by Nichole Van
Branwell and I would consult our GUTs and have an answer in minutes. Then use the rest of the month to build evidence supporting our knowledge. Who was I kidding? We’d have a solid case in less than a week. A month was a ridiculously generous amount of time.
Across from me, Claire shifted. Still no shadows.
Damn. What was up?
And given what was at stake here with the Colonel, now was not the time for my GUT to go on the fritz.
Out of curiosity, I spread my palms on the table top, staring at the family signet ring on my right middle finger. I took a deep breath and centered.
Generally, the images of people’s past lives floated involuntarily around them. It was nothing I could control or direct.
But if I concentrated, I could see glimpses of the past life of an object—a directed form of psychometry. In this case, the table before me.
The table blurred around the edges. Like flipping through a slide show, images flickered into view. The darkness of years and years of storage. Servants in uniforms placing flowers on the table. Dinner guests whirling around at hyper speed. First in Edwardian lace, then Victorian hoopskirts, Regency empire waists . . .
Back, back. Farther into the past.
Ah. There it was.
A workshop. A craftsman using a thin chisel to carve sinuous tracks for the inlay. I studied his clothing. Smocked shirt with flap-front knee breeches. Long hair in a queue but unpowdered. Late eighteenth century. Probably French. If Branwell were here, he could tell for sure.
I let my concentration go. The present reality slid back into place, the ghostly shapes melting away.
Hmmm. That had all been normal.
I lifted my head. Claire instantly turned her face away.
Interesting. My little episode had not gone unnoticed. Many assumed it was a small seizure. Which I guess, in certain respects, it was.
She was still shadow-free.
I studied her a minute longer, helpless to look away.
Pale. Delicate. Carved porcelain.
Fragile. The word popped into my head. Which seemed like a lie. Claire was anything but fragile. And yet . . .
A powerful surge of protectiveness swept me. My heart thudded in my ears.
I swallowed.
Why? Why her?
And more importantly, what secrets did her missing shadows hide?
Five
Claire
The Colonel broke up our meeting a little after noon.
The men instantly stood up and started into typical male posturing, each jockeying for position.
Pierce rolled his shoulders and said something schoolyard-pithy to Dante. Dante grunted back, gave a steely alpha warning look and turned away.
At which point, Natalia immediately attached herself to Dante, angling her upper body toward him in subtle invitation. Well . . . make that not-so-subtle, given how far she was leaning.
Sheesh.
The last hour of the meeting had just been housekeeping. Pierce, being Pierce, had demanded to be first to examine the sketch. The Colonel had looked none-too-pleased with Pierce’s bossiness, which was just fine by me—let Pierce pour gasoline on his own funeral pyre—but the Colonel relented and gave the first slot to him. Pierce would have all of tomorrow to study the sketch at the Colonel’s villa just south of Florence.
I was assigned the day after that, when I would gather the small samples for age analysis and send them off to the University of Florence. Turns out, I was the only one both Pierce and Dante trusted to conduct the sample. They made it amply clear they didn’t trust each other.
Dante and Branwell D’Angelo would view the sketch in three days. Surprisingly, Dante had seemed unconcerned about the delay. I would have expected him to be more . . . pushy. Instead, he acted like a guy who had a secret inside-track, unconcerned about the competition.
Obviously, given the unorthodox nature of this job—Contest? Audition? Circus?—juggling access to the sketch was going to be tricky.
For right now, I had a little under forty-eight hours to do some research. I was genuinely excited to assess the piece. Anything linked to Michelangelo Buonarotti would have important historical and artistic significance, not to mention resuscitating my tattered professional career.
I gathered my notes together, eager to get out of the room. I hoped to use the Colonel’s Sandbox Rule as an excuse to avoid all further contact with Pierce.
My phone buzzed. Text.
Don’t think I have forgotten you. I long to drag my nose along your neck and memorize the smell of your skin.
My adrenaline instantly spiked; my skin crawled.
I closed my eyes. Forced my breathing to slow down.
It was okay. I was okay. They were just words. They only had power if I let them.
I hated this unknown cyber stalker.
After everything went down with Pierce posting that video, the haters had crawled out of the woodwork.
This particular person was tenacious and had been harassing me for months.
That was almost the worst part of the whole video fiasco.
I was the victim in the whole situation. The one who was cheated on, lied to, manipulated.
But after fifty million views, I was known the world over as the psychotic ex-girlfriend Pierce had been fortunate enough to dump before it was too late.
A chip off the old block. Unstable and crazy, just like Lisabet and John-Baptista.
Twenty-eight years of (generally) rock-steady behavior gone in less than forty-eight hours. The masses never want to hear about the straight-laced child of tabloid-fodder parents—the one who keeps their act together despite all odds.
No. People want to watch the train wreck. In detail. Millions of times over.
And then write you nasty emails/texts/tweets and even the occasional snail mail letter just to reiterate what an ugly/stupid/psychotic person they think you are.
I know, I know. Haters gonna hate. But, seriously . . . who cheated on who here?
