Читать онлайн книгу «His Lost-And-Found Bride» автора Scarlet Wilson

His Lost-And-Found Bride
Scarlet Wilson
His Lost-And-Found Bride was shortlisted for the RoNA Rose Award in 2016!Architect Logan Cascini is on edge when the discovery of an ancient fresco brings Lucia Moretti back to Tuscany. He hasn’t seen his ex since they parted twelve years ago in the most heartbreaking of circumstances…Facing Logan again unleashes a torrent of emotions that has Lucia’s normally calm and collected heart racing. Perhaps it's time for Lucia to loosen her grip on the pain of the past and allow them both to rediscover the joy they shared together…The Vineyards of CalanettiSaying ‘I do’ under the Tuscan sun…



The Vineyards of Calanetti (#ulink_5e292501-263a-5a62-ba01-222947f1d922)
Saying ‘I do’ under the Tuscan sun …
Deep in the Tuscan countryside nestles the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Famed for its world-renowned vineyards, the village is also home to the crumbling but beautiful Palazzo di Comparino. It’s been empty for months, but rumours of a new owner are spreading like wildfire … and that’s before the village is chosen as the setting for the royal wedding of the year!
It’s going to be a rollercoaster of a year, but will wedding bells ring out in Monte Calanetti for anyone else?
Find out in this fabulously heart-warming, uplifting and thrillingly romantic new eight-book continuity from Mills & Boon Romance!
A Bride for the Italian Boss by Susan Meier
Return of the Italian Tycoon by Jennifer Faye
Reunited by a Baby Secret by Michelle Douglas
Soldier, Hero … Husband? by Cara Colter
His Lost-and-Found Bride by Scarlet Wilson
The Best Man & the Wedding Planner by Teresa Carpenter
His Princess of Convenience by Rebecca Winters Saved by the CEO by Barbara Wallace
His
Lost-and-Found
Bride
Scarlet Wilson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SCARLET WILSON writes for both Mills & Boon Romance and Medical Romance. She lives on the west coast of Scotland with her fiancé and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached via her website: www.scarlet-wilson.com (http://www.scarlet-wilson.com).
This book is dedicated to my fellow authors
Susan Meier, Jennifer Faye,
Michelle Douglas, Cara Colter, Teresa Carpenter,
Rebecca Winters and Barbara Wallace.
It has been so much fun creating this series with you!
Contents
Cover (#ue7681bb7-fcc0-572f-9dd7-e5adddf25d22)
The Vineyards of Calanetti (#u9b1b4b01-6766-5772-b8a6-6ffdac454211)
Title Page (#u39cc1ec7-5560-5c76-bcb2-6e289d73a15e)
About the Author (#ueb7fbedd-dad4-5d9d-a191-8e5bc5fb0a14)
Dedication (#u37f2d749-d33e-5d5a-90b2-290ce2fb4888)
PROLOGUE (#ub54843a7-d44d-5a0d-be10-09be72492574)
CHAPTER ONE (#u31dab0c6-9413-5bbb-8513-5aa864a8c975)
CHAPTER TWO (#u966e6e1f-11b8-5f09-ac6a-0d9ca23b42d0)
CHAPTER THREE (#ud7993c13-cc4c-5161-aebb-b362783c754c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_9a9c49a2-ba73-5daa-a52f-20fc0f38325e)
‘SIGNOR! SIGNOR, VENGA ORA!’
Logan Cascini was on his feet in an instant. As an architect who specialised in restoring old Italian buildings, to get the call to help transform the Palazzo di Comparino’s chapel for a royal wedding was a dream come true.
The property at the vineyard was sprawling and over the years areas had fallen into disrepair. His work was painstaking, but he only employed the most specialised of builders, those who could truly re-create the past beauty of the historic chapel in the grounds and the main palazzo. Most of the buildings he worked on were listed and only traditional building methods could be used to restore them to their former glory.
Timescales were tight in order to try and get the chapel restored for the royal wedding of Prince Antonio of Halencia and his bride-to-be, Christina Rose. No expense was being spared—which was just as well considering he had twenty different master builders on-site.
‘Signor! Signor, venga ora!’
He left his desk in the main palazzo and rushed outside to the site of the chapel. His stomach was twisting. Please don’t let them have found anything that would hold up the build. The last thing he needed was some unexpected hundred-year-old bones or a hoard of Roman crockery or coins.
This was Italy. It wouldn’t be the first time something unexpected had turned up on a restoration project.
He reached the entrance to the ancient chapel and the first thing that struck him was the fact there was no noise. For the last few weeks the sound of hammers on stone and the chatter of Italian voices had been constant. Now every builder stood silently, all looking towards one of the walls.
