Gladly Beyond (27 page)

“Your grandmother was a good friend—”

“Adelaide?”

“Mmm, yes. We met in Boston when we were both young and foolish. She was an incredible woman, and I love seeing so much of her in you.”

I stared at him, really not sure where this conversation was going.

“My point”—another hand pat—“is that you should consider me a friend too. I have your best interests at heart. If you find yourself in need of anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call on me.” One more pat
and
a finger wag. “Got it?”

I nodded. “Uhm, yes. Got it.”

“That’s a good girl.”

I managed a weak smile.

He gave my hand one last pat for good measure before releasing it. He stood and, with a wave, walked out the door.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stared sightlessly into the dining room.

Did I take the Colonel at face value and assume he had grandfatherly feelings toward me based on his past . . . whatever with Grammy? Or was more going on here?

Mostly I hated that life had taught me to question the motives of a seemingly kind and, perhaps, lonely old man who was just trying to make a wise hiring decision.

Though . . .

How
did the Colonel find out I had dinner with Dante? Was he tracking us? Spying?

But it wasn’t like Dante and I had been particularly circumspect. The hotel staff could have casually mentioned it when Natalia called to settle my bill (or something) and then she mentioned it to the Colonel.

But, if so, why bring it up under the guise of ‘just making sure the boys are behaving’? Like it was his job to protect me?

Worse, was my friendship with Dante putting my chance of getting this job in jeopardy? Would the Colonel be having a similar conversation with Dante?

Or was this territorial behavior reserved for just me?

Ugh.

And thinking of Dante . . .

And what to do about the regressions?

They came with risks. Being seen with Dante. More emotional confusion. The possibility of witnessing something tragic.

But—

I needed this job. Which meant I needed to know the true history of the Colonel’s sketch. One more regression could give me that information.

What to do?

The answer was obvious.

I sighed and pulled out my phone.

Okay, I’ll meet you at the Duomo.

Awesome. Could you come right before lunch? In about two hours?

Yeah. I’ll be there.

My heart sped up, but I had a hard time labeling the emotion. Was I excited to see Dante? Or just nervous about the regression? Both?

I tried to concentrate on the mass spec results, but it was a lost cause. My mind was too full of
Dante
and
Duomo
and
what will happen?
I gathered my things together.

“Claire! There you are!”

An all too familiar voice accosted me as I headed out the front door.

Figured. Pierce was never too far away. He had probably rushed over the second he heard the mass spec results were in.

I briefly considered stomping out the
portone
. But Pierce would hound me until he got his way.

“Pierce.”

His glasses were a little askew and his tie loose. Not sure if that meant he was frazzled or if he had formed a cozier relationship with Natalia.

Either way, I was out.

“How are things?” He gave me his hang-dog brown eyes. “I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

“I
am
avoiding you. What do you want, Pierce?”

“Nothing much. How’s the project going?”

“Fine.”

“I miss you like crazy. I want you to come back and work—”

“Never going to happen.”

“Hey, no need to get all defensive—”

“I’m not defensive. I’m standing here having a calm conversation. I’m assuming you stopped me for a more rational reason—”

“Fine.” He rolled his shoulders, obviously agitated. “I hear you’re hanging out with the D’Angelos nowadays. Well, specifically Dante . . .”

A chill crept down my spine.

Silence.

“How do you know that, Pierce?” My eyes narrowed.

“A little birdy told me.” He shrugged, like it was casual knowledge. But his body language was a little too smug.

“Not buying that. Have you been following me? Did you tell the Colonel?”

“Whoa.” He held out two hands. “No need to attack the messenger. And for the record, maybe the Colonel told
me
. Ever consider that?”

Lovely. “Your point?”

“I just want to make sure you’re careful around D’Angelo. I’ve heard stories—”

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Did he
listen
to the words coming out of his mouth?

