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A gentle breeze made the white drapes at the window flap, bringing the scents of the rich greenery, grapes and lavender inside. Her red case was presumptuously sitting next to the doorway.
‘I’ll bring you up a jug of water, a glass and some wine for later,’ said Louisa as she headed out the door. ‘Oh, and we don’t quite have an en suite, but the bathroom is right next door. You’ll be the only person that’s using it.’
She disappeared quickly down the hall, leaving Lucia looking around the room. She sank down onto the bed. It felt instantly comfortable. Instantly inviting. The temperature of the room was cool, even though the breeze drifting in was warm, and she could hear the sounds of the workers in the vineyard.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds. She could do this. Two days tops then she could be out of here again.
Logan. Seeing him again was hard. So hard. The familiar sight of Logan, the scent of Logan was tough. She couldn’t let him invade her senses. She couldn’t let him into her brain, because if she did a whole host of other memories would come flooding back—ones that she couldn’t face again.
This is business. She repeated her mantra once more.
The smell of the Tuscan hills was wrapping itself around her. Welcoming her to the area. Her stomach grumbled. She was hungry, but food would have to wait. She wanted to see the fresco.
She walked over and grabbed her case, putting it on the bed and throwing it open.
It was time to get to work.
Logan had finished pacing and was waiting for Lucia to appear. He’d walked back out to the courtyard and was leaning against the side of the doorway to the chapel with his arms folded across his chest.
It was much warmer out here, but he thrived in the Italian sun.
Seeing Lucia had been a shock to the system. His first glance had been at her left hand but there had been no wedding ring, no glittering diamond of promise. He was surprised. He’d always imagined that after twelve years Lucia would have been married with children. The fact she wasn’t bothered him—in more ways than one.
She’d been hurt, she’d been wounded when they’d split. Even though it had been by mutual agreement. But he’d always hoped she’d healed and moved on. When he’d heard she was working for the Italian Heritage Board he’d assumed she’d pulled things together and was focusing on her career. Now he was suspicious she’d only focused on her career.
Lucia had aged beautifully. She was still petite and elegant. Her pale pink suit jacket and matching dress hugged her curves, leaving a view of her shapely calves.
And she’d kept her long hair. It was maybe only a few inches shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her. He liked it that way. Had liked it when her hair had brushed against his face—liked it even more when her long eyelashes had tickled his cheek as she’d moved closer.
It was odd. Even though there were lots of parts of his body that could have responded to the first sight of her, it had been his lips that had reacted first. One sight of her had been enough to remember the feel of her soft lips against his, remember the taste of her. And as she’d stepped closer he’d been swamped by her smell. Distinctive. Delicious. In any other set of circumstances...hot.
But not in these circumstances. Not when delays on this project could result in a late completion penalty that could bankrupt his company. Louisa was serious about this place being ready for the royal wedding. She was depending on it.
He straightened as Lucia appeared, walking briskly across the courtyard. She’d changed and was now wearing flat shoes, slim-fitting navy trousers, a pale cream top with lace inserts on the shoulders and a dark silk scarf knotted at her neck. She had a digital camera in her hand.
He was disappointed that her legs were no longer on display.
She stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze straight on. She’d changed a little over the years. There were a few tiny lines around her eyes, but the rest of her skin was smooth. She, like him, had naturally olive Italian skin. Her dark brown gaze was uncompromising. ‘Show me your fresco, Logan.’
It was the most direct he’d ever heard her. He tried not to smile. Twelve years had instilled a new-found courage in her. He liked it.
But something else swamped him for a few seconds. There had been a time in his life that Lucia had encompassed everything for him. She’d been the centre of his universe. He shifted self-consciously on his feet. He’d never felt that way again—he’d never allowed himself to feel that way again.
It was too much. Too much to have so much invested in one person when your life could change in an instant and everything come tumbling down around you both.
It didn’t matter that seeing Lucia again after all these years was swamping him with a host of memories. It was time to put all those feelings back in a box. A place where they were best left.
