Gladly Beyond Read online

And, of course, there was no secondary mirror in the bathroom to let me see the back of my own head. Ugh. Could just one thing go right today?

  Phone to the rescue. I angled my head awkwardly and snapped a photo of the bun. Swiped to the picture.

  The world came to a grinding halt.

  I’m sure tourists walking along the street below heard my scream.

  I was just grateful I caught my phone before it hit the tiled bathroom floor.

  I sank to the ground, back pressed against the wall opposite the sink, knees shaking too badly to hold me up.

  The photo was so clear. My head with its (lopsided, drat) bun.

  Dante ‘Mr. Darcy’ D’Angelo standing in the glassed-in shower to my left.

  Hatless and coatless now. Wearing only a waistcoat and shirt sleeves. Dark brows drawn down, like he was concerned, worried.

  There was definitely no one else physically in the bathroom with me.

  I sat trembling on the floor for at least five minutes.

  Was someone somehow digitally inserting him into my photos? Like a computer virus?

  The bathroom was sleek and modern. No security cameras (obviously). Really no place to hide a machine that could project an image like that. It seemed . . . impossible.

  I rested my head against my knees for a while, waiting for my fight-or-flight response to calm down.

  Who was doing this? And why?

  My right leg started to go numb. What to do? I raised my head and looked at the vanity above me.

  Only to have my adrenaline spike again.

  Bloody hell!

  I moved forward onto knees and snatched the photo of Grammy and me off the vanity mirror.

  Impossible.

  Just utterly . . .

  And, yet . . .

  There he was. My Regency stalker. Clear as could be.

  Standing in the far background of the photo. Top hat, same green coat, boots, walking stick.

  Staring at Grammy and me making idiots of ourselves in front of the Palazzo Vecchio.

  This was my photo. I flipped it over, around. Definitely mine. It had that little crease in the corner from my bathroom mirror in Boston. That glop of mascara at the bottom I’d accidentally splattered on it.

  But there he was. In my photo from so long ago. Looking exactly the same.

  There’s no Photoshop to alter an already printed print. And Dante himself would have been a teenager too that many years ago . . .

  I swallowed. All of me shaking now.

  This made no sense.

  But—and here I admitted to myself—Mr. Darcy had probably always been there. It seemed like I remembered seeing him in the photo. I had just never really clued into it, as he was so far in the background.

  Was I dealing with the supernatural here? Was this guy a ghost? Did I even believe in ghosts?

  And, if so, why the creepy resemblance to Dante D’Angelo? And why only in images with me in them too?

  With shaking hands, I picked up my phone. I took a photo of my bathroom without me in the shot. Swiped to it.

  Just my bathroom.

  I angled the phone at my face. Me and the wall behind. No space for anything or anyone else.

  I studied the frame and took a selfie.

  I closed my eyes. Sucked in a long, stuttering breath.

  And then flipped into my photos, looking at the picture I had just taken.

  I stared. Breathing hard.

  Impossible.

  My face on the left. Wide-eyed and apprehensive.

  On the right, Dante in his full Jane Austen-esque glory. His head nestled against mine.

  Cravat falling across my shoulder. Eyes closed. Nose pressed into my neck.

  A contented hint of smile on his face.

  How? Why?!

  I had no answers for this. It went beyond anything I could explain. I was so clearly alone in this bathroom.

  This had to be something supernatural.

  Hands still shaking, I took a photo of the picture with Grammy.

  I managed to send one text.

  This just happened. You’re in my Florence photos from fourteen years ago too. You said you have answers.

  I attached the photo of Grammy and the ones of Mr. Darcy in my bathroom.

  A reply came less than thirty seconds later.

  Are you at your hotel?

  I hesitated. And then texted back.

  Yes. Just tell me what’s going on.

  I will. I’m on my way.

  Wait. You don’t know where I am.

  Palazzo Alfieri, right? I’ll be right there.

  What? How do you know where I’m staying?

  I overheard you talking with the Colonel about it at the meeting. I’m coming.

  I stared down at my phone. Still shaken. Really unsure how to respond.

  He knew where I was staying. He had known all week.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I didn’t trust him. Or, again, I didn’t trust my sense of trust.

  Dante sent one more text.

  You’re safe, Claire. It’s nothing that can hurt you, I promise. I’ll explain when I get there.

  Ugh. Stupid mind-reader.

  I instantly called him.

  The phone rang and rang.

  You’ve reached Dante D’Angelo. Please leave a message. Ha raggiunto Dante D’Angelo. Per favore lasci un messaggio.

  Grrr.

  I tried two more times. Voicemail.

  Either he was ignoring me or was already on his way.

  Now what?

  The last thing I wanted was Dante knocking on my hotel room door.

  Still trembling, I pushed myself off the floor of the bathroom and exchanged my lopsided bun for a simple ponytail. I shut my bedroom windows, slid my feet into a pair of heels and then went downstairs. Dante could chat with me there.

