Logan Cascini was calling for purely professional reasons—nothing else. So why was she so disappointed?
It wasn’t as if she’d spent the last twelve years pining for him. There was a connection between them that would last for ever. But she’d chosen to leave before they’d just disintegrated around each other. Some relationships weren’t built to withstand tragedy.
She tried to concentrate on his words. Once she’d got over the initial shock of who was calling, her professionalism slipped back into place.
This was work. This was only about work. Nothing else.
Being involved in the discovery and identification of a new fresco would be amazing. She couldn’t believe the timing. If she’d still been caught up in negotiations, Alessio could have directed this call to someone else on the team. Even though frescoes were her speciality, the Italian Heritage Board expected all their staff to be able to cover a whole range of specialities.
She drew in a deep breath. Her brain was still spinning, still processing. This was the man she’d lived with, breathed with. What had he been doing these last few years?
Her heart twisted in her chest. Was he married? Did he have children?
‘Lucia?’
His voice had been brisk before, but now it was soft. The way it had been when he’d tried to cajole or placate her. Just the tone sent a little tremor down her spine.
She cleared her throat, getting her mind back on the job. She had to take Logan out of this equation. This discovery could be career-changing. It was time to put her business head on her shoulders.
‘What can you tell me about the fresco?’
He hesitated. ‘I almost don’t know where to start.’ His voice was echoing. He must be standing in the chapel now. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to imagine Logan—his broad shoulders, thick dark hair and oh-so-sexy green eyes. He was already there. Permanently imprinted from the last time she’d seen him.
After all the emotion, all the pent-up frustration and anger, all the tears, she’d been left with his face on her mind. A picture of resolve. One that knew there was no point continuing. One that knew walking away was the only way they would both heal.
She’d known he wouldn’t come after her. They had been past that point. He might not have agreed but he’d realised how much they’d both been damaging each other.
The vision of him standing in the stairwell of their apartment, running his hand through his just-too-long hair, his impeccable suit rumpled beyond all repair and his eyelids heavy with regret had burned a hole in her mind.
‘Just tell me what you see.’ She spoke quickly, giving her head a shake and trying to push him from her mind.
He sighed. ‘I can’t, Lucia. I just can’t. It’s just too...too...magnificent. You have to see it for yourself. You have to see it in the flesh.’
Flesh. Every tiny hair on her arms stood on end. Seeing it in the flesh would mean seeing him in the flesh. Could she really go there again?
‘Wait,’ he said. She could hear him fumbling and for a second it made her smile. Logan wasn’t prone to fumbling. ‘What’s your email address?’
‘What?’
‘Your email. Give me your email address. I’ve just taken a photo.’
She recited off her email address. It was odd. She didn’t even want to give that little part of herself away to him again. She wanted to keep herself, and everything about her, sealed away. Almost in an invisible bubble.
That would keep her safe.
Being around Logan again—just hearing his voice—made her feel vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. No one else had ever evoked the same passion in her that Logan had. Maybe it was what they’d gone through together, what they’d shared that made the connection run so deep. But whatever it was she didn’t ever want to re-create it. She’d come out the other side once before. She didn’t think she’d ever have the strength to do it again.
Ping. The email landed in her inbox and she clicked to open it.
As soon as the photo opened she jerked back in her seat. Wow.
‘Have you got it?’
‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ she breathed. She’d spent her life studying frescoes. Most of the ones she’d encountered were remnants of their former selves. Time, age, environment had all caused damage. Few were in the condition of the one she was looking at now. It was an explosion of radiant colour. So vivid, so detailed that her breath caught in her throat. She expanded the photo. It was so clear she could almost see the brushstrokes. What she could definitely see was every hair on the baby Jesus’s head and every tiny line around Mary’s eyes.
‘Now you get it,’ said the voice, so soft it almost stroked her skin.
‘Now I get it,’ she repeated without hesitation.
There was silence for a few seconds as her eyes swept from one part of the fresco to another. There was so much to see. So much to relish. The palm of her hand itched to actually reach out and touch it.
‘So, what now?’
The million-dollar question. What now indeed? ‘Who owns the property?’ she asked quickly.
‘Louisa Harrison—she’s an American and inherited the property from a distant Italian relative. She hired me to renovate the palazzo and chapel for the upcoming royal wedding.’
Lucia frowned. ‘What royal wedding?’
Logan let out a laugh. ‘Oh, Lucia, I forget that you don’t keep up with the news. Prince Antonio of Halencia and Christina Rose. It’s only a few short weeks away.’
‘And you’re still renovating?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. All the Italian renovation projects that Logan had been involved with before had taken months to complete. Months of negotiation for the correct materials sourced from original suppliers and then the inevitable wait for available master craftsmen.
