Gladly Beyond Page 28

  He had been true to his promise . . . to let me set the pace for our relationship. To move at my own speed.

  So . . . what was I waiting for?

  I liked him.

  Like-liked him.

  Liked him more than I had ever liked any other man.

  I also knew he like-liked me.

  I was so tired of being watched and hunted. Of being prey.

  I wanted to be the huntress.

  So though I knew I was playing with fire, I pulled our linked hands down and around my back. Hold me tighter.

  He obliged. The man was anything but dense.

  I wrapped both my hands around his head. Nuzzled my nose into the space below his ear. Returning a taste of his own actions.

  And then grazed my lips along his neck.

  His breath hitched. Sharp. Quick.

  I dragged my mouth along his jawline. My destination surely obvious.

  He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing. His big frame suddenly shaking.

  I brushed my lips over his. Feather soft. Rain chilled.

  Dante’s reaction was . . . gratifying.

  His arms tightened around me justlikethat—

  Banded me against him with such fierce strength, I nearly got whiplash. Claiming another, hotter kiss.

  And then another. And another.

  His mouth a burning brand against mine. Demanding. Hungry.

  I melted, arcing into him. Just as Caro had.

  My memories blended with hers . . . ours.

  He tasted like Ethan. Honey-sweet. Give and take.

  Each kiss was a blast of cannon fire against the walls surrounding my heart.

  I hated those walls. I was so very tired of them. The sheer effort of maintaining them, patrolling them, always on guard . . .

  I wanted Dante to be their keeper now.

  Somehow, the rain became . . . cleansing. Purging.

  Those walls crumbled in a flash of infinity—

  My soul remembered this man. All of him.

  More than just cognitive knowing . . . a visceral sense of . . . us.

  We had been here before. Over and over. Countless times, experiencing this kiss.

  Dante kissed me like a man drowning. First ravenous, greedy.

  But gradually his kisses morphed. Softer. Savoring. Lingering.

  A hand threaded into my hair, turning my head for a better angle. My own arms were around his neck, clutching his head to mine.

  Finally he pulled away enough to rest his forehead against mine, heart thumping under my hands. A reflection of my own.

  “You’re a much better kisser than Caro,” he whispered.

  I chuckled. Naughty and low. “I should hope so. You certainly top Ethan.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. Wicked, full of promise. “Glad to see we have improved on something over the last two hundred years.”

  “Practice does make perfect.”

  I popped onto my toes, slanting my mouth over his again. Warm. Intoxicating.

  Would I ever get enough of this man?

  He rumbled deep in his throat. A noise of pure male satisfaction.

  After a while, he moved to kiss my jaw, my cheeks, my eyes . . . leaving a final lingering kiss on my bottom lip alone.

  “That poor little lip.” His breath a puff of air against mine. “You worry it to death.”

  I laughed. Carefree. Happiness fizzing through my veins.

  I was Claire and Caro and a hundred other women all at once.

  He was more than Ethan or Dante . . .

  He was my soul. The other half I had spent an eternity of lives watching, waiting, longing . . .

  Finally. At last.

  I was home.

  Thirty

  Claire

  I’m so happy you have decided to accept my offer, darlin.’” As usual, the Colonel rocked back on his heels, thumbs in his jacket lapels.

  Dante and I were on our way to visit the Certosa but, as it was near the Colonel’s villa, we had swung by. I wanted to give him word of my acceptance in person. Dante decided to wait with the car, as he could watch me enter and exit the house. It was still raining.

  Staying at the D’Angelo palazzo had been . . . delightful.

  And not only due to Dante’s goodnight kissing skills. Though that had been a highpoint . . .

  After Dante said goodnight (over and over), Chiara had kept me up late chatting about her latest men troubles. Turned out, she and I had a lot in common when it came to dating losers—Dante excepted, of course.

  “Shall we have dinner to celebrate?” The Colonel continued. The Colonel was his cheerful self today. So far nothing weird.

  It felt good, accepting the job. The money was necessary. And, even more, this job would go a long way to rebuilding my lost professional cred.

  “Sure, Colonel. I would enjoy that. We could discuss my game plan for curating your collection.”

  And lay down some ground rules about our working relationship.

  “It’s a date then.” The Colonel smacked his hands together.

  Annnnd maybe those ground rules couldn’t wait.

  “Would it be alright if Dante came with me?” I asked. The question giving the Colonel a clear lay of the land, so to speak.

  The Colonel paused, both eyebrows shooting upward. “Is that the way the wind is blowin’?”

  I nodded. “It is.”

  He studied me for a moment. Let out a slow breath.

  “Well, I suppose it doesn’t do any harm to have him along.”

  “No. I think you’ll appreciate his insights. It’s like getting us both for the price of one.”

  The Colonel perked up at that thought.

  “Have you considered partnering with any local museums?” I continued.

  “I can’t say that I know much about any of that stuff. I’m going to leave that to you professionals.”

  We chatted about pleasantries for a few more minutes and then shook hands. The Colonel doing his signature dual-hand-pat thing which lingered far too long.

