by Nichole Van
Stared.
Swiped to the next.
The next.
And the next.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He was there.
Mr. Darcy.
In Every. Single. Photo.
Walking toward me along a medieval street, sun streaming behind.
Standing in the middle of Piazza della Signoria, tourists eddying around him.
Paused beside a boutique storefront, head angled my way.
Resting a shoulder into the white marble facade of the Duomo, hand on his walking stick.
It was this zing with each image. Something about the man seemed . . . monumental.
As if he could see me. As if he knew me, to my very inner self.
My hands shook, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
How had I not noticed someone following me?
I whirled around, scanning the piazza—the hum of passing tourists, the roar of a motorcycle, the occasional voice yelling in staccato Italian.
No historical romance novel models in sight.
I closed my eyes.
Breathe. Calm down. Reason your way through this.
I was simply paranoid. Trauma does that to you. Turns you into someone who sees danger in the innocuous. First an old gypsy lady yelling bizarre things. Now a costume-inclined man with a fetish for photo bombing.
Weird, sure. But hardly threatening, per se.
Besides, what idiot would stalk someone in plain sight dressed like a Regency era nobleman? No one, right? That was nutty even by my skewed standards.
Most likely, Mr. Darcy had just been heading my direction and thought it amusing to pop into my photos.
The reality? This meeting was too critical for me to lose focus; I needed this job.
If Mr. Darcy had an issue with me, he could take a number and get in line.
Two
Dante D’Angelo
I recognized her instantly.
In my defense, Claire Raythorn was kinda hard to miss, paused beside the arched loggia across the piazza. I nudged my motorcycle into the square, eyes on her.
She stood with long-limbed confidence, staring at her phone. Immaculate in a pencil skirt, ruffled pale-blue blouse and heeled boots. Blond hair gleaming-straight past her shoulders despite the frizz-inducing Tuscan humidity.
Even at a distance, she was striking. Unique. Drawing a man’s eye.
And, let’s face it, I was male enough to look long and hard.
As I watched, she waved and blew a kiss at her phone. Gave a girly-gushy smile.
Huh? Was she on a video call?
Wait—no. She wasn’t talking and now she was tapping her phone.
Claire stared at her screen. Then her shoulders sank and she whirled around. Her relaxed body language instantly morphing into panicky and afraid.
Right.
They didn’t call her Batty Ray Psycho for nothing.
I guided my bike around the fountain and across the piazza, keeping an eye on Claire ahead of me.
Of course I’ve seen that video. You know, the one where Claire walks in on Pierce Whitman with another woman. Granted, I think anyone with an internet connection has seen it.
The video is hilarious in an America’s Funniest Home Videos sorta way—you wince and know you should look away but laugh instead.
It starts with Claire stomping through the door, swaying drunk, head swiveling as she takes in the clothes scattered, the tangled bodies on the couch . . .
You can practically see the moment where she loses it. An almost audible snap.
She goes full-banshee on Pierce and the other woman. Screaming. Hysterical.
Claire throws random things from her purse at them—lipstick, notebook, pens . . . tampons.
Pierce and the woman shriek in terror. That’s nearly the funniest part—the pair of them squealing like teenage girls over flying tampons. The hashtag #tamponsofrage trended for a while.
But then Claire tosses her purse aside and starts pulling bottles from a wine fridge just inside the door. Winds up her arm.
“No!” Pierce shouts.
The first bottle smashes spectacularly, painting the wall in brilliant, dripping red. Three more follow. Pierce ducking under each one, yelling to stop.
Claire—sobbing, out of control.
“Look!” she screams, wildly waving her arms at the wine-soaked room. “It’s smashed and bleeding. Just like my achy breaky HEART!”
Forever branding herself as Batty Ray Psycho. Though #bitchyraypsycho also made the rounds on social media.
Branwell and Tennyson laughed so hard they cried, playing the video over and over for a solid week.
Brothers. What you gonna do?
