"I understand." He nodded, and as their eyes met, he knew… "Well, if that is the case, then I must do this." He shrugged. "I suppose the universe is telling me that I will both serve the greater good and find my own personal resolution by facilitating this renovation."
"What renovation?"
He harrumphed and smiled ruefully. "Mad Richie wants me and only me, to design and oversee the changes to the villa before he will sign the sales agreement."
She gasped, splaying a hand over her mouth.
He nodded, feeling a cold resolve settle into him.
Clio sat at her desk at the university, wondering why Guillermo had sought her out and practically dragged her to the Laurentian Library. After the disastrous weekend at the villa, she'd sworn she would never see him again. Even if he'd wanted to see her again, which she'd strongly doubted, despite the baffling good-bye kiss. Why had she agreed to go with him? She didn't understand the force that kept pulling them together.
Her gaze fell on the photographs and drawings pinned to her wall, her eyes tracing the delicate features of St. Theresa's face, her closed eyes and open mouth. She was so lovely in that moment. Transported. Clio took a deep breath and sighed loudly.
"Clio. Oh, Cli-o," Jonathan's voice called softly from across the room. "Where are you?" She ignored him.
And yet she did understand. Guillermo felt it too. As their subsequent conversation demonstrated. When he struggled so heroically to explain his feelings, her skin tingled all over in acknowledgement. Clio had never felt so connected before, as though the words they spoke were heavier, more significant, for being listened to so intently. And despite her advice to him about engaging in the moment and living fully, instead of running away, it felt as if she were talking to herself. There was a sad and frightened girl trapped inside of her that needed to hear those words as much or more than Guillermo did.
And when he'd confessed his predicament, and their eyes met, her heart bled in sympathy. She couldn't imagine how Guillermo could face such an ordeal. He didn't deserve this. She wanted to help him. She needed to save him from that pain. Because she knew that playing a role in systematically destroying his beloved family estate to meet the idiosyncratic desires and specifications of Mad Masta Richie would destroy him, too.
Clio gnawed at her cheek, frowning.
Guillermo might not believe there was any hope of saving the villa, but Clio could still cling to it. And as long as she did, she would do whatever she could to prove it to him.
Dr Jovi's face popped into the frame of her open doorway. "Ciao, Clio. How is your work going today?"
She sat up and blinked. This interruption she couldn't ignore. "Um. Very well, grazie, Dottore.”
Their eyes met, an implicit challenge telegraphed from him to her, and back, as she forced her slack features into an agreeable smile.
"She's been working like a dog. I can vouch for her," Jonathan piped up, his clipped British accent vaguely annoying today.
Dr. Jovi's laser vision scanned her face, her desktop, her workspace, measuring, assessing, as though he could discern her progress from some invisible clues. "Bene. Bene." He nodded and moved along down the corridor.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
She was making progress, but so slowly. Her attention was, without a doubt, divided. Back to work. She stared at her monitor, the words swimming meaninglessly before her eyes.
She drummed her fingers on her keyboard, clickety-clickety-click, not even remembering her place, or what she was supposed to be writing about. Pushing her chair back, she stood up and strode to the end of her office, spun and paced back, ignoring Jonathan's panning gaze. She pulled at her hair, strands unraveling from her braid as she tugged. How can I sit here and ignore what's going on?
Her stomach twisted. What could I do anyway? I can't solve his problems for him. If he wants to design a modernization of his family's four hundred and fifty year old Renaissance villa, and turn it over to an American bigwig musician, it's none of my business.
Clio slid her chair hard up against the desk and attacked the computer.
She checked government websites and read about heritage restoration programs, historic resource preservation grants, laws and regulations, other funding opportunities. She surveyed all the Italian universities, and several foreign ones, compiling a list of research institutes and partnerships, satellite campuses and conference facilities, making copious notes. She emailed several colleagues who worked at similar small research institutes and grilled them.
"What are you doing?" Jonathan asked, his voice falsely innocent.
Clio jerked, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. "Nothing."
