Full Moon in Florence (8 page)

His boxers were the last to fall and as they did he saw, and felt, evidence of his last few thoughts. He looked good there, too, he had to admit. At least he thought so. He pushed close to seven inches when erect, and was thick from base to top. He had stamina. Laine had seemed satisfied the last time. Would she be now, he wondered? Would there be a next time? Maybe she hadn’t been affected this time. Unlike Colin, who’d had to restrain himself in the elevator. He’d wanted to lean over and kiss her. Get that first kiss over with so he could get on with the second, the one with which he could slide his tongue against hers, probe deeply to taste her nuances…

He touched himself as he thought of this missed kiss, but then he stopped, feeling stupid for having botched that opportunity, for not knowing how he’d handle the next one, if there was going to be a next one.

Frustrated, his partial erection softened and he climbed into the tub. The warm water enveloped him, calmed his worries, wrapped him in hopeful possibility. He couldn’t just leave without giving it one more try. If things didn’t go well tomorrow, at dinner, he could always leave the next day.

Laine

After showering, Laine flipped open her laptop and typed in the wifi password,
amore vero
. She sighed, feeling let down. And then, listed among several emails from Tina and one from Mark, she saw a message from Colin about dinner. Her spirits lifted. But he’d sent it before their unexpected brief encounter this evening.

Welcome to Florence, Mia Bella. I can’t wait to see you again, to look into your beautiful eyes, to see you smile. Dinner at Giammo’s at 8
.

She wondered if he still felt the same way after tonight. In his message, he offered to pick her up or meet her at the restaurant, not knowing at the time that they were both booked in at the same hotel. How had that happened? Out of all of the hotels in Florence? Some force seemed to be aiding their reunion, and yet why wasn’t it helping to open her heart, to embolden her romantically, to give her the courage, the
guts
to step out of her polite, gentle demeanor and give in to the primal magnetism she felt toward Colin? Because she did feel it. It was in that current of heat between them as they walked. It was trapped inside her longing heart as if by a fence of barbed wire woven of fear. Why couldn’t Fate take care of those details, too?

Her last email from Tina contained the details for her meeting with Lorenzo Montrecetti the following afternoon. Sighing, Laine was reminded that work was her first priority on this trip.

Laine

The Montrecetti palazzo was just off the Piazza Pitti not far from the Boboli Gardens. Laine left herself lots of time to walk, this time with a map, across the Ponte Vecchio over to Oltrarno, the neighbourhood “across the Arno”. She was scheduled to meet Lorenzo Montrecetti, one of two grandsons executing the division of their deceased grandfather, Umberto’s estate. A very small and little known Boticelli wood panel painting was among its treasures. Lorenzo Montrecetti, or rather his assistant, had called the Fine Arts Coalition in San Francisco to see if they’d be interested in acquiring it. Of course, they’d jumped at the rare opportunity.

The grand Montrecetti home was fronted by an exterior loggia. Finding the portico proved a bit difficult. Eventually, Laine came across a very old, ornately carved door with a massive brass lion head knocker. She reached out to lift it and then saw a buzzer button with the name Montrecetti next to it. She pushed the button.

“Bonjourno,” said an intercom voice. Laine gave her name.

“Entrato.”

The large door clicked and she leaned against it, her hand pressing on the large knob in the center of the door, which gave way under her pressure. She stepped into a cool arched walkway. About thirty feet ahead of her, the walkway opened onto a large courtyard. In the center was a massive marble fountain with three fat cherubs floating around what looked like a female angel, sumptuously robed. Laine walked closer to inspect the sculpture. She marvelled at the skill that had crafted stone to look like flowing fabric. The water burbled over the cherub’s hands and fell across the angel’s shoulders into a wide, flower-like basin. The aesthetic of sound and sight was further enhanced by the scent of the surrounding orange trees in blossom. Laine practically swooned from the heady fragrance. She stepped carefully over the wide gaps between the tumbled marble paving stones, as she headed toward the fountain. She laid her hand on the curved edge. It was cool and damp and so smooth. All senses except taste were activated in the span of two minutes since she’d entered the Palazzo Montrecetti, and she’d only reached the courtyard.

