Gladly Beyond (14 page)

But there he was. In my photo from so long ago. Looking
exactly
the same.

There’s no Photoshop to alter an already printed print. And Dante himself would have been a teenager too that many years ago . . .

I swallowed. All of me shaking now.

This made no sense.

But—and here I admitted to myself—Mr. Darcy had probably always been there. It seemed like I remembered seeing him in the photo. I had just never really clued into it, as he was so far in the background.

Was I dealing with the supernatural here?
Was
this guy a ghost? Did I even believe in ghosts?

And, if so, why the creepy resemblance to Dante D’Angelo? And why only in images with me in them too?

With shaking hands, I picked up my phone. I took a photo of my bathroom without me in the shot. Swiped to it.

Just my bathroom.

I angled the phone at my face. Me and the wall behind. No space for anything or anyone else.

I studied the frame and took a selfie.

I closed my eyes. Sucked in a long, stuttering breath.

And then flipped into my photos, looking at the picture I had just taken.

I stared. Breathing hard.

Impossible.

My face on the left. Wide-eyed and apprehensive.

On the right, Dante in his full Jane Austen-esque glory. His head nestled against mine.

Cravat falling across my shoulder. Eyes closed. Nose pressed into my neck.

A contented hint of smile on his face.

How? Why?!

I had no answers for this. It went beyond anything I could explain. I was so clearly alone in this bathroom.

This had to be something supernatural.

Hands still shaking, I took a photo of the picture with Grammy.

I managed to send one text.

This just happened. You’re in my Florence photos from fourteen years ago too. You said you have answers.

I attached the photo of Grammy and the ones of Mr. Darcy in my bathroom.

A reply came less than thirty seconds later.

Are you at your hotel?

I hesitated. And then texted back.

Yes. Just tell me what’s going on.

I will. I’m on my way.

Wait. You don’t know where I am.

Palazzo Alfieri, right? I’ll be right there.

What? How do you know where I’m staying?

I overheard you talking with the Colonel about it at the meeting. I’m coming.

I stared down at my phone. Still shaken. Really unsure how to respond.

He knew where I was staying. He had known all week.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

I didn’t trust him. Or, again, I didn’t trust my sense of trust.

Dante sent one more text.

You’re safe, Claire. It’s nothing that can hurt you, I promise. I’ll explain when I get there.

Ugh. Stupid mind-reader.

I instantly called him.

The phone rang and rang.

You’ve reached Dante D’Angelo. Please leave a message.
Ha raggiunto Dante D’Angelo. Per favore lasci un messaggio.

Grrr.

I tried two more times. Voicemail.

Either he was ignoring me or was already on his way.

Now what?

The last thing I wanted was Dante knocking on my hotel room door.

Still trembling, I pushed myself off the floor of the bathroom and exchanged my lopsided bun for a simple ponytail. I shut my bedroom windows, slid my feet into a pair of heels and then went downstairs. Dante could chat with me there.

Palazzo Alfieri was a small boutique-style hotel, so though the rooms were gorgeous and the rooftop bar swank, the lobby was little more than a glorified entryway and stairwell. Granted, a lovely marble staircase and expansive foyer, but definitely not anything that drifted into
lobby
territory. The ‘front desk’ was a small office to the right of the stairs.

I glanced in. Good. Matteo was working tonight. (Plays bass guitar in a punk band. Boyfriend. Likes pink.) I waved at him and then retreated back into the ‘lobby.’

I sat on a little leather bench next to the stairs, chewing on my lower lip, foot bouncing.

Eyes glued on the large door leading out to the street. The
portone
, I guess I should call it.

Why was my stalker-ghost in that photo from so long ago? Why me? Why Dante?

Crack.

Dante pushed the
portone
open.

That had been fast. Did he live nearby?

He had changed out of the designer suit he had on earlier. Somehow, scruffy jeans, worn boots, an untucked cream button-down and tight-fitting Italian leather jacket suited him more. Even his hair relaxed, falling in dark loose waves on his forehead and around his ears. His bulky shoulders filled the room.

Swoon . . .
he was fine.

A younger me would have flirt-flirt-flirted with him. But I was no longer that naive girl.

With pinched lips and folded arms, I stood up and walked into the middle of the entryway.

Dante nodded at Matteo through the office door and then turned his attention to me.

He stopped about two feet too close. So close, the spice of his cologne eddied around me and I had to look up, up into his face. The man really did
not
understand the concept of personal space.

I hadn’t processed what color his eyes were. I had just assumed they were brown, given the rest of his Italian vibe. But they weren’t. They were a decided hazel . . . golden brown around the pupil morphing to green farther out.

He had very long eyelashes.

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, bunching his beefy shoulders.

I took a step back. Firmly told my heart to slow down.

“Claire,” he said.

“Mr. D’Angelo.”

“Dante. Please.” He smiled. White. Toothy. Heartbreaking.

I folded my arms tighter.

“You didn’t need to come,” I said. “I tried to call—”

“You did?” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Ah. You did. Sorry. I was driving.”

Figured. “Shall we?” I nodded at the bench behind me to the left.

He glanced around me at the bench. And then shook his head.

“This will take too long.” He stepped closer again. “You saw the . . . man? . . . in your room. I’d like to start there.”

“Do I have a flashing ‘stupid’ sign above my head?” My eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. “That would be a firm ‘hell no’ to inviting you into my hotel room. We can talk here.”