"Oh. I thought your thesis was going rather well. Your energy picked up all of a sudden." A smirk snaked across Jonathan's face.
Clio frowned. "Shut up."
Laughter.
Dr. Jovi's hunched form shuffled past the door. Was he moving around more than usual? He was spying on her.
She leapt to the door and peered down the hall.
Stay calm. He'll tell Father I'm not going to make my deadline. I have to get back to work. That's all there is to it. I must put it out of my head and focus on my work. She pushed back her sleeves.
"Aargggh." She plopped into her desk chair with a groan, her head in her hands, torn between the demands of Dr. Jovi and Father, and the needs of Guillermo and his family. What am I doing? She should be finishing her thesis and getting on with her own life. But she felt more passionate about the real problem of saving Villa Cielo and its frescos and sculpture from possible destruction than she did about her own abstract work. What does that mean?
Jonathan said, his tone conversational,"I read in the online newsletter that Cornell is negotiating with the university of Bologna about a joint venture research centre. I suppose it's early days yet…"
"Why didn't you say so earlier?"
Jonathan rolled his eyes. "You said you were working on your thesis."
"You know perfectly well that's not what I'm doing."
Someone walked past the open door, and Clio flinched. It was only the departmental secretary, Signora Carlo. Clio released the breath she was holding and turned back to Jonathan.
"Is that Dr. Bensen do you think?"
Jonathan nodded. "Probably. The article didn't say."
Clio pulled her braid to one side, tugging it, and scratched the back of her neck. She'd met him once, at a conference with Father.
Before she knew it, she'd dug up an email address and banged out a brief query. Her finger hovered over the send button. What am I doing? Raising hopes when it's not my business. Not in my power to change anything. She amended the wording of her email slightly, increasing the tentative quotient. Then she pushed send, and looked up.
Jonathan's gaze slid over to her, eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth curled.
Three hours later, when Clio had managed to tear her thoughts away from Guillermo and his villa, and dig into her research chapter with determination if not enthusiasm, her incoming message dinged. I should leave it for the end of the day. It's probably nothing.
"Aren't you going to check?"
"No." Her heart wouldn't allow her to maintain a facade of disinterest. It thumped in her chest, insistent. Check, now Check, now. Check. "Oh, alright." Her voice emerged sharp and impatient, at odds with Jonathan's nonchalant, ironic inquiry.
He chuckled softly.
Opening her email, she saw a few routine messages. One from Mother. Later. Then–there. Dr. Bensen's reply. She double clicked and scanned. Oh! It was true, they were negotiating with Bologna –multi-disciplinary research institute– slightly different agendas– Bologna had no suitable space– were indeed open to considering– "Ooooh. This might work." A bubble of hope filled Clio's chest, her breathing accelerating.
Before replying Clio carefully re-read the message. The one snag was that the funds were limited. Oh, drat. That was the one thing they needed a lot of, and they hadn't yet been able to iden
tify a director for the new institute, someone to spearhead it's setup and manage day-to-day concerns. Someone based in Italy.
Hmm.
I wonder what Guillermo's degree is, and whether he'd qualify for the director's job? Curious, she Googled his name–oh, my. I should have done this before. The d' Aldobrandin name wasn't common, and except for historical references, the first four pages of real estate were owned by Jacopo. Naturally. Scrolling down, Clio finally found references to the architect Guillermo Gabriel d' Aldobrandin. She learned the name of his firm. There were awards and certificates. Many of them. He was a very prominent, successful architect in Tuscany, and in the city of Florence in particular. There were photos. Just ignore them. Despite herself, she clicked through anyway, landing on a page of Guillermo's handsome face repeated over and over–making presentations, accepting awards, his charming white smile flashing. My God, he was good looking. She sighed. A shiver of pleasure rippled through her, lifting the hairs on her arms and neck, fluttering in her chest. Oh, put it away. Stupid girl.
