by MARTIN, KC
She sighed inwardly as she held the door open for Colin. He was in genuine pain.
Inside, the Signora was bustling through the lobby with a tray and two sherry glasses when Laine and Colin entered.
She smiled at Colin. “Not alone anymore, I see.” She winked.
“It’s not what you think,” said Colin.
Laine bit her lip, pained at the truth of that statement. “We’ll ask her for some ice for your foot.”
Colin nodded.
Laine peeked into the common room and saw the older German couple sitting together on a love seat. The Signora served them each a sherry. The couple clinked glasses, sipped, and then kissed one another delicately and with great love. Laine turned back to Colin, who was now leaning on the counter looking pale. The Signora bustled back with her tray.
“I think I know what you want,” she said in a lilting voice. She looked at Laine and smiled approvingly. “One room instead of two?”
“No!” said Laine and Colin at the same time.
Laine did her best not to look at him. Her quick response made her feel bad, but his made her feel worse.
“It’s just that we’re both here for work,” explained Colin.
The Signora scoffed. Wrapped up in her breathy burst was the universal sentiment that youth was wasted on the young. Not that Laine and Colin were particularly young, which was probably part of the issue. When love found you or you found love, your best bet was to seize it.
And yet…
It was supposed to be a certain way, wasn’t it? Like in Paris. Spontaneous, risky, swept up in a tide of passion. Or was Laine remembering it incorrectly? Somehow she and Colin had found their way into each other’s arms and hearts once. Why were they fumbling with this second chance?
“I need some ice for my ankle,” said Colin.
“Ice is not what you need,” said the Signora before disappearing into the back office.
Colin looked over at Laine, who was fingering brochures at the end of the counter.
“I’m sorry about all this. It’s not really how I pictured our reunion.” His green eyes held hers for an extended moment. She felt his sincerity.
“Me neither.” She smiled and shrugged. He stretched his arm over the counter and opened his fingers to her. During their walk back to the hotel, Laine had felt a current of electric warmth between them, though they’d done little but walk side by side with her supporting him as he limped. Now, as he held his hand out to her, she slipped her fingers in his, and all the heat they’d each been carrying flared up through their fingertips.
The Signora pushed through the office door. Colin and Laine let go of each other as the Signora dropped the bucket of ice on the counter between them. She looked at each of them in turn and then shrugged.
The older German couple shuffled out of the common room holding hands. They nodded and smiled at Colin and Laine.
“Buona notte, Frau and Herr Lehman,” said the Signora as the older man and woman tucked themselves into the small elevator. Once they’d gone, the Signora said to Colin and Laine. “It’s their 50 year anniversary.” She clucked her tongue. “Can’t have such history if you’re not willing to start somewhere.”
Colin grabbed the bucket of ice. “Grazi.”
Laine and Colin waited for the elevator to return. Laine would have taken the stairs, as she was only one floor up, but she wanted to make sure Colin got safely to his room. She felt responsible for his injury.
“You really think your foot will be fine by tomorrow?”
“Better be. I planned to walk over to my meeting in Oltrarno.”
Laine nodded. She thought her meeting was in that neighbourhood, too. She’d have to check her emails from Tina.
As they stepped into the small elevator, Laine caught a lingering whiff of sherry. That couple seemed so happy together. They had been lucky to find true love.
Colin pressed floor one. “Laine…”
She turned to him. He reached for her hand again and drew her closer to him.
“Can we start over?”
“How do you mean? Pretend we never met?” She was now leaning into his shoulder.
“No, not pretend…” He was looking at her lips. She couldn’t help but look at his.
Then the elevator doors opened. They stepped off and stood in the hall.
“I’m on this floor, too,” said Laine.
“How convenient,” said Colin with a wry smile.
Laine arched an eyebrow. She wanted to kiss him. She’d been carrying around this impulse for months. But she felt travel sticky. She wanted to shower, brush her teeth, slip into something more comfortable before she slid up next to this man who’d been in the starring role of her fantasies for the past three months. She wanted her first kiss with Colin to be perfect.
He started to say, “I have an early meeting tomorrow but you could…”
She put her finger to his lips. “Let’s wait. Let’s start over, like you said. Tomorrow.”
He looked a little disappointed but he nodded. “Until tomorrow then.”
He turned away and hobbled down the hall.
Laine turned the other way, pulling out her key as she walked and berating herself for not being more spontaneous, more trusting, more confident. More willing to risk additional embarrassment by following Colin back to his room. Why hadn’t she? She was afraid.
Once inside her room she tilted her head and sniffed her arm pits. There was another reason why she hadn’t followed him. She slipped out of her sandals and headed for the shower, peeling off layers of travel clothing as she went and revealing other scented reasons for why she didn’t jump into a tangled mess of limbs with Mr. Colin Ellington. She turned on the shower. As she waited for the hot water to flow she scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her wavy brown hair looked flat on one side and frizzy on the other. Her brown eyes looked tired, the skin under them slightly puffy, and her long mascara-clumped eyelashes were definitely in need of a retouch. Her lips, normally full and soft, looked thinner and drier. Is that why Colin had been staring at them in the elevator? Not because he wanted to kiss them but because he was trying to figure out how to avoid doing just that? Naked under the bathroom light, Laine thought she looked lumpy, the kind of lumpy that no amount of lingerie could improve. She climbed into the steaming shower. The pricks of hot water stung as harshly as cold hard reality. She’d been a fool to think she could rekindle her chemistry with Colin.
Colin
Colin felt like a lame stag as he wrapped his ankle in ice. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful, but it ached enough to be distracting when he’d wanted to put all his attention on Laine. He still felt dumbfounded that they had simply — and painfully — crashed into each other. What were the odds of that? It had to be Fate. He was sure of it. But why hadn’t Fate orchestrated something more elegant? More romantic? More… sexy?
He’d dreamt of seeing her again for months, and had almost given up on that dream until she’d emailed. Now here they both were in Florence, and he had acted like a yob. With his twisted ankle he was now a handicapped yob. Even if he felt like sweeping her off her feet, he wasn’t physically able to. At least not today. He sighed, removed the ice for a few minutes, and limped over to the bathroom to run a tub. He didn’t want to stand on his ankle in the shower. He could lay back in the tub and keep his ankle on ice a bit longer. As the water filled the tub, Colin considered his options: he could go this meeting tomorrow, purchase the painting for his client, and then get on a plane back to London. He’d forget this ludicrous sentimentality of trying to squeeze something more out of what was simply a beautiful memory. A beautiful, hot, sexy memory… The kind of memory he simply couldn’t forget.
Colin frowned. The tub was full. He twisted the taps off and, balancing on one leg, stripped his clothes off. The bathroom mirror reflected his awkward movements and he couldn’t help giving his image some attention.
He looked good. He knew that. He worked out, didn’t over eat, played footb
all on weekends (or soccer, as Americans called it), and sex, of course, was the best workout going, which is partly why he participated as often as he could. Even if it lacked lustre these days. It lacked meaning. Sex wasn’t supposed to be exercise. He knew something was wrong with that approach.
His torso and biceps looked lean and cut, but it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? His slim middle would soften. His knees would start to ache. He wouldn’t always want to run around the pitch on Saturdays. He wouldn’t always want to be on top for sex. He might like to lie back. Be ridden.
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.
Chapter 9
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 on
e 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.
