“Pull out the drawer toward the middle of the left column. It is marked ‘Self-portraits.’”
Lisa followed Gran’s instructions, finding an unframed canvas resting face down on archival drawer liner.
“There are some gloves in the small drawer on your right. Put them on before you handle the painting.”
Lisa’s mouth drew into a line at her grandmother’s barked out orders, but she obeyed to the letter. She was unbearably curious, especially considering Gran had brought her down here in the middle of the night. Obviously, this was all about the Rembrandt—perhaps Gran’s biggest secret of all. She was finally going to get to see this famed painting. She lifted the canvas—which was no more than about twelve inches square—from the drawer.
“Bring it over here and set it on this easel.”
“Yes, Gran.” Lisa slipped out the vault door, breathing easier now that she was back in the main room. She propped the painting on a display easel near Gran’s chair, and was immediately disappointed. The painting was somehow unremarkable. Oh, to be sure, it was a well-executed portrait of a man of the Dutch Golden Age, most likely Rembrandt van Rijn, but for Lisa it held no particular attractiveness, no spark, no magic. Did that mean this was the fake as Nick had said?
“Gran—”
“Isn’t it wonderful, Annalisa? Just look at that execution, the brush strokes, the expression in the eyes. I believe it is my most important acquisition yet.”
Lisa turned to study Gran’s rapt expression, surprised at the avidness in her face over such dull execution. The principessa looked like a woman in love, or rather, like a woman looking at her lover. Lisa had been about to grill her grandmother about Nick’s allegations, but found she couldn’t find the heart to shatter Gran’s clear pride over her new possession. She couldn’t keep completely quiet, however, when there were so many questions floating around. Gran, she’d noticed, was very good at avoiding questions.
“Did you know Nick Carnavale claims a connection with this painting?” Lisa asked, striving for a neutral tone.
Her grandmother turned shrewd eyes on her. “Why, yes, child. I made a bargain with Nick about this portrait. His taste is impeccable, you know.”
Lisa’s stomach dropped to her beaded slippers. What had Gran gotten herself into? “A bargain? What kind of bargain, Gran?”
“A business deal. Quid pro quo.”
“Really.” And wasn’t it interesting Nick had not said a word about it.
“Yes.” The principessa smiled knowingly but did not elaborate.
Lisa barely resisted rolling her eyes. She knew she wouldn’t get any more information out of her grandmother until the old woman was good and ready, if ever. “Well, thanks for showing it to me. I believe you know what you’re doing.” That, at least, was the truth.
Her grandmother smirked. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Lisa lifted the painting and stepped back into the chilled gloom of the safe. She looked at the picture again, unable to see the qualities in it that so enthralled her grandmother. How odd, to be surrounded by such beauty, so many treasures, and yet feel so strongly for what was obviously an unremarkable portrait—and a possible forgery, at that. But Gran had always made her own way in the art world, formed her own opinions. And those opinions had given the Severino Collection its reputation for brilliance.
After she’d put the painting back in its drawer and the safe had been locked again, Lisa thought to ask one more question. She spoke up as she rolled the principessa’s wheelchair back through the stacked and shrouded art. “Gran, now that you’ve introduced me to your ‘secret’ room, what do you expect me to do with that information?”
Her grandmother turned in her chair to look over her shoulder at Lisa. “Why, my dear, what do you do with any secret? You keep it.”
* * *
The taxi pulled up in the Piazza Barberini, and Lisa stepped out into the crisp early morning air, looking around the gray, deserted square for Nick. She’d not slept much last night—for the second night in a row—determined to not think, or dream, of the man.
Yeah, that had worked really well.
If the Rembrandt Gran had shown her was a fake, as Nick claimed, it was an excellent one that had fooled the principessa, for one, and Lisa had not had the facts or information to warn her grandmother of the possible forgery. She’d been surprised when the principessa had revealed that Nick had negotiated with her for the painting. But the question still lingered: if the painting was a fake, why did everyone want it so badly?
Lisa had been elated, much to her disgust, when Nick phoned late in the day to request this early morning meeting.