  Palazzo Alfieri was a small boutique-style hotel, so though the rooms were gorgeous and the rooftop bar swank, the lobby was little more than a glorified entryway and stairwell. Granted, a lovely marble staircase and expansive foyer, but definitely not anything that drifted into lobby territory. The ‘front desk’ was a small office to the right of the stairs.

  I glanced in. Good. Matteo was working tonight. (Plays bass guitar in a punk band. Boyfriend. Likes pink.) I waved at him and then retreated back into the ‘lobby.’

  I sat on a little leather bench next to the stairs, chewing on my lower lip, foot bouncing.

  Eyes glued on the large door leading out to the street. The portone, I guess I should call it.

  Why was my stalker-ghost in that photo from so long ago? Why me? Why Dante?

  Crack.

  Dante pushed the portone open.

  That had been fast. Did he live nearby?

  He had changed out of the designer suit he had on earlier. Somehow, scruffy jeans, worn boots, an untucked cream button-down and tight-fitting Italian leather jacket suited him more. Even his hair relaxed, falling in dark loose waves on his forehead and around his ears. His bulky shoulders filled the room.

  Swoon . . . he was fine.

  A younger me would have flirt-flirt-flirted with him. But I was no longer that naive girl.

  With pinched lips and folded arms, I stood up and walked into the middle of the entryway.

  Dante nodded at Matteo through the office door and then turned his attention to me.

  He stopped about two feet too close. So close, the spice of his cologne eddied around me and I had to look up, up into his face. The man really did not understand the concept of personal space.

  I hadn’t processed what color his eyes were. I had just assumed they were brown, given the rest of his Italian vibe. But they weren’t. They were a decided hazel . . . golden brown around the pupil morphing to green farther out.

  He had very long eyelashes.

  He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, bunching his beefy shoulders.

  I took a step back. Firmly told my heart to slow down.

&nb
sp; “Claire,” he said.

  “Mr. D’Angelo.”

  “Dante. Please.” He smiled. White. Toothy. Heartbreaking.

  I folded my arms tighter.

  “You didn’t need to come,” I said. “I tried to call—”

  “You did?” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Ah. You did. Sorry. I was driving.”

  Figured. “Shall we?” I nodded at the bench behind me to the left.

  He glanced around me at the bench. And then shook his head.

  “This will take too long.” He stepped closer again. “You saw the . . . man? . . . in your room. I’d like to start there.”

  “Do I have a flashing ‘stupid’ sign above my head?” My eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. “That would be a firm ‘hell no’ to inviting you into my hotel room. We can talk here.”

  I gestured at the bench, now at my side, and deliberately stepped back. Again.

  Matteo was studying us with careful interest from the hotel office. I appreciated having an audience.

  “Look. Like I said earlier today, things are different from what they appear.” Once more, Dante stepped right into my personal bubble. “The true scope of this . . . ghost requires some explanation.”

  “Ghost? Seriously?” Another step back.

  He shot an agitated hand into his hair. The motion was not endearing. Nope.

  “Yes. And if we could just go up to your room, I think things might become a little clearer for both of us.”

  “In my room?”

  He moved into my space. “Yeah.”

  Me. “To see the . . . ghost?”

  Him. “Something like that.”

  I took another step backward. “Seriously, Mr. D’Angelo—”

  “Dante. Honestly, how many times do I have to ask you to use my name?”

  He stepped forward. Again.

  Loomed over me. Again.

  “Mister D’Angelo. Just stop right there.” I held out two hands. “Personal space bubble.” I flapped my arms in a circle around me. “Ever heard of it?”

  He froze. “Oh—”

  “Sheesh! And you wonder why I’m leery of being alone with you?” I waved a hand back and forth. “Could you please maintain a polite four feet of air between us?”

  Honest-to-goodness, I swear he blushed. Never thought it possible for a man like Dante D’Angelo. But that slow-spreading burn moving up his cheeks could only be called one thing.

  “I-I am really and truly sorry. I didn’t even realize.” He took a large, polite step back. “My Italian self takes over sometimes. Forgive me.”

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Grimaced.

  Looking uncannily like a bashful five-year-old boy.

  Not. Adorable.

  I wrapped my hands around my upper arms.

  “So let me get this straight.” I cocked my head. “You have to be in my hotel room in order to explain about the, uh, ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your doppelganger ghost who has been stalking me dressed as Mr. Darcy since the age of fourteen?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you ever record yourself and play it back? Just to hear how utterly insane you sound?”

  “Sometimes.” Total deadpan. “I cackle while I do it. It adds to the ambiance.”

  A pause.

  I wasn’t sure if I was horrified or charmed.

  Horrified was the safer emotion. I went with that.

  “Look,” I said. “Just tell me what’s going on? Why is this so hard?”

  “What will it take?” Dante hit me with a lethal pair of pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “For you to trust me. What will it take?”

  Ten

  Dante

  Claire froze.

  “Trust you?” Her icy blue gaze drilled me.

  I nodded, reminding my feet to stay put even though they itched to step toward her.

