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  For her part, Claire kept running her eyes over the room, angling her body to see as much as possible. She seemed on high-alert. Ready to jump and run. Did this poor woman ever relax? That protectiveness surged through me again.

  I set my glass down and ran a hand over my face. “My father comes from a very old, distinguished Tuscan family—”

  “So you actually are an earl?”

  Ah. She had heard that little bit of gossip. “Technically, yes. I’m allowed to sign letters as the Conte del Maldetto."

  “Maldetto is a place? The name of a city?”

  “Not exactly. Maldetto means damned. Cursed.”

  “Like a hex or something?”

  “Yep.”

  Claire’s foot stilled. “So you’re the Cursed Earl?”

  “Or the Damned Earl. You can take your pick.”

  “I’ll go with damned.” The tiniest hint of humor touched her eyes. “I take it you’re going to explain it all.”

  I sat back and crossed my arms. “Well, family legend states it all started with an off-smelling lamb shank—”

  “Seriously?” Her smile warmed a smidge. “A rotten lamb shank?”

  “You wanna hear this story or not?”

  She waved her hand. Continue.

  “So it started in the thirteenth century with this nasty lamb shank. My illustrious ancestor, Giovanni D’Angelo, ate it—”

  “That’s gross.”

  “Probably.” I shrugged. “It was the Middle Ages. Everything was gross. Anyway, Giovanni got sick—”

  “Naturally.”

  “—and missed a town meeting with the podestà to resolve disputes. This meant another family was awarded a tower in Giovanni’s section of the city—”

  “Wait. He owned a section of the city?”

  “Italy has always been this loose conglomeration of self-governing city-states. Unlike other European countries, we weren’t a united country until the late nineteenth century.”

  “Yeah, like Germany.” She motioned toward me. “Sorry. I keep interrupting.”

  “Basically, the lamb-shank incident started this whole downward slide. Giovanni found himself out-maneuvered and on the brink of bankruptcy. He had five daughters to dower and marry off. But no sons.”

  “They always need a son, don’t they?”

  “Can you blame them?” I spread my hands wide. Claire kicked me under the table. I chuckled.

  I kept trying not to stare at her lips as I talked but, let’s face it, it was a losing battle. They looked pillowy soft—a perfect swooping heart on top, plump bottom lip. A man could lose himself for hours in those lips.

  I gave myself a mental shake. Focus, man.

  “Desperate for a solution, Giovanni visited the camp of the local gypsies,” I continued, “and asked for the gift of Sight and a son. No one knows how it precisely went down, but he arrived home a changed man—”

  “Wait. Your family was cursed by gypsies? Isn’t that like every bad historical romance ever written?”

  I laughed. “Turns out there’s truth in that cliché. Anyway, Giovanni didn’t think through what he was asking. As with any fundamental element—like fire or water—knowledge can be a life-giving tool or a destructive curse.”

  I swallowed. A vivid childhood memory surfacing.

  “Dad, why do you keep looking around? There’s nothing there.” I tugged on his hand, so much bigger than mine. Craned my head way back to look up at him.

  “Nothing. È niente, niente, caro . . . Let’s go find your mother . . .”

  I shook my head.

  “So this Giovanni . . . he could see, hear and feel the past and future? All at once?” Claire cocked her head in question.

  “That’s how I understand it.”

  “But . . . wouldn’t that drive you insane?”

  “Smart.” I pointed a finger at her. “Giovanni committed suicide . . . threw himself off a church bell tower.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. The curse fractured his mind. Giovanni had a son before he died, and the son hung himself at the age of thirty. His grandson strapped himself onto a cannon and lit the fuse—”

  “Wow. Hence, the title of the Cursed Earl.” Claire’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Exactly.”

  She did that thing again with her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, biting with her teeth. I tried not to stare. With little success.

  Honestly.

  Red-blooded male over here. Did this woman even have a clue what she did to me?

  “So . . .” I watched her brain work through it. “The gift passed on—”

  “We actually call it a GUT.”

  “GUT?”

  “Grossly Unusual Talent.”

  She snorted. “That’s kinda . . . precious.”

  I winked.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So this GUT passed on . . .”

  “Every generation, to the first born son only,” I said.

  “But this GUT destroys the mind eventually.”

  I nodded.

  “When did the suicides stop—” Claire froze, eyes and nose flaring. “Wait.” A whisper. “You told me your father died.”

  She hesitated to make the connection.

  “Yeah.” I rescued her. “He committed suicide when we were sixteen. It just became too much . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “I am so sorry.” Her voice a quiet whisper against the hum of the restaurant. She blinked several times and then turned to look out over the twinkling city lights.

  My own throat tightened. “Thanks. He was a good man. I still miss him.”

  A pause. She turned her head back to me.

  I continued, “My grandfather committed suicide too—my father’s father. Just sailed away from Capri in his private yacht. My nonna, his wife, says he could sense the madness creeping in. They found his boat drifting south of Cyprus two months later.”

  A beat of silence.

  “Knowing all this—no offense—but why did your parents decide to have kids?” Claire asked. “I mean, even thirty years ago, there were plenty of ways to prevent a pregnancy.”

