As long as it wasn’t a complete fake and a wasted journey.
But it didn’t sound like a fake—hidden for years behind wood panelling in a now-abandoned private chapel. It sounded like a hidden treasure. And even though she didn’t want to admit it, Logan was so experienced in Italian architecture and art he would have enough background knowledge to spot an obvious fake.
She sent a few final emails and went through to give the secretary she shared with five other members of staff her itinerary for the next few days. It was five o’clock and her flight was early next morning. She needed to pick up a few things and get packed.
She turned and closed her window. Venice. She’d felt secure here these last few years. She’d built a life here on her own. She had a good job and her own fashionable apartment. There was security in looking out her window every day and watching the traffic and tourists on the Grand Canal. The thought of heading to Tuscany to see Logan again was unsettling her. She felt like a teenager.
She picked up her jacket and briefcase, opening her filing cabinets to grab a few books. She had detailed illustrations of just about every fresco ever found. There were a few artists who’d lived in Tuscany who could have painted the fresco. It made sense to take examples of their work for comparison.
She switched on her answering-machine and headed for the door. She needed to be confident. She needed to be professional. Logan would find this situation every bit as awkward as she would.
She was an expert in her field—that’s why she’d been called. And if she could just hold on to the career-defining thought and keep it close, it could get her through the next few days.
Because if that didn’t, she wasn’t sure what would.
LUCIA STEPPED DOWN from the chartered flight with her compact red suitcase in her hand. She’d spent most of the flight going over notes, trying to determine who the likely artist of the fresco would be.
The style was vaguely familiar. But there were a huge number of fresco artists spanning hundreds of years. Often the date of the building helped with the determination of the artist, but it seemed that Palazzo di Comparino had existed, in some state, for hundreds of years. The chapel even longer. There were a number of possibilities.
The airport in Tuscany was private—owned by some local multi-millionaire—so she was practically able to walk down the steps into the waiting car.
She gave a nod to the driver. ‘Grazie, I will be staying at Hotel di Stelle.’
He lifted her case in the trunk of the black car. ‘No, signorina. A room has been prepared for you at Palazzo di Comparino.’
Her stomach clenched. She’d been definite about booking her own accommodation. Working with Logan was one thing, living under the same roof—even for a few days—was too much.
‘No, I insist. I must stay at the hotel. Can you drop my bag there, please?’
He gave a little smile and climbed into the driver’s seat. The Tuscan countryside flew past. The roads in the area were winding, climbing lush green hills, passing hectares of olive groves and vineyards, filling the air with the aroma of Mediterranean vegetation. Tuscany was known for its rolling hills, vineyards and fine wines and olive oil.
It was also unique in its representation of class. Every kind of person stayed in these hills. They passed a huge array of houses and tiny cottages dotted over the countryside. Medieval villages, castles—some ruins, some renovated—and old farmhouses crowning hilltops.
After thirty minutes the car passed an old crumbling wall and turned onto a narrow road lined with cypress trees, then rolled into the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Lucia put down her window for a better view. The village had two bell towers that were ringing out the hour as they arrived. There was also a piazza surrounded by small shops and businesses, cobblestoned walkways going up and down the narrow streets and a fountain where a few children were walking around the small wall surrounding it and splashing water at each other.
There was an old well on one side next to red-brick houses with gorgeous flower boxes and laundry strung overhead.
A few blue and red scooters whizzed past, ridden by young men with their trousers rolled up at their ankles and their hair flapping in the wind. Helmets didn’t seem to be a priority.
She smiled. It was gorgeous. It was quaint. It could be a setting for a film. Every character that was needed was there—the small wizened woman hanging her washing from a window, the young mother hurrying past with her child, a shopkeeper standing in a doorway and a couple of young girls whispering and watching the guys zipping past on their scooters.
The car turned onto another winding road, again lined with cypress trees. It only took a few moments for the palazzo to come into sight.
It was a sprawling, grand building with lots of little scattered buildings around. Lucia twisted in her seat, but it wasn’t until the car pulled up outside the sweeping entrance of the palazzo that she finally saw the building she was after on the other side of the courtyard.
An old traditional chapel. Dark stonework, arched windows and door. It had two stained-glass windows, which had obviously been added at a later date than the original build.
But before she had a chance to focus on the beauty of the building something else took her breath away.
Logan, emerging from the entrance of the chapel. It had been twelve years since she’d seen him and she hadn’t quite expected the jolt that was running through her body.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was still a little too long. Logan had always been stylish, had always dressed as if the clothes had been made personally for him. Today he had on cream suit trousers and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves pushed up. Only Italian men could get away with cream suits. She imagined his cream jacket would have been discarded somewhere inside the chapel.
It wasn’t just that he’d aged well. He’d aged movie star well. He was still lean, but there was a little more muscle to his frame. His shoulders a bit wider, his shape more sculpted. He lifted his head and his footsteps faltered. He’d noticed her at the same time she’d noticed him, but she could bet his body wasn’t doing the same things that hers was.
The car halted and the driver opened her door. There was no retreat. There was nowhere to hide.
She stared down at her Italian pumps for the briefest of seconds, sucking in a breath and trying to still the erratic pitter-patter of her heart. Thank goodness she’d taken off the stilettos. She’d never have survived the cobbled streets of Monte Calanetti.
She accepted the extended hand of the driver and stepped out of the car, pulling down her dress a little and adjusting her suit jacket. The cool interior of the car had kept the heat of Tuscany out well. It was like stepping into a piping-hot bath. This situation was hot enough without the sun’s intense rays to contend with.
Logan walked over. His faltering footsteps had recovered quickly. He reached out his hand towards her. ‘Lucia, welcome.’
For the briefest of seconds she hesitated. This was business. This was business. She tried to appear calm and composed, even though
