by Staci Hart
“Is an hour enough time for you to get ready? We’ve got to go straight there.”
I nodded, turning for my door, key card in hand. “Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said and paused.
There was no movement behind me, the air between us was thick with whatever he was about to say.
My door lock clicked open, and I pushed into the room before he could speak. “See you then,” I said without looking back, hoping I’d shot down his will to speak with my dismissal.
And to my happiness and disappointment, he said nothing.
The door closed on its own with a noisy thump, and I released a long breath that had been trapped in my lungs. The room was beautiful, small and elegant, with views of the narrow cobblestone street below and the alleys jutting off in every direction. I was in Florence, a place I’d dreamed of, a place I’d wished for, a place of romance and the heart of my greatest passions—history and art. And I’d do whatever I could to make the most of it. Once we secured the statue—if we could secure it—I would be free to explore as long as I helped manage Court’s itinerary. If I could just get one day to wander these streets, I’d be satisfied.
I was tired but not as tired as I’d thought I’d be, having slept so well and so long on the plane. It was like I’d just gone to sleep and woken up in a different longitude, but my body knew something was weird—my fuzzy brain wanted to sleep, disoriented by the sunshine.
I turned on my girl power jam and took a shower, dressed and put on my makeup. An hour later on the dot, I was downstairs in the lobby, notebook in hand, going over my notes for the meeting. I’d been researching Bartolino, looking for anything we could use to impress him, any ties we could make that would benefit us, but there wasn’t much. The tone of his articles skewed to the nationalist, the glorification of Italy and the elevation of Italy’s claim on said art, which did not bode well for a couple of Americans looking to take it away. A few connections existed between the Accademia and some of Court's colleagues at The Met as well as some professors, too. But I sensed our battle for David would be fierce, and I couldn’t help but wonder how Court planned on securing such a lofty acquisition from a man who clearly didn’t want to give it to us.
I caught the dark column of his body the instant he stepped off the elevator, as if I’d had a premonition of him the moment before he appeared. His suit was a shade of deep cobalt, his shirt crisp and white under his waistcoat, his tie navy and narrow, his shoes a rusty brown. His shock of dark hair had been tamed, though it still held on to its wild, easy edge, which suited him so flawlessly—the epitome of controlled chaos. He was pristine. Powerful. Perfect.
A perfect mess, I reminded myself.
I closed my notebook and dropped it into my bag, keeping my eyes on my hands as I gathered my things and stood. “Are you ready?” I asked before looking up to meet his gaze.
Everything about him was tight—from his hard, molten eyes to the sharp line of his jaw, from the square of his shoulders to his hands fisted at his sides as he looked up my body. My heels. The sliver of my ankles in navy cigarette pants to the waistband just under my ribs. The V of my white shirt and the pale pink of my buttonless blazer, the lapels loose and hanging artfully in an elegant echo of a ruffle. And then my lips where his gaze hung for a moment then my eyes, lined with kohl, watching him watch me.
He drew all the air—in my lungs, in the room, in the world—into him, his eyes so dark and fervent. And just when I thought I might pass out from the lack of oxygen, he looked to the door of the hotel, extending his hand for me to go.
I swallowed, my sweating palm on the handle of my bag, my fingers white-knuckled and aching.
Another Mercedes waited for us in the circular driveway, the driver holding the door open for me. I slid in as Court walked around, my door closing with a thump, alone for a brief, blissful moment before his opened, and we were once again sharing air.
My notebook was in hand before the driver pulled away. “I’ve been working on some angles for the meeting today, considering how we might be able to soften his resolve. He doesn’t want to give us David, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
My heart sank—I had been hoping by some miracle that he’d known something I didn’t. “There are several curators who went to school with your father—”
“I’m not using my father to get this done.”
A pause.
“Okay.” I flipped the page. “We have a few curators who used to teach here in Florence and who have ties to Bartolino. Maybe we could play on a little nepotism that way?”
“We can try, but I don’t think it will be enough.”
I closed my notebook with a controlled breath and turned my gaze to the line of his profile. “I read some of his more recent publications—he’s going to tell us David belongs here, that this is where he’ll stay. He believes Italian art of this caliber should be in Florence, preferably in his museum. And I can’t see how we’re going to change his mind.”
“It’s simple. Money.”
I frowned. “You’re going to bribe him?”
A single chuckle lifted his chest. “I’m going to donate.”
“Ah,” I said with a nod. “You’re going to bribe him.”
An elegant shrug. “It’s what keeps their museum alive just as well as it does ours.”
“Do you think it will be enough?”
His fingertips brushed the swell of his lips in thought. “I hope so.”
I sighed, unable to shake the feeling that we’d already failed. “Why did we come here, Court?”
He turned his head, met my eyes, and said simply, “Because I have to try.”
It was absolute conviction in his voice, absolute devotion, absolute reverence. And the stony ice around my heart began to thaw. He wanted so much, felt so much, and kept all of that feeling trapped somewhere in the span of his tight shoulders, somewhere behind those stormy eyes.
