Gladly Beyond Read online

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket out of sheer Pavlovian habit.

  Whore. How dare you allow that ape to touch you. You will never belong to him. Only me.

  I would have dropped my phone if Dante hadn’t wrapped his hand around mine. Staring at the screen over my shoulder. A low hiss streamed from his lips.

  “I officially hate this person.” His voice growled in my ear. “Hate that they’re spying on us.”

  He instantly let go of me and moved to stand in the gelateria doorway, looking out onto the busy pedestrian street. Head moving back and forth, scanning for . . . who? Neither of us knew what this online stalker person looked like.

  I walked over to the door and peeked around his arm, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

  “Does anyone look familiar?” he asked.

  Tourists leisurely walked past. The occasional harried Italian office worker threading through.

  Nothing and no one out of the ordinary.

  “No.”

  “Uffa.”

  We contemplated the street a little longer.

  Still nothing odd.

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with this, Claire.” Dante turned back to me. Wrapped me up in a hug and pulled me all the way inside the gelateria.

  “I know,” I whispered, relaxing my head into his remarkably solid chest. “I want them to go away so badly. I’m so tired of being afraid—”

  Dante’s arms tightened. “I don’t like the thought of you staying alone in your hotel with someone like this roaming around. I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

  I stilled. Was I in real danger?

  It was hard to say.

  Had my cyber stalker upgraded to a real-life stalker? Though bullying and creepy, this person had never actually physically manifested himself, always careful to walk the line between verbal harassment and tangible threat. Close but never enough to force the authorities to take the texts seriously.

  What to do?

  I sagged into Dante. Weary. Rubbing a hand over his stomach. Also surprisingly solid. How often did the man work out?

  He ran his palm up my spine, soothing me.

  “I decided months ago I wasn’t going to allow fear to control my life,” I said. “The best way to thwart a cyber terrorist is to just go about your life.”

  “I don’t disagree, but I still worry—”

  “Let’s assess this rationally.” I pulled back enough to look at him. “My hotel has twenty-four hour security, and I know the staff. They watch out for me.”

  “But you’re not always there.”

  “Agreed. The Colonel sends a car when I have to visit the villa and that’s perfectly safe.”

  Dante brushed hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Would you agree to allow me to accompany you when you roam the city? I would feel even better if you were staying in my palazzo—”

  “With you and Branwell?” My expression surely skeptical.

  “No. Nonna would box my ears. But I’m sure you could stay with my mom and Chiara. The palazzo has an excellent security system.”

  “I’m sure it does, but I don’t think there’s any need to go to such extremes. I’ll just be a little more careful.”

  “Like calling me before going anywhere by yourself?”

  I didn’t have to think. I knew the answer to that one. “Yes. If you’re okay with that?”

  He snorted. “More than okay, cara mia. Like I said, I want to keep you safe.”

  I smiled and sagged against him. His chest a firm rock propping me up. I siphoned his strength.

  He turned me around, so we could both stare at the gelato case.

  “Now, Ms. Raythorn, you have a terrible task before you,” he said. “You must decide on your three favorite flavors. And before you even ask—no, I’m not sharing mine.”

  “Not sharing, Mr. D’Angelo?” I twisted my head to look at him, only partially mock-aghast. “I’m not sure I can trust a man who doesn’t share his gelato.”

  “You have it backwards. You absolutely should not trust a guy who willingly shares his gourmet gelato with you. Such a man is most definitely furbo.”

  “Furbo?”

  “Sneaky. Crafty. A man who willingly gives you his gelato either has something wicked planned, or he made a poor flavor selection and is trying to fob it off on you.”

  “Mmmm, I’m not sure I agree with that logic. I think part of being in a trusting relationship is sharing with each other. I plan on sharing with you.”

  His eyes darkened. Contemplative.

  “Fine.” Reluctantly. “I’ll share too, but only if I get to feed it to you.”

  I pursed my lips at him. “Are you always right?”

  “What?” He tried to look innocent.

  “Feed me? That was your wicked plan. You better choose knock-out flavors.”

  He chuckled and squeezed me hard.

  In the end, he won with tiramisù, cioccolato nero and pistacchio.

  I ate every last bite, licking the spoon he held for me.

  Twenty-Seven

  Claire

  How are your pappardelle, darlin’?” The Colonel asked me from across the table.

  “Delicious.” I pasted on my bright smile. “Thanks again for the invitation.”

  I was finally having that long-promised dinner with the Colonel. He had pushed it off for several days, which had been fine by me.

  I had been busy completing my detailed comparison between the Colonel’s sketch and known Michelangelo drawings. Upon close inspection, I had found compelling differences in crosshatching and stroke length. Even without the regressions, I was confident I would have realized the Colonel’s sketch was not a bonafide Michelangelo.

  Dante and I talked about the Colonel’s project but were careful not to plagiarize from each other (Sandbox Rule). Between our schedules and some seriously rainy weather, we hadn’t had a chance to continue tracking Ethan and Caro.

  Which meant we hung out together in our spare time and talked and laughed about non-work related stuff. Among other things, I had learned that Dante adored fem rock (go figure), hated talking politics (Italian and American), and secretly enjoyed watching The Bachelor with Chiara and Nonna. The man was a study in opposites.

