Gladly Beyond Page 12

  Of course, I knew she was never for me.

  Of course, she is the woman you will marry, your Grace.

  She could practically see the moment that Dr. MacLure realized. That like-minds and flutter-inducing smiles would never trump money and rank.

  Dr. MacLure’s eyes shuttered, tucking all that lovely warmth and understanding far away.

  She swallowed. Her chest suddenly tight and aching.

  A woman such as herself had to make do with the few choices she was given. Caro was quite sure she would marry the Duke of Blackford, whether she truthfully wanted to or not.

  “Dr. MacLure and I were discussing Florence and its history,” Caro said around the lump in her throat.

  “Always an interesting topic.” The Duke’s smile could politely be called condescending. “The doctor is kind to listen to your meandering musings. Though, I am sure one of the dignitaries circling the salon would be a more valuable source of information for the doctor. We would hate to tax your lovely mind, my lady.”

  Caro’s smile froze. Most days, her smile rivaled the matonelle for brittleness.

  She caught Dr. MacLure’s gaze. Ah. A smile just as frozen as hers.

  Which was exquisitely wonderful and equally terrible all at once.

  She did not need to find a kindred spirit. Not now.

  Her decisions were not her own.

  “Of course, your Grace.” She turned to Blackford. “You are always the soul of consideration.”

  Caro tentatively wrapped her hand around the arm the Duke offered, allowing him to lead her back toward the main salon.

  Dr. MacLure’s gaze burning a scorching hole between her shoulder blades.

  Every impulse in her body resisting the urge to turn back and bury herself in the arms of a kind Scotsman . . .

  Twelve

  Claire

  I swayed on my feet. Heart pounding. Sweating.

  The world righted itself with a lurch.

  I was Claire. Claire Raythorn.

  Not Caro . . . whoever she had been. Talking to Dr. Ethan MacLure.

  I still held Dante’s elbow with one hand. My opposite foot propped open the door to the hallway.

  It was like waking from a dream. Time felt fluid. Barely a second had passed, but the scene . . . whatever that was. . . had lasted much longer.

  What had happened? Was I hallucinating now too?

  Except . . . it had felt so real. I had been there. The heat of the sun on my back through the window. The teasing grin on Dr. MacLure’s lips. The deep burr of his Scottish accent. But Michelangelo’s Battle of Cascina had made an appearance, which seemed odd.

  Did I need to add ‘psychotic episodes’ to my list of problems? The stress of assessing the Colonel’s sketch and my costumed ghost-stalker finally coalescing together into a weird waking dream?

  Or had Dante spiked my drink? Wait, he hadn’t offered me one—

  What. Just. Happened?!

  My pulse pounded in my throat.

  Shaking my head, I turned to Dante. His hazel eyes pleading above his duct-taped mouth.

  He seemed to blend in that moment, becoming Ethan MacLure but still Dante D’Angelo as well.

  Like déjà vu but somehow . . . more.

  Most importantly, his expression said he knew.

  Let me repeat—

  He. Knew.

  How—?!

  “You experienced that, too.” It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded anyway.

  “You knew this was going to happen.”

  He scrunched his forehead. And then shrugged.

  “This has happened to you before.” Again, not a question.

  Yes.

  “Did you make it happen?”

  No.

  He looked pointedly down at his mouth, nearly going cross-eyed.

  “You’ll explain if I remove the tape.”

  Another nod.

  Fine.

  I grabbed the tape and pulled.

  “Ouch!” Dante bent over slightly.

  Huh. What do you know? Duct tape could be used for waxing.

  I pulled him the rest of the way into my hotel room, letting the door close behind us. Helped him penguin-walk down the short hallway and into the main room with its king-size bed, large sitting area and desk.

  I tap-tap-tapped my foot while Dante continued to wiggle his mouth.

  “Sooooo . . . just waiting for an explanation.”

