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Lucia glanced towards Logan. It was obvious that she was picking up the same vibes that he was. Louisa’s body language was all over the place. She was saying the right words but her hands were continually knotting in front of her abdomen.
‘Things will be fine. I’ll begin the restoration work on the fresco. It could take a few months. All the costs will be covered by the Italian Heritage Board.’
‘A few months?’ Louisa looked shocked. ‘But what about—?’
Logan stepped forward and took her arm, cutting her off. ‘Are you okay? Don’t worry about Lucia’s work. It won’t interfere with any of the plans here.’ He nodded towards Lucia. ‘We’ll make sure of that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Is this about the headlines? We saw them when we landed at the airport. Is the wedding still going ahead? Is there anything you need to tell us?’
Louisa’s face tightened and she pressed her lips together. ‘Of course the wedding is still going ahead. There’s nothing to tell. Nothing to tell at all.’
It was clear by the tone of her voice that she wasn’t willing to discuss anything.
She waved her hand towards the palazzo. ‘Lucia, you’re welcome to stay here, but...’ she glanced at Lucia’s stuffed suitcase ‘...you might need to make other arrangements while the wedding is taking place.’
Logan turned and stared at Lucia just as she turned and stared at him. Both of them had wide eyes. It was like a cartoon scene. It was something that hadn’t occurred to either of them.
Of course Lucia would need somewhere to stay for the next few months. He’d invited her to stay with him in the farmhouse, but that had been when they’d been at the top of the campanile. It seemed like a million years ago. She’d promised to consider it and they hadn’t discussed it again since.
He knew that he should say something here.
Logan’s arrangement was different from everyone else’s. He was staying in one of the old converted farmhouses on the estate. It was comfortable. It was private. And it was big enough for two people.
There were two reasonable-sized bedrooms. He had hardly set foot in the other one—even though he could have used it as his office. His computer and paperwork were currently spread over the dining-room table. Dining for one didn’t really require the full use of the table.
He caught a glimpse of the expression on Louisa’s face. She was caught in the middle, probably unable to fathom out what their relationship was. She waved her hand. ‘I’ll leave that to you two.’ She walked away into the vineyards.
Lucia was watching her retreating back. ‘Do you think she’s okay?’
He shrugged. ‘She certainly didn’t want to be drawn into any gossip. She could be worried about how this could affect the prospects for the vineyard and the palazzo. I can only assume that the wedding costs are covering all the renovations around here. If they back out now...’ He let his voice drift off. They both knew exactly what that could mean for Louisa.
Lucia gave a little nod and tugged at her case. ‘In that case, I have things I need to do. I’m going back to chart some of the fresco and make an approximate estimate of how long the restoration work will take. I’ll share the timetable with you when it’s finished.’
Logan looked around. There was a mountain of work here for him too. A little gust of wind swept past and carried Lucia’s rose-scented perfume towards him.
He cringed as it automatically evoked memories in his brain. Nights. Days. Passion. Love. And loss.
Avoiding Lucia in Palazzo di Comparino could be harder than he’d thought.
It could be nigh on impossible.
‘See you later,’ he said briskly as her eyes met his.
For the tiniest second he held his breath. There it was again, that connection. It sparked every time he looked into those deep brown eyes and reflected the pain and passion that had affected them both.
He dug his hands in his pockets and turned away.
It was best to break the connection.
Best for them both.
* * *
Lucia couldn’t sleep. The windows in her bedroom were open wide and she could practically hear the music of the Tuscan hills calling to her. Every rustle of the vineyard leaves, every noise from the watering system, the tiny cranking noises of some of the mechanical systems were all being carried in the warm night air.
The bed was comfortable, but even wearing just her new satin nightdress and only having one sheet was proving too much. She couldn’t settle. Every time she closed her eyes for a few seconds her brain started to replay the last few days with Logan.
And it was infuriating. Because it wasn’t one tiny part—it was everything...almost told in parts like a TV series. Her nerves at speaking to him for the first time. That whoosh that had swept over her body when she’d set eyes on him again. The way her skin had prickled just from being near him. Feeling the heat from his body when he was in close proximity to her. The touch of his lips on hers, awakening all the old sensations. Being held in his arms as they’d danced at Piazza San Marco. And the feel of his skin against hers when they’d finally gone to bed together.
