why did her body tingle as if his palms—as strong and weathered as the bark of his olive trees—were moving over the surface of her flesh? Why did she sense that they’d already entered a silent pact, whose terms she couldn’t yet read?
Antonio stood before the painting he had most looked forward to seeing that day. It was in a collection temporarily loaned to the National Gallery of Art—Portraits of Italian Renaissance Women. When he’d first seen Maria, this was the painting that had made him wonder if he’d met her before.
Now Maria stood beside him gazing up at the proud woman’s delicate features, and he was entranced by her reactions. She frowned, concentrating. Her arms were folded across her body, hugging herself.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She tilted her head slowly, side to side. “I don’t know. This one seems so real, so modern in a way. But I can’t put my finger on why. Is it because da Vinci’s style bridges the centuries?”
The picture was labeled, Portrait of Genevra de Benci, signed by the master. Antonio had viewed it many times in his own country. His mother had first pointed it out to him, as she and the model shared the same first name. There the resemblance ended.
The portrait was exquisite, not only because of the famous painter’s talent but because of the simple, natural beauty of the woman who sat for him.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it’s a combination of his artistry and the woman’s beauty. Tell me what you see when you look at it.”
Maria gave him a puzzled look but didn’t object to the exercise. He moved closer to her, as if to better hear her lowered voice in the museum’s hushed exhibit room. He liked the way she smelled of soap and baby powder. Simple yet erotic fragrances. He focused on the smooth curve of her throat, so similar to that of the portrait before them.
“Well,” she murmured, “her hair is shining and pale, elaborate braids woven with those strands of baby pearls and satin ribbons. And she wears a choker of gold chains clasped with a cameo at her throat. The blond hair—” She squinted thoughtfully at the graceful coils lifted above the subject’s head. “She must have been considered a rare beauty back then.”
“Yes, Italians are drawn to light complexions, to pale-haired women and children. Back then, before chemical hair dyes, they were probably rare for my part of the world.”
“Her dress is beautiful. A kind of rich brocade, with lace panels.”
“Another sign of her wealth,” he agreed.
“There’s something else.” Her frown deepened, intensified.
“Do you not yet see it?” he asked, moving still closer until his lips nearly brushed the rim of her ear.
Maria’s eyes slowly cleared then widened. “You’re not thinking that there’s a resemblance between her and me!”
“Most definitely, there is,” he said, pleased that she’d finally seen the similarity, although she denied it. He gently lifted heavy strands of hair from her neck and held them in a soft coil above her head. “Look at me, cara.”
She turned self-consciously. “Antonio,” she whispered, “people are watching us.”
“It’s of no matter.” He smiled. “I’m just looking at another Renaissance woman. The room is full of them.”
She laughed, embarrassed, and brushed his hands away. “I’ve been having so much fun today, I forgot that flattering a woman comes easily to you.”
She was wrong.
How long had it been since he’d bothered to even look at a woman with any interest? Not since Anna died had he allowed himself such pleasure. But Maria was more than physically attractive. He had felt very close to her since first seeing her. Only later had he realized why.
The painting.
The de Benci family was linked with his own through marriage. Genevra had wed a distant relation of his southern Italian ancestors. She, so the story went, came from the north, from a family of less wealth than the de Bencis. But her husband loved her deeply and had given her pearls, jewels, and expensive silks for her gowns. She had returned his affection by wearing his gifts every day—around her throat, in her blond tresses, on her fingers and curling round her tiny wrists.
Antonio imagined strings of tiny pearls woven through Maria’s pale hair. He closed his eyes and was nearly overcome by a wave of desire. He snapped his eyes open immediately.
Why now? Why two long years after losing Anna was he allowing a stranger from another country to affect him this way? This was not a woman to have an affair with. This was not a woman to soothe his tormented soul. She was looking for a husband, and he would never marry again.
A cold hand closed around his heart. He set his jaw and moved away from Maria. After a moment, she followed him to stand before a bust of a patrician lady. She was silent, as if thinking thoughts as deep as his.
Neither spoke again while in the museum.
They drove next to the private Corcoran Gallery. Antonio silently led her through rooms displaying rare Greek and Roman antiquities.
She spotted several examples of brilliantly glazed Italian majolica of a more recent era. “They’re gorgeous!” She traced a bunch of rich purple ceramic grapes with one fingertip. “You only have to look at these to be happy,” she bubbled.
He stared at her, amazed. It took so little to make the woman happy? But yes, he could see it in her soft gray eyes—pure gladness, simple joy over an exquisite bowl. He wished life could be that easy for him.
For several minutes he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. The atrium into which he’d stepped went dark around him. He stood gazing out at the gardens without seeing them. The sadness was suddenly overwhelming.
After some time, he became aware of Maria standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her approach.
“Are you all right? Did I say something to upset you?” she asked cautiously.
He couldn’t speak for a moment. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled your day.”
She laughed. “You haven’t spoiled my day at all. Listen, I haven’t had this much fun in as long as I can remember. Ever maybe. You’re great company, Antonio. I just wish I took the time to museum crawl more often. I should. It’s not as if it costs much.”
“I should too,” he said, testing his voice, relieved to find it didn’t break. “I should live again.”
“What?” She frowned at him.
“Never mind, cara. Let’s have lunch. I know just the place. You will love it.”
He took her to Coeur de Lion, a popular city restaurant he hoped to make one of his first American clients. His plan was to introduce Boniface Olive Oils to the U.S. market through fine restaurants.
The Coeur de Lion’s vaulted ceiling with its sunshine-filled skylight brightened his mood. Besides, he was determined to not rain on Maria’s day, a continuation of her birthday celebration.
They