This time he didn’t laugh. This time there was an edge to his voice. ‘Yes. I have around forty men working for me right now. This fresco—it was more than a little surprise. There was wood panelling covering all the walls. Every other wall we’ve uncovered has been bare. We expected this one to be the same.’ He sighed. ‘I expected just to use original plaster on the walls. It should only have taken a few days.’
Now she understood. This discovery was amazing—but it could also cause huge hold-ups in Logan’s work. She’d known him long enough to know that would be worrying him sick.
Logan never missed a deadline. Never reneged on a deal. And although she hadn’t heard about this wedding she was sure it must be all over the media. If Logan couldn’t finish the renovations of the church in time the whole wedding would be up in the air and his reputation would be ruined.
Not to mention his bank balance. She’d no idea who the owner was, but there was every chance she’d put a clause in the contract about delayed completion—particularly when it was so vital.
‘I’ll come.’ The words were out before she really thought about it. She grabbed a notebook and pen. ‘Give me the address and I’ll make travel arrangements today.’ As her pen was poised above the paper her brain was screaming at her. No. What are you doing?
She waited. And waited.
‘You’ll come here?’ He sounded stunned—almost disbelieving.
Her stomach recoiled. Logan obviously had the same reservations about seeing her as she had about him. But why—after twelve years—did that hurt?
But he recovered quickly, reciting the address, the nearest airport and recommending an airline. ‘If you let me know your flight details I’ll have someone pick you up.’
His voice was still as smooth as silk but she didn’t miss the implication—Logan hadn’t offered to pick her up himself.
It didn’t matter that she was alone in her office, she could almost feel her mask slipping into place. The one that she’d used on several occasions over the years
when people had started to get too close and ask personal questions. When past boyfriends had started to make little noises about moving to the next stage of their relationship.
Self-preservation. That was the only way to get through this.
‘I’ll email you,’ she said briskly, and replaced the receiver. She ignored the fact her hands were trembling slightly and quickly made arrangements on her computer. Alessio would be delighted at the prospect of a new fresco. As long as it wasn’t a complete fake and a wasted journey.
But it didn’t sound like a fake—hidden for years behind wood panelling in a now-abandoned private chapel. It sounded like a hidden treasure. And even though she didn’t want to admit it, Logan was so experienced in Italian architecture and art he would have enough background knowledge to spot an obvious fake.
She sent a few final emails and went through to give the secretary she shared with five other members of staff her itinerary for the next few days. It was five o’clock and her flight was early next morning. She needed to pick up a few things and get packed.
She turned and closed her window. Venice. She’d felt secure here these last few years. She’d built a life here on her own. She had a good job and her own fashionable apartment. There was security in looking out her window every day and watching the traffic and tourists on the Grand Canal. The thought of heading to Tuscany to see Logan again was unsettling her. She felt like a teenager.
She picked up her jacket and briefcase, opening her filing cabinets to grab a few books. She had detailed illustrations of just about every fresco ever found. There were a few artists who’d lived in Tuscany who could have painted the fresco. It made sense to take examples of their work for comparison.
She switched on her answering-machine and headed for the door. She needed to be confident. She needed to be professional. Logan would find this situation every bit as awkward as she would.
She was an expert in her field—that’s why she’d been called. And if she could just hold on to the career-defining thought and keep it close, it could get her through the next few days.
Because if that didn’t, she wasn’t sure what would.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCIA STEPPED DOWN from the chartered flight with her compact red suitcase in her hand. She’d spent most of the flight going over notes, trying to determine who the likely artist of the fresco would be.
The style was vaguely familiar. But there were a huge number of fresco artists spanning hundreds of years. Often the date of the building helped with the determination of the artist, but it seemed that Palazzo di Comparino had existed, in some state, for hundreds of years. The chapel even longer. There were a number of possibilities.
The airport in Tuscany was private—owned by some local multi-millionaire—so she was practically able to walk down the steps into the waiting car.
She gave a nod to the driver. ‘Grazie, I will be staying at Hotel di Stelle.’
He lifted her case in the trunk of the black car. ‘No, signorina. A room has been prepared for you at Palazzo di Comparino.’
Her stomach clenched. She’d been definite about booking her own accommodation. Working with Logan was one thing, living under the same roof—even for a few days—was too much.
‘No, I insist. I must stay at the hotel. Can you drop my bag there, please?’
He gave a little smile and climbed into the driver’s seat. The Tuscan countryside flew past. The roads in the area were winding, climbing lush green hills, passing hectares of olive groves and vineyards, filling the air with the aroma of Mediterranean vegetation. Tuscany was known for its rolling hills, vineyards and fine wines and olive oil.
It was also unique in its representation of class. Every kind of person stayed in these hills. They passed a huge array of houses and tiny cottages dotted over the countryside. Medieval villages, castles—some ruins, some renovated—and old farmhouses crowning hilltops.
