Gladly Beyond (26 page)

“No, having the occasional lunch or dinner together isn’t plagiarism.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her mouth. “Actively pursuing a joint answer to the Colonel’s sketch is. It’s like sharing exam answers or copying homework.”

“No. That’s cheating. Not plagiarism.”

“Wow. Splitting a
very
fine hair there.”

“If I have to.”

“You should have been a lawyer.” She rolled her eyes. Her knuckles were white, gripping her upper arms.

“How would the Colonel
ever
find out about this?” I relaxed an elbow into the railing. “On the outside, we’re just colleagues visiting a completely unrelated Uccello monument in the Duomo.”

“Well, I’m having dinner with the Colonel tomorrow night, and he’s going to ask how things are going—”

“So don’t volunteer to tell him. I know I won’t.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“Claire, we have a unique way of finding an answer to the provenance of the Colonel’s sketch that would be impossible with any other methodology.”

“Yes, which also means it will be impossible to prove too—”

“Possibly. But we don’t know that right now.”

“Look, Dante, I get your point. But any information we
might
find will be useless when I get tossed off the project and lose this job.”

“Maybe. But aren’t some answers worth the risk?”

She sucked in that succulent bottom lip again.

And then very slowly turned her head my way. Gave me a definite you-must-be-nuts look.

“Dante, I don’t have the
luxury
of a loving family and an already successful business and . . . and people who care. I have
me
.” She tapped her chest. Emphatic. “That’s it. That’s all I have. Just psycho me, a mountain of baggage and the pathetic
hope
that I might get this job.”

My heart constricted, so fast, so painful . . .

“
You
might be willing to toss this job aside, but I
need
it. It’s all I have—” Her voice broke.

“Claire,
cara
—” I took a step forward.

She instantly put out two palms, stopping me. Shook her head. Blinked back the shimmer in her eyes.

“No. There’s too much at stake for me here.”

We engaged in a staring contest. Her brilliant blue eyes pulling me under.

“Okay.” I relaxed back. “Glad we got that out of the way. Now tell me the truth.”

All of me
knew
her. Knew to listen to what she wasn’t saying.

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t about the job or the Colonel. It’s an excuse but not your real reason. You and I both know it.”

She let out a breath of air. Her shoulders sagged. A balloon deflating. She turned back to the railing, staring over Florence.

“I don’t like you very much right now,” she finally said.

“I can accept that. How’s about you tell me the truth?”

A pause. I could practically see her mind churning through possible responses.

“I don’t like the regressions,” was the one she landed on.

Okay. Better. Closer.

“Why?”

Another pause.

She shrugged. “You say only scenes of emotional significance cause a regression. Logic dictates that, at some point, we’ll have a regression that is more traumatic.”

“Possibly. But, so far, they’ve been harmless, and the historian in you has to find them fascinating,” I countered. “That still isn’t the real reason for your hesitation.”

She didn’t disagree.

C’mon, Claire. Talk to me.

“Will they continue to be so . . . tame?” She ignored my last comment.

I considered pushing her harder for the real answer, but I let it go for now.

“It’s hard to say. I will venture, however, that if a regression
were
to happen in the Duomo, it probably won’t be anything horrid. A scene of violence there would still be talked about.”

Claire continued to stare across the rooftops. Face impassive.

“Please, Claire?” I scooted forward, getting more of me in her line of vision. “This matters. Partly because of the Michelangelo, but mostly due to Caro and Ethan themselves. I want to know their story.
Our
story.”

She said nothing, staring over the city. The breeze tangled her hair, dragging it across her face. Traffic noise drifted up from below.

“Meet me at the Duomo. Tomorrow. C’mon,” I pleaded.

She didn’t relax.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally said.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I’ll text you when I decide.”

“Okay. I’ll wait for your text.”

She didn’t know it, but we hadn’t finished this conversation. I would discover her real reasons.

But . . . baby steps. This was a marathon, not a sprint.

When she was ready to talk, I would be waiting.

Twenty

Claire

I
t always brightens my day to see you here, darlin’.”

I whirled upright as the Colonel strode into the room, a chipper spring in his step and a pile of papers in his hand. He stopped next to me, placing the papers on the table.

I was back at his villa this morning, going over the Michelangelo sketch with a fine tooth comb. Searching for anything that hinted toward Caro. Hoping I could find the answers I needed without involving Dante.

I was so torn. The information from a regression could be key to solving the Michelangelo mystery. But was the information worth the emotional upheaval? I didn’t want any more of Caro’s adoration of Ethan seeping through my walls.

Dante himself wasn’t much help with that. After lunch yesterday, he and his brothers had cheerfully kicked us women out of the kitchen so they could do the dishes. And true to his word, he hadn’t texted or harassed me in any way. Respecting my space.

The man was practically a caricature of perfect boyfriend material. Either that or I was so jaded I couldn’t see straight—

Yeah. I needed to stop.

The Colonel leaned a little too close. What was it with men ignoring my bubble?

“I couldn’t stay away. It’s so compelling.” I gestured toward the drawing on the table.

I gave the Colonel my cheery smile and angled back. Walking the line between keeping my distance without offending him.

He reached for my hand and did that dual hand-clasp thing of his again. Blue eyes intent on mine. “It is indeed.”

He didn’t break eye contact with me or release my hand as he spoke. Clouding what exactly he meant.

Okay. Awkward.

My smile morphed from cheery to strained.

“It really is, isn’t it?” I pretended to miss his innuendo and took a casual step backward toward the table, forcing the Colonel to drop my hand. “The lines are fluid and confident.”

