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It was a reasonable, rational question. He couldn’t possibly imagine the way the blood was racing around her system and the breath was sticking in her lungs.
‘Of course,’ she said as coolly as possible, with a nod of her head as she stood up.
‘How far away do you live?’ he asked.
She tried to smile. ‘Well, that depends entirely on traffic and the time of day.’
She weaved her way through the cobbled streets towards the water-taxi stop. ‘I’m only two stops along. It only takes a few minutes.’
They were lucky. The water taxis on this side of the canal weren’t quite so busy. They jumped on and back off within five minutes.
Her skin was prickling. Every little hair on her arms was standing on end even though the sun was splitting the sky. Now that Logan had had a chance to cool down he was back to his normal, unruffled self. She kind of wished he was still as flustered as he had been for a few moments earlier. It made him seem less infallible. A little more vulnerable—just like she felt.
But Logan had never been vulnerable. He’d always been rock solid. Even in grief.
He jumped out of the taxi before her and held out his hand for her as she stepped from the bobbing boat. She lifted her head and tried to walk with confidence. Although her apartment overlooked the Grand Canal the entrance of the traditional building was around the back. It had been hundreds of years since people had entered directly from the canal, and the original entrance had long since been plastered over.
She couldn’t hide her smile. The architect in Logan could never be hidden. His eyes were roaming over the traditional building, his smile growing wider by the second. ‘You stay in an old Venetian palace?’
The admiration and wonder in his voice was obvious. She’d always known Logan would approve of her choice. The fifteenth-century building facing the Grand Canal was one of the most photographed in the district. It had distinctive Venetian floral Gothic-style architecture. The façade was pink plaster facing with intricate white detailing around all the windows and balconies that overlooked the canal. The arches on the balconies were topped with delicate quatrefoil windows, resembling flowers with four petals.
She gave him a smile as she opened the entranceway. ‘Just wait until you see the inside. We have our own high ceilings, beams, alcoves and frescoes. The whole place is full of original features.’
Logan was nodding, his eyes wide as they stepped inside. She’d always loved this about him. The way a glimpse of architectural details of a building could capture his attention instantly. He would become instantly enthralled, desperate to know more about the building and its history. Architecture had always been Logan’s dream. But renovating ancient buildings? That was his calling. Always had been.
A bit like hers had been painting.
The memory swept through her like a gust of stormy weather.
Another part of life put into a box. When she’d first got together with Logan, their apartment had been littered with brushes, easels and oils. She had painted all the time, usually wearing nothing more than one of his shirts. She’d loved the feel of having him right next to her as she’d created, and if he hadn’t been there, the scent of him—his aroma and aftershave—would usually linger on one of his shirts waiting to be washed. Thoughts of Logan had always fired her creative juices.
A warm feeling crept across her stomach. Logan had always loved finding her like that, his shirt loose around her body and her hair twisted on top of her head with an errant paintbrush holding it in place. He’d usually pulled it free, followed by the shirt, and the following hours had been lost in a rush of love.
But that light had flickered out and died along with the death of their daughter. For a long time she couldn’t even bear to look at a paintbrush, let alone hold one.
Working for the heritage board had helped her heal. She didn’t paint her own creations any more. But she did paint. Restoration work was painstaking. In every fresco she restored she tried to re-create the passion and drama that the original artist had felt when he’d envisaged the work.
There was still a little part of her that longed to feel like that again too.
There was a lift inside her building but Logan was captivated by the grandiose staircase inside the entranceway. As it curved upwards there were archways hollowed out in the plaster in the walls. A long time ago each had been painted individually and had held sculptures. In between each hollowed archway was a large circular fresco embedded into the plaster on the walls.
Logan moved quickly up the stairs, stopping to admire each individual one. ‘These are amazing,’ he said, his hand hovering about them. Logan’s professional expertise knew far better than to actually touch.
She followed him upwards. A warmth was spreading through her. She was proud of her home—and secretly pleased that the man she’d shared part of her life with loved it just as much as she did.
