Ten Days in Tuscany

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Annie Seaton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Indulgence is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Erin Molta

Cover design by Liz Pelletier

Cover art by iStock

ISBN 978-1-63375-218-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition April 2015

I dedicate this story to the group of wonderful women who attended the writing workshop with me in Tuscany in June 2014, with a special mention for Eloisa James who taught us so much. Wonderful lessons, fabulous company, and lifelong connections, not to mention the
gelati
!

Chapter One

“Another month, bro.” Antonio’s voice held suppressed excitement.

Nic Baldini held the phone to his ear with one hand as he turned the key in the massive timber door. “Disappointing, but I suppose it works. It’ll be a couple of weeks before I’m back in Florence.” He stepped through the door of what had once been his father’s family villa and stood observing the wide foyer in front of him. “So why so upbeat? What inside info have you got?”

“You’re the favorite for the position. There’s a guy from Sweden who supports upcoming artists, but they say you have the edge.”

“They?” Nic tried to focus on the conversation as a burst of color met his eyes.

Antonio had his finger to the pulse in the city. Most of the women he dated—and they were many—had connections to the higher echelons of Florentine society.

“Isabella for one. She’s executive assistant to the director of the Uffizi Gallery.”

Nic turned his back to the room. “So, she thinks I’m in?”

“Very close. If you can just do something to show you’re prepared to keep sponsoring local artists. Apparently there was some speculation that your focus on the hospital charity may have replaced your interest in the art scene.”

“How much will it take?”

“Uh-uh. Not money this time. Your recent protégées haven’t had successful shows, and the word is you may be moving on to other interests.” Antonio’s voice was muffled as he spoke to someone else. “Have to go, Nic. But listen. Don’t worry. It should be okay. If I hear anything more, I’ll call.”

“Good. But that’s all. No work calls.”

“Okay.”

He ended the call and lifted his gaze to the amazing room surrounding him. The builders had done a great job. Since he’d bought the old villa from Baldini Enterprises last summer, he’d directed renovations from afar, and this was the first time he’d seen the work himself. The photographs he’d been emailed as the work progressed hadn’t done justice to the changes they’d wrought in the building that had stood in this spot—owned by the Baldini family—since the sixteenth century.

He bent down and ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the pristine white marble, an insanely expensive product direct from the family’s marble concern at Carrara. Nic grinned. He’d purloined half of the shipment that was headed for a home show in New York for the renovation. One of the perks of being the boss.

He straightened and stepped down into the grand living room adjacent to the foyer. The eastern wall had been ripped out and replaced with sliding glass doors that opened to the incredible view of the vineyards below. Beyond the vineyards, on the back acreage, the old stables had been converted into a block of light-filled studios, and the first group of art students would be here this summer. As a benefactor to three of the art schools in Florence, this project was one of his babies.

He’d put aside his original plan to build a retreat for the established artists he took on as protégées because he’d been let down too many times. Why was it that they always saw the money and didn’t get that he was trying to help them grow further? It was disillusioning. No more. It was time to focus on his art in different ways. On those young students who had their careers ahead of them and were prepared to focus on their art…and not what he could do for them. He’d wasted too much time, energy
and
money, trying to discover the next big name. But he wanted that board position more than anything, and Antonio’s call had been encouraging. If these few days turned out as he hoped, he would walk away from Baldini Enterprises and devote his time to philanthropic endeavors. But he would think on that later. He turned away from the window and walked back through the sun-filled room.

Keeping with the original design, the archways and walls were painted a rich terracotta. Small tables were placed beside the enticingly soft sofas. The caretaker had even placed fresh lilacs in the antique vases, bringing the scent of spring into the open space.

He didn’t care much for the flowers or strategically placed bowls of fruit—to his artist’s eye, it screamed
paint by numbers
—but he had to admit the contractors had nailed this renovation. At any moment, he expected Diane Lane to come twirling out of the giant kitchen like a scene straight out of
Under the Tuscan Sun
.