I gestured at the bench, now at my side, and deliberately stepped back. Again.

Matteo was studying us with careful interest from the hotel office. I appreciated having an audience.

“Look. Like I said earlier today, things are different from what they appear.” Once more, Dante stepped right into my personal bubble. “The true scope of this . . .
ghost
requires some explanation.”

“Ghost? Seriously?” Another step back.

He shot an agitated hand into his hair. The motion was
not
endearing. Nope.

“Yes. And if we could just go up to your room, I think things might become a little clearer for both of us.”

“In my room?”

He moved into my space. “Yeah.”

Me. “To see the . . . ghost?”

Him. “Something like that.”

I took
another
step backward. “Seriously, Mr. D’Angelo—”

“Dante. Honestly, how many times do I have to ask you to use my name?”

He stepped forward. Again.

Loomed over me. Again.

“
Mister
D’Angelo. Just
stop
right there.” I held out two hands. “Personal space bubble.” I flapped my arms in a circle around me. “Ever heard of it?”

He froze. “Oh—”

“Sheesh! And you wonder why I’m leery of being alone with you?” I waved a hand back and forth. “Could you
please
maintain a polite four feet of air between us?”

Honest-to-goodness, I swear he blushed. Never thought it possible for a man like Dante D’Angelo. But that slow-spreading burn moving up his cheeks could only be called one thing.

“I-I am really and truly sorry. I didn’t even realize.” He took a large,
polite
step back. “My Italian self takes over sometimes. Forgive me.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Grimaced.

Looking uncannily like a bashful five-year-old boy.

Not. Adorable.

I wrapped my hands around my upper arms.

“So let me get this straight.” I cocked my head. “You have to be
in
my hotel room in order to explain about the, uh, ghost?”

“Yes.”

“Your doppelganger ghost who has been stalking me dressed as Mr. Darcy since the age of fourteen?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you ever record yourself and play it back? Just to hear how utterly insane you sound?”

“Sometimes.” Total deadpan. “I cackle while I do it. It adds to the ambiance.”

A pause.

I wasn’t sure if I was horrified or charmed.

Horrified was the safer emotion. I went with that.

“Look,” I said. “Just tell me what’s going on? Why is this so hard?”

“What will it take?” Dante hit me with a lethal pair of pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“For you to trust me. What will it take?”

Ten

Dante

C
laire froze.

“Trust you?” Her icy blue gaze drilled me.

I nodded, reminding my feet to stay put even though they itched to step toward her.

“I don’t trust you,” she said. “I will never trust you. This isn’t about trust.”

I
strongly
begged to differ, but I kept that opinion to myself.

“Not let’s-be-BFFs-and-paint-each-others’-toenails trust,” I said. “Just trust enough to let me into your hotel room. The two of us. Together.”

Even by my skewed standards, the photos Claire had texted were freaky. Obviously, something was up with my GUT. But what?

The images from her bathroom seemed more intimate than the ones she showed me earlier. Did that mean anything? This palazzo matched the time period of Claire’s Regency-era gentleman. Had an event happened here in the past? Something significant?

I half hoped a regression would occur when I stepped into the foyer. But, so far, nothing. Maybe her hotel room was the correct place.

Granted, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a regression to happen. On the other hand, a regression would be irrefutable proof, wouldn’t it?

For most people, no amount of simply describing my GUT would be convincing. But if Claire were to
experience
a regression with me? Well. That would speak for itself.

And I would know for sure that Claire had been important to me in past lives.

Claire paused. Truth be told, she was wise to not trust a man who was little more than a stranger. Particularly as I had been showing up in her photos. How to get through to her?

“I mean you no harm. I cannot emphasize that enough. This is important.” I pressed my palms together in front of my chest as if praying. “What will it take?” My eyes blazed with sincerity.

Claire kept her arms folded across her chest. Biting that plump bottom lip of hers. Looking far too young and alone.

Finally, she sighed and leaned around me, looking through the open door to my right.

“Matteo,” she said to the man behind the reception desk, “do you have any duct tape?”

Ten minutes later, Claire had me trussed up like a Mafia victim.

I tested the tape holding my hands behind my back. They were going nowhere.

It was an uncannily expert job.

“So at what point did you decide to abandon your career as a professional kidnapper?” I asked as she finished taping my legs together above the knees.

“You need to stop talking.”

“This gets kinkier by the minute.”

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like,
You wish.

“If your goal is earning my trust, you’re not doing a convincing job of it.” She sat back on her heels. Glaring.

“I’m just pointing out that this obviously isn’t your first rodeo.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cerise, my fourth nanny, was an ex-con—”

“That seems . . . improbable.”

“I’m not lying. Cerise did ten years hard time for fraud and being an accessory to kidnapping.”

“Nice. I wasn’t doubting Cerise’s . . . uh, history, per se . . . more the fact she was allowed to add ‘child caretaker’ to her resume.”

“Right? My parents set high standards for my care.”

“Obviously.”

She ripped off the piece of tape with her teeth. “Anyway, Cerise thought it broadened my horizons to know how to properly restrain someone. She was big on life skills—”

“Wouldn’t laundry be more along the line of life skills? Changing the oil in your car? Knowing how to hogtie a victim seems . . .”

“What?”

I shrugged. “Less useful, I guess.”

“It’s feeling pretty useful right now.” She wrapped the tape around my legs one last time.