  It was a valid question.

  “My father never intended to have children. But then he met my mom. They saw each other across a crowded street cafe in Piazza Santa Croce and the rest, as they say, is history. Crazy in love. They married after dating for just a couple of months, both agreeing that they would never have children. But Mom got pregnant anyway—”

  “So every generation, every first born son . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have the title. It therefore follows you are the oldest of your brothers. The firstborn son.”

  Smart. All of her was so damn sexy.

  “I am.”

  Another pause.

  “So, assuming I believe this at all—”

  “You experienced some of it earlier.”

  “Right.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward herself, propping her forearms on the table, clasping her hands together. “Are you going mad?”

  I grinned. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t make it so easy to think so,” she said.

  I laughed.

  Would I go mad like every other firstborn D’Angelo for the past seven hundred years?

  “I don’t know.” I answered truthfully. “So far, so good.”

  She pursed those lethal lips of hers, studying me.

  Her hands rested across the table. So close. I wanted to reach over, gather them into mine. I already knew her fingers would be slender and delicate. Her skin soft.

  Every part of me was remembering her. Remembering us.

  Madonna mia how I had loved her.

  I could sense it. Hovering in the background of my emotions. An understanding I had yet to viscerally feel.

  But I knew it was there. Waiting. Watching.

  At some point, I was going to fall like a stone for Claire Raythorn.

  Unfortunately, she
remained cool and aloof. Barely even trusting me enough to have dinner, much less anything else.

  I was just asking to have my heart shattered.

  “How do you know you’re not going mad? Wouldn’t you be the last to know?” She scanned the restaurant again, still watchful.

  “Probably. But, remember, I’m technically the oldest of triplets. Myself and Branwell are identical twins—Tennyson is a fraternal twin.”

  “Yeah, about the triplets thing. That seems . . . unlikely.”

  “Not really. Apparently, it’s the most common form of natural-occurring triplets. Start with my mother’s strong family history of twins and then add in two fraternal twins where one of the eggs splits into identical twins—”

  “And you end up with triplets.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Soooooo . . .” Her voice trailed off into a string of question marks.

  “We are the first multiples born to a D’Angelo. The GUT fractured at our birth.”

  “Fractured?”

  “Changed. Altered. It spread between the three of us. It’s like the Law of Conservation of Energy. The power of the family gift is the same. It’s just been morphed into different paths, like what you witnessed today, for example.”

  Her eyes widened. “Changed? How so?”

  A waiter took that moment to arrive at our table, breathless from running around.

  “Buonasera. Come posso aiutarvi? How can I help you?”

  Claire swiveled her head away from me.

  “Buonasera, Tommaso.” She shot the waiter a beauty-pageant smile. The kind of smile I would give my left kidney to receive from her. That dimple just under her right eye popped again and her eyes lit up.

  I glanced at his name tag. Sure enough. Tommaso.

  Younger. Close-cropped hair. Lean face. Strong Tuscan accent to his Italian. Not particularly handsome or memorable.

  Tommaso returned Claire’s smile. “Clara! How glad I am to see you again this evening. I did not notice you here.”

  His English was passable. What most Italian kids learned in school.

  Claire continued to glow up at him.

  What gave?

  “How is your grandfather?” she asked.

  “Eh, insomma. He is better and then he is not.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it—”

  “Clara, you have come back.” A voice sounded behind me.

  I turned as another server stopped at our table. A woman. Short. Plump.

  “Rosa, ciao.” Claire gave another of those thousand-watt smiles. “I visited the panificio you mentioned. You’re right. Frederico does make the best schiacciata in town.”

  “Brava! I am glad you tried it. You must choose the fettuccine al cinghiale for your primo tonight. Sono buonissime.”

  “I will for sure.”

  Claire waved a friendly goodbye as Rosa moved on.

  “That is true. The fettuccine al cinghiale are very good.” Tommaso nodded.

  “I have no idea what that is, but—”

  “Wild boar.” I jumped in. I couldn’t help it. “Fettucine noodles in a wild boar sauce. It’s definitely a regional specialty.”

  “Oh. Great.” Total deadpan at me. No grin. No nothing. “I’ll take that.” Big smile for Tommaso.

  It shouldn’t have hurt. It really shouldn’t have. How could I possibly be jealous of this kid? And yet . . .

  “Perfetto.” Tommaso wrote on his pad. “And for you, sir?”

  We finished ordering. A mixture of bruschette for our antipasto. Fettucine with wild boar for our first course—the primo piatto, which was always pasta. A traditional Florentine steak with potatoes for my secondo piatto—Claire choosing fresh fish and roasted vegetables. And then insalata . . . salad. Followed by cheese. And then coffee.

  Basically, a typical Italian dinner.

  And tourists wonder why our meals take over two hours to eat.

  All the while, Claire laughed and smiled. Asked Tommaso all sorts of questions about himself, his family, what it was like to live in Florence. Another server waved as he walked by.

  She was a totally different Claire. Open. Kind. Friendly.

  Not a smidge of ice princess in sight.

  Huh.