The bullying had dwindled down to pretty much this one particular texter.
This person always got my phone number, no matter how many times I changed it, blocked them, got a different SIM card . . .
I’d finally called the police over it. Not that they could do much. Come to find out, filing a restraining order against an invisible online harasser is nearly impossible.
I instantly deleted the rude text, firmly telling my shaking hands to settle down.
I was just having this reaction because it had been nearly two weeks since the last text, and I had (maybe) a Mr. Darcy impersonator following me earlier, and I had just spent a solid two hours in the same room as Pierce.
I had let my guard down. That was all.
I was in Florence. Far away from this person.
I clenched my jaw and straightened my shoulders. Lifted fear firmly onto my back, dropped my phone into my purse and headed toward the door.
“Claire.” Pierce snagged my arm, turning me back to the room.
I stared at his hand. Pointedly.
He released me and pushed his glasses up his nose. As if that were the reason he let go.
“We were great this morning.” He tried for a friendly smile, but ended up with something more Cheshire Cat. “Just like old times there—”
“I’m not in the mood for this, Pierce.”
“Hold on. I bet I could convince my dad to hire you back. With the right encouragement, of course.” He winked.
Oh my word! “As if. I have no desire to talk to you.”
I spun around and headed, again, toward the door.
Pierce darted in front, stopping me. “Kidding, Claire. You never could take a joke. Let me take you out to lunch. I promise I’ll behave—”
“No.”
“You just go from one mistake to another. C’mon, you know I’m the only man for you.”
His brown eyes got that hang-dog look, winsome, promising adoration and safety. It’s why I had agreed to marry him
, once upon a time. Not because I was madly in love with him.
But because I had thought he was madly in love with me.
The solid, steady man who would never break my heart. The opposite of the bad boy charmers I typically dated.
Wow. Had I learned that bitter lesson.
“As the Italians would say, Ciao.”
I sidestepped. He moved with me.
“I’m good for you. Admit it.”
Oh! “You mean I’m still good for you. Because you are most decidedly not good for me.”
“That’s not true—”
“Goodbye, Pierce.” I walked around him, aiming (once more) for the door.
“C’mon, Claire.” His head pivoted with me. “You never gave us a real chance. You just have to trust—”
I froze.
“Trust?!” I whirled on him. “Did that word seriously just come out of your mouth?”
I stomped back over to him, my gaze surely shooting lasers. A smile tugged at his lips, like a small child preening after poking and prodding and finally getting a reaction.
I was grateful, for once, that I topped him by about an inch. Add in my heeled boots and towering anger, and I easily gazed down on him. I liked that he had to raise his head to look me in the eye.
I stared into his familiar face and realized I genuinely hated him.
Hated I could pick his laugh out of a crowd.
Hated I knew what he would say seconds before he said it.
Hated that, even now, part of me missed us.
Hated that because of his actions, I might never have us with someone else.
All because I had trusted him. I had loved him.
You don’t hand a man you don’t love the power to destroy you.
Now I knew how thoroughly trust could be shattered. How impossible it was to reassemble.
Humpty-Dumpty and all that.
Never again.
Pierce reached for me. I took a step back.
“Is there a problem here, Mr. Whitman? Ms. Raythorn?” The Colonel appeared at Pierce’s side.
Pierce. “No.”
Me. “Yes.”
The Colonel raised a bushy, white eyebrow. “Seems the lady doesn’t appreciate your company, Mr. Whitman. I’d hate to invoke that Sandbox Rule.”
His tone implied the opposite.
Pierce thrust out his jaw and, for a split second, I wondered if he would actually argue with the Colonel.
Instead, he nodded at me. “See you later, luv.” One final wink.
I barely managed to suppress my eyeroll.
The Colonel’s eyes followed Pierce as he walked back to gather his things from the table.
Strike one for pushy men today.
Dante D’Angelo was still chatting with Natalia, saying something that made her giggle.
Not that I noticed or anything.
Swinging back to me, the Colonel smiled. Even at his age, he was still tall. Though all that white hair probably added an inch or two. This was the problem with being tall myself. I always judged others by their height.
“How are you finding your accommodations, Ms. Raythorn?”
“Please, call me Claire.”
He nodded, pleased. “Claire then.”
“Palazzo Alfieri is lovely,” I continued. “Thank you for arranging my hotel.”
Typically, clients did not book my housing, but the situation with this contract was unique. The Colonel had insisted on arranging my accommodations. Usually, I just stayed in your average tourist-grade hotel.
But the Colonel had deep pockets and had put me in a luxury suite at Palazzo Alfieri. My hotel room sported carved Baroque ceilings overlooking the Arno, complete with a mixture of sleek modern fixtures and antique touches. The Colonel had arranged a month’s stay and included a generous meal stipend, as well as a car and driver at my disposal. All without me having to spend a penny of my salary.
The whole situation was almost too good to be true.
Now if I could only land the job, as well.
“Did the hotel reception inform you of the history of the building?” the Colonel asked.
I smiled politely. “A little. I understand the palazzo housed the British consulate until 2011, at which point it was renovated into a luxury hotel.”
