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  “Ha-ha. Congratulations. You’re hilarious—”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not a compliment.” She pointed at her phone. “What’s your game here, D’Angelo?”

  “No game. I’m just trying—”

  “And don’t go feeding me some line about this being a ghost or something stupid like that.”

  “A ghost? Possibly.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes.

  Was this guy a ghost of sorts? I couldn’t say I had any other ideas.

  The sum of my thoughts consisted of what-the-hell, could-things-get-any-weirder, why-does-Claire-smell-so-good . . .

  She noted my pause.

  “Take your time. Try to come up with a logical explanation.” She tossed her head. “You haven’t even denied that it’s you.”

  Was this me? A past life me?

  The only other times I had ended up in a past life regression, both my mom and Branwell had said I looked completely different. They had too. So what were the chances that this guy would be my doppelganger?

  I was honest-to-goodness . . . flabbergasted.

  There was no other way to describe it.

  Was this man the lingering memory of a shared past life making itself known through her photos? An echo of sorts?

  What would happen if we went to the Duomo together? Or stood on the Ponte Santa Trinità? Would we experience an actual regression together?

  It seemed impossible that every single location I saw here on her phone held emotional significance.

  And was Claire that significant to me?

  My libido gave me an enthusiastic high-five and a hell-yes. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about it.

  But a relationship was so much more than just mere physical attraction. And Claire’s stand-offish, toe-tapping routine wasn’t exactly appealing.

  I flipped back to the image of the mystery stalker inside the Duomo where his face was clear. The resemblance was remarkable. Uncanny. No wonder she was freaked out.

  Was my GUT actually powerful enough to register in someone else’s photos?

  What. Was. Up?

  I tapped her phone.

  “What are you doing?” Claire sounded concerned.

  “Emailing this photo to myself.”

  “Trophy gathering?” She reached for her phone again. I moved back.

  “Not a chance.”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. Email received.

  I swiped into her phone and punched in a number. Two seconds later, my own phone buzzed.

  Now I had her phone number and email address.

  “Nice.” She snatched her phone from me, realizing what I had done. “Trying to complete your stalker image?”

  “Claire.” I put three fingers under her elbow. Waited for her to raise her pale blue eyes to mine. Threaded every ounce of sincerity I could into my next words. “That man in the photos is not me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Icy points of crystal blue.

  “Ha-ha.” Very unamused. “I am so incredibly tired of macho men thinking to intimidate—”

  “Claire. Please. Believe me. This is not me.” I pointed at the screen. “You’re more than welcome to go through my phone, tablet, laptop. There might be an explanation—”

  “So you do have a hunch?” She shook off my fingers.

  “An idea, at least. Come to dinner with Branwell and me. Maybe we can talk over some answers . . .”

  “Pah-lease!! You stalk and photobomb me—”

  “Again, not me.”

  “—and then expect me to willingly get into a car with you and drive off to, uh, dinner.” She air-quoted the word. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Not very, obviously. “What would make you feel safe? I swear, I am honestly just trying to understand this situation too.”

  “If you have something to say, you can say it right now.” Tap, tap, tap.

  How could I prove our family talents? Though with these photos . . .

  I glanced around the entrance hall. “Any explanation is going to be lengthy. If you could just trust me—”

  “Trust?! I don’t trust you farther than the two inches I could throw you.” She laughed. A sharp, unamused bark. “You are so not dialed into my vibe right now.”

  Apparently not.

  How could this prickly, hostile person possibly be my woman?

  Had past-life me just had poor taste?

  My libido raised its hand again, pointing out that, really, as far as it was concerned, she could totally be my woman . . .

  Stupid libido.

  But then she sucked her plump bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth.

  The action achingly familiar. As if part of me had predicted the motion moments before it actually happened.

  And something in me knew. Understood the action as a sign of her distress.

  My heart thumped in my chest. My arms suddenly felt wrong for still being at my side, uselessly not holding her in comfort.

  “Look. I’m not going to force this issue.” I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “If you want answers, I might have some. The guy in the photo can’t hurt you. It’s harmless . . . just unsettling.”

  “So is it a projection?”

  A beat.

  “Something like that.” I nodded toward the phone in her hand. “You have my number. Call or text if you want to chat.”

  “As if. I’ll be deleting your number the second you leave.”

  “Claire . . .” All the air deflated from me. “Despite what you may think, I am a friend. Call me when you want answers.”

  With a nod, I spun to go. Paused. Turned back.

  Looked at her standing there, phone still in her hand. Eyes pensive. Unguarded. Open.

  She tentatively folded her arms again. Hugging herself. Unsure. Somehow seeming so . . . alone.

  No. Not just alone.

  Lonely.

  Something . . . flared.

  A rush of recognition. My soul. Hers. Us.

  You. I know . . . you.

  There was history there.

  So much history . . .

  Blood pounded in my ears.

  Without thinking, I took two long strides, barreling my way into her bubble, leaning over her.

  I got a heady whiff of Claire in the process. Lavender and a hint of spice.

  Madonna mia.

  “You’re wrong,” I whispered into her ear. Sucked in another breath of her. “I think you do trust me. Instinctively. When you want to know why . . . call me.”

