With Love From Florence

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. Too many memories were starting to flood back. This was the problem with seeing Logan after all this time. All the things she’d literally pushed to the back corners of her mind were starting to poke their way through again.

But it wasn’t just unhappy memories that were crowding her thoughts. Logan had other little places in her mind. Just sitting here with him now made a little warm glow spread throughout her body. His eyes, his accent, the way he ran his fingers through his hair when he was searching for the right words. Beautiful, sunny days in Florence, long afternoons drinking endless cups of coffee and dusky evenings with wine leading to long nights together.

Passionate. Intense. The two words that sprang to mind to describe their relationship. The third word was tragic. But she didn’t even want to go there.

She was still toying with her food, wondering if either one of them would bring up the elephant in the room.

But Logan wasn’t ready to go there yet. ‘What do you think of Louisa?’

She put down her knife and fork. It was a curious question. The Logan she used to know would size someone up in a matter of minutes. The fact he was asking about Louisa meant he obviously wasn’t quite sure.

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to her yet. She’s American, isn’t she? How did she manage to own a vineyard in Tuscany?’

‘From what I know, she inherited it. She’s the last living relative of Signor Bartolini. It seems she might have inherited some time ago but has never visited before. As far as I can make out, Nico—who owns the neighbouring vineyard and who was a friend of Signor Bartolini—has kept it semi-functioning for the last few months. But I’m not entirely sure that Nico and Louisa have hit it off.’

She nodded thoughtfully. She hadn’t met Nico yet but had heard him yelling instructions to some of the vineyard workers. He was obviously intent on keeping the vineyard working.

Logan took a sip of his wine. ‘How do you find Venice?’

‘It took a little getting used to. Florence was always busy, but Venice is off the scale. Cruise liners come in every day and the Piazza San Marco is so busy you can barely move.’

He gave a little nod. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘I was lucky. I managed to get an older apartment—much like you—on the Grand Canal. My building and street are off the main thoroughfare, but any time of the day or night I can open my doors and look out over the canal. There’s never a quiet moment out there.’

‘Do you live alone?’ She sucked in a breath but couldn’t help the amused smile that appeared on her face. It seemed that Logan didn’t mind being direct. She’d skirted around the issue but he had no intention of doing that.

A tiny little part of her wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him she had a billionaire husband and three perfect children at home. But she had never been a person to tell lies. Her secret hopes and desires for her own life were just that—secret.

‘Yes. It’s just me. I lived with someone for a while but things didn’t work out. I was consumed with work and didn’t really have time for a relationship. It turned out he really didn’t want a career woman for a wife anyway.’

She said the words flippantly, not giving away how much it had hurt at the time. But time, in some cases, gave a chance for reflection. That relationship would have always come to an end.

Logan’s eyebrows had risen as she’d been speaking. Wasn’t she supposed to move on?

But it seemed he’d opened the door now and given her a right to ask whatever she wanted. ‘Why haven’t you got married and settled down?’ she asked.

The waiter appeared, clearing one set of plates and setting down their main course—Tuscan veal chops with Parmesan tuilles. The smell drifted up around her. She picked up her fork and sighed. ‘This is the kind of thing I wish I had the time and talent to make.’

‘Your cooking talents haven’t improved with age?’ He laughed. Lucia’s cooking attempts had been a constant source of amusement for them. She’d once declared she could burn water—and she probably could.

The initial preparation and cooking attempts hadn’t been a problem. Distraction had been the problem. Something else had always managed to crop up while she was supposed to be watching a timer or stirring a pot.

‘How have you survived without someone to feed you?’

She gave a resigned nod of her head as she tasted some of the succulent veal. ‘I eat out. A lot. The kitchen and I will never be friends.’

He laughed. ‘I should get Nonna to package up some food for you.’

She waved her fork at him. ‘Nonna should package up food for the world. She could make a fortune if she released a recipe book, or sold them to a food manufacturer.’

Logan’s eyes connected with hers. ‘You really expect Nonna to reveal her secret family recipes to an unsuspecting world?’ He was teasing. She could tell. This was the way it used to be with them. Constant joking back and forth.

She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying you have an untapped family fortune out there. That could be your nest egg, you know.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’d live to tell the tale.’

‘Probably not.’ She took a sip of her wine. This wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. Logan wasn’t being difficult, he was his usual charming self. She’d just forgotten how hypnotic those green eyes could be. Every time his gaze connected with hers she had to blink to remind herself to breathe.

Logan had always been charming. His family had joked he could charm the birds from the trees and the gods out of Olympus. And she’d loved it. She’d loved the way he could make her feel like the most important woman on the planet. Because even though Logan had been a charmer, he’d also been a one-woman man. He’d never shown a glimmer of interest in anyone else when he’d been with her. She’d felt assured in his love.

