Gladly Beyond (34 page)

“That’s a serious shame. The poor Colonel.”

“Yeah.” I pursed my lips and sighed. “It
was
too good to be true. Caro distinctly described the original as being on paper. And, again, in her mind’s eye, the
modello
was done in silverpoint. Not chalk.”

“And Ethan described Caro’s drawing as being on old vellum. But why?”

I pondered it. “I got the impression that the vellum came from her great-uncle.”

“Henry Stuart? The Catholic cardinal?”

“Yeah. I just got a sense that he had given it to her to use for her sketching.”

“Right.” Dante nodded. “As a cardinal in the Vatican, finding old pieces of vellum probably wouldn’t be difficult.”

“Exactly. And even back then, copying a Michelangelo onto antique vellum would have been vintagey-fun.”

We moved back onto the street, holding hands again.

“So now what?” I asked. “We still don’t know how the damage was done to the Colonel’s drawing.”

“Yeah. And despite Caro’s words, I still wonder about the exact origins of the Colonel’s sketch.”

“Do you know where Ethan and Caro were going to meet?” I asked, snuggling my shoulder into his side again. “I saw the place in Caro’s mind, but I didn’t recognize it. Just tall walls overgrown with ivy and lots of trees.”

“I got a sense of a cloister and a tower from Ethan. A large building set on a hill outside of Florence proper. I’m pretty sure it was San Miniato al Monte—”

“The ancient church above Piazzale Michelangelo?”

“Exactly. It’s part of an old monastery complex.”

We skirted around a bunch of milling Indian tourists, summery in their bright saris.

“So, uhm, are we going to go?” I asked.

“Show up there, take some video and see if Ethan makes an appearance?”

“Yeah.”

He stopped, looking down at me. “I’m game if you are. I know the regressions worry you.”

I shrugged. “They do, but nothing bad has happened so far. Apparently, not every regression involves death and mayhem. Besides, I want to hear Ethan say those words that Branwell overheard.”

“You’re so sure that it was Ethan?”

“Who else could it be?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Who knows. There’s no guarantee those words even happened in Ethan’s lifetime.”

“True, but we do know the charred damage occurred around then.”

“Well, regardless, I’m all in.” Dante pulled me closer. “I’m desperate to know where that Michelangelo ended up.”

“And I want to see Ethan and Caro get their happily-ever-after.”

“Speaking of which . . .”

Dante stopped in front of a
gelateria
, dragging me inside.

I stared at glittering row after row of mounded, shiny gelato. Fruit and chocolate and candy on top announcing the flavor if you didn’t understand the Italian written on small tags stuck into each tray.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulled me back against his chest and rested his chin on my shoulder. Like he was helplessly unable to control the impulse to touch me, to have me as close as possible.

I can’t say I disliked it.

We contemplated the wealth of ice cream before us.

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket out of sheer Pavlovian habit.

Whore. How dare you allow that ape to touch you. You will never belong to him. Only me.

I would have dropped my phone if Dante hadn’t wrapped his hand around mine. Staring at the screen over my shoulder. A low hiss streamed from his lips.

“I officially hate this person.” His voice growled in my ear. “Hate that they’re spying on us.”

He instantly let go of me and moved to stand in the
gelateria
doorway, looking out onto the busy pedestrian street. Head moving back and forth, scanning for . . . who? Neither of us knew what this online stalker person looked like.

I walked over to the door and peeked around his arm, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

“Does anyone look familiar?” he asked.

Tourists leisurely walked past. The occasional harried Italian office worker threading through.

Nothing and no one out of the ordinary.

“No.”

“
Uffa
.”

We contemplated the street a little longer.

Still nothing odd.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this, Claire.” Dante turned back to me. Wrapped me up in a hug and pulled me all the way inside the
gelateria
.

“I know,” I whispered, relaxing my head into his remarkably solid chest. “I want them to go away so badly. I’m so tired of being afraid—”

Dante’s arms tightened. “I don’t like the thought of you staying alone in your hotel with someone like this roaming around. I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

I stilled. Was I in real danger?

It was hard to say.

Had my cyber stalker upgraded to a real-life stalker? Though bullying and creepy, this person had never actually physically manifested himself, always careful to walk the line between verbal harassment and tangible threat. Close but never enough to force the authorities to take the texts seriously.

What to do?

I sagged into Dante. Weary. Rubbing a hand over his stomach. Also surprisingly solid. How often did the man work out?

He ran his palm up my spine, soothing me.

“I decided months ago I wasn’t going to allow fear to control my life,” I said. “The best way to thwart a cyber terrorist is to just go about your life.”

“I don’t disagree, but I still worry—”

“Let’s assess this rationally.” I pulled back enough to look at him. “My hotel has twenty-four hour security, and I know the staff. They watch out for me.”

“But you’re not always there.”

“Agreed. The Colonel sends a car when I have to visit the villa and that’s perfectly safe.”

Dante brushed hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Would you agree to allow me to accompany you when you roam the city? I would feel even better if you were staying in my palazzo—”

“With you and Branwell?” My expression surely skeptical.

“No. Nonna would box my ears. But I’m sure you could stay with my mom and Chiara. The palazzo has an excellent security system.”

“I’m sure it does, but I don’t think there’s any need to go to such extremes. I’ll just be a little more careful.”

“Like calling me before going anywhere by yourself?”

I didn’t have to think. I knew the answer to that one. “Yes. If you’re okay with that?”

He snorted. “More than okay,
cara mia
. Like I said, I want to keep you safe.”

I smiled and sagged against him. His chest a firm rock propping me up. I siphoned his strength.

