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  The Colonel stared at me. Eyes full of some emotion I couldn’t quite understand.

  “Yes.” I swallowed. “That’s how it always was with her.”

  I had always adored the person I was around Grammy. She made me into that person. Loved me into it.

  I studied the photo.

  Grammy seemed so . . . happy. The joy on her face almost contagious. I moved my gaze to the young Colonel. Tall, smiling as well, holding Grammy tight against his side.

  His hair had been dark back then. Thick and wavy above his pale eyes.

  But something about him . . .

  I shifted the photo to get a better look.

  The chill started at the base of my neck. Every hair on my body coming rapidly to attention until my lungs felt constricted in a vise.

  No! Just . . . no!!

  I swallowed, terrified to ask even though my brain had already scrambled ahead to the answer.

  “So, the Michelangelo drawing . . . how did it come into your family’s possession?”

  “An ancestor in my mother’s line acquired it. My mother was the last of the Clines, you know.”

  “The Earls of Arlington? The sketch came from them?”

  “Yes. But before they became earls in the English peerage.”

  I shot him a puzzled look.

  “I know, it’s confusing to us Americans.” He waved a hand. “But the peerage of England is separate from the peerage of Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” I echoed.

  “Precisely, m’dear. My mother’s family were dukes in the Scottish peerage before becoming earls in England.”

  “Dukes?” My voice faint. “Dukes of what?”

  “Blackford.” He beamed at me. “My mother’s family were the Dukes of Blackford.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Dante

  I still can’t believe the Colonel is a direct descendant of Blackford.”

  I held Claire’s hand, drawing her up the gazillion stairs leading to San Miniato al Monte. They didn’t call it Saint Minias on the Mountain for nothing.

  “You and me both. The resemblance is startling.” She chuckled. She had been doing that a lot around me the last couple of days. “I turned so white, it freaked him out. He broke out in a sweat and ordered us both a healthy shot of bourbon.”

  “Kentucky gentleman-ing at its best.”

  “Truth.”

  We had been talking over her strange dinner the previous night as we climbed the wide stairs. The sun was sinking over the city, peeking through the cloud cover and bathing the Duomo in light. Though given the clouds on the horizon, the sun wouldn’t last long. We were in for more rain.

  I pulled Claire in front of me to let a group of rowdy Australians pass. The stairs and threatening weather did not deter tourists, that’s for sure.

  She pressed back into me from thigh to shoulder, curved and warm. The sudden shock of her body against mine momentarily knocked the air out of me.

  Madonna Mia. This woman—

  I had given myself a stern lecture before seeing her today. The same lecture I’d been having with myself all week:

  Don’t push her. Let her set the pace.

  Don’t initiate physical contact. (Well . . . not too much.)

  And whatever you do . . . do not kiss her.

  No matter how natural the impulse feels.

  No matter how many times she bites that lush lower lip of hers.

  Do. Not. Kiss. Her.

  Being with Claire had become a delicious sort of torture.

  So instead of holding her against me and drowning in her plump mouth, I let her peel herself off and continue up the stairs.

  Though I did keep a tight grasp on her hand.

  Did Claire even notice the electricity thrumming between us?

  “Why did Caro’s sketch stay in Blackford’s possession?” Claire asked. “That’s been bugging me all day.”

  Focus, man. “Right. I thought they planned on taking it with them to Boston.”

  “Exactly. So did they sell it in Florence instead and then Blackford bought it back as a memento of Caro? And, if so, where did the original Michelangelo end up?” She shifted her hand and threaded her fingers through mine, almost unconsciously, it seemed. Progress.

  “Or did Blackford interrupt their plans, send Ethan off and marry Caro himself?”

  “Which, for one, would be sad and, two, still doesn’t answer where the original Michelangelo modello Caro got from Henry Stuart ended up.”

  “Or how and when the charred damage to Caro’s sketch happened.”

  “Or who said those words Branwell heard about taking something back.” Claire nodded in agreement, puffing as we climbed the steep stairs. “Which is why we’re here, I guess.”

  All of me had wanted to spend the day with Claire exploring San Miniato, despite the unintentional physical torture. But business had called for both of us, delaying our meeting until this evening.

  I had insisted on picking her up on my bike, driving up and out of the city, parking with the tour buses in the giant Piazzale Michelangelo. It was the last destination for most people visiting the city. An amazing panorama of the Duomo, the Arno with its distinctive Ponte Vecchio . . . a sea of red tiled roofs.

  Little did people realize the view from San Miniato al Monte was higher and just that much better. Perched on a steep hill, the old church and attached monastery were surrounded by an enormous above-ground cemetery, terraced down the mountain.

  We continued to climb the stairs, me constantly scanning the crowds around us.

  While driving up on my bike, I had noticed a man in the rearview mirror keeping his distance behind us on a smaller motorino. The man himself was nondescript in a black leather jacket and jeans. Concerned, I took a deliberately roundabout route up to the piazzale. The man had followed us through every twisting turn. But I had lost him right before reaching Piazzale Michelangelo.

  Were we being followed? Or was it just random happenstance?