  He threw a glance over his shoulder, arching to see his hands. “I’m pretty sure my answer will be more interesting if I’m not hogtied.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to argue that point right now.”

  He glared at me. Stubborn.

  “Did you drug me? Force me to share the same hallucination?” I asked.

  “Of course not.” His head reared back. “Is that even possible? I don’t think people can share the same hallucin—”

  “Then what just happened?!”

  He twisted again trying to lift his hands. Looking back at them pointedly.

  “Please untie me.”

  “No. Tell me what’s going on!”

  He waddle-walked three awkward steps to a modern leather and chrome chair. Sat his enormous carcass down with an oomph. Leaned back and managed to swing his boots onto the glass-top coffee table.

  “By all means, make yourself comfy.” My tone as dry as the Sahara.

  He shrugged. “I got all night.”

  He smiled then . . . more crocodilian than sheepish.

  We engaged in a staring contest for a solid two minutes. He blinked first, shoulders sagging.

  “C’mon, Claire. Please.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I’m riiight on the edge of a serious freak-out. I think seeing your huge body free and prowling my room might be more than I can handle.”

  “Duly noted.”

  I wrapped my shaking arms around myself. It had felt so real. I had been Caro. Seeing what she saw, feeling what she felt.

  Could it have been real? Something . . . supernatural?

  “You think it’s been Ethan in my photos, not you?” I asked.

  “That’s my guess.”

  Even two days ago, I would have sworn such things were impossible. But that was before Dr. Ethan MacLure decided to go on a photobombing selfie spree.

  “So was that scene . . . real?”

  “Yes.” Emphatic.

  I should have been better prepared for that response.

  Instead, black dots appeared at the edge of my vision, trying to crowd closer. I closed my eyes. Forced my breathing to calm before I completely hyperventilated.

  I opened my eyes, focusing on Dante sprawled out on my leather chair. His dark hair had fallen forward, curling around his face.

  “So just answer me one thing. Like I asked before, did you know that”—I waved my hand—“was going to happen?”

  “Not for sure. I suspected.”

  “Why not just tell me?”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  A pause.

  “Probably not.”

  “Precisely. I figured showing you would go farther than anything else.”

  “And it’s happened before.”

  “Yes.”

  “When? How?”

  He sighed. Set his head against the leather seat back. Weary. “Look. It is a long story—”

  “I got all night.” I threw his words back at him.

  He laughed, soft and resigned. “Well, at least, we’re both on the same page.”

  “Who were those people? Lady Caro and Dr. Ethan MacLure?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  I started pacing the room, Dante’s eyes tracking me. My heart drummed against my chest. I swallowed convulsively.

  “It was nothing that could hurt you, Claire.” His tone gentle. Like he was coaxing a wild animal. “Just a . . . well, a past life regression, if you will.”

  �
��Past life regression? Like I was Caro in a previous life?”

  He nodded, gaze serious and concerned. “And I was Ethan.”

  “That I’ll believe. Ethan looked just like you.” It came out as an accusation. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why I looked the same. Genetic chance? Generally people don’t look alike life-after-life.”

  “Did Caro look like me?”

  “No. She was shorter, rounder face, darker hair. Pretty though.”

  More pacing.

  “So why was there another drawing of Michelangelo’s Battle of Cascina?”

  “I have no idea.” Dante studied me.

  “It all just seems a little too . . . coincidental.”

  “Coincidence? Or Fate drawing threads together?”

  I paused and fixed him with my sternest don’t-think-I’m-stupid look.

  Dante just stared back, completely unfazed.

  I finally turned away, looking out the dark window. The same window Caro had sat in front of, I realized.

  Lights flickered across the flowing Arno. Honking rose from the street below, muted.

  I shifted my focus to the glass itself and studied the reflection of Dante seated behind me. Hands still bound. Eyes trained on me.

  It all seemed so surreal. How could that regression have just happened?

  But I had been there.

