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The tour group had gone on ahead of them, and she had only just noticed that their pace has slowed dramatically. He’d acted like this was done with last night. Like he’d realized what a bad idea it was to encourage all of this…this stuff between them. But he was back in fighting form this morning.
He was deliberately keeping her back from the group. Keeping them both separate.
This really was like watching a nature show. The predator had separated the weaker gazelle from the herd. And after last night, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the weaker gazelle.
“What are we doing?”
“I told you,” he said, his smile turning wicked. “I’m bored. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to have you acting skittish around me, or to have me avoid you. You are my assistant, Gabby, not a bookish princess who all but forced herself into a treasure hunt with a stranger.”
She looked ahead of the group, then looked up at him, at his dark, glittering eyes. There was an air of good humor about him, but there was something else, too. A base note that ran beneath it that spoke of danger, excitement.
She should turn away from it. She should have learned from last night. From letting him get too close.
She didn’t. She hadn’t.
“The painting,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Is not out here in the stables,” he said. “I had hoped that we would tour the house today so we might get an idea of its location.”
“Well, we can do a little bit of exploring on our own.”
“I would like to do it during the day. I’m not sure where our host gets to during the daylight hours. He certainly isn’t parading us about. But once the sun goes down, and the brandy comes out, he does seem to reappear.”
“So, you think we should look for it at night?”
He lifted his shoulder. “It lowers the risk of running into him in the halls if we know he’s socializing. It’s either that or we tell him what we’re after. But I have a feeling the cloak and dagger might be necessary. I told you, I’m willing to pay for the painting, but my fear is that he won’t want to part with it when he understands what it is. That isn’t an option. Money might be no object, but failure is unacceptable.”
She nodded slowly. “Why do you want the painting so badly?”
“Because my grandfather wishes to have it. And I owe him a debt, I told you that already. He wants it—I will see he gets it.”
She studied his expression. She could see that he had no attachment to the painting. He must love his grandfather. That she was certain of. Because Alex was not the kind of man who did anything that he didn’t want to do. Only a few days in his presence and she was certain of that.
“What does it mean to him?” she asked.
“I’m not entirely sure. But there is a story…” He looked away from her, stared off toward the horizon line. “He has always told us this story, from the time we were children. About coming to America with nothing. He had eight objects that were dear to his heart. Objects that he had to sell slowly over the years to save himself from ruin. They were…they were very special to him. He often referred to them as his mistresses. Items that held sway over his heart. I don’t know why. I don’t know if it was because of their value, because of their beauty or because of their connection to another person. Regardless, these eight objects were the most important thing that Giovanni Di Sione possessed.”
“The painting is one of them,” she said.
“Yes. I was the last grandchild he asked. The rest have either been found or are being found by my siblings.”
“But I don’t understand how your grandfather could have come into possession of the painting.”
“There are a great many possibilities. He could have bought it at an art auction of some kind, could have bought it off a merchant. And of course, your family could have bought it back and brought it to this house for safekeeping after the fact. I doubt there’s any kind of serious connection.”
She suspected that he didn’t doubt it at all. She was beginning to suspect that there was some sort of connection between his grandfather and her family. And seeing as Alex wasn’t stupid, she imagined he saw it, too.
“Or,” she said, “he knew my grandmother.”
“I’m certain your grandmother would have sa
id something when she heard my name. At the very least, she might have thrown me out.”
“What would throwing you out accomplish? As you pointed out, you didn’t need either of us to retrieve the painting, not really. You’re right, you could have flashed a little gold at my mother and you would have had all the information you needed.”
“True. But still, I don’t think there is much point in spinning a fantasy out of any of it. I know my grandfather. He is a good man. He raised us after our parents died. And before they died, he was our most stable influence. I’ve always cherished my time with him. He treasures his grandchildren. In a way that our parents never did. We were very lucky to have him. We are lucky to have him still. But I know we won’t have him much longer. And that’s why…”
“You need the painting.” She looked up at the clear blue sky, blinking against the sun as the cool sea breeze ruffled her hair. “You love him very much.”