  But tonight I was with the Colonel.

  We were at some restaurant south of Florence, buried in the Chianti region. It was a high-end, family-run affair nestled into one end of an ancient castle-like villa.

  The Colonel and I sat in front of a crackling fireplace under a frescoed ceiling, rain pattering against the dark windows. Italian buildings seemed to be a solid ten degrees cooler inside than out. Which must be heaven during hot summers but not-so-much for the rest of the year. I found myself dressing for the indoor temperatures more than the outside. The fire definitely helped.

  The pappardelle were delicious, coated in what the waiter called a salsa rosa, which I realized was a tomato ragu with a healthy dollop of heavy cream . . . leaving it a definite pink color.

  The Colonel dabbed at his mouth. He was in fine form tonight.

  Wild white hair tamed as much as it could be. Dressed like he was ready for a swinging 1960s cocktail party. Which, I guess, he probably figured this was something of that sort. His diamond cuff-links sparkled in the firelight. I kept waiting for him to pop a fedora on his head.

  He was on his third glass of Chianti red, and we weren’t even through our primo. Would he be snoring under the table by the time we hit the insalata?

  If I didn’t know better, I would almost say he was nervous. But what was there to be nervous about?

  “Pierce Whitman met with me today to give his preliminary assessment of the drawing.” The Colonel took another bite of pasta.

  My head snapped up. “So soon?”

  “He seemed confident enough to not need extra time. Wanted to beat you all to the punch, he said.”

  Ah. Now we came to it.

  “And?” I had to ask, though I
had a strong hunch I knew where Pierce would land.

  “He provided me with a thirty-page analysis, showing point-by-point why he firmly believes my sketch to be a genuine sixteenth-century drawing. He’s eighty-percent certain it’s an original Michelangelo modello. He wants another week to examine it further before making a more definite call.”

  Solemn. Careful. Seemingly meticulous. That was Pierce.

  “I see,” I said.

  Needing to settle my thinking, I took a reserved sip of my own wine, hating how my lipstick stained the rim of my glass. Why did I have to leave my PH lipstick at home? It didn’t rub off or leave sticky residue on cups. I discreetly rubbed at the mark with my thumb.

  “So, at this point, where do you stand, darlin’?” The Colonel sat back, studying me. “I haven’t got a hint of anything from you or those D’Angelo boys. Do you think I have the real deal?”

  Drat. I had only just begun to build a case for the drawing being done by Caro. I didn’t want to tip too much of my hand.

  That said, I knew from experience, clients didn’t like suddenly finding out a prize possession wasn’t what they expected.

  Given that Caro was most likely the artist behind the Colonel’s sketch, not Michelangelo himself, I needed to start planting the idea. She deserved no less.

  So what to say?

  “That’s a good question, Colonel. To be honest, I’m not sure. There are several factors that don’t jive for me—”

  “Such as?”

  Here we go. “The vellum dates correctly, but it’s a decidedly odd medium for a Renaissance drawing. Most old masters used paper by that point. The lack of silverpoint is puzzling. Michelangelo preferred silver lead for his sketches—”

  “What is your gut telling you?”

  Gut? Ironic that.

  “It could easily be a later copy on old vellum,” I said.

  “But my sketch clearly wasn’t copied from Sangallo, from the original cartoon.”

  “Exactly. Which means even if it is a later copy, it is still extremely significant. It implies that, at one point, there was another version of the Battle of Cascina that might be original to Michelangelo.”

  He studied me in silence, reaching again for his wineglass.

  “You have a theory, I’m betting.” Eyes canny. “I want to hear it.”

  Talk about putting me on the spot.

  “If I were to give you an opinion right now”—deep breath—“I would say it is a later copy of a Michelangelo original.”

  “How much later?”

  I pretended to think about it for a moment. “Perhaps early nineteenth century.”

  “That late?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What makes you think that?” He gazed over the rim of his wine glass. Expectant.

  I cleared my throat. Folded my hands in my lap as primly as possible.

  “Too many things don’t add up. The fact that the charring on the edge occurred then. Additionally, something about the way the chalk skims onto the vellum implies a later time period.”

  That last part was all bluff, bluff, bluff. But I needed something to go on until I could build a stronger case.

  “I stand to lose a lot of money here.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just being contrary to get back at Pierce?” the Colonel asked. “I know you’ve been running around with Dante D’Angelo behind my back. You guys concocting some plan?”

  My blood pressure spiked. Suddenly, I needed a much stiffer drink than just wine.

  How to reply to that?

  “Things aren’t like that, Colonel—”

  “I only hire complete professionals to work for me, gal.”

  “Dante and I have not been trying to undermine Pierce or collude in any assessment. We’re just being . . . friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes.” I nodded firmly. “You bring up valid concerns, Colonel, but I have to be honest to my training and instincts too. I firmly think the drawing you have is a later copy.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Even more, I believe it was done by a woman. Which, when I gather enough proof, will not be any small thing. A two hundred-year-old copy of a much earlier Michelangelo done in a woman’s hand . . . collectors will eat it up.”