“What stories, Pierce? And don’t think I missed the irony of you warning me about
other
men treating me poorly—”

“Why are you always so down on me?” His voice heated. “I said I was sorry. Heather meant nothing to me—”

Like
that
was supposed to make me feel better. Why had I never seen how wacko he was?

“I’m not having this conversation again. Goodbye, Pierce.”

I turned and pulled the
portone
open. Thank goodness the Colonel had a car and driver waiting for me.

But Pierce wasn’t done.

“I know all about D’Angelo. Stuff’s weird with him.” Pierce nipped at my heels as I took the front stairs down to the car. The driver opened the back door for me.

“Let me guess,” Pierce continued. “You and D’Angelo hope to convince the Colonel that what he has is fake, don’t you? Then you two can buy it and make a killing on the black market. Disappear a Michelangelo into some sheik’s private collection, never to be seen again.”

I reached the car. Pierce grabbed my arm before I could get in.

“Don’t trust him, Claire. Not D’Angelo—”

I wrenched my arm out of his hold and stepped into the back seat. I refused to look at Pierce as the car pulled away, though I could see him shaking his head.

My entire body vibrated. Anger seemed too tame a word to describe my emotions. It was this volatile cocktail of outrage and fury and hurt.

I had the driver drop me in Piazza Santa Croce. I needed to cool off before meeting Dante. Take the edge off my anxiety.

I stood in the large piazza, sucking in deep breaths of city air, determined to re-center myself. Let my boyfriend, Firenze, charm me out of my mood.

The Cathedral of Santa Croce stood regal at the far end of the enormous square. (Medieval Gothic construction. Victorian facade.) It is to the Duomo what Westminster Abbey is to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. The former cathedral being the flashy showpiece. The latter housing the dead and most of the history of the city.

Pretty much everyone who was anyone in Florence was buried in Santa Croce. Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli . . . even Alfieri and Louise, the Countess of Albany herself. You literally walked on the shoulders of giants visiting the place.

Very few people were buried in the Duomo. Which made the whole John Hawkwood memorial thing more notable.

I spent a few minutes browsing the kitchy tourist vendor booths crowding the edges of the piazza, sifting through my thorny thoughts. I was pretending interest in a Duomo snow globe, when I got that prickly sensation of being watched.

Not again.

Rolling my eyes, I spun in a slow circle, studying the large piazza, hating the way my heart sped up.

Was someone watching me?

I thought through the possibilities.

Was Pierce following me?

That seemed unlikely, as I had just left him at the Colonel’s villa.

Had the Colonel hired someone to spy on me?

That was a viable scenario, but again, why? To catch me breaking his Sandbox Rule? Again, I couldn’t logically think of a reason
why
the Colonel would do that.

Was my online harasser stalking me in real life?

Possible. But though ugly, the texts in no way indicated my online harasser knew where I was.

Soooo . . . what?

Was it all just in my head? A phantom sense created by my anxiety?

I couldn’t say.

I carefully searched my surroundings. That bristly tingle along my spine wouldn’t go away.

Wait? Had I seen that man sitting on the cathedral steps before? Was
he
the one following me?

I studied him for a second. Dark hair. Nondescript coat. I couldn’t tell—

The man suddenly stood, head angled in my direction. I took an involuntary step backward, breath hitching.

The man smiled. I
finally
noticed the woman walking up to him.

I stared as he kissed her and tucked an arm around her waist, strolling away from me.

I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes.

I needed to get a grip.

Stop. Enough.

I swallowed and determined to ignore my flight-or-fight response.

To that end, I moved to another street booth and contemplated buying a statue of
David
apron—for no other reason than to make the wearer look like a chiseled, naked man. I chatted with the booth owner (Ottavio. Not married. Shameless flirt.) and gradually the sense of being watched receded.

Progress.

Slowly, I threaded my way through the narrow streets to the Piazza del Duomo. I was a little early, but I didn’t mind waiting for Dante.

I stood in the tourist line and passed through the guards inspecting bags. The interior of the Duomo soared ahead and above me. Most cathedrals are cool and somewhat damp on the interior . . . the lingering mustiness of history, I suppose.

