Gladly Beyond (12 page)

Yep. She was truly trophy girlfriend material, no doubt about it. That scum Pierce had never deserved her—

I felt more than heard Branwell’s grunt of appreciation next to me.

“Claire. Nice to see you today.” Though still no shadows.

She stopped in front of me. Chest heaving.

It was a very nice chest. Not that I looked down to notice . . . well, not too much.

I
was
a gentleman.

And then I saw her eyes. Snapping fire. Glaring like I imagine a dragon does before roasting its dinner.

So . . . still more psycho girlfriend than trophy . . .

“May I introduce my brother, Branwell?” I gestured.

She popped her hands onto her hips.

“Nice to meet you.” Branwell had never been slow.

Claire barely glanced at him.

“You know, I almost called the police—”

“Police?” That was me.

“—or, at very least, brought this up with the Colonel as I’m sure it violates his Sandbox Rule—”

“Violated? What?” That was Branwell.

“—but I’m a big girl and I like solving my own problems and don’t want to be a tattle-tale. So I decided to give you a chance to explain first.”

My eyebrows flew upward. “Explain?”

Her hands moved from her hips to folding across her ribcage. “Don’t even
think
about pretending not to understand, Mr. D’Angelo—”

“Dante.”

“—I know you’re going to say it’s just all a harmless joke and I’m overreacting. Being
psycho
—”

Branwell let out a full-on guffaw.

Claire and I swiveled our heads in his direction.

“Sorry.” He held up a palm. “Continue.”

Claire fixed him with that steely stare of hers. He squirmed. It really was remarkably effective now that it was no longer trained on me.

“Do you mind?” she asked him. “Or are you in on this little game too? Despite that man-bun and beard, you
are
his identical twin.” She nodded in my direction.

Branwell scrubbed a gloved hand over his beard which he had, at least, trimmed up that morning. It was now more George-Clooney-suave than Hagrid-the-Giant-bushy.

“I’m clueless,” he said.

“That I don’t doubt.” So very dry.

“Right. I’m just going to go examine the paintings I saw in the drawing room over here.” Branwell couldn’t get out of earshot fast enough.

Figured my own flesh and blood would abandon me.

I turned my attention back to Medusa Claire of the No Shadows. She had added foot-tapping to her anger show.

“Well?” She cocked her head. Expectantly.

I took a step closer to her. “Okay, so let’s say I’m a really bad actor and I’m not pretending here, Claire—”

“That’s Ms. Raythorn, to you.” She stepped back.

“Fine.
Ms. Raythorn
.” I moved closer again. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I should call your twin back here. Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming.” She sidestepped two paces. I swiveled with her.

“Look, just tell me what you’re—”

“Is frightening me amusing to you somehow?” She took another step back. “You get your big alpha-male kicks out of intimidation?”

“Excuse me?!”

“What are you trying to accomplish with this whole thing? Are you behind all those harassing texts, too?”

“Claire, please—”

“Ms. Raythorn.”

“—I truly, honestly, from the bottom of the soul-you-have-blackened have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I canted forward, intent on moving closer to her again and then stopped myself. Damn. I was doing that Italian lack-of-personal-space thing where I crowded too close to someone.

Italians, as a general rule, have personal space bubbles that are at least fifty percent smaller than Americans’. I forced my feet to stand still.

“Fine. You want to do this?” She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket with a flourish. “Let’s do this.”

She swiped and tapped and then held the screen up to me.

A chill zapped my spine, spiking goosebumps into frantic attention. I gasped.

What the
hell
?!!

Without thinking, I grabbed the phone from her. So much for respecting her bubble.

“Hey—” She reached for it.

I moved it higher, staring at the image.

The interior of the Duomo.

Claire’s cute face in the corner.

A man standing behind. Tailcoat, cravat, tasseled boots, top hat in hand—all early nineteenth century. Gazing straight at her.

Me.

Or at least someone who looked a tremendous amount like me.

Madonna mia!

Vaguely, I processed that my hands were shaking. I tried to swallow, but something stuck in my throat.

What was going on here?

“So tell me.” Her tone brought to mind tundra and frozen wastelands. “Did you and your sidekick brother decide it would be fun to follow me around and jump into my selfies? And then duck out of view as soon as I turned around?”

Dimly, I noted her questions. “Wait. What?!”

I tore my eyes off her phone. She had her arms crossed again.

“Or have you planted some sort of random phone virus that inserts pictures of you in different positions into my photos?”

She paused. Even
she
could hear how silly that sounded.

“So you’re saying this only happens in a selfie? When you’re in the picture too? Did you see this guy in any other kind of photo? One without you in it?”

She paused. My shock/panic/surprise finally registering. The toe tapping edged off.

“No. Just selfies.”

“Every selfie?”

“Uhmm . . . I don’t remember.”

I swiped through her photos. Interior shots of the Duomo. I looked at them. Sure enough, no weird BBC costumed extras.

And then . . .
bam
. There he was. Shot after shot. In Piazza della Republica. The Ponte Vecchio. Always dressed in the same Regency-era clothing. Always turned toward her.

“You don’t see him except in the photo?”

“
Him?
Don’t try to pretend like this isn’t you.”

“Just answer the question, please.”

The toe tapping started up again.

“Fine.” Finally she nodded. “I take the photo and you’re nowhere to be seen, I swear it. But when I look at the photo on my phone—”

“He’s there.”

“
You
are there. It’s like a magic trick.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you practice magic?”

“No. Never got my owl letter from Hogwarts—”

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

“Thank you.”

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

“No game. I’m just trying—”

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

“A ghost? Possibly.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

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

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

She noted my pause.

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

Was this me? A past life me?

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

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

There was no other way to describe it.

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

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

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

And
was
Claire that significant to me?

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

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

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

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

What. Was. Up?

I tapped her phone.

“What are you doing?” Claire sounded concerned.

“Emailing this photo to myself.”

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

“Not a chance.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Email received.

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

Now I had her phone number and email address.

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

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

Her eyes narrowed. Icy points of crystal blue.

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

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

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

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

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

“Again, not me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently not.

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

Had past-life me just had poor taste?

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

Stupid libido.

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

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

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

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

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

“So is it a projection?”

A beat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Not just alone.

Lonely.

Something . . . flared.

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

You. I know . . . you.

There was
history
there.

So much history . . .

Blood pounded in my ears.

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

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

Madonna mia.

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

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

I didn’t look back.

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

Nine