  “It’s just impossible to believe.” I met his eyes in the reflected glass. “I felt Caro’s surprise at meeting Ethan. She had this intense, visceral attraction to him—”

  “Yeah. Ethan did the same. It was like a lightning bolt. Soulmate insta-love kinda thing—”

  “Well, it won’t do him much good. Caro had decided to marry Blackford—”

  “Ethan knew the Duke had planned on offering marriage to the Countess of Albany’s ward. He just didn’t realize that Caro was that woman. His shock in that moment.” Dante shook his head. “Poor guy. The Duke had been doggedly pursuing the match, but Ethan wasn’t sure why.”

  I frowned, searching my—or, rather, what I sensed of Caro’s—memories. “I’m not sure what her exact origins are.”

  “The Michelangelo? Did you get any idea of the story there?”

  I paused. “No. Caro had just started the drawing. We both know copying old masters is a time-honored way of learning to draw. She drew the Battle of Cascina a lot. It was a hobby of hers. I could see the original—the one she copied from—in her mind’s eye.” I pondered it for a moment. “Could the sketch she copied from be the one in the Colonel’s possession, I wonder?”

  “Who knows.” He shrugged. “Better yet, was the design Sangallo’s copy or the Colonel’s?”

  Mmmm, that was an excellent question. I tried to remember, but Caro had thought of it so fleetingly . . .

  “I don’t know.”

  I turned back to him. Still reclining on the chair. Still staring straight at me. Through me.

  I let out a long, slow breath.

  “I’m seriously weirded out right now. How do you know all this? I’m just confused and terrified and—”

  “Look.” He sat upright, pulling his feet off the coffee table. “I have some answers. Not all, but some. I’m hungry, and I think I saw something about a restaurant on the roof of this hotel. How about you untie me, and we discuss this over a leisurely dinner?”

  He leaned forward, eyes pleading. That weird thing happened again, where I saw him as Ethan MacLure. The same teasing grin. Caro had interpreted his smile as kindness, goodness.

  Why didn’t I do the same with Dante?

  My instinct was to trust him. Granted, this was the same instinct that wanted to snuggle up to him on that leather chair, run my hands over his muscled chest and make-out like a giggly teenager.

  The same instinct that had considered Pierce a sensible choice.

  So yeah. Not really going with my gut.

  My brain reminded me of Dante’s cavalier treatment of my assessment of the Pittoni painting. Of those creepy, awful texts . . .

  Ethan MacLure probably wouldn’t do those things . . . but Ethan and Dante were not the same person, right?

  “I just want answers,” I said.

  “You’ll get them. Please untie me.” His eyes plead sincerity.

  I wanted to trust him. But—

  Dante’s leather jacket buzzed.

  We both glanced at it.

  “Uhmmm, would you mind?” He shot me a beseeching look.

  Grimacing, I walked over to him. He rolled onto his left hip, giving me access to his jacket pocket.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Like I needed to listen to him chat with his woman de jour.

  I found his phone and pulled it out.

  Mom pulsed on the screen.

  Seriously. His mother?!

  I swiped the phone.

  “Hello.”

  I winced. Why, oh why, had I answered the phone for him? I should have just held it up to his ear. Gah!

  “Dante?” A woman’s voice came through the connection. Concerned.

  “Th-this is Claire Raythorn. A business associate. Dante is right—”

  “Claire. How lovely to hear your voice. I’m Judith D’Angelo, by the way. My boys have told me all about you. How goes the project with the Colonel?”

  She sounded so . . . normal. So nice.

  Wait—her boys talked about me?

  “Uhmm, good. It’s . . . It’s going good.”

  “I know Dante and Branwell certainly think highly of your skill and expertise.”

  They did?

  “Th-that’s a surprise.”

  Judith laughed. A kind, motherly sound.

  “Look. Dante is right here,” I said. “Let me put him on—”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather just chat with you. I talk to Dante all the time.”

  Interesting. “Okay.”

  “I had no idea Dante was with you. He up and left a half hour ago. I hope he’s behaving himself.”