It had been a long time since she’d felt so cherished.

A little warm wave rushed over her skin as she smiled at him and took another sip of her wine. She was relaxing more as the night went on, remembering the good times instead of the bad.

Logan didn’t deserve the negative associations that she’d built up in her brain. He deserved much more than that.

But if that was how she remembered him, how did he remember her?

This was more like the Lucia he’d once known. It was the first time he’d seen a genuine smile since she’d got here. When she’d walked outside to meet him earlier his heart rate had rocketed. With her perfect hourglass figure, the white flared skirt, fitted red shirt and silk scarf knotted around her neck she’d looked like a nineteen-fifties movie star. As for those killer red stilettos...

With her tumbling locks and red lips her picture could have adorned a thousand walls. His fingers couldn’t decide whether they wanted to unknot the scarf around her neck and pull it free, or run down the smooth skin on her tanned legs towards those heels.

Lucia. It was odd. She tried to act so independent, so aloof, but there was an inherent vulnerability about her that made him lose focus on everything else. He felt strangely protective and proud of her. The last time he’d seen her she’d been a shell of her former self. Losing their child had devastated them both.

Although the pregnancy hadn’t been planned they’d both been delighted when they’d found out a baby was on the way. They’d spent hours talking about their future together and making preparations for their baby. At one point it had seemed that the whole apartment had been full of brochures for cribs, cabinets, prams and high chairs.

The twenty-week scan had revealed a perfect daughter waiting to be introduced to the world.

No one could explain the unexpected premature labour.

No one could explain why Ariella Rose hadn’t managed to take those first few vital breaths.

Of course, the doctor had tried to say that her lungs hadn’t been developed enough and there had been no time to give Lucia steroids to help Ariella’s lungs mature.

It had been that terrible time when doctors tried to decide if a baby’s life was viable or not.

Some babies did breathe at twenty-three weeks.

Ariella Rose hadn’t.

The beautiful, vivacious woman he’d known had disintegrated before his eyes, their relationship crumbling around him. He’d spent months desperate to get her to talk to him. But Lucia had put up walls so thick nothing had penetrated.

Every time he’d tried to draw her out of her shell she’d become more and more silent and withdrawn. He’d pulled back too, focusing on his work, because right then that had been all he’d had. But Lucia had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand from the beach.

He’d been grieving too, watching the days tick by on the calendar, waiting for the day they would have welcomed their daughter into the world.

That had been the day Lucia had packed her cases and left.

No amount of pleading had dissuaded her. Florence had had too many bad memories for her—too many painful associations. She’d accepted a job in Venice. She’d wanted to leave, and she hadn’t wanted him to follow.

Now his insides twisted. He’d always regretted that he hadn’t fought harder. Hadn’t found the words to persuade her to stay.

It was almost a relief to see her now. There was a stillness about her—something reserved that hadn’t been there before they’d lost their daughter. He could still see a remnant of sadness in her eyes.

But this Lucia was different. She had a different kind of confidence around her. She was a little more self-assured. She’d been through the worst and come out the other side. There was a real resilience there that bubbled underneath the surface.

Her clothes and demeanour were back to the woman he remembered. She’d always worn her stilettos with pride, as if to take someone to task for her diminutive height. And her hair was every bit as tempting as it had always been. It had always felt like silk and smelled of roses. Even now, there was a faint floral aroma drifting across the table towards him, curling its way around him and kicking his senses into gear.

The waiter appeared to clear their plates. ‘Dessert?’

‘No, thank you.’ They both answered in unison and Lucia threw her head back and laughed.

Now his fingers were definitely itching to reach across and tug that scarf from her neck and reveal the paler sensitive skin around her décolletage.

It was her tender spot. The area that when kissed sent her into a spin. It had always been guaranteed to make her go weak at the knees.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Parts of his body were awakening that shouldn’t—not in a public restaurant. ‘Do you want to have coffee?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m tired. I still need to do some work online.’

Work. Of course. The reason they were here. He’d barely even discussed the project with her. He was normally so pedantic about every detail of his build. It seemed that even being around Lucia for a few hours was making him lose focus.

He should be worrying about delays. He should be panicking that his business could be affected by the non-completion clause in his contract.

If things weren’t ready on time for the royal wedding he might have to face the wrath of the wedding planner, Lindsay Reeves. She was already phoning him twice a day for updates and photos of the chapel.

He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts. ‘Can we continue our work in the chapel?’

This was useless. Now he was looking at those deep brown eyes. Lucia’s eyes had always been able to draw him in completely. In twelve years they hadn’t lost their magic.

People said that eyes were the window to the soul. Lucia’s brown eyes were very dark, very deep and flecked with gold. He could get lost in them completely. Always had.

She blinked. ‘In truth, probably not. Give me another day. I have a few ideas. If I needed to go elsewhere to verify who painted it, would you have someone who could ensure the safety of the fresco?’

