Gladly Beyond (17 page)

“By all means, make yourself comfy.” My tone as dry as the Sahara.

He shrugged. “I got all night.”

He
smiled
then . . . more crocodilian than sheepish.

We engaged in a staring contest for a solid two minutes. He blinked first, shoulders sagging.

“C’mon, Claire. Please.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m
riiight
on the edge of a serious freak-out. I think seeing your huge body free and prowling my room might be more than I can handle.”

“Duly noted.”

I wrapped my shaking arms around myself. It had felt
so
real. I had been Caro. Seeing what she saw, feeling what she felt.

Could it have been real? Something . . . supernatural?

“You think it’s been Ethan in my photos, not you?” I asked.

“That’s my guess.”

Even two days ago, I would have sworn such things were impossible. But that was before Dr. Ethan MacLure decided to go on a photobombing selfie spree.

“So was that scene . . . real?”

“Yes.” Emphatic.

I should have been better prepared for that response.

Instead, black dots appeared at the edge of my vision, trying to crowd closer. I closed my eyes. Forced my breathing to calm before I completely hyperventilated.

I opened my eyes, focusing on Dante sprawled out on my leather chair. His dark hair had fallen forward, curling around his face.

“So just answer me one thing. Like I asked before, did you know
that
”—I waved my hand—“was going to happen?”

“Not for sure. I suspected.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

A pause.

“Probably not.”

“Precisely. I figured showing you would go farther than anything else.”

“And it’s happened before.”

“Yes.”

“When? How?”

He sighed. Set his head against the leather seat back. Weary. “Look. It is a long story—”

“I got all night.” I threw his words back at him.

He laughed, soft and resigned. “Well, at least, we’re both on the same page.”

“Who were those people? Lady Caro and Dr. Ethan MacLure?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

I started pacing the room, Dante’s eyes tracking me. My heart drummed against my chest. I swallowed convulsively.

“It was nothing that could hurt you, Claire.” His tone gentle. Like he was coaxing a wild animal. “Just a . . . well, a past life regression, if you will.”

“Past life regression? Like I was Caro in a previous life?”

He nodded, gaze serious and concerned. “And I was Ethan.”

“That I’ll believe. Ethan looked just like you.” It came out as an accusation. “Why?”

“I don’t know why I looked the same. Genetic chance? Generally people don’t look alike life-after-life.”

“Did Caro look like me?”

“No. She was shorter, rounder face, darker hair. Pretty though.”

More pacing.

“So why was there another drawing of Michelangelo’s
Battle of Cascina
?”

“I have no idea.” Dante studied me.

“It all just seems a little too . . . coincidental.”

“Coincidence? Or Fate drawing threads together?”

I paused and fixed him with my sternest don’t-think-I’m-stupid look.

Dante just stared back, completely unfazed.

I finally turned away, looking out the dark window. The same window Caro had sat in front of, I realized.

Lights flickered across the flowing Arno. Honking rose from the street below, muted.

I shifted my focus to the glass itself and studied the reflection of Dante seated behind me. Hands still bound. Eyes trained on me.

It all seemed so surreal. How could that
regression
have just happened?

But I had
been
there.

“It’s just impossible to believe.” I met his eyes in the reflected glass. “I felt Caro’s surprise at meeting Ethan. She had this intense, visceral attraction to him—”

“Yeah. Ethan did the same. It was like a lightning bolt. Soulmate insta-love kinda thing—”

“Well, it won’t do him much good. Caro had decided to marry Blackford—”

“Ethan knew the Duke had planned on offering marriage to the Countess of Albany’s ward. He just didn’t realize that Caro was that woman. His shock in that moment.” Dante shook his head. “Poor guy. The Duke had been doggedly pursuing the match, but Ethan wasn’t sure why.”

I frowned, searching my—or, rather, what I sensed of Caro’s—memories. “I’m not sure what her exact origins are.”

“The Michelangelo? Did you get any idea of the story there?”

I paused. “No. Caro had just started the drawing. We both know copying old masters is a time-honored way of learning to draw. She drew the
Battle of Cascina
a lot. It was a hobby of hers. I could see the original—the one she copied from—in her mind’s eye.” I pondered it for a moment. “Could the sketch she copied from be the one in the Colonel’s possession, I wonder?”

“Who knows.” He shrugged. “Better yet, was the design Sangallo’s copy or the Colonel’s?”

Mmmm, that was an
excellent
question. I tried to remember, but Caro had thought of it so fleetingly . . .

“I don’t know.”

I turned back to him. Still reclining on the chair. Still staring straight at me. Through me.

I let out a long, slow breath.

“I’m seriously weirded out right now. How do you know all this? I’m just confused and terrified and—”

“Look.” He sat upright, pulling his feet off the coffee table. “I have some answers. Not all, but some. I’m hungry, and I think I saw something about a restaurant on the roof of this hotel. How about you untie me, and we discuss this over a leisurely dinner?”

He leaned forward, eyes pleading. That weird thing happened again, where I saw him as Ethan MacLure. The same teasing grin. Caro had interpreted his smile as kindness, goodness.

Why didn’t I do the same with Dante?

My instinct was to trust him. Granted, this was the same instinct that wanted to snuggle up to him on that leather chair, run my hands over his muscled chest and make-out like a giggly teenager.

The same instinct that had considered Pierce a
sensible
choice.

So yeah. Not really going with my gut.

My brain reminded me of Dante’s cavalier treatment of my assessment of the Pittoni painting. Of those creepy, awful texts . . .