The interior of the chapel had been redecorated over the years. Much of the original details and façade had been hidden. The walls had been covered first in dark, inlaid wood and then—strangely—painted over with a variety of paints. Every time Logan came across such ‘improvements’ he cringed. Some were just trends of the time—others were individual owners’ ideas of what made the building better. In restoration terms that usually meant that original wood and stone had been ripped away and replaced with poorer, less durable materials. Sometimes the damage done was irreparable.
His eyes widened as he strode forward into the chapel. Light was streaming through the side windows and main door behind him. The small stained-glass windows behind the altar were muted and in shadow. But that didn’t stop the explosion of riotous colour on the far wall.
A few of the builders had been tasked with pulling down the painted wooden panelling to expose the original walls underneath.
There had been no indication at all that this was what would be found.
Now he understood the shouts. Now he understood the silence.
Beneath the roughly pulled-back wood emerged a beautiful fresco. So vibrant, the colours so fresh it looked as if it had just been painted.
Logan’s heart rate quickened as he reached the fresco. He started shaking his head as a smile became fixed on his face.
This was amazing. It was one of the most traditional of frescoes, depicting the Madonna and Child. Through his historical work Logan had seen hundreds of frescoes, even attending a private viewing of the most famous of all at the Sistine Chapel.
But the detail in this fresco was stunning and being able to see it so close was a gift. He could see every line, every brushstroke. The single hairs on Mary’s head, baby Jesus’s eyelashes, the downy hair on his skin, the tiny lines around Mary’s eyes.
Both heads in the fresco were turned upwards to the heavens, where the clouds were parted, a beam of light illuminating their faces.
Part of the fresco was still obscured. Logan grabbed the nearest tool and pulled back the final pieces of broken wood, being careful not to touch the wall. Finally the whole fresco was revealed to the viewers in the chapel.
It was the colour that was most spectacular. It seemed that the years behind the wood had been kind to the fresco. Most that he’d seen before had been dulled with age, eroded by touch and a variety of other elements. There had even been scientific studies about the effects of carbon dioxide on frescoes. ‘Breathing out’ could cause harm.
But this fresco hadn’t had any of that kind of exposure. It looked as fresh as the day it had been painted.
His hand reached out to touch the wall and he immediately pulled it back. It was almost magnetic—the pull of the fresco, the desire to touch it. He’d never seen one so vibrant, from the colour of Mary’s dark blue robe to the white and yellow of the brilliant beam of light. The greens of the surrounding countryside, the pink tones of Jesus’s skin, the ochre of the small stool on which Mary sat and the bright orange and red flowers depicted around them. It took his breath away.
He’d hoped to restore this chapel to its former glory—but he’d never expected to find something that would surpass all his expectations.
‘Signor? Signor? What will we do?’ Vito, one of the builders, appeared at his elbow. His eyes were wide, his face smeared with dirt.
‘Take the rest of the day off,’ Logan said quickly. ‘All of you.’ He turned to face the rest of the staff. ‘Let me decide how to proceed. Come back tomorrow.’
There were a few nods. Most eyes were still transfixed on the wall.
There was a flurry at the entranceway and Louisa, the new owner of the palazzo, appeared. ‘Logan? What’s going on? I heard shouts. Is something...?’ Her voice tailed off and her legs automatically propelled her forward.
Louisa Harrison was the American who’d inherited Palazzo di Comparino and hired him to renovate both it and the chapel back to their former beauty. She was hard to gauge. Tall and slim, her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing yoga pants and a loose-fitting top. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at the fresco and shook her head. ‘This was here?’ She looked around at the debris on the floor. ‘Behind the panelling?’
He nodded while his brain tried to process his thoughts. Louisa would have no idea what the implications of this could be.
She turned back to face him, her face beaming. ‘This is wonderful. It’s amazing. The colours are so fresh it’s as if the painter just put down his paintbrush today. I’ve never seen anything like this. Have you?’
He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve seen a few.’ He gave a nod to the wall. ‘But none as spectacular as this.’
She was still smiling. It was the most animated he’d seen her since he’d got here. Louisa rarely talked to the tradesmen or contractors and when she did it was all business. No personal stuff. He’d learned quickly that she was a woman with secrets and he still had no idea how she’d managed to inherit such a wonderful part of Italian history.
But her intentions seemed honourable. She’d hired him after going along with the request for a wedding venue from Prince Antonio. And with his growing reputation, thriving architecture business and natural curiosity there had been no way he’d turn down the opportunity to do these renovations.
‘It will be the perfect backdrop for the wedding,’ Louisa said quietly, her eyes still fixed on the fresco. ‘Won’t it?’
He swallowed. Exactly how could he put this?