  I pulled back and gave her one last lingering stare. And then turned on my heel and walked through the front door.

  I didn’t look back.

  Say what you want about us D’Angelos—we know how to make an exit.

  Nine

  Claire

  I wanted to hate him. Really I did.

  I tried to hate him on the drive back into Florence.

  As I thanked the driver for dropping me in front my hotel. (Marco. Twin toddlers. Loves soccer.)

  As I clomped into my hotel room and threw myself across the bed, kicking off my heels.

  But . . .

  Just something about the stunned expression on Dante’s face when he saw the photos. The pensive way he stared. The heat of him as he loomed over me.

  I should have felt threatened or mocked or humiliated. I should have felt . . .

  Well . . . any number of normal, sane things.

  Anything but the sense of concern and shelter I had felt.

  Sweetie, you are so messed up in that head of yours, I could hear Grammy say.

  I closed my eyes. I was so messed up. Had the psych eval to prove it.

  I had been decidedly freaked out by that final selfie in the Duomo. What possible logical explanation could there be? Nothing made sense.

  Why would Dante get his Jane Austen fetish on and then stalk me through downtown Florence? I mean, if you’re renting a costume anyway, why not go for Batman
or something with an identity-hiding mask? Or, at the very least, a character that’s more inherently scary? Freddy Krueger anyone?

  And Dante’s ghost explanation seemed . . . out-there.

  Sheesh. And everyone claimed I was psycho . . .

  But if this wasn’t Dante’s doing, who was it? Was Pierce the one behind it all, messing around (I had no idea how), trying to get Dante tossed from the Colonel’s contest?

  I couldn’t land on any one answer.

  But it did explain why I hadn’t shown the photos to the Colonel yet.

  Maybe because, like I said to Dante, I prefer to pull on my big-girl pants and solve my own problems.

  Maybe because I wanted to hear Dante’s explanation (and, let’s be honest, take in his broad shoulders and deep bass voice while doing so—)

  Or maybe . . . Dante was right.

  I did trust him. Instinctively.

  Not that I trusted that sense of trust . . . if that made any sense.

  I had trusted Pierce too. And the long line of loser boyfriends before him.

  My bad judgment knew no bounds when it came to men. They were like crowded checkout lines; I would pick the wrong one every time.

  All that to say . . .

  I didn’t delete Dante’s info from my phone. If he broke his promise and contacted me first, then I would do something.

  I pushed off the bed and strolled over to one of the three enormous windows overlooking the Arno—the setting sun turning the river and buildings and hills beyond into a molten mass. Bathing my hotel suite in golden light.

  I opened up the window . . . a warm breeze threaded through the room, bringing with it the rumble of traffic from the street below.

  I had to hand it to the Colonel. Despite all the potential weirdness with Grammy and ‘hey Bonnie Prince Charlie’s child bride lived there,’ the hotel room itself was gorgeous.

  On the piano nobile with soaring Baroque-gilded ceilings, lush drapery and furnishings that were a mix of traditional Versailles and sleek Scandinavian modern. The epitome of tasteful Italian style.

  I sighed and leaned out the window. No screens for Italians. Just wide open air.

  To be fair, things hadn’t been too weird with the Colonel throughout the day. He had held my hand too long and used every excuse to touch me. Not creepy touching, mind you. Just a brush on the elbow, a hand at my back. Before Pierce and my stalkers, I would have merely considered his attention grandfatherly. But now . . .

  I tossed the thought out of my mind.

  He hadn’t brought up Grammy again. I had intended to ask him about it, but the right moment never presented itself.

  All things considered, I wasn’t sure I wanted to invite that level of intimacy into our conversation. What did it really matter in the end? Grammy had never mentioned him, so it probably was nothing.

  As for the possible Michelangelo drawing . . .

  As an appraiser, you always look first at provenance.

  The Colonel claimed there was no family documentation for the sketch. That said, though his father was from Kentucky, the Colonel’s mother was British, the only child of the last Earl of Arlington. All of the Colonel’s Italian holdings came from that branch of the family. So from a historical perspective, the Earls of Arlington could easily have undiscovered treasures.

  Beyond that, it was hard to draw any conclusions until we received the mass spectrometry results. The differences in composition suggested the Colonel’s sketch probably wasn’t a copy of Michelangelo’s cartoon for the Battle of Cascina.

  But was it a bonafide Michelangelo?

  I honestly didn’t know. The fluidity of the drawing most certainly suggested as much, but the vellum ground and lack of silverpoint were troubling.

  I faced the question I had been asking myself for the last two days:

  Could the Colonel’s sketch be Michelangelo’s modello? His original model or blueprint for the painting?

  In Renaissance Florence, a modello was a detailed sketch or model presented for approval to the patron paying for the artwork. Basically, a small-scale illustration of the final work to get the green-light to complete the larger scale cartoon. All the great masters had created modelli at times, many of which still survive.

  There were no records of a full modello ever existing for the Battle of Cascina but, for a project that massive and expensive, common sense dictated Michelangelo had probably created one at some point.