  The Colonel studied me for a long moment.

  Pensive. A little threatening even.

  I held my ground, matching him look for look.

  Somehow, I would prove the history of the sketch. The world needed to hear about Caro.

  The Colonel blinked.

  And then . . . smiled.

  Wide, sunny, utterly delighted.

  “Brava.” He slow-clapped. “Bravissima! I knew you would do me proud.”

  He saluted me with his wine glass.

  It was my turn to look surprised, eyebrows disappearing into my hairline.

  “I reckoned those D’Angelo boys would figure it out because they always seem to land on their feet,” he continued. “But you . . . I wasn’t so sure.”

  I smiled weakly. Without the assistance of Dante’s talents, I wasn’t sure I would have arrived at the correct conclusion.

  But wait—

  “You’re pleased the drawing isn’t the real deal?”

  The Colonel chuckled.

  “Would you care to explain what’s going on here, Colonel?”

  He sat back in his chair, expression still pleased-as-Punch.

  “For years, I’ve been wanting to find the right person to curate my collection. I need someone brutally honest. A person who won’t simply parrot what I want to hear, but what is truth. Hence this little ‘audition’ I arranged. You, m’dear, just passed with flying colors.”

  “Wait. You’ve known the provenance of the sketch all along?”

  He nodded. “Of course. What good is an audition if I don’t know what I have?”

  A pause.

  “True.” I hadn’t thought of that.

  “I’ve always known the drawing is a later copy. There’s plenty of documentation. I just neglected to show it to you.” The Colonel winked and motioned with his wine glass, sloshing the liquid around. “It came into my family around two hundred years ago. Done by a British noblewoman who lived here in Florence . . .”

  Caro!

  My heart raced. Could I possibly be close to finding out more about her?

  “Family lore has it the artist was a ward of Louise, the Countess of Albany,” the Colonel continued. “It’s the reason I chose to put you in Palazzo Alfieri. Considered it a helpful little hint . . . and damned if you didn’t figure it out.” He drained the rest of his wine glass in one long gulp. “It doesn’t hurt that I’ve been wanting to get to know you better for quite some time now.”

  His comment wrenched me back to reality.

  I met his gaze. Appraising me.

  Almost like I was something he wished to . . . collect.

  I paused, wanting to ignore the weird undercurrent. Brush it under the rug, pretend it would go away—

  No. Wait. New, fierce, not-afraid Claire didn’t let things go.

  Why do you have to be so old-man creepy?! she shouted.

  “May I ask why you’ve been interested in knowing me better?” I asked.

  Uber-polite. But direct nonetheless.

  The Colonel set down his now empty wine glass. Studied me for a moment longer.

  His gaze much more seeing than I would have expected.

  The silence stretched into awkward.

  “It’s like looking at Adelaide reborn,” he finally said. “You could be her—what is the word they use? Doppelganger?”

  “You’ve mentioned more than once that you knew my grandmother.”

  “Knew her?” He gave a soft laugh, gaze going unfocused. “I breathed her. Lived her. Loved her with every piece of my young, wild heart. I wager she never mentioned me.”

  Damn.

  This conversation had train-wreck written all
over it.

  What to say?

  No, Grammy never did mention you.

  I understand she dumped you for my grandpa . . .

  I went with, “I can’t say that she did. But she did talk to my mother about you, I think.”

  “Lisabet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Another one of those long, awkward silences.

  “You’ve been in love, I take it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Stupidly so.

  “People do crazy things in the name of love.”

  I didn’t understand where this conversation was headed. I just hoped it wasn’t the headlights of oncoming traffic.

  “I keep her picture, you know. Right here.” He tapped the inside pocket on his suit coat. “It helps me remember . . . things. Priorities, I suppose.”

  Yep. Definitely headlights blaring straight at me.

  I needed to get off the highway, as it were. But I asked anyway.

  “May I see it?”

  He beamed at me. Clearly that was the correct question. He pulled out a photo which, judging by its battered appearance, had been much-cherished. Handed it to me.

  It was one of those old, nearly square black-and-white photographs with a white border around it. The kind of thing you pay someone on Etsy to recreate in Photoshop.

  This was the real deal.

  And there they were. Standing on a beach . . . probably Horseneck, south of Boston. Grammy took me there a lot as a kid.

  Grammy in a vintage bathing suit—classic early 1960s style—smiling wildly at the camera. Her arm around a taller man.

  My throat tightened. How I missed her!

  I traced her face with my eyes. I tried to remember if I had ever seen a photo of Grammy from this period in her life. After her early years but before she married my grandpa.

  I didn’t think I had.

  Her hair whipped out behind her in a long, pale sheet. New England beaches as windy then as they are now.

  She did look like me . . . a lot.

  Even in black-and-white, I could tell her hair was light blond. The same face shape, the same body. Aside from our eye-color—I remember her eyes being more green than blue—we could have been twin sisters.

  No wonder the Colonel fixated on me.

  “She was so beautiful,” he said. Low and quiet. “Lovely in every way imaginable. I never felt so alive as I did when I was with her.”