‘It could be. I’ll need to make some calls.’
‘To whom?’
‘Any new piece of art has to be reported and examined.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘And a fresco falls under that category?’
He nodded. ‘A fresco, any uncovered relics, a mosaic, a tiled floor...’ He waved his hand and gave a little smile. ‘We Italians like to keep our heritage safe. So much of it has already been lost.’
‘And you know who to call? You can sort this all out?’ He could almost hear her brain ticking over.
He gave a quick nod.
‘Then I’ll leave it to you. Let me know if there are any problems.’ She spun away and walked to the door.
Logan turned back to the wall and stood very still as he heard the quiet, retreating footsteps. The enormity of the discovery was beginning to unfurl within his brain.
He could almost see the millions of euros’ worth of plans for the prince to marry here floating off down the nearby Chiana River.
In his wildest dreams the prince might get to marry his bride with this in the background. But Italian bureaucracy could be difficult. And when it came to listed buildings and historic discoveries, things were usually painstakingly slow.
He sucked in a deep breath. The air in the chapel was still but every little hair stood up on his arms as if a cool breeze had just fluttered over his skin. He knew exactly what this fresco would mean.
He knew exactly who he would have to contact. Who would have the expertise and credentials to say what should happen next. Italy’s Arts Heritage Board had a fresco expert who would be able to deal with this.
Lucia Moretti. His ex.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ccadfd0c-b6b2-5b16-9ae1-61fb875aeb85)
LUCIA STARED OUT of the window, sipped her coffee and licked the chocolate from her fingers.
If her desk hadn’t been on some priceless antiques list somewhere she would lift her aching legs and put them on it. She’d just completed a major piece of work for Italy’s Art Heritage Board. Months of negotiations with frazzled artefact owners, restorers and suppliers. Her patience had been stretched to breaking point, but the final agreement over who was going to fund the project had taken longest. Finally, with grants secured and papers signed, she could take a deep breath and relax.
She pushed her window open a little wider. Venice was hot, even for a woman who’d stayed there for the last twelve years, and the small-paned leaded-glass window obstructed her view out over the Grand Canal. A cruise ship was floating past her window right now—in a few months these larger ships wouldn’t be allowed along here any more. The huge currents they unleashed threatened the delicate foundations of the world-famous city. So much of Venice had been lost already—it was up to the present generation to protect the beauty that remained.
Her boss, Alessio Orsini, put his head around the door. His eyes were gleaming and she straightened immediately in her chair. Alessio had seen just about every wonder of the world. There wasn’t much left that could make his eyes twinkle like that.
‘I’ve just had the most interesting call.’ She waved her hand to gesture him into her room, but even though he was in his late seventies he would rarely sit down.
‘What is it?’
He gave a little nod. ‘There’s been a discovery. A new fresco—or rather an old one. Just been discovered in Tuscany during a chapel restoration. I’ve given him your number.’ He glanced at her desk. ‘Seems like perfect timing for you.’
She smiled. Alessio expected everyone around him to have the boundless energy he had. But her interest was piqued already. An undiscovered fresco could be a huge coup for the heritage board—particularly if they could identify the artist. So many frescoes had been lost already.
It seemed as though the whole of Italy was rich with frescoes. From the famous Sistine Chapel to the ancient Roman frescoes in Pompeii.
The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up straight away. This could be the most exciting thing she’d worked on in a while.
‘Ciao, Lucia.’
It was the voice. Instantly recognisable. Italian words with a Scottish burr. Unmistakable.
Her legs gave a wobble and she thumped down into her chair.
‘Logan.’ It was all she could say. She could barely get a breath. His was the last voice in the world she’d expected to hear.
Logan Cascini. The one true love of her life. Meeting him in Florence had been like a dream come true. Normally conservative, studying art history at Florence University had brought Lucia out of her shell. Meeting Logan Cascini had made it seem as though she’d never had a shell in the first place.
He’d shared her passion—hers for art, his for architecture. From the moment they’d met when he’d spilled an espresso all down her pale pink dress and she’d heard his soft burr of Scottish Italian she’d been hooked.
She’d never had a serious relationship. Three days after meeting they’d moved in together. Life had been perfect. He had been perfect.
They’d complemented each other beautifully. He’d made her blossom and she’d taught him some reserve. He’d been brought up in a bohemian Italian/Scots family and had often spoken first and thought later.
She’d had dreams about them growing old together until it had all come to a tragic end. Getting the job in Venice had been her lifeline—her way out. And although she’d always expected to come across him at some point in her professional life she hadn’t realised the effect it would have.
Twelve years. Twelve years since she’d walked away from Logan Cascini. Why did she suddenly feel twenty years old again?
