and lightheaded, which he ascribed partly to the lingering effects of Helen’s miracle pills. As they wore off the wound in his arm began to feel like it was being gouged by a hot poker, but he wanted to be clearheaded when he left.
    He had to get back to his men. But just as important, he had to protect this girl who had taken such a risk for him. In his diverse life he had seen other acts of selfless behavior, but nothing quite the equal of this. That a rich, beautiful American woman would shelter a wounded stranger from the police and drop everything to nurse him back to health seemed unbelievable, but it had happened. To him. And now he had to make sure that he got away clean, so that she wouldn’t suffer any repercussions.
    Unlike most of his compatriots, Matteo liked Americans, having gone to school in the United States for years. He had developed a solid affection for their open, easy manner, fierce independence and amazing resourcefulness. What he liked best was their romantic unpredictability; this young woman would have had every reason to throw him to the wolves and go back to studying literature and