Something in him shifted, opening up when he saw me soften.
“Why did you ask me if I have a price?” I asked with my heart pounding. “What do you think I want from you?”
He watched me for a moment, the answer tumbling around behind his eyes before he spoke. “A job. Money. I’m not sure, but it can’t be me.”
My brows quirked. “And why not?”
“Beyond the way I’ve treated you?”
I felt my cheeks flush in a tingling rush of blood. “Yes. Beyond that.”
He drew a slow breath and let it out. “Because no one has before.”
The honesty of his words struck me mute for a handful of heartbeats. “Why did you say that your father wasn’t allowed to touch me?”
He hardened from brows to belt. “Because he has a thing for interns, and you’re my intern.”
I opened my mouth to speak but closed it again. I was his intern. But was that all? My heart sank at the realization that it might be.
“Rin, I need…I have to say something—”
“I know you do,” I interrupted as twisting, tightening emotion worked through me.
He held my eyes. “But you don’t want to hear,” he stated.
“I’m afraid to hear.”
“Afraid it will hurt?”
“Afraid it won’t.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. He nodded. He looked out the window. “Later. When this is finished, we’ll talk. No more walking away. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said because there was nothing else to say.
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
The driver deposited us at the entrance of the museum, which was in a long, cramped avenue of unassuming, flat-faced buildings. A throng of patrons hugged the wall, penned by a rope barrier, and the sight of that many people waiting to get into the small museum on a Wednesday afternoon did little to bolster my hope that we’d be able to get the statue. Every one of those people was there to see David.
We stepped in past the line with every one
of their accusing eyes following us like the interlopers we were. Court stepped up to the desk.
“I’m here to see Dottore Bartolino,” he said in flawless Italian. “I’m Dr. Lyons from the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
The attendant perked up at the sight of Court and the mention of the president. “Yes, sir. Luciana,” she called to a girl behind her. “Will you show the way?”
“Yes, of course,” the girl said, stepping out from the counter.
We followed when she led us through a side door and a winding hallway to a set of stairs. Behind a set of grand double doors was Bartolino’s office, and before them sat a pretty girl who looked to be about my age. She stood to meet us, extending her hand to Court.
“Dr. Lyons, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” she said in English.
He responded in Italian, “The same to you, though I’m disappointed we weren’t able to secure an appointment.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Dr. Bartolino is quite busy, but if you’ll wait here, I’ll see if I can find him for you. Please, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a row of chairs against the wall. “Would you like coffee? Tea?”
“Just Dottore Bartolino. Thank you.”
She bowed slightly and left the way we’d come in. And we took our seats and waited.
And waited.
With every minute, Court’s composure tightened until he was so coiled, I thought he might snap from the pressure. And Bartolino’s assistant, who honestly looked as apologetic and uncomfortable as she probably should have, gave us excuse after excuse as it seemed to come in. He was in lunch. He was in a meeting at the college. He was on his way.
At one point, my stomach growled loudly enough to echo in the cavernous stone room. And, to my absolute shock, Court pulled an oatmeal cream pie out of his bag and extended it to me. His only answer to my gaping was a shrug and a cryptic look before he settled back into his full, unadulterated brood.
Rubik’s Cube, inside a puzzle box, locked by an advanced calculus equation.
Half an hour later, after the last message, Court was fit to burst. It had been almost three hours. My ass hurt from sitting in the chair, I’d finished a book, and Court had nearly broken the spring in his clicky pen while he absently sketched in a notepad from his attaché. I’d snuck little glances while I ate my cream pie. He was good, really good, better than I was. I had no talent for drawing or painting, which I would forever lament, but his hand was steady, his perspective clean and clever, his proportion exact. My surprise was acute, leaving me wondering if he painted, if he had any work of his own, and what that work would reveal about the man I found I knew so well and knew nothing about.
We heard Bartolino before we saw him, and so did his assistant, who hopped out of her seat like it housed a live current, seemingly as wound up as Court was.
The curator walked into the entry to his office in a discussion with the men at his side. Discussion might be inaccurate. Bartolino was the only one speaking and in a too-loud, self-assured timbre, his hands gesticulating and chest puffed out. He shook hands with the other men, who all smiled broadly as if they’d been blessed by the Pope himself before turning to exit down one of the spurring hallways.
“Ah, Dottore Lyons. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bartolino said in English with a false, albeit pleasant, smile.
We stood, and I resisted the urge to touch Court’s arm in an effort to soothe his anger.
“Dottore Bartolino,” he said, the words low and tight as he took the man’s offered hand and gripped it with force.
“I am sorry to keep you waiting. We are busy men, are we not? You understand, without an appointment—”
“I thought this might be better,” Court interjected, “so you could make time.”
“Yes, of course,” he said amiably, dismissing Court as he turned to me. His smile curled, his eyes molten and hungry as he reached for my hand. “Come sei bona. Se potessimo avere una tua statua, sarebbe capace di far concorrenza persino al Davide.”