  Sigh. It was going to be an interesting working relationship, but at least he knew where I stood with anything more than a business working situation.

  I hoped.

  The Colonel and I made arrangements to have dinner the following night.

  I stopped by Natalia’s office on my way down to sign some paperwork.

  “Congratulations, by the way,” she said as I added my signature to one more confidentiality agreement. “I know the Colonel has been thrilled to add you to our team.”

  “Thank you.” I set the pen down. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, this will do it.” Natalia gathered the papers together, scanning through them. “So, have you seen Dante D’Angelo lately?” The question was anything but casual.

  A pause.

  “He’s waiting for me in the car.”

  Natalia’s head snapped up, eyes meeting mine.

  “I see.” Her tone indicating that, indeed, she did.

  She smiled, nice and strained and catty. As polite as could be.

  We chatted for a few minutes and I made another appointment with her, as we needed to hash out a plan for working together.

  That was going to be fun. I was hoping once she acclimated to Dante being with me, she would lighten up and see me more as a friend than competition.

  A girl could dream.

  “Oh . . . I think this is yours,” Natalia said as I turned to leave.

  I stared at her hand.

  Or, rather, the lipstick tube in her palm.

  “You left it here last week sometime.” She noticed my hesitation. “The Colonel picked it up for you and asked me to make sure you got it back.”

  I took it gingerly from her. “Thanks.”

  I smiled, forced, on my way out the door, tapping the lipstick tube against my thigh.

  My favorite PH lipstick, green before you put it on, perfect when worn under lemon berry lipgloss.

  I had a routine. Part house make-u
p, part purse make-up.

  I was about a hundred percent positive I had never taken the lipstick to the Colonel’s. This lipstick stayed with my house make-up kit. It never ended up in my purse. At least, not intentionally. I most certainly hadn’t taken it out of my purse.

  Had it really been the Colonel who had ‘found’ it and given it to Natalia? Or was she going rogue? Was this part of some convoluted plot to come between me and Dante?

  And why steal my lipstick and nothing else? That was just . . . weird.

  And why, why, why couldn’t things stay normal with the Colonel and his people for longer than just a few hours?

  Thirty-One

  Dante

  I had talked Claire off the cliff by the time we pulled into the dirt field that masqueraded as a parking lot below the Certosa. The enormous medieval walls of the monastery rose sharply in front of us. Looming and imposing. The rain still lingered.

  “There is no good reason for Natalia to have had my lipstick. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Are you even sure it’s yours?”

  She shot me the uh, duh look that all women perfect by the time they’re ten. “It’s this special PH lipstick you have to order from a high-end boutique in Chelsea. Trust me. It’s not some random, over-the-counter Revlon—”

  “Got it. So what are you going to do about it?” I pulled into an open parking space.

  Silence.

  “I don’t know.” Claire slumped back into her seat. Drummed her fingers on the center console. “I wish you could see shadows around it.”

  I had tried. It was the first thing I did when she sat back in the car. But . . . nothing.

  “I only see dead people.” My voice dry.

  “Funny. Would Branwell be able to hear anything, do you think?”

  “We’ll ask him. It’s definitely worth a try.”

  More silence. Rain pattered on the car roof.

  “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”

  I put the car in park and killed the engine. “You felt like someone might have been in your room last week.”

  “I brushed it off then . . .”

  “Why would the Colonel be in your room stealing your lipstick? That makes no sense either.”

  “I know, I know.” More finger tapping. “I am so tired of not understanding the Colonel’s motives.”

  “Why not ask him?”

  She turned to stare at me, eyebrows drawn down into a perplexed V.

  “What? It’s not a bad idea,” I said.

  She contemplated a moment longer. “True. I’ll just have to think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound accusatory.”

  “You’ll come up with something.”

  “If only I didn’t need this job so bad.”

  A beat.

  “I am glad you took the job, Claire.” I reached down and snagged her fingers with mine, keeping my other hand on the steering wheel.

  “Me too.” She squeezed my hand. “This whole stalker thing has just thrown me. I simply need to shove my fear under a rock and move on.”

  “Give yourself a break, Claire. You can’t just pretend everything that scares you isn’t there . . .”

  She snorted. “Clearly you don’t understand my vast capacity for denial.”

  I laughed, soft and low. She had a point.

  I glanced around us one more time before getting out of the car. Our stalker friend hadn’t made another appearance today. So that was good at least.

  The rain persisted, not a torrent but a steady enough drizzle. We dashed up the long drive to the front door of the Certosa. It was tucked in between two imposing medieval walls, one punctuated with open arches rising at an angle.

  Honestly, it was like entering a medieval keep. The doors were big enough to fit a tractor-trailer. These ancient monasteries were as much a fortress as anything else. It was probably why I had forgotten about it. It always registered as more castle than church.

  The Certosa didn’t take reservations for tours. You simply showed up at the times listed and hoped one of the brothers decided to show you around. Italian tourism at its finest.

  Fortunately, we arrived just as a tour group of retirees from Yorkshire walked up, so the brothers ushered us inside.