He gestured towards the entranceway. ‘It’s all yours. Let’s go.’
She walked ahead of him, her tight bottom right in his line of vision. He lifted his eyes to look straight in front of him and smiled as her footsteps faltered as she saw the fresco.
‘Oh...whoa.’
He smiled as he stepped alongside her. ‘Pretty much what I said too.’
She lifted her camera then put it back down and walked right up to the wall. She lifted her hand but didn’t actually touch it. ‘It’s been covered for...how long?’
Logan shook his head, his hands on his hips. ‘I couldn’t say for sure.’ He pointed to the corner of the room where debris was stacked. ‘The wood panelling could be between three and four hundred years old.’
She glanced at the wood and turned back to the fresco. This time she did lift her camera and started snapping, first capturing the full work then systematically snapping detailed sections. Images that she could take time to pore over later.
When she finished she placed the camera on the floor then picked up some tiny fragments of clay that were on the floor—obvious remnants from the uncovering of the fresco. She gathered them in little plastic bags, labelled them, then put them in her bag. Once she’d finished she moved so close to the fresco that her nose was only inches away.
She lifted her fingers. It was obvious she was itching to touch it, but, she was resisting the temptation. ‘I can see the movement,’ she said quietly. ‘I can see the brushstrokes. What kind of brush do you use to paint individual hairs? This is amazing.’
Logan waited, watching her relish her first viewing of the fresco. It was strangely exhilarating. He could see the wonder on her face, see the excitement in her eyes. Just watching her sent a little buzz through his body. Memories were sparking. This was part of the Lucia he’d loved. The wonderful, passionate girl who’d embraced life to the full. When they’d first met she’d been quiet, reserved as a result of her upbringing. But studying in Florence had made her blossom into the beautiful woman he’d quickly grown to love. The buzz, culture and bright lights had been a nurturing environment for the young artistic woman. And the two of them meeting had seemed to spark her even further. All his first memories of Lucia had been about their drive, their passion and their instant connection.
He could feel it even now—twelve years on. The palms of his hands were actually itching to reach out and touch her—just the way hers were obviously itching to touch the fresco. Parts of Lucia had been so easy to read.
Other parts she’d kept tightly locked up and tucked away. Those had been the parts that had sealed the end of their relationship. Every person grieved differently. But Logan just couldn’t understand why she’d been unable to talk to him, why she’d been unable to share with him. After all, he’d been going through exactly the same thing.
He took a deep breath. ‘What do you think?’
‘The fresco was prepared in sections. Giornate—done on a daily basis with small sections of plaster laid at a time to be painted—much in the same way that Michelangelo carried out the work at the Sistine Chapel.’
Logan was incredulous. ‘You think this was done by Michelangelo?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, no. Of course not. The artist of the time just used the same techniques. Michelangelo used different skin tones from those used here.’ She leaned back critically. ‘Different draping of the clothes. This definitely isn’t his work.’
She finished snapping a few more shots with the camera and turned to face him again. ‘I have a program on my computer that I can upload these pictures to. It finds similarities between frescoes and gives the most likely artists.’
He shook his head. ‘Why do I feel as if you don’t really need it? What’s your gut instinct?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. It could be one of a few possibilities.’
He pressed her again. ‘But you think...’ He let his answer tail off.
She brushed her hair off her shoulder. ‘I think there’s a chance it’s a lesser-known Renaissance painter. His name was Burano.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘The same as one of the islands in the Venetian lagoon.’
Logan’s brow creased. ‘He was from Venice, then?’
She nodded.
‘So what was he doing in Tuscany?’
She turned back to face the fresco. ‘That’s my question too. That’s why I’m hesitant. I could be wrong. Journeying between Venice and Tuscany in Renaissance times wasn’t easy, but we both know the European Renaissance started in Tuscany and centred in Florence and Siena.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Venice was the late starter.’
She walked back to the entranceway. ‘Give me some time to run the program and see what it comes up with.’