How pretty, he’d said. If we possessed a statue of you, you would rival David himself.
His lips pressed a moist kiss to my knuckles, and I did my best to be still and endure it in discomfort.
I thought Court might burst into flames. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, I said in Italian, “If only I were for sale.”
He laughed, his face lighting with surprise, then admiration. “Ah, you speak Italian very well, signora. And that is the subject for today, no? Come, let’s say hello to him, shall we?”
Bartolino gave us his back without further instruction, and Court started after him like he was going to wheel the man around and sucker punch him. But I reached for his arm, halting him, enduring his gaze with the shake of my head.
It’s okay, I said with my eyes. We need him.
He seemed to get the message, relaxing only incrementally, his hand moving to the small of my back in a possessive gesture that sent a little tremor through me. And we followed.
“This museum is the most visited in Firenze, next to Uffizi,” he said as he walked down the stairs, “and everyone wants to see David. He is our calling card, our draw, our purpose.”
We rounded the staircase and entered the gallery. He stopped just inside, gesturing into the bright room, the ceiling domed and the herculean statue of David under diffused sunlight.
My lungs emptied, my eyes widening as I floated toward the statue in a daze. I had known he was tall—seventeen feet—but that knowledge was nothing compared to the sight of those seventeen feet standing atop a dais taller than Court. David towered over the murmuring crowd, his expression concentrated, his brows drawn, his beautiful lips set in determination as he prepared to fight Goliath. The detail in his hands, the veins plump and primed with adrenaline and thumping blood. The perfect proportion of his shoulders, his chest, his hips, his legs, the S-curve of his body so natural and easy, catching the light and casting shadows on every plane, highlighting every angle.
Never had I seen anything like it.
Court stood next to me, his face lifted up in exaltation and wonder, and when I looked to him, when I traced the line of his profile and length of his beautiful body, I saw David in him. He was perfection chiseled from marble, the sunlight painting him in light and shadow, illuminating the strength and vulnerability of him, a complementing contradiction that made him more. It made him real.
“You see why we cannot let him go,” Bartolino said from my side, his face angled to match ours, our eyes all on David in his magnificence. “Your museum had him for two years.”
“A decade ago,” Court countered.
“If you take him, my museum suffers for the prosper of yours. And what do we gain?”
“Six months. That’s all we ask. He’ll be back for your tourist season.”
Bartolino shook his head with a small laugh. “You want to move the most important sculpture in the world across an ocean for six months? No, Dottore Lyons. David belongs here, and you have nothing to offer me.”
“A donation to the Accademia for five million dollars.”
Both of our heads swiveled to gape at Court.
“Mio dio, ma sta facendo sul serio?” Bartolino breathed. My God, are you serious?
“Si, signore,” Court answered. “A personal donation. One year with David in exchange for a check for five million dollars.”
“But you said six months,” he argued.
Court turned his cool gaze on the president. “That was before my money was on the table.”
I could almost hear the gears turning in Bartolino’s mind, spinning and smoking and noisily clacking away in the otherwise silent conversation. I looked over Court, searching his face. I’d known he had money—a lot of money, the Lyons name was synonymous with American industry—but to be able to write a personal check for five million dollars? It didn’t seem possible.
Bartolino seemed to finally find his wits. “The offer is very tempting. But my answer is the sam
e. We will make that in a year of ticket sales alone—”
“You’ll make that regardless of whether or not David is here. Name your price.”
Bartolino’s demeanor shifted in a snap, his casual dismissal disappearing, replaced by cutting words. “He will stay here, Dottore, and you can keep your money. You should have known this would be my answer when I refused to grant you a meeting—you have come all this way for nothing. David will not leave Firenze.”
Court was as motionless as David, unblinking, unbreathing, unbendingly still for a long, pregnant moment. “May I speak to you privately, Dottore?”
“It will not change my answer.”
“Humor me.”
With a deep, fiery breath, Bartolino gestured the way we had come.
Court turned to me for the briefest of instruction. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”
I nodded and watched them walk away.
The futility of the situation settled in my hollow chest. We wouldn’t get the statue, and Court would be devastated. I’d known he wanted this more than anything, but to stand in this museum, to see with my own eyes how much it meant to him was a humbling, moving thing. His passion for the statue was deep, his drive to secure it obsessive and unwavering. And arguably cavalier. But he wouldn’t let it go, and I wondered if he’d offer more money in his desperation.
I spent a few minutes walking around David before I realized how distracted I was and stepped away, heading for the restroom I’d used near Bartolino’s office, deciding to go sit outside his office where I could freak out without distraction.
When I walked into the restroom, I paused, finding Bartolino’s assistant cursing at her reflection in the mirror, hands behind her back and waist twisted, so she could see her zipper in the mirror.
“Mio Dio,” she said, her face pink from exertion.
“What happened?” I asked as I approached.
“My zipper broke.” She gave up, throwing her hands up in surrender.
“I can help,” I said, moving to the counter where I set my bag, digging around in its depths.
“Do you have a sewing machine in there? Or a magic wand?”