by Belle Ami
It was early and she wasn’t meeting the detective until 7:30 p.m. A nap would be a dream come true. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed. The guesthouse was so quiet she could hear the creaking in the walls and floors. Scordato’s escalating behavior coupled with her heavy workload and lack of sleep had taken its toll on her body and mind. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to exhaustion…
Florence, Italy
August 3, 1475
Fioretta, it’s time…
“Thank you, Fioretta, for accompanying me.” Leonardo fingered his beard nervously. “Lorenzo insisted I attend this celebration. He’s the greatest patron of the arts in Florence and to turn him down would have been suicide.”
Fioretta looked up at the tall, thin man beside her. A beautiful man, dressed in a rich brocade tunic and leggings. He held her arm and escorted her up the steps of a fortress-like structure. The sun was setting and the palace was surrounded by hundreds of flaming torches.
“It is I who must thank you, Leonardo. I’m thrilled to see the Medici palazzo and to meet the venerable Lorenzo. I applaud the man who’s clever enough to court your genius. I hope he likes me.”
“He will adore you, I’m sure.” The bright, blue eyes twinkled at her. “He is enthralled with any woman who can match his wit, and you, dear girl, are more than up to the task.”
As they strolled into the main hall, Fioretta was overwhelmed by the treasures that surrounded her and the extravagance the Medici put forth. Long tables were laden with excesses of food and drink. The richly adorned citizenry glittered as brightly as the torches that lit the chamber. Open arches led to patios where Fioretta could see guests strolling through the gardens and standing amidst the sculptures. She longed to go outside and find a quiet spot to observe the interactions of Florence’s elite.
Leonardo handed her a goblet of wine and whispered, “Be prepared, Lorenzo is on his way to us.”
Across the room, Fioretta spied a statuesque woman, hair of burnished gold, sparkling eyes, and glowing visage. “Leonardo, is that Simonetta Vespucci?” she whispered. “She is breathtaking.”
“Yes, Simonetta is a classic beauty, but you are a rare exotic jewel,” he told her.
Fioretta was petite, but Leonardo insisted that she was every bit as beautiful as the lauded Simonetta. But then again, her best friend was prejudiced. Leonardo adored her and respected her.
Her thoughts were interrupted as their host stood before her. She straightened her spine to her full diminutive height, hoping to make a good impression.
“Lorenzo may I introduce you to my dear friend, Fioretta Gorini.”
She looked into the blackest eyes she’d ever seen. She curtsied and bowed her head in respect. He took her hand and raised her up, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“The pleasure is mine, signorina.” He turned to Leonardo and asked, “How is it that an artist has come to know the most beautiful woman in Florence?”
Fioretta blushed. “Signore, please there is no need to rain compliments on me.”
“To not speak the truth would be an insult to the greatness of God and his creations.”
“I would prefer to be appreciated for my learning and intelligence than the ephemeral gift of beauty.”
Lorenzo turned back to Leonardo, laughter gleaming in his eyes. “Now I am intrigued. Your Fioretta’s philosophical truth is as startling as her beauty. We will have to continue this conversation at another time as I have many guests to greet. I must know where you found this gem.” He bowed and gracefully moved through the crowd.
Fioretta sipped her wine considering her interaction with Lorenzo. The man is an interesting balance between power and intellectual acumen, not to mention an abundance of charm.
“Leonardo, would you mind if I took some air? You know how I dislike crowds.”
“Go, my dear, I’ll join you shortly.”
Turning toward the doors leading to the garden, she found herself the focus of one man’s gaze. There was nothing sinister in his look, on the contrary, it was simply inquiring. She noted the resemblance to Lorenzo, but the younger man’s features were decidedly composed in a far more pleasing countenance. His stare was impertinent, but she refused to tear her gaze away. Surely, he’ll realize how embarrassing it is for a gentleman to behave in such a manner.
It was a standoff, both of them refusing to look away. She felt heat creep up her neck. Dear Lord, please don’t let me faint. The way he looks at me thrills me.
The young man’s eyes burned into her, yet he made no move to approach. The spell was broken when a beautiful young woman grabbed the man’s arm and drew his gaze. Taking the opportunity to escape, Fioretta hurried outside and found a bench near a gurgling fountain to sit and regain her composure. Her heartbeat drowned out the world around her. Who is he, she wondered?
“There you are, cara.” Leonardo’s voice jolted her back to reality. “Soon we will sup and afterwards we can make our departure. These events are tedious to me.”
She took his hand in hers, patting it. “Yes, but it is important for you to mingle with patrons. One day they will be flocking to you, falling over each other to possess the creations of your genius.” Her delicate brows lifted. “Poor me, you probably won’t have time for your little friend.”
“Time for you? A muse who plays me like a fiddle.” He tweaked her chin. “Most definitely not.”
“Humph.” She drew her hand from his and folded her arms over her chest. She was always playfully indignant when Leonardo failed to rise to her teasing.