But Santa Maria del Fiore—the Duomo’s formal name—bucks that trend. It’s cooler, yes, but the white-washed walls and contrasting, unpainted greenish-gray stone accents give the entire building a fresh, alive feeling.

I wandered up the left side aisle toward the monument to John Hawkwood.

And there he was.

Dante.

Leaning against one of the central stone pillars, one foot propped up. Jeans and a white button-down, untucked, cuffed to his elbows and open at the throat. He was studying his phone, dark hair flopping onto his forehead, perma-scruff neatly man-scaped.

My heart did this crazy triple-skip thing and my feet wanted to runrunrun to him.

Stupid, stupid emotions. Always getting me in trouble.

Not this time. I was street-wise. Not going to happen.

Besides . . .

Twice now I had stumbled into a regression. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure I wanted to do this again. I dreaded absorbing more of Caro’s affection for Ethan. I found the entire situation . . . terrifying.

Just because my soul had loved Dante’s soul in a past life, it didn’t automatically follow that I had to fall for him in this life too, right? It was already bad enough that emotional-me in the here and now felt pulled toward him. Add in Caro’s emotions from the past . . .

So yeah . . . I was just trying to avoid another spectacular soul-crushing guy-tastrophe.

But . . .

For one tiny moment, I allowed my heart to . . . hope. To want.

To see the situation the way my naive self of several years ago would have.

He hadn’t noticed me, head bent over his phone. It was touching he was here early, ready and waiting. Like this mattered to him. Like
I
mattered.

It would be so easy to fall for him. Give in. Let go.

Que sera, sera
. . . isn’t that how the song went? What will be, will be?

The mere thought of giving in to my emotions for Dante . . .

My hands started to sweat. My lungs constricted, sucking all the air out of the building.

Of course, he chose that moment to lift his head and see me.

Oh!

That first jolt of eye contact. The way his entire face lit.

Like sunrise. Revelation.

He pushed off the pillar, pocketing his phone, muscles flexing and moving under his shirt. Dark eyes locked with mine.

I was in such trouble. Even without any further goosing from Caro.

He walked up to me. I tensed. Waiting for the tell-tale swirling of a regression.

But he came nearer. And nearer.

He stopped his usual two feet too close. I craned my neck up to meet his eyes.

Nothing happened.

“You okay?” He cocked his head. “You look like you’re about to visit the dentist for a root canal . . . I promise I’m not that bad.”

I laughed.
Relax. You can do this.

“Sorry. I guess I expected a regression to happen.”

He shoved his hands into his jeans. Leaned even closer. Involuntarily, my head moved an equal amount away.

“Yeah. Who knows if Ethan and Caro met here in the end. And even if they did, it may not have been significant.”

Now what?

“Did the Colonel send you the mass spec results?” I asked.

“He did.” Dante’s face brightened. “I was just looking at them on my phone.”

We talked for a few minutes about the results. His conclusions were the same as mine.

Dante unconsciously crowded closer as we chatted. I half-heartedly backed up.

It was this fun game we played.

I told him the Colonel knew about our extra-curricular activities.

“So did the Colonel say anything to you about our dinner together the other night?” I asked.

“Yeah. He called earlier and we chatted.” Dante scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But it felt less like a warning about violating the Sandbox Rule and more of a friendly hurt-her-and-I’ll-hurt-you kinda thing.”

A pause.

“That’s weird,” I finally said.

“It was weird.”

My shoulders sagged. I’m pretty sure I sighed.

Dante bumped my shoulder with his. Yeah. He was totally in my bubble.

“If it makes you feel any better, the Colonel came off as more parental-protective than alpha-territorial,” he said.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

“I told him we were meeting here today,” Dante continued.

“You did? Why?” My eyes grew three sizes.

“Preemptive strike, I suppose. If we’re up front and honest, then it’s harder for the Colonel to later accuse us of rule breaking.”