As they walked upwards she leaned a little closer and whispered, ‘I might have restored some of these.’
His head shot around towards her. ‘You did?’
She nodded as his eyes fixed on the walls again. His fingers were still hovering just above a fresco of Moses. ‘You’ve made an amazing job of these.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, as they reached her floor and she pulled out her key and opened the apartment door.
He walked inside and looked around. Her living area was spacious and held a dining table and chairs and two wooden-footed red sofas. As with most Italian traditional apartments the floor was marble. A dark wooden bookcase adorned one wall, jam-packed with books.
But the most spectacular aspect of the apartment was the view. Lucia strode across the room and pulled open the black-and-gilt-edged glass doors. The warm air and noise from the Grand Canal below flooded in. It was like flicking a button and bringing the place to life. Next to the doors was a small wooden table, a chaise longue and an armchair. It was like having a real-live television. You could sit here all day and night and watch the world go by.
She knew his head must be spinning. This apartment was sumptuous. Well out of her price range. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, watching the vaporetti and private boats motor past. On the other side of the canal stood another magnificent long-abandoned palace. Renaissance in style again, with Gothic-styled windows and ornate frescoes on the outside of the building.
He turned towards her and smiled. ‘It’s almost like your perfect view, isn’t it?’ There was an edge of curiosity in his voice. But he wasn’t going to ask the question out loud. Logan was far too polite for that.
‘Coffee?’ she asked, as she walked towards the kitchen. It was right next door to the open living area and again had windows looking out on the canal. He nodded and walked in next to her, sitting down on one of the high stools looking over the canal. She switched on her coffee-machine and put in her favourite blend.
She leaned back against the countertop. ‘I haven’t always stayed here,’ she said quietly. ‘After I’d been in Venice for two years one of my colleagues retired from the heritage board. They subsidise our living arrangements because—as you know—Venice can be very expensive.’ She held out her hands. ‘I sort of inherited this place. I pay roughly the same as we did for our apartment in Florence.’ She watched his eyebrows rise and couldn’t stop the smile. ‘It was like all my Saturdays at once.’ She laughed as she watched the coffee brew and pointed across the waterway. ‘Do you know, they actually asked me how I’d feel about staying here? It was all I could do not to snatch the key and just run.’
The warm feeling was spreading further. She rarely brought friends back to her apartment. This place was her sanctuary. From the moment she’d stepped inside it had always felt like that.
She’d thought having Logan here would be unbearable. She’d been so busy focusing on all the negatives she hadn’t even considered the positives.
He was fascinated by the building’s history and traditional architecture. He respected the heritage just as much as she did.
She poured the coffee into two mugs and set them on the table, watching the steam rising while she frothed some milk and added it to the mugs.
She gestured with her hand. ‘Come and I’ll show you where your room is.’
She hadn’t even had time to prepare anything and she had to hope that nothing was out of place in her barely used guest suite. She led him down the corridor off the kitchen. It was the only place in her apartment that didn’t have natural light.
He grabbed her elbow as they walked down the corridor. ‘Are you sure this is okay?’
She turned to face him. He was much closer than she’d expected, his warm breath hitting her cheek. For a second she was frozen. This was as up close and personal as she’d been to Logan in years. The closeness took her breath away.
Even in the dim light of the corridor his green eyes made her struggle to think clearly. He was worried. He was worried about her. And glances like that brought back painful memories.
A tiny little part of her wished that Logan was looking at her in a different way. The way he used to, with passion and laughter in his eyes. She wanted to reach up and touch him. Touch the skin on his cheek, the shadowed outline of his jaw, and run her fingers through his dark hair. She wanted him to step forward just a few inches to see if their bodies still fitted together after all this time.
Her heart was racing and Logan blinked. He was staring at a spot on her neck where she was sure he could see the rapid beating of her pulse.