Forcing herself to close the window –but wait, she bookmarked it first– she clicked through for information on his firm, and eventually found reference to his education. A Bachelor's degree in history from the University of Rome. A Master's degree in Architecture from the Harvard Graduate School of Design? He studied in the States? He never said a thing. And some additional coursework at the University of Florence in historic architectural restoration and preservation. It was all pretty relevant. But would it do?
Clio had no idea if Guillermo would like to be a director of a Renaissance art and architecture institute. But he certainly had the knowledge and experience. And she had no doubt he had passion for the subject…
But it would be a very different life for him. Perhaps if he were older, nearing retirement. Right now, he was on top of his game– successful financially and highly regarded as a specialist in heritage restoration and re-use. It was an idyllic career for a young architect. Very sexy. He was probably quite content.
And yet she knew in her heart he wasn't.
What he really needed to do was take responsibility for himself and his family's estate in order to achieve self-respect, and respect from his family. That would make him happy. Remembering her conversation with Marcella, Clio knew he was a natural leader, and problem-solver, that his family turned to him for guidance and strength, even though none of them realized it.
But she couldn't say this to him. Not yet. He wasn't ready to accept the idea, and would refuse to have anything to do with the whole scheme if he found out what she was thinking. She rubbed her damp hands on her thighs and chewed her lip. But if it meant saving the villa…
Chapter 20
Guillermo fervently wished he were working at home. There at least I could numb the pain with a strong drink. Or ten. Stronzo. How was he going to get through this any other way?
He lifted his head out of his hands and stared at the sketches and plans on his desk. The smartest thing to do would be to delegate the whole damned project to someone else in the firm. Mad Richie would never know. And yet, it was too personal. Guillermo could never let anyone else cut and slash his family estate to pieces. It wouldn't be fair to his staff. Only he could do this dirty deed. And though it would in some ways be easier to work on it at home, it was a paying job –he'd made damned sure Richie was paying top fees– and he needed to use and bill his time accordingly.
"Someone to see you, Guillermo," his PA, Ignacio said from his open doorway, pushing his round glasses up his long nose.
"I'm not expecting anyone. Did I forget an appointment?"
"Eh. I don't think so." A lifted eyebrow and a twinkle in his dark eyes. "It's a girl," he said in a sing-song voice.
A girl? What does he mean–girl? What kind of girl would seek him out here? A fluttering sensation raced through his stomach, like a lone leaf lifted on a breeze, rattling against his ribcage. He ignored it.
"Tutto bene, I'll come out."
A moment later, the mystery was solved as he stepped into the front reception area to find Clio bouncing on the balls of her feet, her hands clasping a folder in front of her. The flutter in his chest returned with vigour. When she saw him, her teeth sank into her luscious full lower lip, and her wide-as-an-ocean eyes lifted to meet his, a little guilty smile flitting across her face. And a question: is this okay?
Beautiful. Heat infused his chest, tingling through him. He felt his face stretch into a smile of welcome. Dio, he was glad to see her face. "Clio, Bella!" He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, kissing her cheeks in welcome, feeling strangely pleased by the way her eyelashes grazed her cheeks shyly, and her blush of color at his greeting. "What a pleasant surprise. Come in, per favore, come in."
As he guided Clio forward with his fingertips on her lower back, toward his office, he caught curious glances between Ignacio and the receptionist, Anunziata. Over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes at them in warning. He didn't need them teasing him today. His nerves were too frayed.
Closing the door, he offered Clio a chair and sat behind his desk. "I'm surprised to see you, Clio. How are you?"
"Me? I'm fine. Just fine." She leaned in and dropped her voice. "How are you?"
Her warm sweet breath fanned his face. Hmm. He tipped his head to one side, then the other. "I'll manage."
Her eyes pierced his, and he felt his own gaze wavering under her scrutiny. There was something different about her. "Did you change your hair?"
Her hand shot up, smoothing her wild red locks, which seemed more voluminous and present than usual. "Oh! Not really, I just… didn't have time to… it's just a ponytail."
