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  My heart constricted, so fast, so painful . . .

  “You might be willing to toss this job aside, but I need it. It’s all I have—” Her voice broke.

  “Claire, cara—” I took a step forward.

  She instantly put out two palms, stopping me. Shook her head. Blinked back the shimmer in her eyes.

  “No. There’s too much at stake for me here.”

  We engaged in a staring contest. Her brilliant blue eyes pulling me under.

  “Okay.” I relaxed back. “Glad we got that out of the way. Now tell me the truth.”

  All of me knew her. Knew to listen to what she wasn’t saying.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t about the job or the Colonel. It’s an excuse but not your real reason. You and I both know it.”

  She let out a breath of air. Her shoulders sagged. A balloon deflating. She turned back to the railing, staring over Florence.

  “I don’t like you very much right now,” she finally said.

  “I can accept that. How’s about you tell me the truth?”

  A pause. I could practically see her mind churning through possible responses.

  “I don’t like the regressions,” was the one she landed on.

  Okay. Better. Closer.

  “Why?”

  Another pause.

  She shrugged. “You say only scenes of emotional significance cause a regression. Logic dictates that, at some point, we’ll have a regression that is more traumatic.”

  “Possibly. But, so far, they’ve been harmless, and the historian in you has to find them fascinating,” I countered. “That still isn’t the real reason for your hesitation.”

  She didn’t disagree.

  C’mon, Claire. Talk to me.

  “Will they continue to be so . . . tame?” She ignored my last comment.

  I considered pushing her harder for the real answer, but I let it go for now.

  “It’s hard to say. I will venture, however, that if a regression were to happen in the Duomo, it probably won’t be anything horrid. A scene of violence there would still be talked about.”

  Claire continued to stare across the rooftops. Face impassive.

  “Please, Claire?” I scooted forward, getting more of me in her line of vision. “This matters. Partly because of the Michelangelo, but mostly due to Caro and Ethan themselves. I want to know their story. Our story.”

  She said nothing, staring over the city. The breeze tangled her hair, dragging it across her face. Traffic noise drifted up from below.

  “Meet me at the Duomo. Tomorrow. C’mon,” I pleaded.

  She didn’t relax.

  “I’ll think about it,” she finally said.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. I’ll text you when I decide.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait for your text.”

  She didn’t know it, but we hadn’t finished this conversation. I would discover her real reasons.

  But . . . baby steps. This was a marathon, not a sprint.

  When she was ready to talk, I would be waiting.

  Twenty

  Claire

  It always brightens my day to see you here, darlin’.”

  I whirled upright as the Colonel strode into the room, a chipper spring in his step and a pile of papers in his hand. He stopped next to me, placing the papers on the table.

  I was back at his villa this morning, going over the Michelangelo sketch with a fine tooth comb. Searching for anything that hinted toward Caro. Hoping I could find the answers I needed without involving Dante.

  I was so torn. The information from a regression could be key to solving the Michelangelo mystery. But was the information worth the emotional upheaval? I didn’t want any more of Caro’s adoration of Ethan seeping through my walls.

  Dante himself wasn’t much help with that. After lunch yesterday, he and his brothers had cheerfully kicked us women out of the kitchen so they could do the dishes. And true to his word, he hadn’t texted or harassed me in any way. Respecting my space.

  The man was practically a caricature of perfect boyfriend material. Either that or I was so jaded I couldn’t see straight—

  Yeah. I needed to stop.

  The Colonel leaned a little too close. What was it with men ignoring my bubble?

  “I couldn’t stay away. It’s so compelling.” I gestured toward the drawing on the table.

  I gave the Colonel my cheery smile and angled back. Walking the line between keeping my distance without offending him.

  He reached for my hand and did that dual hand-clasp thing of his again. Blue eyes intent on mine. “It is indeed.”

  He didn’t break eye contact with me or release my hand as he spoke. Clouding what exactly he meant.

  Okay. Awkward.

  My smile morphed from cheery to strained.

  “It really is, isn’t it?” I pretended to miss his innuendo and took a casual step backward toward the table, forcing the Colonel to drop my hand. “The lines are fluid and confident.”

  I leaned over the sketch, effectively keeping all of me out of the Colonel’s easy reach.

  If I did get this job, how would it be working for the Colonel long term? He was decidedly, uh, hands-on.

  Which I suppose would have been marginally alright if I saw him behaving similarly with anyone else, but he seemed to reserve it for me and me alone.

  Other than the physical contact thing and odd occasional flirting, the Colonel was fine. Your typical warm, charming Southern gentleman.

  Sigh.

  “You’ll be happy to know these just arrived.” He tapped the stack of papers he had set on the table.

  I looked at the papers. “The mass spectrometry results! So soon!”

  I practically pounced on them.

  The Colonel laughed, a delighted sound. “Gotta love a gal who finds such joy in numbers.”

  I smiled, ignored the sub-text in that comment and sank into one of the high-backed dining room chairs, studying the results.

  Instead of leaving me to it, the Colonel sat down (too close) as well. Staring at me the entire time.