“Miss Dixon,” she heard over her shoulder, and over the splash of the fountain.

Laine turned and saw a tall broad-shouldered man with luxurious dark hair and lightly tanned olive skin walking towards her.

“It is an honour to receive you in my family home.”

He held his hands out to her. Laine stood there speechless.

“I am Lorenzo Montrecetti. Welcome.” His large, firm hands gripped hers. His brown eyes searched her face and seemed to examine every feature, which made her feel self-conscious.

She finally found her voice. “Thank you. It’s an honour to be here.”

She looked around and up at the interior double loggia enclosing the courtyard. She did this to avoid Lorenzo’s dark, penetrating gaze, which seemed to be drinking her in one ounce at a time. A bird rustled in a nearby orange tree and then flew down to the fountain’s edge where it began to bathe.

“It’s a stunning home,” she said.

“It’s been in our family for 400 years.”

Laine gaped.

“Of course it had to be abandoned on a few occasions due to war and invasion, but on for the most part the Montrecetti family has been in charge of this property for many, many generations.”

“Such history is difficult for an American to fully comprehend,” said Laine.

“And why would you want to when the New World has such delightful distractions?” He lifted Laine’s hand to his lips and brushed lightly, gentlemanly, as if this was the most natural of welcoming gestures. Maybe in Italy, maybe by a man who could claim his family was 400 years old. Laine couldn’t help but blush. Lorenzo dropped her hand as easily and gracefully as he had lifted it.

“Please, follow me to my office.”

He led her away from the fountain, through the first floor loggia arcades and into the depths of the grand home. Old tiles covered with tapestries lined their walk. Antiques and artwork and even a full suit of armour decorated the large main hall. He pushed open a set of double wooden doors and nodded for her to go head of him. She stepped into a beautiful room lined with bookshelves. A long, ornately carved wooden desk dominated the center of the room.

“Please sit down,” said Lorenzo gesturing to one of two high-backed carved chairs. Laine felt as if she were sitting on a throne. As Lorenzo took his seat behind his desk, Laine noticed he had a modern leather and chrome office chair. He had a new desktop computer, printer and other gadgets, all of which looked out of place in this ancient looking room.

An older man entered carrying a tray with two small cups. The sweet scent of espresso wafted through the room.

“Thank you, Salva,” said Lorenzo to the man. He gestured for Laine to help herself to a cup. She dropped a rough cube of brown sugar into it and stirred. When she sipped the hot, rich liquid, she realized all of her senses had now been initiated.

Lorenzo tossed back his espresso in one smooth gulp. Then he turned a small desktop easel her way. On it was an eight by eight wooden panel. Laine leaned forward, her lips parted in interest and scrutiny. The image was of a young woman in profile in front of a window.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, sighing.

“This perfect little Botticelli is one of my grandfather’s treasures. I was hoping you’d appreciate it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” It was exquisite. Exceptional.

This painting would allow the museum to begin its own small permanent collection of Italian Renaissance art. They had a few other painting in storage by lesser known artists. A Botticelli would be a central sun to those other pieces. Until now, the museum had only hosted temporary Italian art exhibitions. If Laine secured a treasure like this, the museum coalition would get a whole new jolt of energy, as powerful as the espresso now flowing through her veins.

“It’s been authenticated?” she said.

“Of course.” He seemed slightly insulted.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… It’s something I’m required to ask.” She bit her lip. She really didn’t want to mess up this offer.

“All the paperwork is in order,” said Lorenzo, flipping open a file and showing her a form with an official looking seal.

She looked at the painting again.

“Are you really quite sure you want to donate it to us?”

Lorenzo tilted his handsome head. “This is why I asked you to come personally. You see, I wish to honor my grandfather’s wishes. He once had a romantic connection your region of the world. This was before he married my grandmother, of course.”

He lifted an eyebrow in a way that suggested that the part about ‘before he married’ may or may not have been true.

“When I was a teenager, he told me his stories and made me promise to give a suitable gift at his passing. He said this painting reminded him most of the young American woman he loved.” Lorenzo leveled a steady gaze at Laine. “She looks a bit like you, no?”