Now, as a spark of anticipation at seeing him bloomed in her chest, she lectured herself. Since when had seeing Nick Carnavale become essential to her? His kisses had inspired passion, yes, but heated lust was a far cry from emotional attachment. And she had more important things to worry about than her physical response to a mysterious billionaire art collector.
Nick came around the corner, walking toward her in an easy, athletic stride.
Her stomach did that now-familiar flip. God, she had to stop being so unreasonably happy to see this man. The irritating schoolgirl giddiness firmed her determination to find out more about him and to keep him at arm’s length.
He seemed perfectly suited to the location among the splendor of Rome’s architecture, as if he were a Roman god. His features, carved and beautiful, gave nothing away. If she dared admit it to herself, she desired him more than she’d desired any other man.
He stepped close and took her hands, his eyes clear and cool as the water that spilled from Triton’s fountain nearby. He leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks.
“Where to?” she asked, breathless from his greeting.
So much for arm’s length
.
“I have something to show you. We can walk there.”
Nick turned toward the Via del Tritone. His hands slid into his coat pockets but he offered her an elbow. She curled her hand around his arm, enjoying his warmth and strength even through his overcoat.
When they turned a sharp corner, he jumped back to avoid a passing motorcycle. She pressed close against his body, the side of her breast brushing his arm. He flicked her a glance, the intensity in his eyes hitting her low and hard. She licked her lips. Good, maybe he was just as attracted as she was.
They followed a winding, cobblestone street then popped out onto a large piazza just as the sun peeked over the tall row of buildings.
“There,” he said.
She looked around in delight. “Trevi Fountain.”
A sense of familiarity, of home, came over Lisa. She let go of Nick’s arm and walked down the amphitheater-style steps toward the colossal, stern-faced Neptune and his two writhing stone seahorses. The fountain basin, wide as the piazza but shallow, spilled forth in a never-ending cycle. She bent to put her hand in the cold water. This place had been a favorite of her mother’s. Elisabetta had spoken of it often over the years.
She looked around. Trevi Fountain usually swarmed with tourists and guides, street vendors and pickpockets. But not this early in the morning. She and Nick had the place to themselves. Except for a few desultory pigeons that checked them out, then waddled away.
Nick came down the steps to her. When he reached her, he held out a coin.
“But I have already thrown my coin in.” She spread her hands wide, trying to cover her emotions. “And I am back in Rome to prove it.”
He put the coin in her hand. “Throw another one, just for insurance.”
Lisa pitched the coin over her shoulder in the best tourist fashion, and it landed with a plunk. She turned to him, smiling, and was slightly startled when he swept her up for a kiss. His kisses so far had been scorching, or teasing, but this one thrilled her with its tenderness. She wrapped her arms around him and hung on. She could have stood there all day kissing Nick in front of the rushing waters of Rome’s most romantic fountain, but eventually he lifted his head and stepped back.
It was Lisa’s turn to shove her hands into her coat pockets. It was either that or grab him again. “What are we doing out here, Nick? Is this what you wanted me to see? Trevi?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You seem a little disgruntled this morning, piccola. How did you sleep last night?”
She frowned up at him, but couldn’t stop a smile from slipping out. “Disgruntled. That’s a new word for you, I’ll bet.”
“Yes.” He grinned. “I looked it up. I was saving it just for you.”
She let out a short, breezy laugh.
He stepped closer and pushed a strand of her hair off her face. “Maybe we can find a coffee bar open at this ridiculous hour.”
“Hmm. Will they have
cornetti
too?” she said, naming the Italian version of the croissant.
“We can only hope.”
He reached for her hand, and she laced her fingers through his.
They left Trevi Fountain behind, and Nick turned down a small side street where they saw a man sweeping the stoop in front of a petite coffee bar. Nick said something to him in Italian that Lisa didn’t catch. The man put his broom aside and beckoned them in.
When she raised a brow in question Nick said, “He says he can fire up the espresso maker but it will take a few minutes. The cornetti are fresh, just delivered.”
Lisa grinned in anticipation.