  A Claire who was a lot more like Lady Caro, truth be told. A Claire I would quickly fall madly, completely and utterly in love with.

  Careful, man.

  She finally sent Tommaso off with one last friendly quip and turned back to me.

  “What?” She took a sip of water. “You’re staring like I have horns or something.”

  Not quite but close enough.

  “I just saw you smile more in the last five minutes than you have over the past four days with me. What gives?”

  Her face froze. She blinked and set her water cup down. She slumped back in her chair. All of that fresh vivacity fading.

  Closed Claire returned in force. I would never have known Open Claire even existed. Why lavish such cheerfulness on virtual strangers?

  She clenched her fingers on the arm of her chair, scanning the terrace again, as if assuring her safety.

  “So how does it work?” She brought her eyes back to mine. “This GUT.”

  “You’re changing the topic.”

  “I am.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table.

  “Why am I seeing Ethan in my photos?” she asked. “Why not Caro? Are you seeing her?”

  Fine. I’d let her direct the conversation. “I don’t know. I’ve taken selfies in this city over the years and never seen Caro. I’m guessing that it’s something to do with the power of my GUT, pulling the echo of me—Ethan—from the past. It’s my GUT after all.”

  A pause.

  “Okay. That makes sense in a freakishly supernatural sorta way, I suppose. So how does the regression thing work?”

  I continued to tap the tabletop with my fingers. “Generally, my gift is fairly weak and benign. But under certain circumstances it is so powerful, it draws in other people. The Law of Conservation of Energy, remember? These past life regressions only happen when three criteria are met.”

  I stopped drumming and ticked off the points.

  “One, I have to be in the exact place where the event occurred. Two, I have to be with the other person who is significant in the event. Three, the event has to have some strong emotional resonance.”

  She nodded her head. Processing. “Got it. So something about the meeting with Caro and Ethan was significant.”

  “Right.”

  “And this has happened before? This past-life regression?”

  “Just twice. Once with my mother. Once with Branwell.”

  She was going to ask it. The moment inevitable. “What happened?”

  I paused. I really didn’t like talking about the two other, more traumatic, past life regressions I had experienced. But, if she were to experience any more with me—and, let’s face it, I intended to pursue Caro and Ethan’s story with her—Claire needed to know what could potentially occur.

  “The first regression happened when I was ten . . .”

  I told her about Michael Strickland and watching Anne die of tuberculosis. The terror of feeling Michael’s grief at her death.

  Claire listened, attentive and interested.

  “Wow. What a horrid thing for a child to have to deal with.”

  “Yeah. Part of me was terrified to go anywhere new after that. I was always on edge.”

  “What was the second incident? The one with Branwell?”

  I sucked in a long breath.

  This was the one I dreaded the most. I didn’t have to tell her.

  I leaned my forearms on the table, hanging my head forward.

  She noticed my pause. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to talk about it.”

  I told myself she deserved to know if we continued to pursue this.

  But the truth was much simpler.

  I wanted to bare myself to her. To kick aside my walls and invite her into my s
oul.

  “I know.” I raised my head. “But I want you to know.”

  I met Claire’s eyes and then thought the better of it, moving my gaze to a point just beyond her head.

  “We were twenty-two and on vacation in Scotland,” I said softly. “Just Branwell and me. Tennyson had opted to stay behind with his girlfriend. We were hiking the Highlands, on the edge of Loch Lomond National Park. We topped a ridge and dropped into a small glen. And just like earlier this evening, the world spun and lurched.

  “Suddenly I was Dougall MacDonald, a knight in the service of Robert the Bruce. We had been retreating from the English only to find ourselves trapped in a deadly battle in the hills above Tyndrum. I was immersed in a bloodbath.”

  Claire gasped, soft and quiet, but I heard her all the same. Met her gaze. Surely my eyes were haunted, shadowed.

  “Can you even imagine the true horror of a medieval battlefield?” I asked. “We romanticize it far too much. The screams of the dying. The sound of a sword cutting through steel and flesh. The stench. Blood and piss and smoke. It was ghastly even to Dougall, and he was born to it. He . . . me . . . I had been fighting for hours. My horse was staggering beneath me. My sword arm so tired. Dougall was a big man, like me, but even so, he . . . I was at the end of my strength. I watched a man be disemboweled in front of me, one of my men-at-arms. I swung my broadsword and took off the attacker’s head. Or at least enough of it.”

  I shuddered. “The feel of my sword cutting through bone. The shower of blood . . . by that point, two more attackers were on me. As I swung again and again, I looked up and saw Malcolm. He was my best friend, the man who always had my back. My sister’s husband. The person I loved most in the world. We had survived so much together. Somehow I knew, even though he looked totally different, that Malcolm was Branwell.

  “Two men came at him. One took out his horse, while the other grabbed him off. I screamed and urged my own horse forward. I had to get to him—” My voice choked. I swallowed convulsively. “I didn’t. I watched those men run him through with a spear, impaling him. I screamed again and again, fighting like a madman. I met Malcolm’s eyes across the battlefield, watched the life in them flicker and then fade. I howled and fought, tears blinding me. Something stabbed me in the side. The chest. But all I could see was Malcolm dying.”