Why on earth was he calling her after all this time?
He spoke slowly. ‘I hope you are well. Alessio Orsini suggested you were the most appropriate person to deal with. I’m working in Tuscany at the Palazzo di Comparino in Monte Calanetti. I’m renovating the chapel for the upcoming wedding of Prince Antonio of Halencia and Christina Rose, and yesterday we made the most amazing discovery. A fresco of the Madonna and Child. It’s exquisite, Lucia. It must have been covered up for years because the colours of the paint are so fresh.’
His voice washed over her like treacle as her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. How stupid. Of course. Alessio had just told her he’d given someone her number. He just hadn’t told her who.
Logan Cascini was calling for purely professional reasons—nothing else. So why was she so disappointed?
It wasn’t as if she’d spent the last twelve years pining for him. There was a connection between them that would last for ever. But she’d chosen to leave before they’d just disintegrated around each other. Some relationships weren’t built to withstand tragedy.
She tried to concentrate on his words. Once she’d got over the initial shock of who was calling, her professionalism slipped back into place.
This was work. This was only about work. Nothing else.
Being involved in the discovery and identification of a new fresco would be amazing. She couldn’t believe the timing. If she’d still been caught up in negotiations, Alessio could have directed this call to someone else on the team. Even though frescoes were her speciality, the Italian Heritage Board expected all their staff to be able to cover a whole range of specialities.
She drew in a deep breath. Her brain was still spinning, still processing. This was the man she’d lived with, breathed with. What had he been doing these last few years?
Her heart twisted in her chest. Was he married? Did he have children?
‘Lucia?’
His voice had been brisk before, but now it was soft. The way it had been when he’d tried to cajole or placate her. Just the tone sent a little tremor down her spine.
She cleared her throat, getting her mind back on the job. She had to take Logan out of this equation. This discovery could be career-changing. It was time to put her business head on her shoulders.
‘What can you tell me about the fresco?’
He hesitated. ‘I almost don’t know where to start.’ His voice was echoing. He must be standing in the chapel now. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to imagine Logan—his broad shoulders, thick dark hair and oh-so-sexy green eyes. He was already there. Permanently imprinted from the last time she’d seen him.
After all the emotion, all the pent-up frustration and anger, all the tears, she’d been left with his face on her mind. A picture of resolve. One that knew there was no point continuing. One that knew walking away was the only way they would both heal.
She’d known he wouldn’t come after her. They had been past that point. He might not have agreed but he’d realised how much they’d both been damaging each other.
The vision of him standing in the stairwell of their apartment, running his hand through his just-too-long hair, his impeccable suit rumpled beyond all repair and his eyelids heavy with regret had burned a hole in her mind.
‘Just tell me what you see.’ She spoke quickly, giving her head a shake and trying to push him from her mind.
He sighed. ‘I can’t, Lucia. I just can’t. It’s just too...too...magnificent. You have to see it for yourself. You have to see it in the flesh.’
Flesh. Every tiny hair on her arms stood on end. Seeing it in the flesh would mean seeing him in the flesh. Could she really go there again?
‘Wait,’ he said. She could hear him fumbling and for a second it made her smile. Logan wasn’t prone to fumbling. ‘What’s your email address?’
‘What?’
‘Your email. Give me your email address. I’ve just taken a photo.’
She recited off her email address. It was odd. She didn’t even want to give that little part of herself away to him again. She wanted to keep herself, and everything about her, sealed away. Almost in an invisible bubble.
That would keep her safe.
Being around Logan again—just hearing his voice—made her feel vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. No one else had ever evoked the same passion in her that Logan had. Maybe it was what they’d gone through together, what they’d shared that made the connection run so deep. But whatever it was she didn’t ever want to re-create it. She’d come out the other side once before. She didn’t think she’d ever have the strength to do it again.
Ping. The email landed in her inbox and she clicked to open it.
As soon as the photo opened she jerked back in her seat. Wow.
‘Have you got it?’
‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ she breathed. She’d spent her life studying frescoes. Most of the ones she’d encountered were remnants of their former selves. Time, age, environment had all caused damage. Few were in the condition of the one she was looking at now. It was an explosion of radiant colour. So vivid, so detailed that her breath caught in her throat. She expanded the photo. It was so clear she could almost see the brushstrokes. What she could definitely see was every hair on the baby Jesus’s head and every tiny line around Mary’s eyes.
‘Now you get it,’ said the voice, so soft it almost stroked her skin.
‘Now I get it,’ she repeated without hesitation.
There was silence for a few seconds as her eyes swept from one part of the fresco to another. There was so much to see. So much to relish. The palm of her hand itched to actually reach out and touch it.
‘So, what now?’