Laine blushed. “No, not at all. She’s too…. She’s much too lovely to be compared to …”

Lorenzo seemed to enjoy her embarrassment. He steepled his fingers under his strong jaw and let his eyelids fall halfway over his dark brown eyes.

“Allow me to take you out for a drink tonight, Miss Dixon.”

Surprised by the invitation, she lowered her gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mr Montrecetti. I have plans tonight.”

He seemed unfazed. “Another time then?”

She looked up now, a question in her eyes.

“You are wondering if the gift hinges on your acceptance?” He shook his head. “I would never put you in that position. I only wish to tell you more about my grandfather and his story, and I would like to get to know the angel who will carry this treasure to the New World.”

Laine lowered her gaze again. His charm was hard to resist.

“I would love to hear more about your grandfather,” she said graciously.

“
Bene
. I can reach you at the Hotel Fiore?”

She nodded. But how did he know? Had Tina passed on that information to his assistant?

He smiled at her mild confusion. “Florence is not such a big place, and foreigners are… noticed. Especially those connected to the art world.”

Just then a side door to the office burst open. Lorenzo turned in his chair, his smile reshaping into a frown as a young man who looked remarkably like him, except angrier, stormed across the office yelling in Italian. He was gesturing to Laine as well. She had no idea what this was about.

Lorenzo argued with the man for a minute or two and then turned to Laine with an apologetic smile.

“Excuse my brother, Miss Dixon. Antonio and I are not in full agreement about the Botticelli.”

He turned to the young man, his brother, Antonio, and spoke a few more sentences, rather harshly, in Italian.

Antonio made a lunge for the Botticelli panel but Lorenzo blocked him and yelled something aggressive. Laine stiffened in her seat, wondering if she should make for the door, but then Antonio turned on his heel and left in a huff.

Lorenzo sat down and sighed. He stared at the side door, which Antonio had just slammed shut.

“What was that all about?” said Laine.

“He wants to sell the painting.” Lorenzo was shaking his head. “He understands nothing of family loyalty. For months we have been arguing about my grandfather’s estate. Antonio wishes to sell as many assets as we can to the highest bidder.” Lorenzo shook his head and sighed again.

“He doesn’t want you to donate the painting to us?”

“I tell him it is exactly what grandfather wanted and he decides he wants to rewrite our family history. He tells me to sell the painting and donate a portion the money to the museum if that’s what I want, but I tell him that is not the point. For grandfather it’s not about money. It’s about art, it’s about family, it’s about love,”

He shared a meaningful look with Laine. It felt a little too personal for her comfort, but then the depth of that look evaporated with Lorenzo’s next smile.

“Forget my brother. I will sort it out with him. Don’t you worry.”

After witnessing the fight between the brothers, Laine felt confounded by the passions of the Italians. She also realized that acquiring the Botticelli was not yet written in stone. A family feud seemed to be underway. Mark and her team were counting on Laine to come back with this historic centerpiece, and Laine’s success in this endeavor would put her career on a new track. She didn’t want to lose out to a miserly brother. Even though a financial donation would help, it wasn’t the same as owning a small piece of an important artistic legacy. Lorenzo was right. It was about the art, not the money. Nonetheless, it was still a gift. She had no claim. Only an invitation.

“You must do what you think is best, of course.”

She stared longingly at the small, beautiful painting. It did look a little like her, a romantic Renaissance idealized image, mind you. She realized she was already beginning to fall in love with the painting.

Lorenzo stood. “I will show you out. We will speak again after I straighten everything out with my brother.”

He led the way back through the corridors and courtyards and then through the arched tunnel walkway leading to the door Laine had first entered. Before Lorenzo opened the door, he lifted Laine’s hand to his lips again. This time, those soft lips lingered a second longer and Laine was aware of his warm breath and tender touch.

“Until we meet again,” he murmured. He half-bowed and, with a gesture, the heavy wooden door opened.

Outside, the sun bounced off the stone streets and a cacophony of cars and people filled Laine’s ears.