by Kristy Tate
But she could complain about Zane and the way he studied her with an undecipherable look in his eye.
The banquet hall, with its soaring ceilings and sparkling chandeliers, looked a lot like the scene where Belle and the Beast danced for the first time in the castle, except there was nothing magical about the servers in their black and white tuxedos and dresses or the floral centerpieces on the round tables.
“Oh, how I hate these things,” Liz muttered to Flora as they took their seats.
“Probably because you’re uncomfortable that you win awards while your husband does not,” a man to Flora’s left said. He stuck out his hand. “Dr. Joseph Ryan.” With his warm brown hair and eyes, he was handsome in a boy-next-door sort of way, despite his ill-fitting tuxedo.
Flora returned the gesture and smile and introduced herself.
“And what field of medicine are you in?” Joseph asked.
“I’m a middle-school math teacher.”
Joseph rocked back in his chair. “Sorry. I assumed everyone here practiced medicine.”
“She’s my plus-one for the night,” Liz explained. “Jerry is sick.”
“Aw, too much gelato?” Joseph asked.
Liz gave him a thin smile. “Something like that.”
Flora tried not to stare at the way Zane filled out his tuxedo. She didn’t want to compare the man he’d become to the beach-bum boy she’d known all those years ago. Still, she couldn’t help watching him from beneath her lashes.
A server came by to offer her wine. She asked for water and noticed Zane did the same.
A stunning woman sauntered up to their table with a rugged but handsome man in tow. She dropped her hand on Zane’s shoulder.
Was it Flora’s imagination, or did a scowl flicker across Zane’s face?
“Zane, sweetie,” the woman said, “this is Brock Hempstead. He’s the publicity guy I told you about. He’d like to take your picture, if you don’t mind.”
Zane’s lips pressed together, telling Flora that he did mind. In fact, since she’d run into him, everything seemed to make him angry, and she had the sneaking suspicion it was all her fault.
But that was ridiculous. He was the one who had used her, right? She tried not to watch him as he talked with the woman and Brock.
“What’s it like teaching middle school?” Joseph asked.
“I like it,” Flora said, wrinkling her nose. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Every job is going to seem tedious at times, right?”
Joseph shrugged. “I love my job. Every evening I tear myself away and I’m excited to go back to it every morning.”
“Wow. Good for you. I assume you must also be in medical research since you’re here.”
“I’m searching for the cure for Bang’s disease.”
“Bang’s disease?” Flora repeated.
“Yes, it’s bacterial. I find bacteria fascinating, don’t you?”
“When I find bacteria, I like to attack it with bleach.”
He shook his head and gave her a poor-you-ignoramus look. “Don’t you know that bacteria cells greatly outnumber any other cells in your body? If you attacked the bacteria in your body with bleach, you would die.”
Flora nodded, smiled, and tried to plaster an I’m listening because this is so fascinating look on her face when Joseph launched into his research on Bang’s disease.
“But I agree with you that not all bacteria are helpful. For example, the consumption of unsterilized and contaminated milk or meat from infected cattle, sheep, pigs, or goats can cause Bang’s disease. It may also be contracted through cuts that come into contact with the bodily fluids of an infected animal—which is why Band-Aids are so important.”
“But it can’t be much of a problem since I’ve never heard of anyone getting it.”
“But it’s as serious as a heart attack! If left untreated, Bang’s disease can lead to heart infection and liver abscess—both of which can lead to death.” He slapped the table to emphasize his words, and one of his shirt buttons popped off and landed in his soup. His face turned red as he studied his chest hair poking through his undershirt.
“I can sew that button back on for you,” Flora told him.
“Before the awards?” he whispered in a horrified tone.
She nodded. “I have a sewing kit in my room.”
“You do?” he asked. “Who carries around a sewing kit?”
“People who love to sew.” She nudged him. “But you have to find the button first.”
He ladled his soup, found the button, and after a moment of indecision, he popped the spoon into his mouth. “Got it,” he said around the button.
“Okay then,” Flora said, putting down her napkin. “Let’s go.”
ZANE STARED AS FLORA and Joseph Ryan excused themselves. They had barely reached the doors when Zane mumbled an excuse and bolted after them.
They entered the elevator moments before he reached it, and he waited in the lobby to see which floor the elevator would stop at. Fortunately, it stopped only once, on the third floor. Zane didn’t wait for it to return, but hit the stairs. He didn’t pass anyone on his sprint up.
The sound of laughter floated down the hall and rounded a corner. Zane followed. But the voices had disappeared behind a closed door. He paced up and down the hall, not even noticing the lush carpet beneath his feet, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, or the creamy damask designs on the walls. His anger and frustration mounted.
Finally, Joseph and Flora emerged from room 326. Zane studied one and then the other. Neither looked disheveled.
“Wentworth,” Joseph said, “what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing?” he countered.
Joseph smiled and looked pleased as he puffed out his chest. “I had a button repaired.”
“I suppose that’s one name you could call it.”