The take-away here? No matter how attractive, no self-respecting guy would get involved with Batty Ray Psycho.
As a D’Angelo, my life was already two Froot Loops shy of a bowl-full of crazy. Literally.
I had no interest in Claire Raythorn and her cargo-hold’s worth of baggage.
So I forced myself to look away from her and focused on parking my bike next to a miniature Fiat.
But all too soon, my gaze swung back to Claire. Almost unbidden. Like rubbernecking at the scene of a car accident.
She had stopped her panicky twirling and had moved down the piazza a bit. Now she stood in front of a Baroque-era palazzo, gazing up at the Tuscan-orange building with its pedimented windows and carved marble corbels. The building that was my destination.
Of course. She was attending the same meeting.
Branwell had suggested she and Pierce might be in the running for this job too. Heaven knew, the poor woman probably needed it as badly as I did.
With a toss of her head, she threw her shoulders back, as if steeling herself.
She had guts, I would give her that.
It was only as she stepped forward and pressed the call button that it all clicked. That I finally noticed.
Stupid typical guy . . . I had been too busy checking her out and cataloging the crazy to analyze why she drew my eye. But now it was so obvious—
I couldn’t see her.
Not. A. Damn. Thing.
Chills goosebumped my arms and back.
I blinked. Squinted.
She was blank. Absolutely and completely capital-B Blank.
All the air punched from my lungs. My heart went from zero to sixty.
I instantly whirled my head around the square, mentally noting other people: three university students, a pair of tourists, a black-habited nun with groceries—
Shadows. Movement. Normal.
I could see them just fine.
But when I came back to Claire . . .
Niente. Nulla. Nothing.
She was empty air.
What. The. Hell.
Claire pushed the palazzo door open, disappearing inside.
With shaking hands, I shrugged off my helmet and locked it into the seat of my bike. Pulled my tie out of my shirt and unpegged my suit pants. Grabbed my briefcase.
One thought alone pounding through my skull:
Of all the women on the planet, why couldn’t I see Claire Raythorn?
Three
Claire
I walked into the room exactly four minutes early, politely greeting everyone with a professional smile.
Striding around the large table in the center of the room, I slid into a chair that afforded me a clear view of all exits. (I didn’t lie about being paranoid.)
I pointedly ignored ground zero of my paranoia—a.k.a. Mr. Pierce Whitman—seated across the table.
He winked at me from behind his chunky, dark-framed glasses.
Honestly? After everything? That’s how he chose to greet me? Besides, who winks at a female business associate in this day and age?
Stay professional. Calm. Deep breath.
I pretended interest in the mahogany table between us, mentally tracing the contrasting rosewood and satinwood inlay. (Northern Italian. Early nineteenth century. Master cr
aftsman.) Using the moment to tamp down all worry labeled men—Pierce, Mr. Darcy stalker—and channeling my concentration into this potentially life altering meeting.
Pierce kept trying to capture my gaze, dipping his head all earnest-like and pleading. He exuded a nerdy, harmless vibe. Brown hair, soulful eyes . . . lots of glasses and bow ties.
The entirety of him shouting he was the safe choice, the prudent one. That had always been his schtik.
A deep voice cleared his throat.
“Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Raythorn? Mr. Whitman?”
This came from the white-haired man seated at the head of the table, Mr. Kenneth Finster-Cline, the billionaire we had come to audition for.
He radiated energy, despite being over seventy years old. He was one of those men who retained a luxurious mane of snowy-white hair well into old age. It complimented his neatly trimmed beard and Frank Sinatra-esque blue eyes.
As is, he should have looked like Santa Claus, but instead bore an uncanny resemblance to Colonel Sanders. Combined with his initials (KFC) and drawling Kentucky accent, everyone just called him the Colonel.
The few times we had met, the Colonel seemed grandfatherly, though chatty in the way elderly men can be. I intended to use every charm in the book to make a good impression on him.