Being around Logan seemed to have set all of her five senses on fire. And now they’d been reawakened it seemed they didn’t want to go back to sleep.
She sat up in bed for the twentieth time and slid her feet onto the floor. The tiles of the floor were cool and it took a few seconds to find her flat sandals.
She stood at the window for a moment, wondering if she should go outside. There was not a single person in sight. That wasn’t unusual—it was the middle of the night. She glanced around her room.
There was somewhere she wanted to be. Was it worth getting changed? The chapel was only across the courtyard from the palazzo. Could she just sneak across the way she was?
She grimaced at the stuffed-full suitcase. Packing when your mind was on other things wasn’t exactly ideal. She hadn’t brought a dressing gown. Or her running gear. Or a hairdryer.
She opened her door. It creaked loudly and she held her breath for a few seconds to see if anyone had noticed the noise.
The air in the corridor was still. Her sandals made barely a sound as she crept along and down the stairs. The front door of the palazzo wasn’t even locked.
She slipped outside and her footsteps quickened as she crossed the courtyard, the warm air making her nightdress flutter around her. It didn’t matter, there was nobody to see her. She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t even think about it too much. But she was being drawn to the chapel like a magnet.
Except it wasn’t really the chapel she wanted to see—it was the fresco.
The thick wooden door was heavy and she had to put her shoulder to it to finally push it open.
The slightly colder, stiller air of the chapel swept around her as soon as she stepped inside. Her footsteps stopped as the tiny hairs on her arms stood upright.
It was like walking into a scene from a scary movie. She was being ridiculous. Of course the chapel was slightly colder. The walls were thicker than the palazzo’s and the cooler air had probably helped with the preservation of the fresco.
It was pitch-black. Only a few strands of moonlight were sneaking through the stained-glass windows. Nothing was really visible. She hadn’t thought to bring a candle with her.
She took a few small steps forward, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness around her. Her hand reached out to touch the cold wall. It was odd. This chapel must have hundreds of years’ worth of history, hundreds of years’ worth of stories to tell. Weddings, birth, funerals all held in here.
/> In a way it was nice the royal wedding was being held here. A piece of history was being brought back to life, back to its former glory. If they hadn’t proposed to use this site, Burano’s fresco might never have been discovered.
‘Yaow!’ She stubbed her foot on something—some kind of carpenter’s toolbox—and bent to rub her bare toe. Her hand touched something on the floor. She fumbled for a second. A flashlight. Perfect. She flicked the switch and a thin beam of light cut through the darkness.
Now she could move more easily. She spun the torch around towards the fresco wall, the light hitting squarely on the Madonna’s face. Lucia sucked in a breath. Her feet moved forward automatically. An invisible hand had reached into her chest and was squeezing at her heart.
This was it. This was what she’d needed to see. She moved the light a little downwards onto the face of baby Jesus, then back towards Mary. She drew up directly to the fresco, her hand shaking a little as Mary’s face was illuminated in all its glory.
Every hint of colour, every hair on her head, every tiny line of her face—it was the expression that had been captured so beautifully. The expression that made her knees tremble.
She’d never seen it captured quite so perfectly. Even though it was paint that was centuries old she felt as if she could reach out and touch Mary. Stroke her cheek, feel the warmth of her skin, see the wonder in her eyes.
This was what she’d remembered. It was the thing that she’d pushed to the back of her head when she’d first seen the fresco. Now it was drawing her back.
Now she couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t ignore it.
This had all been in Burano’s imagination. It felt as if he’d stepped back in time and caught that moment when a mother first looked at her child and was overcome by that huge wave of emotions and undeniable love. Baby Jesus was looking back at his mother with childlike wonder and awe. The look of love that only a child could give his mother—making the bond complete. The light behind the depiction of the Madonna and Child was almost ethereal. The glow around them was all-encompassing. All-consuming.