The million-dollar question. What now indeed? ‘Who owns the property?’ she asked quickly.
‘Louisa Harrison—she’s an American and inherited the property from a distant Italian relative. She hired me to renovate the palazzo and chapel for the upcoming royal wedding.’
Lucia frowned. ‘What royal wedding?’
Logan let out a laugh. ‘Oh, Lucia, I forget that you don’t keep up with the news. Prince Antonio of Halencia and Christina Rose. It’s only a few short weeks away.’
‘And you’re still renovating?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. All the Italian renovation projects that Logan had been involved with before had taken months to complete. Months of negotiation for the correct materials sourced from original suppliers and then the inevitable wait for available master craftsmen.
This time he didn’t laugh. This time there was an edge to his voice. ‘Yes. I have around forty men working for me right now. This fresco—it was more than a little surprise. There was wood panelling covering all the walls. Every other wall we’ve uncovered has been bare. We expected this one to be the same.’ He sighed. ‘I expected just to use original plaster on the walls. It should only have taken a few days.’
Now she understood. This discovery was amazing—but it could also cause huge hold-ups in Logan’s work. She’d known him long enough to know that would be worrying him sick.
Logan never missed a deadline. Never reneged on a deal. And although she hadn’t heard about this wedding she was sure it must be all over the media. If Logan couldn’t finish the renovations of the church in time the whole wedding would be up in the air and his reputation would be ruined.
Not to mention his bank balance. She’d no idea who the owner was, but there was every chance she’d put a clause in the contract about delayed completion—particularly when it was so vital.
‘I’ll come.’ The words were out before she really thought about it. She grabbed a notebook and pen. ‘Give me the address and I’ll make travel arrangements today.’ As her pen was poised above the paper her brain was screaming at her. No. What are you doing?
She waited. And waited.
‘You’ll come here?’ He sounded stunned—almost disbelieving.
Her stomach recoiled. Logan obviously had the same reservations about seeing her as she had about him. But why—after twelve years—did that hurt?
But he recovered quickly, reciting the address, the nearest airport and recommending an airline. ‘If you let me know your flight details I’ll have someone pick you up.’
His voice was still as smooth as silk but she didn’t miss the implication—Logan hadn’t offered to pick her up himself.
It didn’t matter that she was alone in her office, she could almost feel her mask slipping into place. The one that she’d used on several occasions over the years when people had started to get too close and ask personal questions. When past boyfriends had started to make little noises about moving to the next stage of their relationship.
Self-preservation. That was the only way to get through this.
‘I’ll email you,’ she said briskly, and replaced the receiver. She ignored the fact her hands were trembling slightly and quickly made arrangements on her computer. Alessio would be delighted at the prospect of a new fresco. As long as it wasn’t a complete fake and a wasted journey.
But it didn’t sound like a fake—hidden for years behind wood panelling in a now-abandoned private chapel. It sounded like a hidden treasure. And even though she didn’t want to admit it, Logan was so experienced in Italian architecture and art he would have enough background knowledge to spot an obvious fake.
She sent a few final emails and went through to give the secretary she shared with five other members of staff her itinerary for the next few days. It was five o’clock and her flight was early next morning. She needed to pick up a few things and get packed.
She turned and closed her window. Venice. She’d felt secure here these last few years. She’d built a life here on her own. She had a good job and her own fashionable apartment. There was security in looking out her window every day and watching the traffic and tourists on the Grand Canal. The thought of heading to Tuscany to see Logan again was unsettling her. She felt like a teenager.
She picked up her jacket and briefcase, opening her filing cabinets to grab a few books. She had detailed illustrations of just about every fresco ever found. There were a few artists who’d lived in Tuscany who could have painted the fresco. It made sense to take examples of their work for comparison.
She switched on her answering-machine and headed for the door. She needed to be confident. She needed to be professional. Logan would find this situation every bit as awkward as she would.
She was an expert in her field—that’s why she’d been called. And if she could just hold on to the career-defining thought and keep it close, it could get her through the next few days.
Because if that didn’t, she wasn’t sure what would.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_21b35ad0-f4fd-5277-a8af-8e298334e388)
LUCIA STEPPED DOWN from the chartered flight with her compact red suitcase in her hand. She’d spent most of the flight going over notes, trying to determine who the likely artist of the fresco would be.
The style was vaguely familiar. But there were a huge number of fresco artists spanning hundreds of years. Often the date of the building helped with the determination of the artist, but it seemed that Palazzo di Comparino had existed, in some state, for hundreds of years. The chapel even longer. There were a number of possibilities.
The airport in Tuscany was private—owned by some local multi-millionaire—so she was practically able to walk down the steps into the waiting car.