She took a deep breath and turned away, trying to blink back threatening tears. This was why everything about this was a bad idea.
She swung open a dark wooden door, flooding the corridor with light and stepping into a white and blue room. It was still traditional. A double bedroom with a window overlooking the canal, pale blue walls and fresh white bed linen. It wasn’t quite as sumptuous as the other rooms in the house as it was rarely used.
She nodded her head. ‘The bathroom is next door. Don’t worry, we won’t have to share. The box room was converted to an en suite. Would you like some time to settle in?’
He shook his head. ‘Your coffee smells too good to let it go to waste. Let’s finish the paperwork then we can decide where I’m taking you to dinner.’ There was a glimmer in his eye. ‘I don’t expect you to cook for me—not if I want to live to tell the tale.’
He’d caught her unawares and she threw back her head and laughed. ‘I offer you a room for the night and this is the thanks I get?’
He gave her a steady smile. ‘Let’s just wait until dinner.’ She could almost hear his brain ticking over and her stomach gave a little leap.
What on earth did he have planned?
Logan washed up and changed his wrinkled shirt. Thank goodness he always had a spare in his bag.
He looked around the room. It was comfortable but sparse—it was clear this room didn’t get much use. Didn’t Lucia have friends to stay? She’d had a few girlfriends at university but he had no idea if they’d kept in touch.
He sighed and looked out of the window. It was ridiculous but he was having a hard time with this.
Lucia had a job she loved and a fabulous apartment in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. He should be overjoyed for her. In his head, all he’d ever wanted was for her to be happy. In a twisted kind of way this was his ideal situation.
She was happy. She was settled. But there was no husband and kids on the scene to let the tiny leaves of jealousy unfurl. To let him know that she’d taken the final steps.
He couldn’t quite work out why he was feeling so unsettled. All he knew was that there was something in her eyes. A guarded part. A hidden part. A little piece of her that didn’t look quite...alive.
That was what bothered him. Lucia had a fabulous life. But was she really living?
He glanced around. While this room was sparsely furnished, the rest of the apartment was sumptuous. The reds and golds complemented the grandeur of the ancient palace. There were lots of similar buildings scattered across Venice. It seemed everyone who’d ever been slightly royal had built a palace in Venice. It was no wonder the heritage board wanted to keep someone in here.
He walked through to the main room. Lucia was sitting in a chair next to the open doors, the sights and sounds of the Grand Canal drifting up towards them. She’d changed into a purple jersey wrap-around dress, her dark chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders in waves. Her legs were curled up underneath her and she was reading a book.
Sitting on the table next to her was a glass of red wine. He smiled. ‘Merlot or Chianti?’
Her head lifted in surprise. ‘What do you think?’
He glanced out at the busy traffic on the Grand Canal. ‘A warm summer evening? An aperitif before dinner?’ He put his finger on his chin. ‘I’m trying to think what you’ve planned for dinner—will it be meat or pasta?’
She used to be so fussy. He could imagine there were only certain local restaurants that she’d visit.
She held up her glass towards him. ‘Maybe it will be both?’
She was teasing. He shook his head and pointed to the glass. ‘It must be Merlot. It’s too warm an evening for steak. You’re planning for pasta.’
Something flickered across her face. She didn’t like it that after twelve years he could still read her. She gestured towards the dining table where the bottle of wine and another glass sat. ‘Find out for yourself.’
Logan walked over and filled his glass, resisting the temptation to smile. ‘Where do you think we’re eating tonight?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘What makes you think we’ll be eating anywhere? Haven’t you heard—it’s the busiest night of the year in Venice?’
He sat down on the chaise longue next to her chair. ‘But I might know an out-of-the-way place that the tourist hordes don’t know about—like Erona’s in Florence.’
There was a flash of something behind her eyes and she stood up quickly. He’d upset her.
She didn’t want direct reminders of their time in Florence. ‘You’re not from here. How would you know where to eat?’
‘Let’s just say that your boss, Alessio, gave me a few hints.’