A Medici bodyguard approached them. “Signor Lorenzo has requested that you and your companion dine at his table, Maestro.”
Leonardo rose, extending his hand to her. “We would be delighted.”
They followed the man to a private dining room where an elaborately dressed table glittered with Murano crystal and china. They were seated not far from Lorenzo.
Fioretta glanced around the table and found herself once more looking into the eyes of the man she’d fled from. The beautiful lady, who’d interrupted before, chatted beside him, completely unaware of his focus. Fioretta blushed, looking away. To encourage him would be madness. She would ignore him this time. Her attention turned to their host who called to her. In minutes she was engaged in a lively philosophical conversation between herself, Lorenzo, and Leonardo about whether art lacking religious depiction was inferior. All the while, she felt the young man’s eyes on her…
Angela come back…
Angela awoke with a start. Her heart pounded and she had trouble catching her breath. She longed to return to the dream and the young man. Why?
Fioretta Gorini was the mistress of Lorenzo’s brother Giuliano. Her body trembled. Giuliano and Fioretta’s son became Pope Clement VII.
She turned to her bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out a plain, black leather journal. The journal was almost full. Pages and pages of notes about her dreams. Strange and mysterious dreams from the past several weeks. Dreams about Fioretta Gorini, her life, and her friendship with Leonardo da Vinci. Now she added Giuliano Medici as well.
Glancing at her bedside clock, she realized an hour had passed. She needed to shower and change. She’d text the detective and let him know she was going to be late.
Chapter 3
Los Angeles, California
August 3, 2018
It’s her.
Alex almost choked on his martini when he saw the young woman’s reflection in the mirror. He swiveled on his barstool, his heart pounding in his chest and stared, unable to believe his own eyes. Angela Renatus and the girl in front of the painting who kissed me are one and the same.
Alex had managed to grab two seats at the bar of Bistro Prossima Volta—one of the hottest spots in LA. The place was packed. The hipsters who flocked there during the dinner rush, crowded around the ornate mah
ogany bar, drinking and sampling a vast array of Italian antipasti.
Setting his briefcase on the second stool, he’d ignored the angry glances and ordered a dry martini. He sipped while keeping his eyes locked on the Italian mirror stretching along the wall across from him. He could see the reflection of the restaurant’s entrance and everyone who walked in. Angela had texted him that she was running late. She hadn’t given him a description and he’d neglected to ask. Odd. Alex never forgot to ask. His entire career involved just those kinds of details. And then she walked in. And he knew. He knew it was her.
Her dark hair, secured in an elegant bun, enhanced those movie-star cheekbones. Her brown velvet eyes, framed by the black-rimmed glasses, were a striking contrast to her lush, ruby-red lips. Wearing a crisp, white blouse and a gray, pencil skirt, she paused as she scanned the restaurant, unaware of every male head swiveling to get an eyeful. Damn! He wasn’t the only guy attracted by the hot librarian look. He recalled the temptress who’d kissed him with wild abandon and shifted on his stool. He couldn’t reconcile her disparate behavior. It was as if she were two different women.
When their eyes locked in the mirror, he was surprised to see no reaction or recognition. His pulse quickened. How can she not know me?
She glanced down at her watch.
This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Embarrassment, yes. Confusion and accusations, likely. Not this total obliviousness of the erotic passion that had consumed them.
He stood and called out to her. “Angela, Alex Caine.”
She maneuvered through the crowd. “How did you know it was me? I think I forgot to give you a description.”
“Just a guess.”
“Do you prefer Alex or Alexander?
“Everyone calls me Alex,” he said with a grin, offering her his hand.
Angela smiled and took it. “It’s good to meet you.”
Double damn! Gorgeous smile, with a sexy dimple in her left cheek. The touch of her hand sent a jolt through him. Her eyes widened slightly, her hand trembled in his.
“That’s weird,” she whispered, as though to herself.
“What’s weird?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Does she feel it too?
She shook her head, a laugh escaping her. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. It’ll be good to relax. I’m glad you called. Professor Hoffman is one of my dearest friends and my mentor.”
Alex lifted the briefcase and stowed it at his feet, gesturing her to sit. “I’ve known Michael for years. He’s been very supportive of my work.”
She nodded and sat. “Michael is a vault of knowledge and always willing to help.”
Her gaze was direct, but without any recognition that they’d made out a few hours earlier in front of the Botticelli painting. How the hell do you kiss someone like that and not remember?
Her brows knitted as she continued to look at him.
He laughed. “Is there something on my face?”
“Forgive me.” A rosy hue colored her cheeks. “It’s your eyes. They’re so unusual.”
He sat back and scratched his cheek. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” His left eye was pale blue, the right was hazel. “You can blame my parents for the odd combo. Although, no one else in my family has two different-colored eyes.”
The bartender approached them. “Angela, the usual?”
Her eyes remained locked on his. And she failed to reply to the bartender. Something flickered in her gaze. Not recognition. But something deep. Intense. He suddenly wished they were back at the Getty, sitting in front of the painting, not in a noisy, packed restaurant.