She gave a nod to the driver. ‘Grazie, I will be staying at Hotel di Stelle.’
He lifted her case in the trunk of the black car. ‘No, signorina. A room has been prepared for you at Palazzo di Comparino.’
Her stomach clenched. She’d been definite about booking her own accommodation. Working with Logan was one thing, living under the same roof—even for a few days—was too much.
‘No, I insist. I must stay at the hotel. Can you drop my bag there, please?’
He gave a little smile and climbed into the driver’s seat. The Tuscan countryside flew past. The roads in the area were winding, climbing lush green hills, passing hectares of olive groves and vineyards, filling the air with the aroma of Mediterranean vegetation. Tuscany was known for its rolling hills, vineyards and fine wines and olive oil.
It was also unique in its representation of class. Every kind of person stayed in these hills. They passed a huge array of houses and tiny cottages dotted over the countryside. Medieval villages, castles—some ruins, some renovated—and old farmhouses crowning hilltops.
After thirty minutes the car passed an old crumbling wall and turned onto a narrow road lined with cypress trees, then rolled into the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Lucia put down her window for a better view. The village had two bell towers that were ringing out the hour as they arrived. There was also a piazza surrounded by small shops and businesses, cobblestoned walkways going up and down the narrow streets and a fountain where a few children were walking around the small wall surrounding it and splashing water at each other.
There was an old well on one side next to red-brick houses with gorgeous flower boxes and laundry strung overhead.
A few blue and red scooters whizzed past, ridden by young men with their trousers rolled up at their ankles and their hair flapping in the wind. Helmets didn’t seem to be a priority.
She smiled. It was gorgeous. It was quaint. It could be a setting for a film. Every character that was needed was there—the small wizened woman hanging her washing from a window, the young mother hurrying past with her child, a shopkeeper standing in a doorway and a couple of young girls whispering and watching the guys zipping past on their scooters.
The car turned onto another winding road, again lined with cypress trees. It only took a few moments for the palazzo to come into sight.
It was a sprawling, grand building with lots of little scattered buildings around. Lucia twisted in her seat, but it wasn’t until the car pulled up outside the sweeping entrance of the palazzo that she finally saw the building she was after on the other side of the courtyard.
An old traditional chapel. Dark stonework, arched windows and door. It had two stained-glass windows, which had obviously been added at a later date than the original build.
But before she had a chance to focus on the beauty of the building something else took her breath away.
Logan, emerging from the entrance of the chapel. It had been twelve years since she’d seen him and she hadn’t quite expected the jolt that was running through her body.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was still a little too long. Logan had always been stylish, had always dressed as if the clothes had been made personally for him. Today he had on cream suit trousers and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves pushed up. Only Italian men could get away with cream suits. She imagined his cream jacket would have been discarded somewhere inside the chapel.
It wasn’t just that he’d aged well. He’d aged movie star well. He was still lean, but there was a little more muscle to his frame. His shoulders a bit wider, his shape more sculpted. He lifted his head and his footsteps faltered. He’d noticed her at the same time she’d noticed him, but she could bet his body wasn’t doing the same things that hers was.
The car halted and the driver opened her door. There was no retreat. There was nowhere to hide.
She stared down at her Italian pumps for the briefest of seconds, sucking in a breath and trying to still the erratic pitter-patter of her heart. Thank goodness she’d taken off the stilettos. She’d never have survived the cobbled streets of Monte Calanetti.
She accepted the extended hand of the driver and stepped out of the car, pulling down her dress a little and adjusting her suit jacket. The cool interior of the car had kept the heat of Tuscany out well. It was like stepping into a piping-hot bath. This situation was hot enough without the sun’s intense rays to contend with.
Logan walked over. His faltering footsteps had recovered quickly. He reached out his hand towards her. ‘Lucia, welcome.’
For the briefest of seconds she hesitated. This was business. This was business. She tried to appear calm and composed, even though the first little rivulet of sweat was snaking down her back.
She grasped his hand confidently. ‘Logan, I hope you’ve been well. I take it that is the chapel?’ She gestured to the building from which he’d emerged.
Straight to the point. It was the only way to be. She had to ignore the way his warm hand enveloped hers. She definitely had to ignore the tiny sparks in her palm and the tingling shooting up her arm. She pulled her hand back sharply.
If he was surprised at her direct response he didn’t show it. His voice was as smooth as silk. ‘Why don’t we go into the main house? I’ll show you to your room and introduce you to Louisa, the owner.’
He waved his hand, gesturing her towards the palazzo, and she could instantly feel the hackles rise at the back of her neck.
‘That won’t be necessary. I’m not staying. I’ve booked a hotel nearby.’