He straightened in his chair. ‘Why would that be needed? It’s been safe for the last five hundred years beneath the panels in the chapel?’

She gave an apologetic smile. ‘But now it’s been discovered. Now it’s open to the elements. And now we have a whole host of tradesmen who know that it exists.’ She shrugged. ‘What if people have thoughts like you first did? What if they think that there is a tiny possibility this could be a Michelangelo work? What if someone tells the press?’

She held out her hands. ‘In the space of a few hours this whole village could be swamped by a whole host of people—not all of them with good intentions.’ She spoke with complete sincerity. He’d always respected Lucia’s ambition, but he was now seeing a true glimpse of her professional expertise.

He nodded slowly. ‘Of course. Louisa has already expressed some concerns about publicity. She’s worried enough about the royal wedding without having to deal with something else.’ It was easy to know who to discuss this with. ‘Connor Benson is the head of security for the royal party. He’ll know exactly how to keep things safe and protect the fresco in the meantime.’

She gave him an amused smile. ‘Isn’t he more at home looking after real-life people than artefacts?’

Logan lifted his hands. ‘He has the skill and expertise we need. What’s more important is that I trust him. If he says he can keep the fresco safe, then I believe him.’

He signalled to the waiter for the bill. Lucia had told him she still had work to do. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in a hurry for this evening to end. He had to respect the job she was here to do.

It only took a few minutes to pay the bill and head back out to the car. The sun was setting behind the deep green Tuscan hills, sending shards of orange and red across the sky.

Lucia took a deep breath as they stepped outside. ‘How beautiful.’ She spun around in her heels, her skirt swishing around her, a relaxed smile on her face.

He caught her arm as she spun, feeling her smooth skin against his palm. ‘You’ve never experienced a Tuscan sunset. It really is something, isn’t it?’

The evening was still warm and pleasant. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk before we head back to the palazzo?’ The words were out before he thought about it and he could sense her immediate reluctance.

But what struck him straight away was the way his stomach curled. He hated seeing Lucia like this, prickly and difficult around him. Towards the end of their relationship she’d been so flat. Almost emotionless, as if everything had just been drained from her. It had just been another stage of grieving—he appreciated that now.

But at the beginning she’d been bright, bubbly and vivacious. He didn’t know this prickly and difficult version. More importantly, he didn’t know how to act around her.

He waved his hand. ‘Of course, if you want to head straight back, that’s fine. I just thought you might want to have a chance to see around Monte Calanetti a little.’

It was official.

She was caught between a rock and a hard place.

Strange as it seemed, getting a sense of the village might actually help her identify who the artist of the fresco might be. Often, if someone had stayed in an area there might be historical stories or some folklore about them. Sometimes getting a sense of a place, seeing other work done in the area could actually help. And, in some respects, Logan’s brain worked exactly the same way that hers did.

She sucked in a breath, holding it for a few seconds, her eyes fixing on her red stilettos. They’d seemed like a good idea at the time. But she’d seen the streets of Monte Calanetti. Cobbles. Everywhere. She’d probably land on her back.

She bit her lip. Logan’s gaze was fixed on the sunset, his face basking in the orange glow. Her reserve softened. With his dark hair, tanned skin and dark suit jacket he was definite movie-star material. Age suited him. The little lines around his eyes gave him even more charisma, and Logan had oozed it already.

‘Okay, then.’ Where had that come from?

She was almost as amazed at her words as Logan was, judging by the expression on his face. He recovered quickly. ‘Great, let’s go.’

He drove the car into the town centre and parked outside a bar. He walked swiftly around and opened the door, holding his hand out to her as he had before.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think about the contact. She was making too much of this. It was probably just all in her head anyway.

Wrong move. She could almost see the spike of electricity.

One of her heels automatically slipped in a gap in the cobbles and he caught her elbow, sliding one arm behind her waist. She pretended it was nothing. Nothing—to feel his body right next to hers.

Her throat was so dry she couldn’t even swallow. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was in self-protect mode.

She could smell him. Smell his woodsy aftershave, his masculine scent winding its way around her body. So familiar. So scintillating.

He slammed the car door, keeping one hand around her waist. ‘Don’t want you to stumble,’ he said throatily.

It was an excuse. She knew it was an excuse to keep her close. But she didn’t feel in a position to protest. The likelihood of her landing on her backside had just increased tenfold. The cobbles weren’t the only thing affecting her balance around here.

He steered her towards the centre of the square, near a fountain and old brick well.

Now Lucia really had a chance to see the beauty of the square, the most quirky thing being that it wasn’t exactly a square. The fountain was similar to lots found in small Italian villages. Built with travertine stone, it was circular with a sleeping nymph at its centre. The old well was solid with mismatched stones. Like most of Italy’s traditional village wells some modernisation had taken place and water from the well could be accessed via a pipe at the side. Logan pressed the button and reached over for her hand. She didn’t have time to pull it back before cool, clear water poured over their fingers.

