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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?’