Ethan MacLure probably wouldn’t do those things . . . but Ethan and Dante were not the same person, right?

“I just want answers,” I said.

“You’ll get them. Please untie me.” His eyes plead sincerity.

I wanted to trust him. But—

Dante’s leather jacket buzzed.

We both glanced at it.

“Uhmmm, would you mind?” He shot me a beseeching look.

Grimacing, I walked over to him. He rolled onto his left hip, giving me access to his jacket pocket.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Like I needed to listen to him chat with his woman
de jour
.

I found his phone and pulled it out.

Mom
pulsed on the screen.

Seriously. His
mother
?!

I swiped the phone.

“Hello.”

I winced. Why, oh why, had I answered the phone for him? I should have just held it up to his ear.
Gah!

“Dante?” A woman’s voice came through the connection. Concerned.

“Th-this is Claire Raythorn. A business associate. Dante is right—”

“Claire. How lovely to hear your voice. I’m Judith D’Angelo, by the way. My boys have told me all about you. How goes the project with the Colonel?”

She sounded so . . . normal. So nice.

Wait—her boys talked about me?

“Uhmm, good. It’s . . . It’s going good.”

“I know Dante and Branwell certainly think highly of your skill and expertise.”

They
did
?

“Th-that’s a surprise.”

Judith laughed. A kind, motherly sound.

“Look. Dante is right here,” I said. “Let me put him on—”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather just chat with you. I talk to Dante all the time.”

Interesting. “Okay.”

“I had no idea Dante was with you. He up and left a half hour ago. I hope he’s behaving himself.”

I stared down at Dante. Arms behind his back, knees taped together. Smirking at me.

I managed a weak laugh. “I’m doing what I can to keep him in line.”

“Excellent. I knew I liked you.”

Wow. How could a womanizing hotshot like Dante have such a down-to-earth, no-nonsense mother?

“I called to see if Dante was coming back for dinner,” Judith continued. “Nonna was wondering if she should put the pasta down now or wait for him.”

“Ummm. . . let me ask.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear, tucking it against my body to muffle the sound. Stared down at Dante. “She wants to know if you’re coming back for dinner.”

“Tell her I won’t make it.” His grin morphed into total mischief. “You have me tied up at the moment.”

Oh!
He had
not
just said that.

I glared at him.

He sat back, smirking, giving his head a preening toss. He was trussed up on my chair. Completely at my mercy.

And he
still
had the upper hand.

He gestured toward the phone with his chin. “Go on. No need to be rude to my mom.”

I glowered. Raised the phone to my ear. “He’s, uh,
indisposed
at the moment—”

Dante grunted. “Tied up, Mom.” He raised his voice, sitting forward. “SHE HAS ME
LITERALLY
TIED UP—”

I made a shushing gesture with my hand and moved away from him.

“Did Dante say you guys were tied up?” Judith asked. “No worries. I don’t expect him to eat dinner with family every night.” What? “I’m sure you two have a lot of work to get through. I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you?”

“No, thank
you
, Claire. It was lovely chatting.
Ciao.
”

I hung up. That had been . . . illuminating.

I glanced at Dante’s phone still in my hand.

The lockscreen blazed bright.

Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The words snagged my breath.

This man! He was determined to blast his way inside my defenses.

I turned back to Dante, still hogtied on my leather chair. Trying to reconcile my phone conversation and the words on his screen with the man I thought I knew.

He shot me a challenging eyebrow.

“
Now
will you untie me?”

Thirteen

Dante

S
o, you were going explain to me—in excruciating detail—what happened earlier in my hotel room,” Claire said.

We were seated on the restaurant rooftop terrace, facing south. City lights glittered on the Arno below, while floodlights washed Forte Belvedere on the horizon. The restaurant hummed around us, hopping busy.

I had slipped the hostess a twenty euro note, ensuring we were seated at this secluded table nestled against the iron railing. And then had politely returned the phone number she handed me. I was never that kind of guy.

All my attention was on Claire.

She drilled me with pale blue eyes, arms folded across her fluttery silk blouse, legs crossed in those tight skinny jeans of hers. Foot bobbing up and down in a pair of killer pink heels.

Cool. Collected. Seemingly contained.

But I knew better. Seeing Caro through Ethan’s eyes . . .

Something had changed.

I now understood when she folded her arms like that, she was holding all the loneliness at bay. That the sharpness of her gaze was pain, not anger.

“Well, are you?” She tilted her head.

Okay, make that
mostly
pain.

I set my phone down on the table and picked up my empty wine glass, twirling the stem. I had never told another person about my GUT. Not a single past girlfriend, guy friend, work associate . . .

No one.

I would have sounded loony. How could I ever prove what I said was true?

But now . . . Claire
had
proof.

And more to the point, so did I.

Claire Raythorn
had
been important to me in past lives. I was sure of it. That wave of emotion—elation, adrenaline, heat—that Ethan had experienced with Caro . . .

I swallowed. Leaned forward across the table. “My family isn’t exactly what you would call . . . normal.”

“Your mom sounded normal.”

“Correction. The
men
in my family are not exactly normal.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that.” Her foot bounced.

Waiters bustled past us, all the restaurant staff in hyper-busy mode. One set a bottle of
frizzante
water on our table with an apologetic look. I gave a
take your time
wave. Claire and I had a lot of ground to cover.

For her part, Claire kept running her eyes over the room, angling her body to see as much as possible. She seemed on high-alert. Ready to jump and run. Did this poor woman ever relax? That protectiveness surged through me again.