“No drink?” The Colonel gestured toward a sideboard laden with bottles, soda and an espresso maker. “Natalia would be happy to fetch whatever you all would like.”
Seated to the right of the Colonel, Natalia looked up from her laptop. About my age, Natalia radiated the typical poise and confidence of a beautiful woman well aware she was poised, confident and beautiful.
Pierce kept stealing glances at her. Speculative, inviting sorts of glances. Had I just been too stupid-in-love to notice his behavior before? It was so blatantly obvious.
“I’m fine, thank you.” I shook my head.
Pierce did the same, flashing a wry grin.
“I understand Claire has been trying to lay off the vino.” He tilted his head back, aiming his thumb toward his mouth.
Stay classy, Pierce.
I had been up half the night knowing the meeting today would be like this. That I would have to bite off my tongue to keep from rising to his cruel baiting.
Professionalbeprofessionalstaycalm . . .
But, of course, Pierce wasn’t done. He ratcheted up the posh British accent, moving from his standard condescending into full-blown sardonic.
“You do have an ice princess image to rebuild, after all,” he said.
Natalia suppressed a smug smirk.
I chewed on my cheek. Don’t engage. Any response would only make me look bad. Every word out of my mouth needed to show my calm, un-psychotic demeanor.
Sunlight bounced merrily around the room and, like the Colonel, ignored the tension crackling between Pierce and myself.
“That’s enough, Mr. Whitman,” the Colonel snapped. Okay, so maybe not so ignorant. “Anyone who wants to work for me will remain professional at all times.”
Pierce gave a mock-humble wince.
“You show admirable restraint, Ms. Raythorn.” The Colonel turned to me. “Bit your tongue off yet?”
“Not quite. This room is lovely.” I waved a hand, indicating the opulent space. The wealthy Colonel would have a museum-worthy palazzo as his office building.
“Admirable topic change.” The Colonel nodded approvingly. “I like a gal who doesn’t let emotions rule her head.”
“Thank you.” I ignored the gal. Pick your battles.
Pierce rolled his shoulders—a telling, agitated tic.
The room was lovely, with its gilded coffers and molding in colorful geometric designs. (Originally late Renaissance. Victorian remodel.) It was pure PBS Masterpiece Classic elegance, like those lush E. M. Forster period films my sixth nanny, Mrs. Henderson, watched over and over: A Room with a View, Where Angels Fear to Tread, Howards End . . . I always called the random women who tended me nannies, a rich-slumming euphemism more than a reality. At least Mrs. Henderson hadn’t had a parole officer—
“Both Claire and I are here, shall we get started?” Pierce sat forward, clasping his hands, expression carefully neutral, obviously trying to make up lost ground. “I’m eager to begin.”
Natalia’s perfectly manicured nails clacked as she typed. Pierce eyed her again.
The Colonel leaned back in his chair. “We’re waiting for one more expert.”
That was news to me.
Drat. More competition.
Pierce shot an eyebrow skyward. “I was under the impression Claire and I had been invited here exclusively. A third opinion is hardly necessary—”
“My game. My rules.” The Colonel gestured toward the large double doors. “You don’t like my rules, you’re welcome to leave.”
Which just underscored why everyone called him the Colonel.
Pierce rolled his shoulders again.
“I’m not sure my father is going to approve of this change.”
“Boy, I don’t give a damn what your daddy has to say—”
Crack.
A tall man strode into the room. Head high. Gaze firm.
Of course.
It had been almost too predictable.
Dante D’Angelo.
The industry hot-shot who used well-oiled charm, and little else, to assess art.
Basically, the one actor this melodrama had been missing.
Dante nodded to us all.
“Welcome, Mr. D’Angelo.” The Colonel lifted a hand.
Natalia visibly perked, her body canting toward Dante. I got the distinct impression all her manicured primping had been for Dante D’Angelo’s benefit. Granted, I heard that was how most women responded to him. The man was definitely a player.
Pierce, on the other hand, bristled like a tomcat spotting competition.