“Hey, Angela,” the bartender repeated. “Do you want the usual?”
Her expression cleared and she glanced up at the bartender. “Sorry, Tim. Yes, please, that would be great. Oh, and some of those yummy meatballs.”
“I’ll have the meatballs, too. And put it on my tab.”
“Got it, man.”
“I can’t let you do that,” she protested.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I called you.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m the one with an expense account.”
She shook her head and chuckled. “I definitely don’t have one of those.”
Alex took a sip of his martini. He couldn’t get past her lack of recognition. He needed to test her, to see whether this act of hers was for real. “Besides trying to convince you to work on this case with me, I’m here on business. In fact, I had a meeting with the director of the Getty today.”
Her eyes widened. “You knew I worked at the Getty, why didn’t you tell me you were planning on being there? We could have grabbed a coffee.”
“I didn’t want to bother you at work. Seeing the Getty was a pleasure, but a brief cup of coffee wouldn’t be enough time for me to get to know you or learn much about your expertise.” Alex had spent years studying body language and facial expressions. He knew when someone was telling the truth or evading it. She genuinely seemed surprised. Which made this mystery all the more strange.
The bartender placed a white sangria in front of her. “Cheers.” She clinked her glass to his and took a sip. “How did your meeting with the director go?”
“Don’t take any offense, but let’s just say I’m not a fan of the guy.”
She nodded, her eyes glancing down at her drink.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem thrilled with him either.”
She took another sip. “I’m having some issues with him.”
He didn’t press her on the director issues. His focus was still on their unforgettable kiss at the museum. “You know, I have this strange feeling that I saw you today.”
She lifted her elegant eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah, at the Getty.”
“No, that’s unlikely. I rarely leave my desk at the research center.” She shook her head and a strand of hair came loose. He began to lift his hand, wanting to tuck her hair behind her ear, but caught himself just in time and reached for his drink instead. He needed to unravel the mystery of why Angela had no recollection of what had happened earlier in the day. This woman is either a really good liar, or she’s sleepwalking.
“So, what exactly does an art detective do?”
“I recover stolen and lost art. Primarily for private individuals and insurance companies.”
“Are you here for an investigation?”
“I am.”
“Can you tell me about it, or is that top secret stuff?”
“I’m searching for an unattributed Leonardo da Vinci painting that disappeared in 1944.”
“Oh, now I understand. My expertise is the Renaissance, and particularly the Maestro.”
“That’s why Michael recommended you. He thought we might be of help to each other. Join forces. Maybe we were fated to meet,” he said, using a phrase similar to the one she used at the Getty. We are in this together. You must help me. It is our destiny.
“I don’t believe in fate. Unfortunately, I don’t know how much help I would be. I haven’t come across anything in my research that points to any missing da Vinci, although it’s possible I suppose. In my field, it’s more likely that existing paintings have been misattributed to another artist. In order to change the attribution of a work of art it usually entails both historical and technical analysis. A lot of experts have to come to an agreement and few of them are inclined to do so.”
“The idea of a never before discovered masterpiece in a dusty attic somewhere doesn’t spark your interest?”
“I know it happens all the time on TV shows like Antiques Roadshow. Somebody’s great-great-grandmother had a peculiar painting in her parlor, or someone bought an innocuous sculpture at a yard sale and it turns out to be a famous artist’s work.” Angela shook her head, her cheek dimpling in a beguiling half-smile. “But a da Vinci? That’s a tough one. He was so sporadic in his output
and most of his work was commissioned by wealthy patrons. It seems impossible that somebody’s grandmother somehow got her hands on a missing Mona Lisa.”
“I agree. But my client has some letters written by an uncle during World War II. The man was a German art historian serving under the German command when they occupied Florence. He wrote to his mother that he uncovered a particular painting, a wedding portrait. The painting was attributed to a student of da Vinci, but this historian believed it was created by the master’s hand.”
Angela knit her fine brows. “That’s an incredible story, almost too incredible. Do you have any idea how valuable an undiscovered da Vinci would be?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I share your suspicions. I find it a bit far-fetched, but I’m sure you know about the recently found da Vinci sold at auction. It went for more than four-hundred million, so it’s definitely worth investigating.”
She nodded. “So, what happened to Gerhard? And the painting?”
The hair on Alex’s arms stood up. “You said Gerhard. I never told you his name.”
Her eyes clouded in confusion. “Of course, you did. I heard you say Gerhard was the uncle and the author of the letters.”
“No, Angela, I didn’t. I simply said my client’s uncle.”
She looked incredulous. “I could have sworn… I don’t understand… Are you sure?” She shivered.
He reached for her hand. Her palm was damp. “It’s okay. Maybe you read my mind,” he joked.
She stared at her hand in his but didn’t pull away. He felt a spark—the same feeling that came over him at the Getty. Maybe she had read his mind. He knew he should let go of her hand, but he couldn’t. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her.