Logan exchanged a glance with the driver, who was already disappearing into the palazzo with her red case. ‘Why don’t you have some refreshments in the meantime? I’d still like to introduce you to Louisa and I’m sure you’d like to see around the palazzo—we’ve already renovated some parts of it, including the room Louisa has set aside for you.’
He was so confident, so assured. It grated because she wished she felt that way too. She was trying her best to mimic the effect, but it was all just a charade. Her stomach was churning so wildly she could have thrown up on the spot. It wasn’t just the intense heat that was causing little rivulets of sweat to run down her back, it was Logan. Being in his presence again after all these years and the two of them standing here, exchanging pleasantries, as if what had happened between them hadn’t changed their lives for ever, just couldn’t compute in her brain.
Business. She kept repeating the word in her head. She was probably going to have to keep doing this for the next few days. Whatever it took to get through them. She had to be professional. She had to be polite. The Italian Heritage Board would expect her to discuss her findings and proposals with the owner directly—not through a third party. Maybe this way she could take Logan out the equation?
She gave a nod and walked over the courtyard towards the palazzo. The first thing she noticed as she walked into the wide entrance hall was the instantly cool air. The palazzo may be hundreds of years old but it seemed as though the amenities had been updated. She gently pulled her jacket from her back to let some air circulate.
Logan showed her through to a wide open-plan sitting area. Glass doors gave a wide, spectacular view over the vineyards. She was instantly drawn to the greenery outside.
‘Wow. I’ve never really seen a working vineyard before. This is amazing.’
A beautiful slim blonde emerged from another doorway, her hair tied in a high ponytail, wearing capri pants and a white top. She smiled broadly and held out her hand. ‘Welcome. You must be Lucia. Logan told me to expect you. I’m Louisa.’ She nodded to the view outside. ‘And I knew nothing about vineyards either before I arrived here.’
Lucia shook her hand easily. Should she be cautious? What exactly had Logan told her?
Her eyes flitted from one to the other. Was there a relationship between Logan and Louisa? She watched for a few seconds. Logan had his hands in his pockets and was waiting in the background. He wouldn’t do that if he were in a relationship with Louisa and this was their home.
Louisa nodded towards the doorway that must lead towards the kitchen. ‘Can I get you coffee, tea, water or...’ she gave a smile ‘...some wine?’
Of course. She was in a vineyard. Would it be rude to say no? She was Italian, she loved wine. But she was here for business, not pleasure. ‘Just some water would be lovely, thank you.’
There was a few seconds of uncomfortable silence as she was left alone with Logan again. He moved over next to her, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets.
‘How is your job at the heritage board? Do you like it?’
She gave a brief nod but kept her eyes firmly on the vineyard outside. ‘It was always the kind of job that I wanted to do.’ She left everything else unsaid. If things had turned out differently there was a good chance that she would never have taken the job in Venice. It would have been too far away from the life they had planned together in Florence.
Something inside her cringed. It was almost as if she’d wanted things to turn out this way and that just wasn’t what she’d meant at all.
But Logan didn’t seem to notice. He just seemed more concerned with filling the silent space between them. ‘And how do you like living in Venice, compared to Florence?’ It was his first acknowledgement of anything between them. They’d lived together in Florence for just over a year.
Louisa came back out of the kitchen holding a glass of water. ‘You’ve lived in Florence and now Venice? How wonderful. What’s it like?’
Lucia took the water gratefully. Her throat was achingly dry. For the first time since she’d got here she felt on comfortable ground—questions about Venice were always easy to answer. ‘Venice is amazing. It’s such a welcoming city and it absolutely feels like home to me now. It is, of course, permanently full of tourists, but I don’t really mind that. My apartment is on the Grand Canal so at night I can just open my doors and enjoy the world passing by on the water. Some nights it’s calming and peaceful—other nights it’s complete chaos. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Louisa gave a visible shudder. ‘Too many people for me. Too much of everything.’ She looked out over the vineyards. ‘I can’t imagine what this place will be like when the royal wedding takes place. There will be people everywhere.’ She gave a shake of her head. ‘All the farmhouses and outbuildings are being renovated too. Logan’s the only person staying in one right now while we still have some quiet about the place.’
Lucia didn’t smile. Didn’t react. But her body was practically trembling with relief to know she wouldn’t be under the same roof as Logan.
Now she might consider staying in the palazzo for the next couple of days.
Louisa gave her a smile. ‘I intend to stay out of the way as much possible. Now, about the fresco. What happens next? You do understand that we are under an obligation to get the rest of the restoration work finished as soon as possible?’
Lucia could hear the edge in her voice. The same strong hint that had come from Logan. She chose her words carefully. ‘It all depends on the fresco itself. Or, more importantly, the artist who created it.’
