His Lost-And-Found Bride. Scarlet Wilson
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Lucia had been a shock to the system. His first glance had been at her left hand but there had been no wedding ring, no glittering diamond of promise. He was surprised. He’d always imagined that after twelve years Lucia would have been married with children. The fact she wasn’t bothered him—in more ways than one.
She’d been hurt, she’d been wounded when they’d split. Even though it had been by mutual agreement. But he’d always hoped she’d healed and moved on. When he’d heard she was working for the Italian Heritage Board he’d assumed she’d pulled things together and was focusing on her career. Now he was suspicious she’d only focused on her career.
Lucia had aged beautifully. She was still petite and elegant. Her pale pink suit jacket and matching dress hugged her curves, leaving a view of her shapely calves.
And she’d kept her long hair. It was maybe only a few inches shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her. He liked it that way. Had liked it when her hair had brushed against his face—liked it even more when her long eyelashes had tickled his cheek as she’d moved closer.
It was odd. Even though there were lots of parts of his body that could have responded to the first sight of her, it had been his lips that had reacted first. One sight of her had been enough to remember the feel of her soft lips against his, remember the taste of her. And as she’d stepped closer he’d been swamped by her smell. Distinctive. Delicious. In any other set of circumstances...hot.
But not in these circumstances. Not when delays on this project could result in a late completion penalty that could bankrupt his company. Louisa was serious about this place being ready for the royal wedding. She was depending on it.
He straightened as Lucia appeared, walking briskly across the courtyard. She’d changed and was now wearing flat shoes, slim-fitting navy trousers, a pale cream top with lace inserts on the shoulders and a dark silk scarf knotted at her neck. She had a digital camera in her hand.
He was disappointed that her legs were no longer on display.
She stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze straight on. She’d changed a little over the years. There were a few tiny lines around her eyes, but the rest of her skin was smooth. She, like him, had naturally olive Italian skin. Her dark brown gaze was uncompromising. ‘Show me your fresco, Logan.’
It was the most direct he’d ever heard her. He tried not to smile. Twelve years had instilled a new-found courage in her. He liked it.
But something else swamped him for a few seconds. There had been a time in his life that Lucia had encompassed everything for him. She’d been the centre of his universe. He shifted self-consciously on his feet. He’d never felt that way again—he’d never allowed himself to feel that way again.
It was too much. Too much to have so much invested in one person when your life could change in an instant and everything come tumbling down around you both.
It didn’t matter that seeing Lucia again after all these years was swamping him with a host of memories. It was time to put all those feelings back in a box. A place where they were best left.
He gestured towards the entranceway. ‘It’s all yours. Let’s go.’
She walked ahead of him, her tight bottom right in his line of vision. He lifted his eyes to look straight in front of him and smiled as her footsteps faltered as she saw the fresco.
‘Oh...whoa.’
He smiled as he stepped alongside her. ‘Pretty much what I said too.’
She lifted her camera then put it back down and walked right up to the wall. She lifted her hand but didn’t actually touch it. ‘It’s been covered for...how long?’
Logan shook his head, his hands on his hips. ‘I couldn’t say for sure.’ He pointed to the corner of the room where debris was stacked. ‘The wood panelling could be between three and four hundred years old.’
She glanced at the wood and turned back to the fresco. This time she did lift her camera and started snapping, first capturing the full work then systematically snapping detailed sections. Images that she could take time to pore over later.
When she finished she placed the camera on the floor then picked up some tiny fragments of clay that were on the floor—obvious remnants from the uncovering of the fresco. She gathered them in little plastic bags, labelled them, then put them in her bag. Once she’d finished she moved so close to the fresco that her nose was only inches away.
She lifted her fingers. It was obvious she was itching to touch it, but, she was resisting the temptation. ‘I can see the movement,’ she said quietly. ‘I can see the brushstrokes. What kind of brush do you use to paint individual hairs? This is amazing.’
Logan waited, watching her relish her first viewing of the fresco. It was strangely exhilarating. He could see the wonder on her face, see the excitement in her eyes. Just watching her sent a little buzz through his body. Memories were sparking. This was part of the Lucia he’d loved. The wonderful, passionate girl who’d embraced life to the full. When they’d first met she’d been quiet, reserved as a result of her upbringing. But studying in Florence had made her blossom into the beautiful woman he’d quickly grown to love. The buzz, culture and bright lights had been a nurturing environment for the young artistic woman. And the two of them meeting had seemed to spark her even further. All his first memories of Lucia had been about their drive, their passion and their instant connection.
He could feel it even now—twelve years on. The palms of his hands were actually itching to reach out and touch her—just the way hers were obviously itching to touch the fresco. Parts of Lucia had been so easy to read.
Other parts she’d kept tightly locked up and tucked away. Those had been the parts that had sealed the end of their relationship. Every person grieved differently. But Logan just couldn’t understand why she’d been unable to talk to him, why she’d been unable to share with him. After all, he’d been going through exactly the same thing.
He took a deep breath. ‘What do you think?’
‘The fresco was prepared in sections. Giornate—done on a daily basis with small sections of plaster laid at a time to be painted—much in the same way that Michelangelo carried out the work at the Sistine Chapel.’
Logan was incredulous. ‘You think this was done by Michelangelo?’
She laughed. ‘Oh, no. Of course not. The artist of the time just used the same techniques. Michelangelo used different skin tones from those used here.’ She leaned back critically. ‘Different draping of the clothes. This definitely isn’t his work.’
She finished snapping a few more shots with the camera and turned to face him again. ‘I have a program on my computer that I can upload these pictures to. It finds similarities between frescoes and gives the most likely artists.’
He shook his head. ‘Why do I feel as if you don’t really need it? What’s your gut instinct?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. It could be one of a few possibilities.’
He pressed her again. ‘But you think...’ He let his answer tail off.
She brushed her hair off her shoulder. ‘I think there’s a chance it’s a lesser-known Renaissance painter. His name was Burano.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘The same as one of the islands in the Venetian lagoon.’
Logan’s brow creased. ‘He was from Venice, then?’
She nodded.
‘So what was he doing in Tuscany?’
She turned back to face the fresco. ‘That’s my question too. That’s why I’m hesitant. I could be wrong. Journeying between Venice and Tuscany in Renaissance times wasn’t easy, but we both know the European Renaissance started in Tuscany and centred in Florence and Siena.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Venice was the late starter.’
She