“Call what?” Joseph blinked at him and held out his arms as if he were going to give Zane a giant bear hug. Instead, he looked down at his shirt. “I didn’t want to receive my award with my chest hair showing.”
“Button repaired?” Zane echoed.
“I better hurry downstairs,” Joseph said. “I don’t want to miss my big moment.” He smiled at Flora. “Coming?”
Flora’s nostrils flared. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Joseph lumbered away, pressed the elevator button, and with a final wave, he disappeared into it. The elevator door whirred shut.
Flora grabbed Zane’s wrist and hauled him into her room. After the door closed, she rounded on him. “Why do you assume the worst of me?”
Zane didn’t know what to say.
She edged closer, clearly furious. “Why did you follow us up here?”
He opened his mouth but couldn’t find a reason he wanted to share.
She poked him in the chest. “Stop following me around. Leave me alone.”
He grabbed her finger. “I can’t.”
She pulled away from him. “It wasn’t enough that you ruined my life seven years ago? You want to do it again now?”
“I ruined your life?” He snorted. “That’s rich.”
She stepped closer, lining up her toes with his. “No, you’re rich, and because you’re rich—”
He grabbed her and tugged her against him. Placing his hand on the back of her head, he moved to kiss her. She grappled for the glass of water on her nightstand and poured it down his shirt.
“Don’t ever touch me again!” she screamed.
Zane stared at the water staining his shirt. “I’m going to receive an award looking like I spilled on myself.”
Her lips twitched. “Serves you right.”
“Yes, it undoubtedly does.” He crossed the room and sat in the chair near the window. Gazing outside, he spoke without looking at her. “I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I’ve been an ass.” He stood. “I can’t let you turn me into someone I don’t want to be. That almost happen
ed before. I can’t let it happen again.”
He strode from the room. The door closed behind him with a soft but definite click.
FLORA SANK ONTO THE bed and let her hands dangle between her knees.
Would Liz be upset if she didn’t go back down?
She could always lie and say she’d caught Jerry Jardin’s bug. The truth was, she wasn’t feeling well. Sparring with Zane not only exhausted her but also confused her.
What was his story? She didn’t know, but she vowed, going forward, it would not include her.
CHAPTER 6
“What happened to you?” Liz asked when Zane returned to the table.
“Nothing,” he said through tense lips.
“Your shirt is wet,” Joseph remarked.
Liz smirked as if she’d guessed what had happened.
“Where’s what’s-her-face?” Sadie snapped her fingers. “Your au pair, I believe?”
Liz gave Sadie a haughty glance, which should have clued Sadie in that Liz didn’t appreciate her filling Flora’s seat. “Her name is Florence Hill.”
Zane spent the evening in a daze. The water in his face had been a wakeup call. He’d spent seven years aching from Flora’s betrayal. He needed to move past it. He needed to forgive her. But she was like a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.
He hated puzzles and riddles that didn’t add up, and that was exactly what Flora was like. She didn’t make sense.
If she was the moneygrubber his dad had warned him of, why was she teaching school? Her beauty could have secured her an easy life in a dozen ways. She could have been a model, actress, reality TV star, talk show host. But marriage to a wealthy man was the most fitting for the person he’d thought she was—although the thought of her with anyone other than himself made him livid.
According to Rose, she was a good teacher. Everyone loved her, including a cranky principal. No sane person goes into teaching for the money.
“Dr. Zane Wentworth,” the MC boomed from the podium.
While the audience clapped, Zane pushed to his feet and went to accept his award. But without someone to share it with, it felt hollow.
As a scientist, he understood the hormonal equation of falling in love. A spike in adrenaline brings a butterflies-in-your-belly rush. Pheromones, with their faint scent, lure victims to their darling like a siren. Dopamine—that happy drug—turns normal people into addicts craving their beloved’s company. It was all a trick of nature to keep the planet populated.
He’d been in love just once. It’d been fast and furious and he’d crashed and burned. The experience had left him not numb as he’d originally thought, but shattered and bitter.
Cameras flashed as he accepted the plaque with his name on it. It represented five years of research and a stunning breakthrough. On his office wall, he had three plaques just like it for three different medical breakthroughs. He’d accomplished more in a few years than most ever would in a lifetime.
So, why was he so unhappy? It had to do with more than having to stand in front of a crowd of his colleagues in a wet shirt.
Flora Hill held him in some sort of spell and he was going to break it.
THE NEXT MORNING, AS Flora shepherded Rose and Posey through the lobby, Zane stopped them.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said.
Rose and Posey nearly melted beneath his warm and friendly gaze. Flora steeled herself against his charm. Sure, he looked handsome in his jeans and a black T-shirt that exposed his strong arms, but she didn’t have time or room for any of the pain he’d brought her before and would surely cause her again if she let him. She’d been sucked in by the tide once. She wouldn’t let it carry her out to sea a second time.
“What’s on the docket today?” Zane asked.
Rose and Posey exchanged looks. “We’re going to the Uffizi.”
He brightened. “I was hoping you’d say that, because I just happen to have four passes, so you can skip the line.”
“For today?” Flora asked skeptically, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Actually, no. They’re for tomorrow.”