‘Will you know as soon as you look at it?’
She held out her hands. ‘It would be wonderful if we could just look at something and say, “Oh, that’s by this artist...” But the heritage board requires authentication of any piece of work. Sometimes it’s by detailed comparison of brushstrokes, which can be as good an identifier as a signature—we have a specialised computer program for that. Sometimes it’s age-related by carbon dating. Sometimes we have to rely on the actual date of the construction of the building to allow us to agree a starting point for the fresco.’
Louisa smiled and glanced over at Logan, who looked lost in his own thoughts. ‘Well, that’s easy, then. Logan has already been able to date the construction of the palazzo and chapel from the stone used and the building methods used. Isn’t that right, Logan?’
He turned his head at the sound of his name, obviously only catching the tail end of the conversation. He took a few steps towards Lucia. ‘The buildings were constructed around 1500, towards the end of the Italian Renaissance period. The fresco could have appeared at any point from then onwards.’
It didn’t matter how tired she was, how uncomfortable she felt around Logan—it was all she could do not to throw off her shoes and dash across the entrance courtyard right now to get in and start examining it.
She gave a polite, cautious nod. ‘I’m keen to start work with you as soon as possible, Louisa.’
Louisa’s eyes widened and she let out a laugh. ‘Oh, you won’t be working with me.’ She gestured towards Logan. ‘You’ll be working with Logan. I have absolutely no expertise on any of these things. I’ve started to call him Mr Restoration. Anything to do with the work has to be agreed with him.’
Lucia eyes fell to the empty glass on the table. Where was more water when she needed it? This was the last thing she wanted to hear.
She smiled politely once again. ‘But, as the owner, I need to agree access with you and have you sign any paperwork the heritage board may require. I also need to be able to come to and from the palazzo at my leisure. I will be staying at a nearby hotel.’
‘What? Oh, no. You’re staying here. Come, and I’ll show you to your room.’ She was on her feet in an instant. ‘We have renovated some parts of the palazzo, you know.’ She waved her hand. ‘And it will all be finished before the wedding.’ As she reached the door she turned, waiting for Lucia to follow her.
The corners of Logan’s lips were turning upwards.
‘Ms Harrison, I really don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m more than happy to stay in a hotel and just travel to and from the palazzo. It will only be for a few days. I don’t expect my research to take any longer than that.’
Louisa shook her head. ‘Nonsense. You’ll stay here. I insist. As for the paperwork, Logan will need to read that first and explain it to me. My Italian is still very rusty.’
Louisa had already started up a flight of stairs, obviously expecting Lucia to follow her. ‘You’re going to have a beautiful view over the vineyard. And you’re welcome to use the kitchen if you want.’ She paused. ‘But there’s a really nice restaurant in Monte Calanetti you should try.’
She wanted to object. She wanted to get away from here. But it was important that she have some sort of relationship with the owner. And because of that the words were sticking in the back of her throat. Louisa hadn’t stopped talking. She was already halfway up the stairs. It obviously didn’t occur to her that Lucia might continue with her objections. ‘I’m sure you’ll love the room.’
Lucia sucked in a breath. She wasn’t even going to look in Logan’s direction. If she saw him smile smugly she might just take off one of her shoes and throw it at him in frustration. At least she had the assurance that he wouldn’t actually be under the same roof as her.
Just achingly close.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes. I want to see the fresco,’ she shot at him as she left the room.
She walked up the stairs after Louisa and along a corridor. This palazzo had three floors—it was unusual, and had obviously survived throughout the ages. The person who’d built this had obviously had plenty of money to build such a large home in the Tuscan hills. Even transporting the stones here must have been difficult. What with the land, and the vineyard, along with all the outbuildings she’d spotted and the chapel, at one time this must have been a thriving little community.
Louisa took her into a medium-sized room with a double bed and wooden-framed glass windows overlooking the vineyard. Everything about the room was fresh and clean. There was white linen on the bed and a small table and chair next to the window, with a classic baroque chair in the corner. A wooden wardrobe, bedside table and mirror on the wall completed the furnishings.
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 (#ulink_1ecd0d71-bfa4-54b7-a76f-0649cbbacd0a)
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.
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. Too many memories were starting to flood back. This was the problem with seeing Logan after all this time. All the things she’d literally pushed to the back corners of her mind were starting to poke their way through again.
But it wasn’t just unhappy memories that were crowding her thoughts. Logan had other little places in her mind. Just sitting here with him now made a little warm glow spread throughout her body. His eyes, his accent, the way he ran his fingers through his hair when he was searching for the right words. Beautiful, sunny days in Florence, long afternoons drinking endless cups of coffee and dusky evenings with wine leading to long nights together.

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