She slid her feet into a pair of red-soled black patent stilettos with impossibly high heels.
‘Wherever we’re going, I hope they have flat surfaces,’ he muttered. Alessio had told him to get to the restaurant—just not what the streets around it were like.
‘Let’s go, Logan. Our viewing is early tomorrow morning. I want to get an early night.’
The words sent a flurry of sparks across his brain. An early night. With Lucia Moretti. It was enough to send his whole body into overdrive.
His eyes focused on her behind as she crossed the room ahead of him in her impossibly high heels. Her dress clung to every curve.
He swallowed. This was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.
Venice was virtually silent at this time in the morning. The private motor boat glided through the water towards the Venetian island of Giudecca.
Logan was curious. ‘I thought all the artefacts of historical value would have been commandeered by the Italian Heritage Board?’
Lucia gave a sigh. ‘In theory, they can. But part of this island is private—has been since before Renaissance times. It’s owned by the Brunelli family. They built the church here and commissioned the artist, Burano, to paint the fresco. Technically, we’re just their guests. We’re allowed access to the fresco on request. You’ll understand why when you see it—it’s a little unusual.’
The boat came to a halt at the dock and they disembarked onto the wooden structure. A white stone path led them directly to the church, where a dark-suited man was waiting for them. Logan recognised him immediately—Dario Brunelli was frequently nicknamed Italian’s most eligible bachelor. He knew Lucia?
‘Lucia,’ he said swiftly, bending to kiss her on both cheeks, ‘it’s good to see you again. How have you been?’
His familiarity with Lucia grated instantly. Her reaction was even worse—she seemed relaxed in his company. ‘I’m good, thank you.’ She turned towards Logan. ‘Dario, this is Logan Cascini, a specialist restoration architect from Florence. He’s working with me on the project in Tuscany.’
It was completely true. But it made it sound as if they’d only just met. As if there was no shared history between them at all.
For a second he held his breath, wondering if Dario was having the same thoughts that he’d had this morning when he’d first seen Lucia. Her cream fitted business suit and pale pink shirt hugged her curves. The knee-length skirt exposed her slim legs. And her dark hair and eyes complemented the package perfectly. Lucia looked good enough to eat.
Dario nodded towards Logan but it was clear his focus was on Lucia. ‘So, do you think you’ve found another of Burano’s frescoes?’
Lucia’s smile was broad. ‘I think there is a distinct possibility. With your permission, I’m going to take some high-resolution digital shots to compare the brushstrokes.’
Dario was nodding enthusiastically. ‘In Tuscany? I wonder how in the world Burano ended up working there? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was another of his works?’
A Renaissance art lover. The passion and enthusiasm in his eyes was for the art, not for Lucia. Not for his woman.
Where had that come from?
Cold air prickled his skin and he shifted on his feet. Lucia hadn’t been his woman for twelve years—she hadn’t wanted to be.
And he’d had to live with that. He’d had to support the fact she wasn’t able to continue their relationship and allow her the space she’d needed to heal. No matter how much it had ripped his heart in two.
No one else had ever come close to the love he’d felt for Lucia. How could they? She’d been the mother of his child. And even though that was something she wanted to forget, her place in his heart had been well and truly cemented there.
But even he hadn’t realised how much.
‘Forgive me.’ Dario nodded. ‘I have to go. I have business to attend to. Please, take all the time you need.’
Lucia gave a gracious nod of her head as Dario walked swiftly down the path towards the waiting motorboat.
She turned and pressed her hand against the heavy wooden door of the church and smiled at Logan. There was a gleam of something in her eye. He only hoped it was for the contents of the church and not for the retreating back of Dario. The spike of jealousy had been unexpected—a feeling he hadn’t dealt with in years.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
He nodded and she pushed the door and it groaned and creaked loudly on its hinges as it swung back. The church wasn’t lit.
The only light that streamed in came through six muted stained-glass windows above the altar.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He caught his breath.