After thirty minutes the car passed an old crumbling wall and turned onto a narrow road lined with cypress trees, then rolled into the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Lucia put down her window for a better view. The village had two bell towers that were ringing out the hour as they arrived. There was also a piazza surrounded by small shops and businesses, cobblestoned walkways going up and down the narrow streets and a fountain where a few children were walking around the small wall surrounding it and splashing water at each other.
There was an old well on one side next to red-brick houses with gorgeous flower boxes and laundry strung overhead.
A few blue and red scooters whizzed past, ridden by young men with their trousers rolled up at their ankles and their hair flapping in the wind. Helmets didn’t seem to be a priority.
She smiled. It was gorgeous. It was quaint. It could be a setting for a film. Every character that was needed was there—the small wizened woman hanging her washing from a window, the young mother hurrying past with her child, a shopkeeper standing in a doorway and a couple of young girls whispering and watching the guys zipping past on their scooters.
The car turned onto another winding road, again lined with cypress trees. It only took a few moments for the palazzo to come into sight.
It was a sprawling, grand building with lots of little scattered buildings around. Lucia twisted in her seat, but it wasn’t until the car pulled up outside the sweeping entrance of the palazzo that she finally saw the building she was after on the other side of the courtyard.
An old traditional chapel. Dark stonework, arched windows and door. It had two stained-glass windows, which had obviously been added at a later date than the original build.
But before she had a chance to focus on the beauty of the building something else took her breath away.
Logan, emerging from the entrance of the chapel. It had been twelve years since she’d seen him and she hadn’t quite expected the jolt that was running through her body.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was still a little too long. Logan had always been stylish, had always dressed as if the clothes had been made personally for him. Today he had on cream suit trousers and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves pushed up. Only Italian men could get away with cream suits. She imagined his cream jacket would have been discarded somewhere inside the chapel.
It wasn’t just that he’d aged well. He’d aged movie star well. He was still lean, but there was a little more muscle to his frame. His shoulders a bit wider, his shape more sculpted. He lifted his head and his footsteps faltered. He’d noticed her at the same time she’d noticed him, but she could bet his body wasn’t doing the same things that hers was.
The car halted and the driver opened her door. There was no retreat. There was nowhere to hide.
She stared down at her Italian pumps for the briefest of seconds, sucking in a breath and trying to still the erratic pitter-patter of her heart. Thank goodness she’d taken off the stilettos. She’d never have survived the cobbled streets of Monte Calanetti.
She accepted the extended hand of the driver and stepped out of the car, pulling down her dress a little and adjusting her suit jacket. The cool interior of the car had kept the heat of Tuscany out well. It was like stepping into a piping-hot bath. This situation was hot enough without the sun’s intense rays to contend with.
Logan walked over. His faltering footsteps had recovered quickly. He reached out his hand towards her. ‘Lucia, welcome.’
For the briefest of seconds she hesitated. This was business. This was business. She tried to appear calm and composed, even though the first little rivulet of sweat was snaking down her back.
She grasped his hand confidently. ‘Logan, I hope you’ve been well. I take it that is the chapel?’ She gestured to the building from which he’d emerged.
Straight to the point. It was the only way to be. She had to ignore the way his warm
hand enveloped hers. She definitely had to ignore the tiny sparks in her palm and the tingling shooting up her arm. She pulled her hand back sharply.
If he was surprised at her direct response he didn’t show it. His voice was as smooth as silk. ‘Why don’t we go into the main house? I’ll show you to your room and introduce you to Louisa, the owner.’
He waved his hand, gesturing her towards the palazzo, and she could instantly feel the hackles rise at the back of her neck.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’m not staying. I’ve booked a hotel nearby.’
Logan exchanged a glance with the driver, who was already disappearing into the palazzo with her red case. ‘Why don’t you have some refreshments in the meantime? I’d still like to introduce you to Louisa and I’m sure you’d like to see around the palazzo—we’ve already renovated some parts of it, including the room Louisa has set aside for you.’
He was so confident, so assured. It grated because she wished she felt that way too. She was trying her best to mimic the effect, but it was all just a charade. Her stomach was churning so wildly she could have thrown up on the spot. It wasn’t just the intense heat that was causing little rivulets of sweat to run down her back, it was Logan. Being in his presence again after all these years and the two of them standing here, exchanging pleasantries, as if what had happened between them hadn’t changed their lives for ever, just couldn’t compute in her brain.
Business. She kept repeating the word in her head. She was probably going to have to keep doing this for the next few days. Whatever it took to get through them. She had to be professional. She had to be polite. The Italian Heritage Board would expect her to discuss her findings and proposals with the owner directly—not through a third party. Maybe this way she could take Logan out the equation?
She gave a nod and walked over the courtyard towards the palazzo. The first thing she noticed as she walked into the wide entrance hall was the instantly cool air. The palazzo may be hundreds of years old but it seemed as though the amenities had been updated. She gently pulled her jacket from her back to let some air circulate.
His Lost-and-Found Bride Page 2