  Was Claire’s anxiety finally rubbing off on me?

  Regardless, I was keeping a diligent lookout. No one would hurt Claire on my watch.

  She pulled me to a stop.

  “Wait.” She darted up three steps. “Let’s take some video, shall we? No sense in waiting. It will be dark soon.”

  I framed her and shot a few seconds of film, studying the background.

  “Anything?” Claire came down to me, pressing into my arm. That scent of lavender eddying around me.

  I angled my phone screen in her direction, shaking my head.

  “No.”

  Claire stared at the video, the people moving behind her, the two kids leaning in to photobomb, fingers and tongues wagging.

  She took in a deep breath. “He offered me the job.”

  I angled my head as I pocketed my phone, not understanding the non sequitur.

  She was biting her lip again. “I’m sorry. I know you and Branwell really need the job too—”

  “What? The Colonel offered you the job? You won the audition?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Claire—that’s fantastic!” Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground. Pulling her into an exuberant hug and spinning her around. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  She stared into my face, surprise written all over hers.

  “W-wait—you’re happy for me?” She settled her hands on my shoulders as I, reluctantly, set her down.

  I did not, however, let her go.

  “Of course, cara mia. You totally deserve it.”

  “But . . . I’m sorta taking this from you—”

  “I’m a hack at best. I don’t have your keen eye or understanding. Without my . . . talent . . . I would be completely lost. You, on the other hand, are brilliant.”

  “But you needed this job, too.”

  That was true. “Branwell and I will figure something out.”

  “Are you sure?” She looked away, still punishing t
hat poor bottom lip with her teeth.

  “Claire, this isn’t about you winning and me losing. You earned this job.”

  I tried not to stare at her mouth as I spoke, really I did. What kind of creep stands and stares at a woman’s mouth?

  But as I still had my arms looped around her waist and her hands were on my shoulders, those lips of hers were less than a foot away.

  It was a losing battle.

  My own mouth was dry.

  “When does the Colonel want you to start?” I asked in a lame attempt to pull my brain away from its chant of, Kiss her right now, you idiot.

  A pause.

  “I haven’t told him yes yet.”

  “Wha—why?” Okay, now she had my full attention.

  Her fingers tightened on my shoulders. She gazed past me, staring over the city stretching behind us, the cemetery which angled along both sides of the stairs. “I wanted to make sure . . . I mean—I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  She moved her eyes back to mine. “You’re really happy for me?”

  Her question cut me. She was such an odd combination of confidence and vulnerability.

  Had she ever had a cheerleader in her life?

  “I will always celebrate your successes.” I may have tugged her even an inch closer. “Honestly and truly.”

  She blinked. And then blinked again. Released a long breath. That bottom lip trembled.

  “Thank you. Thank you for being so . . . supportive—”

  I leaned into her, brushing my lips softly against her temple. Giving in a little to temptation. “That’s what this is all about, cara. I’ll always be there, cheering you on.”

  She sagged against me and I could feel her throat working, swallowing back her emotions.

  Had she really been so concerned about my reaction? So worried I would be . . . what? Angry? Upset? My heart swelled.

  Oh Claire.

  She hugged me hard and pulled away. She didn’t, however, let go of my right hand.

  “Thank you. Just . . . thank you.” She smiled. Open. Happy. “I told the Colonel I wanted to think about it. Partially to see how you’d react. But also because of the weirdness with Grammy and, now, Blackford.”

  I pulled on her hand, starting up the stairs again. I risked a glance behind us. Searching. Observing.

  Good. Our motorbike friend hadn’t made a reappearance.

  “You feel like history is repeating itself?”

  “How could you not?”

  “There’s nothing saying the Colonel is Blackford reincarnated.”

  “Can you see a life clinging to him from that time period?”

  I took a couple steps. “No. The Colonel’s shadows have gaps.”

  “Exactly—”

  “But it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe the Colonel was someone else I loved during that life.”

  “Did Ethan have some affection for Blackford?”

  Good question. I sifted through Ethan’s emotions. “Some, I suppose. Blackford was a mentor, of sorts. The person who set him on the path to becoming a doctor—”

  “So if the Colonel were Blackford, you might not see that shadow clinging to him.”

  A beat.

  “That is possible,” I agreed.

  “And you have to admit the current situation is oddly similar in some ways. First, the Colonel courts my grandmother only to lose her to my grandfather. Then, I show up on the scene, looking way too much like Grammy, and he loses me to you. It’s like Blackford with Ethan and Caro all over again.”

  I couldn’t argue the logic of her points. “So suppose the scenario with Blackford is repeating itself, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Do you get a sense of menace from the Colonel?”

  “No.”

  “Is Caro afraid of Blackford?”

  A longer pause.

  “Not really,” she said. “More like concerned and worried. But he doesn’t send chills up her spine. Which, I guess, kinda describes how I feel about the Colonel most of the time. Apprehensive of his motives but not skittish.”

  “So there’s your answer.”

  She stopped, cocked her head.

  “About the Colonel. Take the job, Claire.”