He lifted his hand, letting the drops fall into his mouth. Her legs quivered. She put her fingers to her lips and tasted the cold water. It was surprisingly fresh. She smiled as a drop trickled down her chin.

Logan moved instantly and caught the drop with his finger. She froze. Before it had just been touching hands, arms. Even holding her close, she was still completely clothed.

But touching her face was different. Touching her face was a complete and utter blast from the past. Logan had always touched her face—just before he kissed her.

It had been their thing. She’d used to close her eyes and he’d trace his finger over her skin like butterfly kisses. It had always driven her crazy.

And even though she willed it not to happen, as soon as he touched her chin her body reacted. She closed her eyes.

This was something she wasn’t prepared for. This was something she’d never be prepared for. She sucked in a sharp breath and forced her eyes back open.

Their gazes meshed. So focused, so intense it made her want to cry.

Logan’s deep green eyes were so clear, so solid. He was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever needed. The person she’d love for ever. The person she’d never forget.

Something flashed across his vision. Panic. Something she’d never seen before in Logan’s eyes. He was the calmest, most controlled man she’d ever known.

He pulled his finger back and stared at it for a second, as if he were being hit with the same overload of memories she was.

She wobbled, adjusting her weight in her stilettos. Logan blinked and lifted his hands onto her shoulders, walking her back a few steps to the edge of the fountain. She sagged down, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the pitter-patter in her chest.

She adjusted her position at the edge of the fountain and her eyes fixed on the nymph in the centre of the cascading water. It was exquisite. Serene and beautiful, holding a large clamshell above her head.

Logan stepped in front of her. She was so conscious of him, of his strong muscular thighs barely hidden inside the dark suit trousers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to touch her again.

Her brain tried to clear a little. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t the young woman she’d been the last time she’d been around Logan. She’d lived and aged twelve years. Sometimes inside it felt like she’d aged another forty.

She tried to focus her attention on something else. Something safe. The sculpture of the nymph.

Most nymphs were naked. This nymph wasn’t. It was clothed. In a cloak. A cloak with characteristic folds.

She straightened up.

‘What is it?’ Logan crouched down next to her.

She pointed to the nymph. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

He touched the wall of the fountain where she was sitting. ‘About the fountain?’

She shook her head. ‘No. About the nymph. Do you know who sculpted it? Is there any village history that would tell us?’

His eyes were fixed on hers. ‘I know the legend attached to the fountain.’

Her heart started to beat faster. ‘What’s the legend?’ She was watching the fine billowing mist that seemed to glow in the lowering sun. Of course. Every village fountain in Italy would have a legend.

He gave her a wistful kind of smile. ‘They say that if you toss a coin and it lands in the clamshell you get your wish.’

Her stomach clenched. It wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted to hear. But it reached into her and grabbed a tiny part of her soul. Oh, she had a whole host of things she could wish for. But most of them were in the past. And nothing would change that now.

Wishful thinking. That’s all that could happen around this fountain. And a fanciful legend didn’t help her identify the sculptor. ‘Do you know anything else? Anything more realistic?’

He looked as if he’d been stung. He frowned. ‘I have no idea. Is it important?’

She stood up and spun around to face it. ‘It could be. See the folds of the cloak?’

He leaned forward. ‘Yes...’ His voice was hesitant.

She touched his arm. ‘Does it look familiar to you?’

His face broke into a smile, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he held up his hands. ‘Is yes the right answer?’ It was clear he had no idea.

But something had sparked a fire within her. ‘I think it might. Most Renaissance artists didn’t just paint—they also sculpted. It could be the nymph was sculpted by the same person who painted the fresco. The folds of the cloak are quite characteristic. If I can compare the fresco and the nymph to the works of art that are held in Venice, it could help identify the artist.’

He started to nod his head in recognition. ‘You still think its Alberto Burano?’

She smiled. ‘It could be.’

This was work. Work she could do. Talking about work made her feel confident again. Made her feel safe.

‘So what happens now? How long will it take you to find out?’

She paused. Of course. ‘These things can take weeks—sometimes months. The Italian Heritage Board is cautious. We have to be careful before we make any kind of declaration about the potential artist of any fresco. It can always be challenged by others.’

Logan shook his head. ‘But what happens in the meantime? Can the wedding still go ahead in the chapel? Louisa is absolutely adamant that things must go to plan. I suspect she’s counting on the money from the royal wedding to help her complete the renovations on the palazzo. If we can’t progress...’ His voice tailed off.

There were deep furrows in his brow. He put his hands on his hips and stared out across the village. It was obvious that something else was bothering him.