Logan held out his hand as she made to leave. ‘And in the meantime?’ He spun around. ‘Time is marching on, we’ve still got work to do in the chapel—even if we aren’t anywhere near the fresco.’
She looked around and gave a little nod. ‘Let me give you some recommendations on the best way to protect it in the meantime from dust, plaster and paint.’ Her gaze connected with his. ‘This could be a really amazing discovery, Logan.’
It was the way she’d said his name. Her accent, her lilt. He’d heard it on so many occasions. Last thing at night, first thing in the morning. In the heat of passion and in the depths of despair.
He just hadn’t admitted how much he actually missed it.
His feet were rooted to the spot. But Lucia’s weren’t. She was headed out the door. She was leaving. Who knew how long she would actually stay here. He could get up tomorrow morning and discover her gone.
‘Have dinner with me?’
‘What?’ She stopped. She looked shocked.
‘Have dinner with me,’ he repeated, stepping closer to her. The words had come out of nowhere. He couldn’t take them back. He didn’t want to take them back.
‘We have things we need to discuss.’ He saw a wave of panic flit across her eyes. ‘Business we need to discuss.’
‘Oh, of course.’ She glanced down at her digital camera. ‘My program will take a few hours to run.’ She was stalling. Of course she was. The last thing she’d want to do was have dinner with him.
‘Then you’ll have a few hours to kill,’ he said quickly. This was embarrassing. Logan Cascini wasn’t used to women saying no to him. But Lucia wasn’t just any woman. Lucia was the woman he’d once loved. Sure, it felt awkward. Sure, this wasn’t an ideal situation.
But this was the first time he’d seen her in twelve years. If this fresco turned out to be important, it could have significant repercussions for his business. He had to keep on top of this.
He almost laughed out loud. His mind was giving him all the rational, professional reasons for having dinner with Lucia. But his heart was giving him a whole host of completely irrational, emotional reasons for having dinner with Lucia.
None of them professional. All of them personal.
His mouth kept talking. ‘We can discuss any paperwork that will need to be completed. I’ll need to translate everything for Louisa, and if there’s going to be any extra expenses we’ll need to discuss those too. There’s a nice restaurant in Monte Calanetti. It will give you a chance to see the village.’
She was hesitating, looking for a reason to say no, and he wasn’t prepared to accept that.
He walked around her in long strides. ‘Leave the arrangements to me.’
‘Well, I... I...’ She was still murmuring while he left.
CHAPTER THREE
FOUR DIFFERENT OUTFITS. That’s how many she’d tried on. She hadn’t brought that many clothes as she’d only expected to be here a few days and hadn’t expected to be socialising at all, let alone socialising with the man she used to live with. Two suits, one pair of trousers, one extra skirt and a variety of tops were all that her trusty red case held.
A white shirt, a pale pink shirt and a bright blue one were currently lying on her bed. She was wearing a flared white skirt and red shirt. And against all her better judgement a bright red pair of stilettos.
The shoes gave some height to her diminutive stature. Right now she was praying that the restaurant wasn’t in the middle of the cobbled streets of Monte Calanetti.
Logan was waiting outside for her in an idling car. She’d expected him to drive something black and sleek but instead he was in a four-wheel drive.
He gave her a nod as she opened the door and climbed in. Catching sight of her shoes, a glimmer of a smile appeared on his face. ‘We’re going to the local restaurant—Mancini’s. I hope you like traditional food.’ His eyes were gleaming.
She was nervous. And she couldn’t quite work out why. Logan had changed into a white open-necked shirt and dark fitted trousers. His dark hair still had that rumpled look that she’d always loved. It was like a magnet—all she wanted to do was lift her hand and run her fingers through it.
She shifted her legs nervously in the car, crossing them one way then the other. If he noticed he didn’t say anything. She eyed her shoes warily. ‘Where is the restaurant?’