I had spent fifteen minutes chatting with the friendly woman behind the desk about it. (Martina. Three grandkids. Likes clubbing.)
“The front desk clerk said the building was named for Vittorio Alfieri, the famous Italian playwright,” I continued.
“Yes. I believe he lived the last fifteen years of his life there with his mistress, the Countess of Albany. She was quite an interesting figure, I must say.”
“The countess?”
“Yes. She was actually Princess Louise of Stolberg-Gedern.”
I blinked, not sure if that name was supposed to mean anything to me. Given my profession, my background in history was extensive but hardly encompassing random continental royal families.
The Colonel took pity on me.
“Louise was married to Charles Stuart. You know, Bonnie Prince Charlie . . . the Battle of Culloden—”
“Oh!” My head jerked back. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I’ve had my head firmly in Italian art and history all day. I wasn’t expecting the Scots to make an appearance.”
“Completely understandable, darlin’.” The southern gentleman coming to the surface. “Charlie’s marriage happened well after the Battle of Culloden. Most people don’t know about it. Louise was practically young enough to be his granddaughter when they married.” He chuckled. “Imagine being married to a man that much older than yourself.”
I nodded politely, managed a weak chuckle of my own. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dante leaving the room.
Again, not that I was noticing or anything.
“I just think it’s fascinating how interwoven people’s lives were in the past,” the Colonel continued. “Prince Charlie actually lived his last years in Florence and Rome. Catholics, you know. His younger brother, Henry, was the Dean of the College of Cardinals. Charlie’s wife, Louise, left him for Alfieri. She lived for a number of years in the palazzo that is now your hotel. She died just a few years after the end of the Napoleonic wars, around 1824, I believe. I thought you would enjoy staying in a place full of such rich history.”
The Colonel stared at me expectantly. Like this little history lesson was supposed to mean something.
It didn’t.
Other than to underscore that, yes, the aristocratic world of two hundred years ago had been a much smaller place than many knew. Most anyone who was anyone was related to, or friends with, everyone else in their same social sphere. Like an exclusive high school—jocks, jerks, mean girls, nerds . . . a tight social strata with the rich, popular kids on top.
I smiled. Professional. Friendly.
“Yes. Thank you, Colonel, for everything. Especially for a chance to prove I’m the best fit for this job.” I moved to shake his hand. “I look forward to seeing the sketch in-person the day after tomorrow when I take the samples.”
He clasped my hand firmly in his and then did that old person thing, placing his free hand over our joined ones. Preventing me from breaking the handshake.
He patted our hands. “I see so much of Adelaide in you. She was a remarkable woman.”
I froze. Okaaaaay. How did this man know Grammy?
So far, this conversation had staggered around like a drunken frat boy trying to walk a straight line.
What next?
“Yes. I am often told I look like her. I wasn’t aware that you knew my grandmother.”
Were she still alive, they would probably be about the same age. But the Colonel was the son of a wealthy Kentucky father and British aristocrat mother. Whereas Grammy had been the daughter of poor Danish immigrants living in Boston. Their paths should have never crossed.
He stared at me, still holding/patting my hand. His palm was surprisingly rough and calloused. The moment st
retched well into the range of awkward.
Then, he smiled. “Allow me to take you to dinner sometime. I would love to talk about Adelaide over a bistecca alla fiorentina.”
Pat, pat, pat.
I had seen the huge Florentine steaks before, thick and barely seared. Sushi was the only thing I ate raw. Beef? Not so much.
And, more importantly, would the Colonel pat my hand the entire night?
You need this job.
“Of course.” I kept my expression politely neutral.
“Excellent! Because I won’t take no for an answer.” He beamed at me.
The Colonel was still holding my hand.
I managed a weak smile of my own and, gently, extricated my fingers.
Assertive men strike two.
As I clacked down the marble stairs in my boots, I reviewed the odd exchange.
Well, I mostly tried to convince myself that I was just being paranoid and hyper-sensitive and man-hating.
The Colonel was a perfectly nice person, and I was reading things that weren’t really there in the subtext of his conversation . . .
So, you’re the granddaughter of this woman I knew—and possibly liked—a long time ago, and I’ve put you up in the house of a woman who married a wealthy man nearly three times her age. Hey, what do you know? Just like you and me!
Here, let me pat your hand one more time . . .
Had the Colonel actually been hitting on me? Or was he just a chatty, perhaps lonely, old man?
Please don’t let him be pervy, I pleaded. I need this job too much.
I hit the ground floor and took two steps toward the large wooden front door.
How would the next few weeks play out? Like being a contestant on Survivor? The Great Race?
A voice stopped me.
“Just the person I was waiting for.”
I closed my eyes.
Nope. Things were shaping up to be The Bachelorette.
Honestly.
Pasting on my polite grin, which truthfully was more of a grimace by this point, I turned around.
“Mr. D’Angelo.”
“Dante, please.” He stepped out of the shadows at the base of the stairs. A window in the stairwell illuminated half of him. Even that half was huge.