  I stared down at Dante. Arms behind his back, knees taped together. Smirking at me.

  I managed a weak laugh. “I’m doing what I can to keep him in line.”

  “Excellent. I knew I liked you.”

  Wow. How could a womanizing hotshot like Dante have such a down-to-earth, no-nonsense mother?

  “I called to see if Dante was coming back for dinner,” Judith continued. “Nonna was wondering if she should put the pasta down now or wait for him.”

  “Ummm. . . let me ask.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear, tucking it against my body to muffle the sound. Stared down at Dante. “She wants to know if you’re coming back for dinner.”

  “Tell her I won’t make it.” His grin morphed into total mischief. “You have me tied up at the moment.”

  Oh! He had not just said that.

  I glared at him.

  He sat back, smirking, giving his head a preening toss. He was trussed up on my chair. Completely at my mercy.

  And he still had the upper hand.

  He gestured toward the phone with his chin. “Go on. No need to be rude to my mom.”

  I glowered. Raised the phone to my ear. “He’s, uh, indisposed at the moment—”

  Dante grunted. “Tied up, Mom.” He raised his voice, sitting forward. “SHE HAS ME LITERALLY TIED UP—”

  I made a shushing gesture with my hand and moved away from him.

  “Did Dante say you guys were tied up?” Judith asked. “No worries. I don’t expect him to eat dinner with family every night.” What? “I’m sure you two have a lot of work to get through. I won’t keep you.”

  “Thank you?”

  “No, thank you, Claire. It was lovely chatting. Ciao.”

  I hung up. That had been . . . illuminating.

  I glanced at Dante’s phone still in my hand.

  The lockscreen blazed bright.

  Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

  The words snagged my breath.

  This man! He wa
s determined to blast his way inside my defenses.

  I turned back to Dante, still hogtied on my leather chair. Trying to reconcile my phone conversation and the words on his screen with the man I thought I knew.

  He shot me a challenging eyebrow.

  “Now will you untie me?”

  Thirteen

  Dante

  So, you were going explain to me—in excruciating detail—what happened earlier in my hotel room,” Claire said.

  We were seated on the restaurant rooftop terrace, facing south. City lights glittered on the Arno below, while floodlights washed Forte Belvedere on the horizon. The restaurant hummed around us, hopping busy.

  I had slipped the hostess a twenty euro note, ensuring we were seated at this secluded table nestled against the iron railing. And then had politely returned the phone number she handed me. I was never that kind of guy.

  All my attention was on Claire.

  She drilled me with pale blue eyes, arms folded across her fluttery silk blouse, legs crossed in those tight skinny jeans of hers. Foot bobbing up and down in a pair of killer pink heels.

  Cool. Collected. Seemingly contained.

  But I knew better. Seeing Caro through Ethan’s eyes . . .

  Something had changed.

  I now understood when she folded her arms like that, she was holding all the loneliness at bay. That the sharpness of her gaze was pain, not anger.

  “Well, are you?” She tilted her head.

  Okay, make that mostly pain.

  I set my phone down on the table and picked up my empty wine glass, twirling the stem. I had never told another person about my GUT. Not a single past girlfriend, guy friend, work associate . . .

  No one.

  I would have sounded loony. How could I ever prove what I said was true?

  But now . . . Claire had proof.

  And more to the point, so did I.

  Claire Raythorn had been important to me in past lives. I was sure of it. That wave of emotion—elation, adrenaline, heat—that Ethan had experienced with Caro . . .

  I swallowed. Leaned forward across the table. “My family isn’t exactly what you would call . . . normal.”

  “Your mom sounded normal.”

  “Correction. The men in my family are not exactly normal.”

  “Okay. I’ll buy that.” Her foot bounced.

  Waiters bustled past us, all the restaurant staff in hyper-busy mode. One set a bottle of frizzante water on our table with an apologetic look. I gave a take your time wave. Claire and I had a lot of ground to cover.