  I told myself it was old-man, lack-of-social-cues weird. Not stalker-creepy.

  I focused on the chemical age analysis results.

  Ten minutes later I had some fascinating answers but more questions.

  The vellum dated to the mid-sixteenth century, plus or minus fifty years. Michelangelo drew the original cartoon around 1504, placing the vellum just inside the right time period.

  Which was hooray-good.

  The charred edge dated to 1800, again plus or minus fifty years.

  Which was also good.

  It was like puzzle pieces slotting into place.

  So based on the assumption the sketch was related to the drawings in Caro’s possession, these results pointed toward the Colonel’s copy being the original source Caro used, not her own drawing.

  Had Caro been copying from the original Michelangelo modello? Everything certainly hinted in that direction.

  Though in the mental glimpse I got of the drawing from Caro, it seemed like the original was done in silverpoint, not chalk like the sketch in the Colonel’s possession. But, honestly, how accurate was a fleeting glimpse in another woman’s mind from two hundred years ago?

  My heart sped up in excitement. As the granddaughter of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the family provenance could certainly have an unknown Michelangelo. How it landed in the Colonel’s vaults . . . I had no idea. The Colonel’s maternal relatives, the Earls of Arlington, must have purchased it at some point afterward.

  Obviously, the drawing sustained some damage—the charred edge—around Caro’s lifetime. In her memories, neither sketch had any damage so far.

  So when, why and how did the charring occur?

  Was it when Ethan said those odd words about taking something back and winning the game? Was that how the drawing became connected to Dante? Up until now, the drawings had all been attached to Caro, who was on
e solid step removed from Ethan and Dante’s past lives.

  The problem? Regressions were the only way I would get answers to these questions.

  Damn.

  “You’re completely buried in those papers,” the Colonel drawled at my elbow.

  Right.

  “The results are . . . compelling,” I replied.

  “So do you have any thoughts as to the origin of my sketch?” He bent over the arm of his chair, moving even more into my bubble. He fixed me with his pale blue eyes.

  I resisted the urge to lean away. Swallowed.

  “Not . . . specifically. The vellum is the right date for the sketch to be a genuine Michelangelo.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Yes. It’s definitely exciting news. But we’ll need to do more research to know for sure.”

  The Colonel just nodded, finally turning his head to look at the drawing on the table. Face impassive. It was hard to get a read on him.

  “I look forward to seeing your official assessment,” he finally said.

  “Thank you.”

  Silence hung.

  The Colonel turned back to me. “I understand you had dinner earlier this week with Dante D’Angelo.”

  I only barely managed to keep a suspicious panic off my face.

  “Yes.” I let out a calming breath, but inside I was a mass of bloodyhell and thisismyworstnightmarecometolife. “He invited me and I found it hard to say no.”

  Sorry, Dante.

  The Colonel gave a tight smile. “Dante can be like that, I’ve heard. Determined and persuasive.”

  Wait—how did the Colonel know Dante and I had dinner together?

  “Did you have a good time?” the Colonel asked, expression neutral.

  When in doubt, grab the bull by the horns. “We didn’t discuss the project, if that’s your concern, Colonel. It was just a friendly, get-to-know-each-other kinda thing—”

  “I trust you, darlin’. I just wanted to make sure Dante behaved himself. I don’t want those boys causing you any trouble now.”

  He reached over and patted my hand.

  How was I supposed to read this territorial concern?

  “About our own dinner tonight . . .” the Colonel began.

  “Yes?” My eyes widened.

  “I have a small business matter to attend to in London. It should only take a couple of days. Would you be okay if we postponed dinner until the weekend?”

  Please! “Of course. Let me just check my calendar.”

  I pulled out my phone and made a production of looking at my blank, blank, blank appointment schedule.

  “I should be good any night later this week.”

  My phone buzzed.

  Please smile when you see me today. I want to imagine your hungry lips on mine.

  My heart sank about twelve feet. My pulse hammered.

  Ugh. My stalker.

  Talk about terrible timing. Could I please go just five minutes without something creepy happening?

  This person was just trying to get in my head. I knew that. They weren’t here. They wouldn’t see me today.

  I was okay. Deep breath. Slow my heart rate down . . .

  “—I’ll have Natalia contact you with the arrangements,” the Colonel was saying. He paused. “Is everything okay? Your face just went three shades whiter.”

  I set my phone in my lap.

  “I’m fine. Just . . .” I shook my head. “It-it’s nothing.”

  The Colonel looked skeptical. And then leaned over the arm of his chair again. He reached out and snagged my hands, doing his signature hand-clasp thing again, trapping my right hand between two of his.

  “Your grandmother was a good friend—”

  “Adelaide?”

  “Mmm, yes. We met in Boston when we were both young and foolish. She was an incredible woman, and I love seeing so much of her in you.”

  I stared at him, really not sure where this conversation was going.

  “My point”—another hand pat—“is that you should consider me a friend too. I have your best interests at heart. If you find yourself in need of anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call on me.” One more pat and a finger wag. “Got it?”