  Did the Colonel have the only known copy of that modello? It would require time to gather evidence, but if it proved true, finding a lost Michelangelo modello would be monumental news.

  I would need to do a detailed comparison of use of line between the Colonel’s sketch and known Michelangelo drawings. But, really, the kicker would be the mass spectrometry analysis. If the dates were later than the 1500s, then no way was the sketch a bonafide Michelangelo. Yet even if that were the case, as a different iteration of Michelangelo’s design, the Colonel’s Battle of Cascina would be important.

  Fortunately, I had nearly a month to conduct research. Such time was a luxury I rarely experienced.

  I shoved aside the tiny voice whispering that the Colonel might have ulterior motives when it came to me, that I needed to be careful. Finish my job and get the hell out of Dodge, as it were.

  Gah. I hated this paranoia. This fear. My inability to simply take people at face value.

  I continued to stare out the window.

  The Arno moved sluggishly before me, swirling underneath the Ponte Santa Trinità. (Sixteenth century. Oldest elliptic arch bridge in the world.) The water eddied outward, dark brown with the sediment of spring run-off. A city bus squealed to a stop at the intersection of the bridge and Lungarno Corsini, waiting patiently between the gigantic statues of Autumn and Summer. (Giovanni Caccini. Marble. Excellent example of late Renaissance Mannerism.)

  Across the river, wisteria sprawled over a private terrace with exuberant abandon, its vines heavy with blue-purple blossoms, a burst of cool color against the warm Tuscan-orange stucco.

  Leave it to Firenze to bring on the springtime charm. Though the city was a hardcore flirt any time of year.

  I turned back to my room. Even with the sun setting, the rooftop restaurant in the hotel wouldn’t open for dinner for several more hours. I had never really understood the Mediterranean habit of eating dinner after nine at night. Why go straight to bed on a full stomach?

  So . . . now what?

  I studiously ignored the fact that Dante’s number and email address were still in my phone.

  Not trusting my ability to trust him.

  Nope.

  I changed out of my suit into skinny jeans and a loose rose-colored silk shirt. Responded to several emails. Wrote to a couple of colleagues.

  Ignored three texts from Pierce asking and then pleading and then begging to take me out to dinner.

  I think I pulled an eyeball muscle I rolled them so hard.

  What was that saying I always mangled?

  Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice . . .

  Yeah.

  I watched the sky over Florence move from fiery orange through pale pink and into deep purple-black. Breathed in Italian air, heavy with humidity and the smell of growing things.

  Finally, I trudged into the bathroom to tidy my hair for dinner. I pulled it out of the bun, setting the bobby pins down on the marble counter. My hair could be wispy at the best of times.

  I paused.

  Where had my brush gone?

  I looked across the counter, past that talisman photo of me and Grammy in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, beyond the jar of face cream. I had left my brush there earlier in the day, hadn’t I? The bathroom wasn’t so large as to easily hide a paddle brush.

  Nothing.

  Frowning, I stepped out into the bedroom.

  Ah, there it was. Over by the flatscreen TV. Weird.

  I grabbed it and went back into the bathroom.

  Only to come out two minutes later l
ooking for my small make-up bag. I found it on the floor opposite the bed, pushed neatly up against the wall.

  Honestly.

  I stared down at the floral little pouch. I was almost one hundred percent certain I hadn’t left it there.

  Wait . . .

  My pulse sped up. I pivoted in a slow circle, eyes inventorying everything.

  Had someone been in my room?

  Housekeeping had come in earlier, as my bed had been made when I returned. Had I left my makeup bag on the covers, and they set it aside when tidying up? It made sense. I sometimes did my makeup while sitting on my bed, and I had been so distracted this morning, I couldn’t recall exactly what I had done.

  I walked around the room, trying to determine if anything else had been moved. Laptop. Chargers. Credit cards. Jewelry. Right where I left them. Certainly nothing of value had been taken.

  I picked up the make-up bag. Hold on. Where was my favorite lipstick?

  I dug through the bag, looking for my PH lipstick—the one I special ordered from a boutique in Chelsea. It was one of my rich-slumming splurges.

  It’s the weirdest stuff, that lipstick. The stick itself is literally green, but it reacts with the PH of your lips and turns them this gorgeous shade of blush pink once you swipe it on. I loved to wear it underneath my favorite lemon berry lipgloss. You know how getting the perfect lip shade goes . . .

  I thought I had used it this morning. Hadn’t I?

  I scanned my purse and then the rest of the room. No lipstick.

  Had I just forgotten to pack it?

  I sat down on the bed, biting my lower lip, trying to remember. I shook my head.

  It was nothing. Just my imagination running wild after a fairly harrowing couple of days. The reappearance of my persistent online hater. The job with the Colonel. Pierce being Pierce. Not to mention my frock-coated, top-hatted photobomber who may or may not be Dante D’Angelo.

  I had a lot on my mind. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I set things or what I put on exactly. It happened.

  Besides, who would take lipstick instead of a laptop? I was a paranoid idiot.

  I picked up my makeup bag and walked back into the bathroom, sternly telling my hands to stop shaking as I repinned my hair. After three minutes, I was pretty sure my bun was lopsided thanks to my clumsy fingers.