Page 9 of His Lost-and-Found Bride

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 ov

er 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?’

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