Why did he look so sly?
“We’re going today,” Flora announced. “Come on, girls.” She turned and flounced through the lobby.
The girls, especially Posey on her crutches, were considerably slower.
“You do know that the line is typically hours long,” Zane commented, pulling his VIP passes out of his shirt pocket and fanning them so the girls could see. “But these passes will take us directly inside after hours. We can stand and gaze at Michelangelo’s David at our leisure and have a personal tour with the docent.”
Rose and Posey turned their pleading eyes to Flora.
“It’s already baking outside,” Rose said.
“How would you know?” Flora asked. “You haven’t left the building.”
“I can tell by the aggressive way the sun is shining through the windows,” Rose argued.
Flora rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think I can stand on my crutches for hours,” Posey added in a pathetic whine.
“But if we do that tomorrow, what will we do today?” Flora asked.
“I suggest a farmers’ market,” Zane said.
ROSE AND POSEY DECIDED they’d rather explore the craft stalls while Flora and Zane wandered through the farmers’ booths. Flora glanced around at the sawdust-strewn grounds with white tents that housed food vendors with fresh fruits, vegetables, and a multitude of fish, and inhaled the scents and sounds of the market. Even though she was thousands of miles away, she felt at home. She loved markets.
Zane looked bored as girls with trays of food samples approached him. He must be used to girls offering him things, Flora decided. She watched him bite into a slice of mango.
“Hmm, fresh fruit.” He grinned at her.
She laughed and snagged a piece of mango for herself. “Not so fresh.”
“What are you talking about? This mango was locally grown!”
She shook her head.
“It must be—it’s at the greenmarket, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she didn’t try to mask her snarky tone, “Italy had a bumper crop of mangos and bananas this year.”
“But ultra-fresh produce is why we’re here, right?”
“Yes, I’m getting really tired of hotel food. I don’t know about you, but I’m here for the free samples.” Flora looked over the produce, wishing she had access to a kitchen.
“What is it?” Zane asked, reading her expression.
She wrinkled her nose. “I guess I’m getting a little homesick. I’d kill for some homemade cookies.”
“Seriously? You bake now?”
“I’ve been baking for a long time.”
“How have I missed this?”
“You’ve missed a lot,” she said, and as she said it, she realized the same thing could be said of her.
THEY SPENT THE NEXT morning, as planned, at the Uffizi. It was eerie, and yet amazing to have the building to themselves. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floors, and their words bounced through the cavernous space.
The docent, Franco, a small man with a Hitler mustache, shepherded them around. “The Uffizi Palace is considered one of the most important museums in the world.” He spread his arms wide as if welcoming them in for a hug, but everyone kept a safe distance.
“As you can see, the building itself is a marvel. The marble statues are priceless as well the collection of Renaissance art from artists. The Uffizi is home to wondrous artists such as Botticelli, Da Vinci, Titian and Raphael. The thing that you won’t read about in any guidebook is the curse of Florence,” Franco told them.
“There’s a curse?” Rose asked, her curiosity piqued.
Franco nodded solemnly. “If you are not aware, Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici signed the Patto di Famiglia, or family pact, in October of 1737. In collaboration with the Holy Roman Emperor and Grand Duke Francis of Lorraine, she willed all the personal property of the House of Medici
to the Tuscan state, provided that nothing that was created in Florence would ever be removed from Florence. She and the Medici family sealed her pact with a curse.”
“What happens if something is taken?” Rose asked with wide eyes.
“It will be destroyed,” Marco said.
“So, don’t conceive a child in Florence,” Zane said.
Flora shot him an annoyed glance. “Please don’t think about conceiving children,” she muttered, “until you’ve graduated from college.”
“I think people are exempt,” Marco said, “so they will not be destroyed, but a true Tuscan can only be happy in Tuscany.”
“I want to create something in Florence,” Zane whispered in Flora’s ear, “just to disprove his theory.”
Posey overheard. “Me, too,” she whispered.
“Let’s do it,” Zane said.
“Do what?” Rose turned to them.
“We’re going to create something and take it out of Florence,” Zane said.
“Ah, you make a mockery of the curse,” Marco scolded them, shaking his finger to emphasize his words. “This will not do.”
Rose ignored the little man. “What will we make?”
“Well, I was going to suggest a cooking class tomorrow,” Zane began.
“Oh. I want to do that,” Posey exclaimed.
Me, too, Flora thought, but she didn’t want to admit it.
“But that won’t work. We’ll create food and eat it,” Rose said. “That’s not much of an experiment.”
“Right.” Zane scratched his head. “We could sign up for a glass-blowing class.”
“Or pottery,” Flora suggested. “That sounds less dangerous.”
“Not quite as hot.” Zane nodded. “Let me see what I can find.”
Marco clapped his hands. “If it is art you seek, I can arrange an art class for all of you. Painting, etching, sculpting, glass blowing—all of it.” He winked at them. “But I have to warn you, you mustn’t try to remove your creations from Florence. Come, I will show your options.” He toddled down the hall toward the offices.
The girls followed.