He turned me around, so we could both stare at the gelato case.

“Now, Ms. Raythorn, you have a terrible task before you,” he said. “You must decide on your three favorite flavors. And before you even ask—no, I’m not sharing mine.”

“Not sharing, Mr. D’Angelo?” I twisted my head to look at him, only partially mock-aghast. “I’m not sure I can trust a man who doesn’t share his gelato.”

“You have it backwards. You absolutely should
not
trust a guy who willingly shares his gourmet gelato with you. Such a man is most definitely
furbo
.”

“
Furbo?
”

“Sneaky. Crafty. A man who willingly gives you his gelato either has something wicked planned, or he made a poor flavor selection and is trying to fob it off on you.”

“Mmmm, I’m not sure I agree with that logic. I think part of being in a
trusting
relationship is sharing with each other. I plan on sharing with you.”

His eyes darkened. Contemplative.

“Fine.” Reluctantly. “I’ll share too, but only if I get to feed it to you.”

I pursed my lips at him. “Are you always right?”

“What?” He tried to look innocent.

“Feed me? That was your wicked plan. You better choose knock-out flavors.”

He chuckled and squeezed me hard.

In the end, he won with
tiramisù, cioccolato nero
and
pistacchio
.

I ate every last bite, licking the spoon he held for me.

Twenty-Seven

Claire

H
ow are your
pappardelle
, darlin’?” The Colonel asked me from across the table.

“Delicious.” I pasted on my bright smile. “Thanks again for the invitation.”

I was finally having that long-promised dinner with the Colonel. He had pushed it off for several days, which had been fine by me.

I had been busy completing my detailed comparison between the Colonel’s sketch and known Michelangelo drawings. Upon close inspection, I had found compelling differences in crosshatching and stroke length. Even without the regressions, I was confident I would have realized the Colonel’s sketch was not a bonafide Michelangelo.

Dante and I talked about the Colonel’s project but were careful not to plagiarize from each other (Sandbox Rule). Between our schedules and some seriously rainy weather, we hadn’t had a chance to continue tracking Ethan and Caro.

Which meant we hung out together in our spare time and talked and laughed about non-work related stuff. Among other things, I had learned that Dante adored fem rock (go figure), hated talking politics (Italian
and
American), and secretly enjoyed watching
The Bachelor
with Chiara and Nonna. The man was a study in opposites.

But tonight I was with the Colonel.

We were at some restaurant south of Florence, buried in the Chianti region. It was a high-end, family-run affair nestled into one end of an ancient castle-like villa.

The Colonel and I sat in front of a crackling fireplace under a frescoed ceiling, rain pattering against the dark windows. Italian buildings seemed to be a solid ten degrees cooler inside than out. Which must be heaven during hot summers but not-so-much for the rest of the year. I found myself dressing for the indoor temperatures more than the outside. The fire definitely helped.

The
pappardelle
were delicious, coated in what the waiter called a
salsa rosa
, which I realized was a tomato ragu with a healthy dollop of heavy cream . . . leaving it a definite pink color.

The Colonel dabbed at his mouth. He was in fine form tonight.

Wild white hair tamed as much as it could be. Dressed like he was ready for a swinging 1960s cocktail party. Which, I guess, he probably figured this was something of that sort. His diamond cuff-links sparkled in the firelight. I kept waiting for him to pop a fedora on his head.

He was on his third glass of Chianti red, and we weren’t even through our
primo
. Would he be snoring under the table by the time we hit the
insalata
?

If I didn’t know better, I would almost say he was nervous. But what was there to be nervous about?

“Pierce Whitman met with me today to give his preliminary assessment of the drawing.” The Colonel took another bite of pasta.

My head snapped up. “So soon?”

“He seemed confident enough to not need extra time. Wanted to beat you all to the punch, he said.”

Ah. Now we came to it.

“And?” I had to ask, though I had a strong hunch I knew where Pierce would land.

“He provided me with a thirty-page analysis, showing point-by-point why he firmly believes my sketch to be a genuine sixteenth-century drawing. He’s eighty-percent certain it’s an original Michelangelo
modello
. He wants another week to examine it further before making a more definite call.”

Solemn. Careful. Seemingly meticulous. That was Pierce.

“I see,” I said.

Needing to settle my thinking, I took a reserved sip of my own wine, hating how my lipstick stained the rim of my glass. Why did I have to leave my PH lipstick at home? It didn’t rub off or leave sticky residue on cups. I discreetly rubbed at the mark with my thumb.

“So, at this point, where do you stand, darlin’?” The Colonel sat back, studying me. “I haven’t got a hint of anything from you or those D’Angelo boys. Do
you
think I have the real deal?”

Drat. I had only just begun to build a case for the drawing being done by Caro. I didn’t want to tip too much of my hand.

That said, I knew from experience, clients didn’t like suddenly finding out a prize possession wasn’t what they expected.

Given that Caro was most likely the artist behind the Colonel’s sketch, not Michelangelo himself, I needed to start planting the idea. She deserved no less.

So what to say?

“That’s a good question, Colonel. To be honest, I’m not sure. There are several factors that don’t jive for me—”

“Such as?”

Here we go. “The vellum dates correctly, but it’s a decidedly odd medium for a Renaissance drawing. Most old masters used paper by that point. The lack of silverpoint is puzzling. Michelangelo preferred silver lead for his sketches—”

“What is your gut telling you?”

Gut? Ironic that.

“It could easily be a later copy on old vellum,” I said.

“But my sketch clearly wasn’t copied from Sangallo, from the original cartoon.”