  “You seem eager—”

  “I am eager. It’s completely self-serving. If you take the job, you’ll be in Florence for a quite a while.”

  “Years probably.”

  “Exactly. I can’t think of any better place for you to be than here with me.”

  She laughed, that dimple beneath her eye popping. “Smooth, Mr. D’Angelo. Very smooth.”

  “I have my moments.”

  We finally reached the top of the stairs. San Miniato stood in the center of a wall of buildings, its nearly thousand-year-old marble facade gleaming. Bands of colored marble shining in the last gasp of sun.

  Claire turned around, staring at the expansive view. All of Florence stretching for miles before us.

  With a sigh, she leaned into me. I took shameless advantage, instantly pulling her in.

  Would it always be like this with Claire? An almost helpless need to have her close? The other half I had been missing for so long.

  It wasn’t obsessive, per se.

  Just . . . comforting. Like a hit of dopamine.

  My pulse calmed. Breathing slowed. Anxiety melted away. I could conquer anything as long as Claire was at my side.

  Did she have similar thoughts?

  “Do you think I’ll ever stop feeling like someone is following me?” she asked instead. Not the direction I had been going. “That tingling sensation of eyeballs staring at your shoulder blades?”

  I froze. She did have a point.

  I carefully scanned what I could see of our surroundings.

  My nervous system moved from dopamine to adrenaline in a heartbeat.

  Damn.

  She was right. The man from earlier was back. I could see him in my peripheral vision, casually leaning against the stone railing to our left.

  No way it was coincidental then.

  I didn’t recognize him, but he appeared Italian with his dark hair and Euro-trash boots.

  Now what? March over and confront him?

  Tempting.

  How would Claire feel about that? And what if things got ugly?

  I turned back around to face the cathedral, Claire pivoting with me. The man stayed in place. Observing.

  What was his game?

  Claire craned her neck upward, obliviously studying the ancient church.

  “Why the eagle on the top, I wonder?” She pointed at the bronze sculpture perched in the center of the peaked roof.

  “All of these churches were the project of some guild or another. Florence thrived on business. The guilds had a mission to out-do each other with shows of civic pride—”

  “Similar to sponsoring a sports arena today?”

  “Exactly. Once the monument was built, they had to pay for its upkeep.”

  “Like adopting a highway? Only a cathedral?”

  “Yep.”

  Claire chuckled. “We think the world has changed dramatically over the centuries. I mean, obviously it has in some ways. But, generally, what goes around, comes around. If we were to land in Florence around 1300 A.D., I think we would find it a fairly familiar place.”

  I motioned for Claire to walk across the expansive gravel terrazzo extending in front of the church. The sunlight was fading. She passed by our would-be stalker. For his part, he studiously pretended to be enamored of the view.

  I followed behind, videoing her progress. Getting some excellent footage of the suspicious man in the process. Though he kept his head averted, denying me a solid shot of his face.

  “Anything?” Claire turned around, hands on her hips.

  Right. I searched the people behind her for Ethan.

  Nothing.

  I shook my head, lowering the phone. A Japanese family rambled between me and the man, jabbering at each other. Instantly, the suspic
ious man stood and walked away, moving behind me.

  Uffa.

  “Mmmm.” Claire pivoted, studying the brown brick wall in front of us. “I’m not sure this is right. Caro distinctly saw a bell-tower and a cloister.”

  “I think the cloister is behind this wall.” I gestured in front of us.

  “But the bell tower looks to be on the other side over there.” She pointed in the opposite direction.

  I followed her finger, grateful for the chance to glance behind me. The man was still walking away from us, aiming for the steps to the above-ground cemetery below the cathedral plaza.

  Now what?

  Claire moved closer. I twined my fingers through hers.

  “Now what?” She unwittingly mimicked my thoughts.

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t help that parts of the landscape have changed over the years. Ethan saw a lot more trees.”

  “Yeah. Caro didn’t see the cemetery in her mind’s eye.”

  We walked back across the wide terrace, trying to reach the base of the bell tower on the opposite side.

  Our mystery man was still wandering the tombs below, gazing back at us every now and again. Inadvertently, I made eye contact with him. His gaze slid past me. Practiced. Giving nothing away.

  The man was clearly no amateur.

  As if I needed more proof, the silvery shadows clinging to him said it all: a Mussolini-era soldier, a Risorgimento revolutionary, a condottiero.

  I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. This clearly wasn’t some jealous or lovestruck idiot.

  No. This was a professional.

  A chill chased my spine.

  I had a feeling if I launched myself down into the cemetery after him, the man would bolt. Not to mention, running off would leave Claire vulnerable.

  I motioned for Claire to walk around the entrance to the cemetery, getting more precious footage of the guy before he melted into the growing shadows.

  Still no Ethan either.

  Twilight had arrived, bringing more clouds with it. My video became dimmer and dimmer, despite the street lamps popping on.

  Our stalker-friend merged with the gloom, disappearing. Was he gone for good? Or just lurking?

  I snagged Claire’s hand—because, reality check, I intended to hold her hand every possible second—and moved around the church. A stone wall blocked access to the bell tower.