Logan was completely cool. He didn’t seem at all unsettled at being around her. ‘It’s a converted farmhouse on the edge of the village. The chef’s family have owned the restaurant for years, his wife-to-be is the maître d’—she’s from the US.’ He gave a little smile. ‘It’s an explosive combination.’
With Logan this was all about business. She would clearly have to adopt the same attitude.
He pulled up outside the restaurant, switched off the engine, and before she even had a chance to think he had come around the car and was opening her door and holding out his hand towards her.
She stared at his tanned hand and fingers. Touch him. She’d done it once. Her palm had burned for around an hour afterwards. Did she really want to touch Logan Cascini again?
How on earth could she say no?
She placed her hand in his. The sparks didn’t fly this time. Probably because she was a little more prepared. This time it was a warm buzz, a little hum running up her arm and straight across to her heart.
Twelve years on, and he could still do it to her.
It was unnerving. She could hardly keep her thoughts straight.
The first glimpse of Logan had sent tingles around her body. But that had been quickly followed by a rush of emotions associated with bad memories. Memories that were locked away deep inside her.
There was a reason she wasn’t happily married with a family. There was a reason she always backed off when a few dates started to turn into something else.
Professionally, her life was good. She had a gorgeous apartment, a motivating and challenging job, along with a whole host of good friends and colleagues.
That would be enough for most people. That should be enough. And right up until she’d glimpsed Logan again it had been.
Now she felt...unbalanced.
She walked into the farmhouse converted into a restaurant. Thankfully there were no cobbles outside and the added height from her stilettos seemed to buffer her confidence a little.
It was cute. There were shutters on the windows and exposed brickwork on the walls. Wooden tables filled the dining room, but they weren’t all uniform, like in most restaurants. They were all different shapes and sizes, perfect for all numbers of guests, and it gave an old-world charm to the place.
They were shown to their table and the waiter lit the candle, then handed over the wine list. He nodded at Logan and pointed to the back wall. ‘As you can see, we have a wide variety of wines from all the local vineyards. If you need a recommendation just let me know.’
Lucia ran her eyes down the list and sighed. Italians were passionate about their wine and the wine list was thicker than the actual menu.
‘What’s your preference?’
Couldn’t he remember? Had he forgotten everything about their time together?
Before she had a chance to speak he waved to the waiter. ‘Can we have some bread, olives and some oil while we decide?’
The waiter gave a nod and disappeared. It seemed he hadn’t quite forgotten everything after all. Lucia had always enjoyed taking her time to peruse a menu, and Logan had always been starving.
She swallowed, her fingers drifting back to the file she’d brought with her. This made it seem more real. This was work. The reason she’d agreed to dinner tonight.
She licked her lips. Nerves were doing strange things to her. ‘I think I’d like to keep things simple. I’d like to have some white wine, I think, something light. A frascati.’
She knew he’d be surprised. During their time together they’d both favoured red wines, Merlots and Chiantis.
‘And I like the look of the set menu. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone else pick for you.’
She’d only glanced at the set menu and nothing had jumped out at her. Most restaurants offered a set menu of some of their best dishes. She only hoped Mancini’s was the same.
In years gone by she’d been picky about her food, sometimes refusing to go to some restaurants if they didn’t serve a particular dish that she liked. But she wanted to start this meeting by letting Logan realise that he didn’t really know her any more. Just because he was working on this project it didn’t mean that he’d get any special treatment. And she wasn’t swayed by a royal wedding either.
She took her job seriously. If the fresco had been by Michelangelo everything would have ground to a complete halt. She was fairly certain it was by a lesser-known artist—one who was still recognised and his work would be protected. But the chapel was fairly well maintained. There was no damp, no immediate threat to the fresco—just the new work that was going on to make it ready for the wedding.
Once the identification part was done, things should be fairly straightforward.
Logan set his menu on the table. ‘Both are fine with me.’ He had a hint of a smile on his face. As if he knew she was trying to be different but it was all really just a pretence. ‘How have you been, Lucia?’ he asked huskily. That voice. That accent. Little waves were rolling down her spine. It was the memories. It was anticipation of what had used to come next when Logan had spoken to her like that.