  We went up a long flight of wide stairs . . . a sort of covered loggia with arches evenly spaced on the right side. The same arches we had seen from the gate below.

  Talk about stairs with a view. Each archway framed the Chianti countryside. Lush and green, the hills hung with humidity and freshly-sprung spring. The smell of night-jasmine lingered. The stairs themselves dipped in the middle, evidence of thousands of feet passing before our own.

  Claire clutched my hand. I paused, taking a photo of her next to one of the arches.

  She looked at it over my shoulder.

  “No Ethan.”

  We reached the top of the stairs and entered into a large piazza-like courtyard. The monastic church stood on one side, its white Baroque facade glistening in the rain. I managed to snap another photo of Claire while two elderly women argued—in their thick Yorkshire burr—over the best way to protect their hair. A scarf over the head won out.

  No Ethan.

  We darted across to the church piazza with the rest of the group and moved into the dark church itself. I tried to snap a photo along the short nave but got a stern ‘No foto, per piacere’ from one of the monks and a hand motion telling me to put my phone away.

  Claire grunted next to me and pushed me in front of her. Using my body as a shield, I guessed.

  Two seconds later, she handed me her phone.

  She looked darling in the corner of the photo. The Baroque interior and organ pipes behind her.

  But still no Ethan.

  We continued on. Through one reception gallery, and then another. Through a smaller cloister glistening with rain . . .

  Still no Ethan.

  I had settled on taking constant video, holding my phone low, Claire walking in front of me.

  We passed out of the smaller cloister and stopped. A long flight of stairs stretched on both sides of us.

  To my right, bright light streamed from doors above opening onto the enormous cloister that made up almost fifty-percent of the monastery.

  I aimed my phone to the left. Down the stairs.

  Something flickered in my video. Ethan was turning the corner at the bottom of the steps.

  At last!

  I grabbed Claire’s arm, pulling her to a stop against the wall, showing her the video. The rest of the tour group moved past us, climbing the stairs upward.

  Claire and I looked at each other for just half a heartbeat.

  With a quick glance behind, I snatched her hand and started down the stairs, toward the arched hallway where Ethan had disappeared.

  “Fermatevi!” A voice called behind us. “Stop. You may not go—”

  I ran faster. Claire giggled.

  We were two school kids running from the principal, hoping not to get caught.

  Footsteps sounded behind us.

  Which meant I didn’t notice the exact point when the world swirled from day to night.

  The point where my laughter melted, morphed, faded . . .

  Panic blasted me.

  Run. Faster. Ignore the pain—

  He canna have her . . .

  Thirty-Two

  Caro clutched Ethan’s hand, racing through the pitch-black ruin, struggling to keep her skirts from tangling in her legs and tripping them both.

  They left the long arched hallway and stumbled into a larger room. Pale moonlight poured through windows high on the walls . . .

  The refectory.

  The old monastery was barren . . . a crumbling ghost. Napoleon had emptied it of monks years ago, leaving an aged couple as ‘caretakers.’ Without constant attention, however, the Italian countryside had reclaimed the building as its own.

  Ethan pulled her down behind one of the enormous, refectory tables, hiding them in the deep shadows of t
he room.

  Ethan swallowed next to her, squeezing her hand in comfort. Caro fought to still her breathing.

  Silence. They could not be found.

  Well. Not found again.

  Ethan pulled her against his side, tucking her tight against him with one hand.

  He carried a loaded pistol in the other. Even in the murky gloom, she caught a glimpse of its silvery metal.

  She felt the puff of his breath against her cheek. The press of his lips on hers.

  All will be well, it said.

  She trusted him. They hadn’t come this far to fail.

  The night had gone well.

  Up until the point it had fallen apart.

  Caro had pleaded a headache an hour into the musicale, readied for bed and then waited for Mary to fall asleep. Slipping back into her clothes, she stole down the servant’s stairs with a small bag in one hand and a wooden tube housing the rolled-up Michelangelo modello and her vellum copy in the other.

  Hiring a hack, she had been dropped at the end of the long lane leading up to the abandoned Certosa. It had been a simple thing to scurry under the gate and make the steep climb to the base of the monastery walls. The bright moon lighting her way.

  Full of such hope. Ethan would be there. They would finally begin their life together.

  But Ethan was not there.

  Not for one hour. And then two.

  Caro sat on her valise, toes numb from the cold ground. Balancing the tube with both drawings on her knees to protect them from the damp. Every night noise—the hoot of an owl, bats fluttering into the eves, things scuttling in the surrounding bushes—causing her to jump.

  Finally, she heard horse hooves on the road.

  Hallelujah!

  But wait! There were too many of them . . . it should just be a pair of horses and a small carriage . . .

  She jumped to her feet, pressing herself back into the shadows.

  A familiar shape burst from the surrounding bushes, pistol in hand.

  “Ethan!” Her voice came out in a horrified whisper.

  Something had gone terribly wrong.

  The worst part?

  She still didn’t know what had happened.

  He had merely grabbed her hand and tugged her into the dark ruin, Caro clutching the wooden tub with her free hand. Halfway across the huge church courtyard, she had heard shouts behind them.