"A pony-a-tail-a," he said in English, grinning. I'd like to grab that ponytail and give it a pull. Something about her girlishness made him feel like a mischievous schoolboy. "It is very pretty. More, eh…" –he gestured with his hands– "feminine."
Pink flooded her cheeks, her gaze dropping again, and he covered another grin with his hand.
"I should have called first, or texted, but… well I had an opportunity to slip away from the Accademia, so I just grabbed it. I hope it's not inconvenient."
Their offices were not that close together. He felt his chest swell with joy that she would seek him out. He swept a hand over his sketches. "No. You know what I am doing." He shook his head. "This dimenticato commission. I struggle away." He shrugged, but found it difficult to meet her penetrating gaze.
"I have it all worked out. I think." She appeared strangely happy and excited about his misery.
He didn't know what she was talking about. "Si?"
"Si. It's all in here." She dropped a thick file folder on his desk. "I recorded all my phone calls and research, in case we have to back-track for any reason, and so you will have the information at hand, and the contacts." She pushed the file folder toward him over the desktop.
He opened the file, scanning the top sheet. Cornell University… blah, blah… Bologna University… blah, blah… instituto di ricerca di Arti i Architettura Rennaisance…
He tensed. "What is this?"
She began to explain. How she'd looked into funding for the preservation of historic sites, and that these applications had been filled out and required only his signature. How designation by the Ministry for Heritage and Cultural Activities, Director General for Landscape, Fine Arts, Contemporary Art and Architecture, or perhaps the DG of Enhancement of Cultural Heritage, as an historic architectural asset would facilitate approval of available funding. Guillermo pressed down a bubble of hope when she said how this alone would not generate sufficient funds to save the villa from sale, only prevent desecration. "But it's a good start, right?" How she'd thought of renting the space to a university or two, and she listed several examples of this kind of arrangement, as a satellite campus, summer institute, or research center.
"And this is a list of potential appointees to the board or directors. Just people that I know. You will want to add to it from your circl
e of influence."
Guillermo leaned forward, hardly daring to breath. What had she done? How had she done this? As she spoke, his chest filled with a light, bubbling sensation, as though he were hollow and would lift off his chair and float away. It was as if he was detached from his body, and watched himself from across the room, listening intently to Clio's inventory and explanation. Her elaborate scheme was improbable. He was afraid to believe her, and yet he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. Was it possible?
She got up and rounded the desk, leaning beside him to shuffle papers and show him. "There's more. Of course there's more. It's awfully complicated," she continued, her eyes gauging his reaction, wide and full of hope. The rose and gardenia scent of her filled his nose, making him light-headed, and concentration difficult. "Between the mortgage payments, ongoing maintenance costs, repairs and renovations to accommodate the changes in use, we'd have to be even more resourceful. But I think, if you would be willing to consider some hospitality business as well, the two would tie together nicely. In addition to room and board within the villa, and conference facilities, to support the academic functions, visiting students and faculty, for example, improvements could be made to various farm buildings and cottages on the estate so they could be rented as vacation properties."
Guillermo frowned, thinking of his family. Would any of them be interested in such a scheme? Would they be offended by it? Would Jacopo be able to manage it all? Business, of any kind, was not his strength.
Her curling cinnamon hair bloomed around her glowing face like a halo of fire, her cheeks flushed, and her aquamarine eyes flashed brightly with optimism and excitement. He reached up and tucked a coiling tendril of hair that had escaped its ties behind her ear, his fingers tingling. She shivered under his touch. It fueled his own excitement, and an undercurrent of desire blossomed in his veins. She was so beautiful, and so completely oblivious to her beauty, his chest ached. A remembered image flashed in his mind, of a wanton woman, completely uninhibited, consumed by passion, swirling and twirling, gyrating in his hands, shuddering in her release, and his body tightened in response. Her ecstatic face, utterly spent, in repose as she slept, surrounded by the red cloud of her untethered hair. He wanted to take her into his arms, cover her plump red lips with his mouth.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 17