I leaned over the sketch, effectively keeping all of me out of the Colonel’s easy reach.

If I did get this job, how would it be working for the Colonel long term? He was decidedly, uh, hands-on.

Which I suppose would have been marginally alright if I saw him behaving similarly with anyone else, but he seemed to reserve it for me and me alone.

Other than the physical contact thing and odd occasional flirting, the Colonel was fine. Your typical warm, charming Southern gentleman.

Sigh.

“You’ll be happy to know these just arrived.” He tapped the stack of papers he had set on the table.

I looked at the papers. “The mass spectrometry results! So soon!”

I practically pounced on them.

The Colonel laughed, a delighted sound. “Gotta love a gal who finds such joy in numbers.”

I smiled, ignored the sub-text in that comment and sank into one of the high-backed dining room chairs, studying the results.

Instead of leaving me to it, the Colonel sat down (too close) as well. Staring at me the entire time.

I told myself it was old-man, lack-of-social-cues weird. Not stalker-creepy.

I focused on the chemical age analysis results.

Ten minutes later I had some fascinating answers but more questions.

The vellum dated to the mid-sixteenth century, plus or minus fifty years. Michelangelo drew the original cartoon around 1504, placing the vellum just inside the right time period.

Which was
hooray-
good.

The charred edge dated to 1800, again plus or minus fifty years.

Which was also good.

It was like puzzle pieces slotting into place.

So based on the assumption the sketch was related to the drawings in Caro’s possession, these results pointed toward the Colonel’s copy being the
original
source Caro used, not her own drawing.

Had Caro been copying from the original Michelangelo
modello
? Everything certainly hinted in that direction.

Though in the mental glimpse I got of the drawing from Caro, it seemed like the original was done in silverpoint, not chalk like the sketch in the Colonel’s possession. But, honestly, how accurate was a fleeting glimpse in another woman’s mind from two hundred years ago?

My heart sped up in excitement. As the granddaughter of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the family provenance could certainly have an unknown Michelangelo. How it landed in the Colonel’s vaults . . . I had no idea. The Colonel’s maternal relatives, the Earls of Arlington, must have purchased it at some point afterward.

Obviously, the drawing sustained some damage—the charred edge—around Caro’s lifetime. In her memories, neither sketch had any damage so far.

So when, why and how did the charring occur?

Was it when Ethan said those odd words about taking something back and winning the game? Was that how the drawing became connected to Dante? Up until now, the drawings had all been attached to Caro, who was one solid step removed from Ethan and Dante’s past lives.

The problem? Regressions were the
only
way I would get answers to these questions.

Damn.

“You’re completely buried in those papers,” the Colonel drawled at my elbow.

Right.

“The results are . . . compelling,” I replied.

“So do you have any thoughts as to the origin of my sketch?” He bent over the arm of his chair, moving even more into my bubble. He fixed me with his pale blue eyes.

I resisted the urge to lean away. Swallowed.

“Not . . . specifically. The vellum is the right date for the sketch to be a genuine Michelangelo.”

“Excellent.”

“Yes. It’s definitely exciting news. But we’ll need to do more research to know for sure.”

The Colonel just nodded, finally turning his head to look at the drawing on the table. Face impassive. It was hard to get a read on him.

“I look forward to seeing your official assessment,” he finally said.

“Thank you.”

Silence hung.

The Colonel turned back to me. “I understand you had dinner earlier this week with Dante D’Angelo.”

I only barely managed to keep a suspicious panic off my face.

“Yes.” I let out a calming breath, but inside I was a mass of
bloodyhell
and
thisismyworstnightmarecometolife
. “He invited me and I found it hard to say no.”

Sorry, Dante.

The Colonel gave a tight smile. “Dante can be like that, I’ve heard. Determined and persuasive.”

Wait—how did the Colonel
know
Dante and I had dinner together?

“Did you have a good time?” the Colonel asked, expression neutral.

When in doubt, grab the bull by the horns. “We didn’t discuss the project, if that’s your concern, Colonel. It was just a friendly, get-to-know-each-other kinda thing—”

“I trust you, darlin’. I just wanted to make sure Dante behaved himself. I don’t want those boys causing you any trouble now.”

He reached over and patted my hand.

How was I supposed to read this territorial concern?

“About our
own
dinner tonight . . .” the Colonel began.

“Yes?” My eyes widened.

“I have a small business matter to attend to in London. It should only take a couple of days. Would you be okay if we postponed dinner until the weekend?”

Please! “Of course. Let me just check my calendar.”

I pulled out my phone and made a production of looking at my blank, blank, blank appointment schedule.

“I should be good any night later this week.”

My phone buzzed.

Please smile when you see me today. I want to imagine your hungry lips on mine.

My heart sank about twelve feet. My pulse hammered.

Ugh. My stalker.

Talk about terrible timing. Could I
please
go just five minutes without something creepy happening?

This person was just trying to get in my head. I knew that. They weren’t here. They wouldn’t see me today.

I was okay. Deep breath. Slow my heart rate down . . .

“—I’ll have Natalia contact you with the arrangements,” the Colonel was saying. He paused. “Is everything okay? Your face just went three shades whiter.”

I set my phone in my lap.

“I’m fine. Just . . .” I shook my head. “It-it’s nothing.”

The Colonel looked skeptical. And then leaned over the arm of his chair again. He reached out and snagged my hands, doing his signature hand-clasp thing again, trapping my right hand between two of his.