Those days were long gone. Vanished for ever. It didn’t matter that the words were bland and perfectly normal. It was the way he said them that counted.
‘Twelve years is a long time, Logan.’ Her voice was sharp.
He waited a few seconds before answering. His voice was low. ‘You’re right. It’s been a very long time. Almost a lifetime ago.’
What did that mean? That for him it was gone, forgotten about? How could anyone forget losing a child? She could feel herself bristle.
‘How have you been?’ She bounced the question back to him. Her insides were curling up in case he told her—even though he didn’t wear a ring—that he was indeed married with a houseful of children.
He nodded slowly. ‘I’ve been busy. Building your own business takes time.’ He shrugged. ‘Nearly all of my time. I like to be on-site for the restoration projects. I like to make sure that everything is going to plan.’
She felt her shoulders relax a little. ‘You don’t like to sit in your office and drink coffee?’ It was something they used to joke about years ago. Creative people ending up in jobs behind desks, drinking endless cups of coffee.
He gave a smile and shook his head as the waiter approached again, taking their order and returning a few moments later to pour the wine and leave the bread, olives and oil on the table.
Lucia took a sip. The first taste was always sharp. The second much more pleasing as her taste buds adjusted.
‘Where are your offices?’
He tasted his wine too and nodded in approval. ‘Florence. But I don’t spend much time there.’
She tried not to raise her eyebrows. Office space in Florence was expensive. His business had obviously done well. ‘Do you still live in Florence?’
He hesitated a second. And she wondered if she’d just stepped over some invisible barrier. They’d lived in Florence together. But she didn’t expect him still to be in the small one-bedroomed flat a few minutes from the university.
He nodded and dipped a piece of bread in the oil. ‘I have an apartment overlooking Piazza Santa Croce.’
‘Wow.’ She couldn’t help it. It was one of the main areas of Florence. Apartments there weren’t cheap and although the existing buildings were old, they’d usually been refurbished to a high standard, hence the expensive price tags.
She gave a little nod of her head. ‘I can see you staying there. Did you get to renovate the place yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘If only. The apartment was renovated before I got there. But all the original architecture is still there. That’s what’s important.’
‘Do you like staying there?’ She was dancing around the subject that was really in her mind. Did anyone stay there with him? It shouldn’t matter to her. Of course it shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help but feel a natural curiosity. And there was no way she would come right out and ask the question.
‘It’s fine. It’s Florence.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘I’ve always loved living in Florence. I just don’t get to stay there as much as I would like.’
‘Really? Why not?’ Because your wife and child stay somewhere else?
He shrugged. ‘I’ve spent the last ten years building up my business. I go wherever the work is. It takes time, energy and commitment. When I’m doing a restoration—like now—I like to be on-site. I’ve stayed in my apartment probably only three months of the last year.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly, as the waiter appeared and placed their starters in front of them—wild mushroom ravioli with butter and Parmesan sauce. She was glad of the distraction. Glad to stop being watched by those too-intense green eyes.
It made sense. Logan had always been passionate about everything he’d been involved in. From his work, to his family, to his relationships. But it sounded very much like he didn’t have anyone back in Florence to worry about.
‘How are your family in Scotland?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘They’re good. They have three restaurants in Glasgow now. The one in George Square is still the main one and my nonna refuses to get out from behind the bar. She still sits there every day and criticises what everyone else does.’
Lucia laughed. She’d met his nonna on a few occasions. She was fiery little woman who was both fiercely protective and critical of her family.
‘They still ask after you,’ he said quietly.
Her laughter died and she swallowed quickly. There was a little tug at her heartstrings. Although both families had roots in Italy, Logan’s family were much more welcoming and outgoing than her own. She’d felt more at home in their house in Glasgow than in her own mother and father’s house in the small town of Osimo.