He smiled at the notion. And, not for the first time since returning to Tuscany, thought of his mother. She would’ve adored the changes to the villa. She would’ve loved the lilies and fruit bowls, and teased him to paint an Impressionist still-life like her favorite artist, van Gogh. Hell, she would’ve wanted them to sit in those soft sofas and watch that silly chick flick together. She would’ve been so delighted to see Nic in Tuscany. And she would have been proud of the philanthropic work he was doing with the young artists. She’d be down here with them making coffee, entertaining them when they were painting, and most importantly encouraging their talent

But she was gone.

The pain of her loss clung to him like the mist that hovered around the blue hills in the distance.

He pushed down the pain and continued through the house. When he entered his bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. The finer details of the decor had been left in the hands of Alessandro, one of the top designers in Rome, and the builder had been given carte blanche, but the ornately covered mirrors on each wall were not what Nic had expected. Shaking his head, he turned slowly and smiled. Alessandro had nailed this room, too. Rather than being tacky, the gilded mirrors lent a studied elegance to the large room. He walked over to the bed that was strewn with dozens of cushions in jewel-like colors, and sat on the scarlet cover, his reflection grinning back at him. Yes, it was superb, but this room was more suited to a Sultan’s harem than a Tuscan villa. A decadent but wasted sentiment. He didn’t want company in this house—not this trip anyway; it would interfere with his painting.

He could almost hear his mother giggling beside him at the over-the-top decor. She had been the one to foster his artistic side. When his father had refused to let him go to the Florence Art Academy to take up the place he’d been offered, she’d been the one to make him promise that every year, he’d come here, shedding the stresses and trappings of work, to devote his time to indulging his dream. It had taken five years after her death for him to honor his promise. He was thirty; it was past time. Now ten days in Tuscany, this summer, would be spent following his dream, and he would keep her memory alive. The way his father acted it was as though she had never existed and that pissed Nic off royally.

So here he was. His father could take care of the export side of the business for ten days. Nic didn’t intend to think about work at all. When the rest of Italy shut down in the summer, he worked and this reprieve was long overdue. He opened each door along the wide hallway and nodded with satisfaction at Alessandro’s touch. Each bedroom was decorated in a different style. And every room, including the mirrored bedroom, illustrated the sophistication and elegance he’d expected. Finally, Nic hesitated at the final door before taking a deep breath and pushing open the ornately carved door into the studio he had designed himself.

Every instruction had been carried out to the last detail.

He turned to the canvas waiting for him on his easel beside the window. His finger trailed across the blank white surface. He glanced at the paints laid out on the table beside the easel.

For the next ten days, he was going to indulge himself. Forget the details of the business export deals and the issues at the quarry and indulge the creative muse that had consumed him for as long as he could remember Then, when he received that phone call from the gallery, his father would soon discover that Nic didn’t need his approval to realize his dreams. He could have it all.

For the first time, in a very long time, Nic wondered what his life would be like if he stepped away from the world of finance and gave into the creative desire that shaped him. Spent his life doing what
he
wanted to do, not what duty…and his father… decreed.

Coraggio.
His fingers traced the tattoo on his chest. It would take courage to step away from Baldini Enterprises. He smiled as he turned to the window and peered at the Arno valley below. The Italian cypress trees swayed in the late afternoon breeze. These ten days would be a time for considering his future. He couldn’t prove it to his mother, but he could prove to himself he had courage.

Maybe his father would finally realize that he would choose his own path in life.

…

Gia Carelli slammed the door shut, grabbed her bicycle from the wall next to the stone sink where her paint brushes soaked in a dozen glass bottles, and pushed it to the gate. As the wheels crunched over the loose white stones on the narrow path, a soft hiss came from the back tire.