  I nodded. “Uhm, yes. Got it.”

  “That’s a good girl.”

  I managed a weak smile.

  He gave my hand one last pat for good measure before releasing it. He stood and, with a wave, walked out the door.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and stared sightlessly into the dining room.

  Did I take the Colonel at face value and assume he had grandfatherly feelings toward me based on his past . . . whatever with Grammy? Or was more going on here?

  Mostly I hated that life had taught me to question the motives of a seemingly kind and, perhaps, lonely old man who was just trying to make a wise hiring decision.

  Though . . .

  How did the Colonel find out I had dinner with Dante? Was he tracking us? Spying?

  But it wasn’t like Dante and I had been particularly circumspect. The hotel staff could have casually mentioned it when Natalia called to settle my bill (or something) and then she mentioned it to the Colonel.

  But, if so, why bring it up under the guise of ‘just making sure the boys are behaving’? Like it was his job to protect me?

  Worse, was my friendship with Dante putting my chance of getting this job in jeopardy? Would the Colonel be having a similar conversation with Dante?

  Or was this territorial behavior reserved for just me?

  Ugh.

  And thinking of Dante . . .

  And what to do about the regressions?

  They came with risks. Being seen with Dante. More emotional confusion. The possibility of witnessing something tragic.

  But—

  I needed this job. Which meant I needed to know the true history of the Colonel’s sketch. One more regression could give me that information.

  What to do?

  The answer was obvious.

  I sighed and pulled out my phone.

  Okay, I’ll meet you at the Duomo.

  Awesome. Could you come right before lunch? In about two hours?

  Yeah. I’ll be there.

  My heart sped up, but I had a hard time labeling the emotion. Was I excited to see Dante? Or just nervous about the regression? Both?

  I tried to concentrate on the mass spec results, but it was a lost cause. My mind was too full of Dante and Duomo and what will happen? I gathered my things together.

  “Claire! There you are!”

  An all too familiar voice accosted me as I headed out the front door.

  Figured. Pierce was never too far away. He had probably rushed over the second he heard the mass spec results were in.

  I briefly considered stomping out the portone. But Pierce would hound me until he got his way.

  “Pierce.”

  His glasses were a little askew and his tie loose. Not sure if that meant he was frazzled or if he had formed a cozier relationship with Natalia.

  Either way, I was out.

  “How are things?” He gave me his hang-dog brown eyes. “I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

  “I am avoiding you. What do you want, Pierce?”

  “Nothing much. How’s the project going?”

  “Fine.”

  “I miss you like crazy. I want you to come back and work—”

  “Never going to happen.”

  “Hey, no need to get all defensive—”

  “I’m not defensive. I’m standing here having a calm conversation. I’m assuming you stopped me for a more rational reason—”

  “Fine.” He rolled his shoulders, obviously agitated. “I hear you’re hanging out with the D’Angelos nowadays. Well, specifically Dante . . .”

  A chill crept down my spine.

  Silence.

  “How do you know that, Pierce?” My eyes narrowed.

  “A little birdy told me.” He shrugged, like it was casual knowledge.
But his body language was a little too smug.

  “Not buying that. Have you been following me? Did you tell the Colonel?”

  “Whoa.” He held out two hands. “No need to attack the messenger. And for the record, maybe the Colonel told me. Ever consider that?”

  Lovely. “Your point?”

  “I just want to make sure you’re careful around D’Angelo. I’ve heard stories—”

  Pot. Kettle. Black.

  Did he listen to the words coming out of his mouth?

  “What stories, Pierce? And don’t think I missed the irony of you warning me about other men treating me poorly—”

  “Why are you always so down on me?” His voice heated. “I said I was sorry. Heather meant nothing to me—”

  Like that was supposed to make me feel better. Why had I never seen how wacko he was?

  “I’m not having this conversation again. Goodbye, Pierce.”

  I turned and pulled the portone open. Thank goodness the Colonel had a car and driver waiting for me.

  But Pierce wasn’t done.

  “I know all about D’Angelo. Stuff’s weird with him.” Pierce nipped at my heels as I took the front stairs down to the car. The driver opened the back door for me.

  “Let me guess,” Pierce continued. “You and D’Angelo hope to convince the Colonel that what he has is fake, don’t you? Then you two can buy it and make a killing on the black market. Disappear a Michelangelo into some sheik’s private collection, never to be seen again.”

  I reached the car. Pierce grabbed my arm before I could get in.

  “Don’t trust him, Claire. Not D’Angelo—”

  I wrenched my arm out of his hold and stepped into the back seat. I refused to look at Pierce as the car pulled away, though I could see him shaking his head.

  My entire body vibrated. Anger seemed too tame a word to describe my emotions. It was this volatile cocktail of outrage and fury and hurt.

  I had the driver drop me in Piazza Santa Croce. I needed to cool off before meeting Dante. Take the edge off my anxiety.

  I stood in the large piazza, sucking in deep breaths of city air, determined to re-center myself. Let my boyfriend, Firenze, charm me out of my mood.