They stepped into a tiny room furnished with a bar, an antique espresso machine, and a wall-sized mirror behind liquor bottles displayed on glass shelves. The scent of fresh-baked pastry wafted from two paper-wrapped boxes on the counter. Lisa chose a cornetto filled with a chocolate-hazelnut cream Nick said was Nutella.
“
Grazie
.” She gestured toward the pastry in her hand. The man nodded and went back to his machine. She turned to Nick as he selected his own cornetto.
“What was that you were speaking to our proprietor?” she asked. “It sounded like Italian, but I couldn’t understand a word.”
“
Romanesco
. Roman slang. Sort of like cockney to an English speaker,” he said.
She bit into her cornetto and then licked the sugar off her lips. She noticed Nick’s gaze riveted on her mouth as her tongue came out to catch a drip of chocolate.
“So you’re from Rome, then?” she asked. “Why do you speak English so well?”
“You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”
“And you’re not going to answer me, are you?”
“Look, Lisa—”
“You’re awfully stingy with details about yourself,” she interrupted cheerfully. “It makes me wonder what you exactly do as an exporter of luxury goods.”
She licked the tips of her fingers. “What do you export, Nick? Ladies lingerie? Silk drawers?”
He snorted.
“No? OK, how about drugs, then?”
He frowned slightly and shook his head. “Lisa—”
“No? Hmm, well, maybe it’s looted artifacts and
stolen art
.”
His frown became ferocious, and he stepped toward her, as if he wanted to shake her.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, the barista chose that moment to serve Lisa’s cappuccino. He set the steaming cup down on the bar next to her and offered the basket of sugar packets.
“
Prende il zucchero, Signorina?
”
Nick stepped back.
Glad for the distraction, Lisa selected a packet of sugar and then emptied it into her cup. The foamed milk was so thick the sugar stood for a moment on the surface before it slowly sank into the steaming liquid below. She stirred it with the little spoon from her saucer. She picked up the cup, took a sip, and saluted the man behind the counter, one barista to another. The drink was delicious.
Nick’s espresso came in a small shot glass with a dash of milk dotting the top.
“What do you call that?” Lisa asked as Nick took his first sip.
“It’s called a
caffe macchiato al vetro
. Coffee in a glass. You’re not familiar with it?”
She shook her head. “Why the shot glass?”
He shrugged. “For coffee purists. Glass is non-reactive so you get an unfiltered taste.” He turned up the little drink and took another sip.
When he didn’t say anything else, she returned to her coffee, trying to find another way through his curt reticence to the information she needed. She dunked the remaining bit of her cornetto in the creamy foam in her cup, savoring every last bite. When she looked up, she saw Nick watching her, his gray eyes flashing sliver.
“What?” She self-consciously grabbed a napkin.
“Finished?” he asked.
She nodded behind the small white square.
Nick put a few euros on the bar, thanked the man, and grabbed Lisa’s hand.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
The sun shone strongly now, and the sky was a clear turquoise blue, though the air was still brisk, especially in the deep shade of the buildings. Lisa could see in the distance the elaborate pastiche of architectural styles that led toward the Coliseum. Another large square opened out from where they stood, its center graced by an ornately carved column.
“Whose column is that again?” asked Lisa as they crossed toward another piazza.
“Emperor Marcus Aurelius. To celebrate his victories over the Germans in the second century.”
She snorted. “My ancestors, and yours, I suppose.”
He grinned. The first time he had cracked a smile since Trevi Fountain. The predatory look in his quicksilver eyes was not hard to interpret. Her cheeks warmed but she shoved her hands back in her pockets. She wouldn’t let him distract her again.
“Nick,” she said, “did you know about Gran’s plans to show the Rembrandt with her collection? She thinks her new painting is a great find. We have to convince her not to show it.”
“Why shouldn’t she show it?”
Lisa stared. “Because you think it’s a fake, right? Is the original listed as stolen or missing?”
Nick looked away. A couple of city cops,
polizia
, stood chatting across the square. “No.”
Lisa frowned, waiting for him to elaborate. He was silent so long she felt compelled to prompt him. “I know Rembrandt did quite a few self-portraits, but you said this painting, this
fake
painting, was stolen from your family. I don’t get it, Nick.”