  “I don’t trust you,” she said. “I will never trust you. This isn’t about trust.”

  I strongly begged to differ, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  “Not let’s-be-BFFs-and-paint-each-others’-toenails trust,” I said. “Just trust enough to let me into your hotel room. The two of us. Together.”

  Even by my skewed standards, the photos Claire had texted were freaky. Obviously, something was up with my GUT. But what?

  The images from her bathroom seemed more intimate than the ones she showed me earlier. Did that mean anything? This palazzo matched the time period of Claire’s Regency-era gentleman. Had an event happened here in the past? Something significant?

  I half hoped a regression would occur when I stepped into the foyer. But, so far, nothing. Maybe her hotel room was the correct place.

  Granted, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a regression to happen. On the other hand, a regression would be irrefutable proof, wouldn’t it?

  For most people, no amount of simply describing my GUT would be convincing. But if Claire were to experience a regression with me? Well. That would speak for itself.

  And I would know for sure that Claire had been important to me in past lives.

  Claire paused. Truth be told, she was wise to not trust a man who was little more than a stranger. Particularly as I had been showing up in her photos. How to get through to her?

  “I mean you no harm. I cannot emphasize that enough. This is important.” I pressed my palms together in front of my chest as if praying. “What will it take?” My eyes blazed with sincerity.

  Claire kept her arms folded across her chest. Biting that plump bottom lip of hers. Looking far too young and alone.

  Finally, she sighed and leaned around me, looking through the open door to my right.

  “Matteo,” she said to the man behind the reception desk, “do you have any duct tape?”

  Ten minutes later, Claire had me trussed up like a Mafia victim.

  I tested the tape holding my hands behind my back. They were going nowhere.

  It was an uncannily expert job.

  “So at what point did you decide to abandon your career as a professional kidnapper?” I asked as she finished taping my legs together above the knees.

  “You need to stop talking.”

  “This gets kinkier by the minute.”

  She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, You wish.

  “If your goal is earning my trust, you’re not doing a convincing job of it.” She sat back on her heels. Glaring.

  “I’m just pointing out that this obviously isn’t your first rodeo.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cerise, my fourth nanny, was an ex-con—”

  “That seems . . . improbable.”

  “I’m not lying. Cerise did ten years hard time for fraud and being an accessory to kidnapping.”

  “Nice. I wasn’t doubting Cerise’s . . . uh, history, per se . . . more the fact she was allowed to add ‘child caretaker’ to her resume.”

  “Right? My parents set high standards for my care.”

  “Obviously.”

  She ripped off the piece of tape with her teeth. “Anyway, Cerise thought it broadened my horizons to know how to properly restrain someone. She was big on life skills—”

  “Wouldn’t laundry be more along the line of life skills? Changing the oil in your car? Knowing how to hogtie a victim seems . . .”

  “What?”

  I shrugged. “Less useful, I guess.”

  “It’s feeling pretty useful right now.” She wrapped the tape around my legs one last time.

  “And that’s your story?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sticking to it?”

  “Like stink on a skunk.”

  “No stories of punking wasted prep school boys?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Restraining difficult clients?”

  “Are you done?”

  “Just pointing out what would have been more believable.”

  “You’re impossible.”


  “Thank you.”

  She stood up and bit off another section of tape.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Without further ado, she slapped the small strip of tape over my mouth.

  Shutting me up.

  Annnnnnd, now I was going to have to kill her.

  She noted my laser death-stare and, then, did the worst thing possible.

  She . . . laughed.

  The most mischievous sound. Throaty. A little naughty. Completely infectious.

  Everything about her changed. Her eyes sparked and crinkled. Her cheeks plumped, revealing a tiny dimple just below her right eye. Open. Fun-loving. Ready to laugh her way through life.

  Madonna mia.

  It was worth being hogtied just to see her face in that moment. No wonder she didn’t laugh much. It was fairly lethal.

  “C’mon, big guy.” She tucked a hand around my left elbow. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  Still grinning, she turned me toward the small elevator. She was enjoying this way too much.

  I would so make her pay.

  Once she untied me. And decided we were friends.

  And I earned her undying trust.

  Then . . . payback time.

  I awkward-shuffled my way past the front desk/office, only able to move my legs from the knees down.

  I was pretty sure I looked like a drunk penguin.

  Poor Matteo had definitely had an eyeful by this point. He shot me a broad wink. Obviously, he anticipated my evening would be significantly more exciting than I did.

  If only he knew . . .

  Smiling far too smugly, Claire loaded me into the closet-like elevator and took us up a floor.

  “Ya know, this really did work,” she said as she helped me waddle down the hallway. “I feel so much safer now.”

  I mumbled behind my tape.

  “What was that?”

  I stopped and glared down at her.

  She chuckled.

  That smile, those lips . . . she was going to be the death of me. A very sweet and pleasant death, mind you. But a death all the same.

  She paused in front of her door, pulling a keycard from her jeans pocket.

  My adrenaline spiked.

  Would a regression happen? And if it did, what would we experience?