“I apologize for my tardiness.” Dante’s voice was deep and smooth with an unexpected West Coast American twang. He shut the door behind him.
“Alone, I see,” the Colonel said. “Will your twin be joining us?”
Dante shook his head. “Branwell sends his regrets for today.”
“That’s fine. Have yourself a seat, boy.” The Colonel waved at a chair. “I trust you already know Claire Raythorn and Pierce Whitman.”
“By reputation. We’ve never had the privilege of meeting.” Dante set down a briefcase, greeting us both with a polite smile and nod.
Dante settled into the chair across the table from me, somehow taking up more than his fair share of oxygen.
He didn’t just own the room.
He saturated it.
Dante was not classically handsome, per se. His nose was a little too long and his features too strong, though his meticulously man-scaped stubble and dark wavy hair certainly added.
No, he was somehow more than the sum of his looks. He hinted of shadowy, more dangerous things. An apex predator.
He sat back with an attitude that said I-am-literally-larger-than-life.
Which he truly was. So much bigger than I would have expected. You can’t get a true sense of size from a photograph. He was tall enough to make even me feel dainty, which was saying something.
Given his last name and Mediterranean coloring, I had always assumed the D’Angelo twins were Italian. Hadn’t I read somewhere he was an Italian earl?
But Dante’s accent was as American as rootbeer and peanut butter. No trace of anything foreign. And the physique in his Armani suit was more hulking Viking than lean Italian. Only genetics could grant a man that kind of bulk.
Natalia certainly made her position evident. She instantly popped over to the sidebar—wiggle-walking in her tight skirt and high stilettos—and snagged a bottle of water.
“We’re so glad you made it today, Mr. D’Angelo,” she crooned as she leeeaaned into his shoulder to set the bottle in front of him, giving everyone at the table a solid understanding of exactly how low her blouse was cut.
S
heesh. Have some self-respect.
Startled, Dante pulled away, shooting her a smooth smile, eyes staying firmly on her face.
“Thanks.”
Dante also didn’t rubberneck as Natalia wiggled her way back to her seat. Granted, Pierce shot Dante a hostile look and then ogled her backside for the both of them. A deliberately antagonizing display for both Dante and myself.
Not that Dante seemed to care. He glanced at Pierce and the Colonel, studying them for a moment, as if tracing something I couldn’t see. Then he swiveled back toward me, settling farther into his chair.
He met my gaze with a tight grin that did not reach his eyes.
It was a very nice smile, full of white hyper-straight teeth. The kind of smile I imagine a tiger gives before eating you for breakfast.
I didn’t smile back.
Instead, I pointedly turned my head toward the Colonel. I wasn’t being rude; I was just making my position clear.
Right before Grammy’s death, I had spent a month authenticating the provenance of a suspected Madonna and Child by Gaimbattista Pittoni. (Venetian. Baroque.) The influential owner of the painting wanted to send it to auction at Sotheby’s in New York.
I painstakingly researched the provenance, artistic technique, mass spectrometry age analysis . . . the usual routine. I concluded the painting was a genuine early work of Pittoni based on use of line, the unique mixture of Pittoni’s azure blue, blah, blah . . .
But the day I returned from burying Grammy, I got a phone call.
For some reason, Sotheby’s had decided to get a second opinion—the D’Angelo brothers.
Apparently, Dante and Branwell D’Angelo spent all of ten minutes looking over the Pittoni Madonna and Child before declaring it a fraud, created in the late 1960s by a pair of well-known Russian forgers.
Yeah. No discussion of painterly technique. No questions about provenance. No assessment of the oil paint.
Just a quick lookie-loo and bam. Here’s our ‘professional’ opinion.
As if.
Sotheby’s refused the Pittoni painting. The owner was devastated. I lost a considerable amount of professional credibility.
So I did what any self-respecting woman would do—I found a bar and drowned my sorrows in one mojito too many.
Don’t judge.