The fresco on the wall was magnificent and stretched from one end of the church to the other. His feet moved automatically towards it.
Over his years in Italy he’d seen many frescoes—but none quite like this. It was completely and utterly unique, almost like a timeline through the first book of the bible.
She rested her hand on his arm. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I’m quite sure I’ll never see anything like it again.’ He could hear the amusement in her voice at his reaction. ‘It’s a little different from the Madonna and Child, isn’t it?’
He shook his head as he took in more and more of the fresco. He recognised the characters—at least, he thought he did. Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Jacob and his sons. But the thing that made these characters unique was the fact they were all completely naked.
He spun to face her. ‘What on earth...?’
She laughed. ‘I know. It’s why the Italian Heritage Board hasn’t bothered to make demands on the family. The Catholic Church would be outraged by these scenes.’
Logan moved forward. He just couldn’t stop smiling. He was trying to think rationally. ‘Adam and Eve—you might expect them to be naked. But the rest...’ He kept looking at the scenes. ‘It’s amazing. I mean, apart from their nakedness the depictions are accurate. Eve with the apple, Moses leading the Israelites through the Red Sea, Noah on the ark, and Jacob with his twelve sons.’ He let out a laugh. ‘Joseph is even holding his multi-coloured coat instead of wearing it.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Naked bodies were pretty much the fashion during Renaissance times.’ Her brow creased slightly. ‘But usually they had something—anything—draped around about them. These ones are totally original.’
Logan stepped back a little. ‘But there’s something else, isn’t there? I can’t quite put my finger on it.’ He paused, staring hard at the scenes, looking between one and another.
She nodded, with an amused expression on her face. ‘Give it time, Logan. You’ll get it.’
She was teasing him. It was almost like throwing down a challenge. So he took a few minutes, concentrating hard until, finally, the penny dropped.
He turned to her in amazement. ‘It’s the faces, isn’t it?’ He stepped right up to the fresco, staring first at the face of Adam then at the face of Moses, then Noah. ‘It’s the same face.’ His eyes scanned one way, then the other. ‘It’s the same man and woman in every scene.’
Lucia was laughing. ‘You’re right. The family don’t have any official records about who commissioned the fresco. The name of Burano has just been passed down through the family. That’s why we’ll have to do a comparison. And we’re not quite sure why it’s the same faces in all the scenes. I’ve spoken to the family about it at length. We think there’s something a little narcissistic in it. We think that when the original Brunellis commissioned the artist they asked for the faces to be made in their image.’
Logan let out a burst of laughter. ‘You mean, even all those years ago we had fame-hungry people?’ He shook his head. ‘Wow, just wow.’
He took another few seconds and stopped in front of the young Joseph holding the coat. ‘I still can’t believe they wouldn’t let Joseph wear his multi-coloured coat.’
She bent down in the front of the fresco. In the dim light he could see her dark eyes were still gleaming. ‘Yes, but look at the folds in the cloak. What do you see?’
He looked closer. ‘Of course. They look exactly like the folds in the Madonna’s dress in the fresco in Tuscany. That’s what you noticed.’
There wasn’t a sound in the dark church. They were entirely alone, crouching on the floor. The lack of artificial light was almost like a safety blanket around them.
His face was only inches from hers. Their gazes meshed. It was a moment. An instant. For just that second she had the same passion and wonder in her eyes that she’d had twelve years ago. Twelve years ago when they’d thought they could conquer the world.
He’d been trying so hard to hold his tongue, trying to keep a handle on how he felt about everything, but the memories of Lucia were just overtaking him. The spark of jealousy, the protectiveness, the connection between them. He was like a pressure cooker just waiting to go off.
Her pupils were dilating in front of him, the blackness overtaking the chocolate brown of her eyes. He was pretty certain his were doing exactly the same.
All of a sudden he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned forward, just a few inches, and caught the back of her head in his hand, tangling his fingers through her hair as he pulled her towards him.