“
Dio
, no.” She groaned as she looked down at the old bicycle. The back tire was beginning to deflate. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped that when she opened them maybe she’d imagined it. Her father’s face would be filled with the usual disappointment when she was late for work at the family restaurant, and her brother would have that long suffering expression that he had every time he looked at her lately. Gia had been immersed in her painting and had lost track of the time, as she always did. Of course, when she looked for her work clothes, they were in the laundry basket—dirty. She picked up the set she’d worn last night, pulled her skirt around, and twisted it to the side so the sauce stain was almost hidden. Sometimes, she wondered why she bothered. No matter what she did, she never measured up to her family’s expectations. If it were up to her parents, she’d be happily married to some nice Italian boy from their village and raising a tribe of
bambini.
Gia shivered. She couldn’t think of anything worse.

Being the baby of the family made life so hard.

She bent to better examine the tire. Out of luck. It was going down, but slowly. If she pumped it up, she’d be late. On closer inspection, she decided to risk it. She didn’t have far to go, and shredding a tire if it decided to give up the ghost was better than facing her brother’s sarcasm when she was late –again. Lovely. Damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. Story of her life.

No matter how much she hated it, Gia
had
to work in the family business. It was just the way it was and what was expected of her. And, yes, that notion sounded as antiquated as the fortified walls of Castellina, but such was the way of life in her little corner of the world. Her parents meant well. Truly, they did. But would they support her? Not a chance.

She glanced down at her watch; she had eleven minutes to reach the restaurant. Eleven minutes on a bike as antiquated as the village, and with a half-flat tire. She
could
walk. Hell, she’d walk ten times that distance over the next few hours. But she was
not
going to be late. The bike would have to get her there. She opened the gate and pushed it out onto the road. There had been a light shower of rain that afternoon, and the leaves in the olive grove on the other side of the narrow road glistened in the late afternoon sunlight.

Oh no, the olives! She was supposed to pick up the olives for the restaurant from
Zio
Luigi
.
She ignored the way the light played on the trees as a silver ray of sunshine poured down on the top of the hill. But she stored it in her memory.

No time to get the olives. Gabriel will be pissed.
The words ran around Gia’s mind in time with the wheels as she pumped the pedals and rode up the slight incline toward the village. Once she reached the top of the first hill and headed down to the bottom, the bike whizzed along the cobblestones, past olive groves and vineyards, toward the final hill before the village. She stood and pushed the pedals down hard as she neared the crest of the second hill, the muscles in her calves screaming with the effort. Thank God, she was fit from running around the restaurant most nights. When she cleared the crest, Gia turned for a second, looking over her shoulder to see how the tire was holding up. Good. Still half full of air. As she turned back to face the road ahead, a horn blared from her left. On reflex, she cut to the right side of the road, bouncing over the curb and narrowly managing not to tumble over the handlebars. The half-flat tire wobbled precariously, and she jumped off the bike as soon as she reached the grass verge. The bike fell to the ground as a low slung sports car pulled to a halt mere inches away from her legs. The back wheel of the bike continued to spin slowly, catching the last of the afternoon light on the chrome spokes. It all happened in slow motion, like that art house movie she loved to watch some nights when she couldn’t sleep.
What was it called?
The one with the clouds and the cityscapes? She stared at the car as the door opened.

“
Idiota,”
she muttered beneath her breath. Summer was coming and the road was busy with damned tourists roaring though the village. Folding her arms, she watched as he climbed out of the car.

No, not climbed.
More like he uncoiled his long lean body from the car and walked over to her, his face etched into a frown.

“Hey, calm down.” Okay, so he’d heard her mutter about him being an idiot. He held his hands up as he spoke, and the last flash of sunlight caught the bike wheel as it stopped spinning.

“
Koyaanisqatsi
,”
she muttered. That was it. She loved that movie.

“What?”

Olive skin against a black button-down shirt filled her vision and a deep, sexy voice filled her ears. “I almost ran you down. Are you okay?”

She stood there for a second catching her breath. The close call had rattled her but at least she was unhurt. Okay, it was time to put Mr. Sexy Voice out of his misery.

Before she could speak, strong hands reached for her shoulders and he gripped her firmly. “Are you dazed? I didn’t hit you, did I?” He sounded more agitated than he had a few seconds ago—but the voice was still like…like what? It was like melted chocolate oozing through her senses.