I couldn’t have said what it was that I saw exactly. But I saw it.
“A professor at university talked about these pieces,” I murmured. “He said Michelangelo once said something about being able to see the figures in the stone and when he was carving, he was simply letting them out.”
“A true artist, then,” Salvatore replied, setting his hand on my back again.
I nodded, swallowing with some difficulty. “I can see them.”
My voice had been a whisper, rough and vulnerable, and I hated myself for it.
The pressure at my back increased, but he said nothing more, for which I was grateful.
Eventually, we made our way out of the gallery and back to the scooter. I prepared to sit down when Salvatore shook his head.
“No?” I asked, frowning in confusion. “Are we staying here?”
He shook his head once more. “We have much more to do. But I am not going anywhere until you tell me why you are angry with me.”
I rolled my eyes. I was not going into this now. “Just take me wherever we’re going.”
He folded his arms and stared at me, saying nothing.
“It’s fine,” I huffed. “It’s just the way you are with women, and it irks me. That’s all.”
His brow furrowed slightly, his head cocking to one side. “When was the last time you saw me with another woman, Claire?”
I looked away towards a group of tourists attempting to fit into one photo. “At breakfast this morning.”
“And who was that?” he asked, his voice filled with infinite patience.
The desire to snarl roared to life once more. “Thalia Lymond.”
“And what did I do?”
Now I looked down at my feet, wishing I’d thought to get a fresh pedicure. “Smile and wink.”
“And do you know why?” His tone was now fairly patronizing, and I was not going to let that stand.
I lifted my eyes and stared directly at him. “Because she is a gorgeous woman with towering legs and you’re going to rendezvous with her tonight.”
To my surprise, Salvatore smiled. “First wrong point: her legs are scrawny. Second wrong point: the only rendezvous is with you, and you won’t let me past your threshold. And thirdly…”
“Thirdly?” I prodded, holding my breath.
He shrugged, making a face. “You are gorgeous. She is merely pretty.”
She was… And I was…
Oh.
I had to take a moment as that sunk in, my indignation having vanished at some point without me noticing. “Why did you smile and wink?” I asked with a bit of a wince.
There was another winning smile that made my kneecaps melt. “She asked me what I had planned for you tonight. She seems to like you well enough, so I thought I would give her something to talk about.”
Well, there it was. I had made a right mess of things, and royally so, and all that was left was for the streets of Florence to engulf me whole and spare me further embarrassment. I looked up at the sky and wished I were anywhere else.
“Claire…”
His voice forced me to look back at him, and I actually wished I were crying, for whatever reason.
He came closer, stopping right in front of me and putting his hands on my shoulders. “I need you to not expect me to be the worst version of myself. I need you to trust that I will always come back to you.”
“But back from where?” I exhaled sharply and let myself actually show the vulnerability I was feeling. “I know who you’ve been. And I don’t know how to believe this version of you. I trust in what I know.”
“Not what you feel?” he asked, cupping my cheek with one hand.
I shook my head. “That’s never helped me before. It’s unreliable.”
His hand went back to my shoulder and his expression hardened. “Like me.”
The harsh tone hurt and I gave him an apologetic look. “I didn't mean that.”
His dark eyes searched mine for a long time, and then he sighed as well. “Time will give you the proof you need. So today you are spending time with me. No one else. All day, just you and me.”
I nodded obediently, not because he’d said so, but because I wanted to. I wanted to be with him all day. Him and no one else.
But…
“I need us to be friends today,” I said quickly. “Not… anything else.”
Salvatore gave me a brisk nod, smiling brightly. “I can do that. But first…”
He cupped my face and kissed me hard, almost insistently, and despite the desperate nature of my words, I kissed him back. Just as I began to soften, he pulled back.
“There. Now we can be friends.” He winked and got onto the scooter, putting on his helmet as if he were as cool as the shade.
I… took a bit longer. A shiver rippled through me, warning me to be careful, and I listened, climbing onto the scooter behind him. I put the helmet on, held onto Salvatore, and let him drive on to wherever we were headed next.
Friends. Friends were safe, right?
I got another whiff of his cologne and I almost groaned.
Safe from him or safe from myself?
CHAPTER EIGHT
I should have stayed mad at Salvatore. It would have made the day so much easier, and I wouldn’t have had the struggle of liking him and not having him as we went on with his day of surprises for me.
He was enjoying the whole thing, giving me smoldery eyes and sultry smiles and swoony Italian phrases I didn’t understand, while being friendly and teasing and warm, all at a safe distance.
He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
And was laughing about it.
He’d had us stop along the Ponte Vecchio, which was just about the most perfect bridge I had ever seen, and just enjoy the breeze off of the Arno. We’d talked and slowly I’d felt myself finding the comfort with him again that had been so easy only yesterday. It was a heavy subject, too heavy for a day like today, but someday we would have to talk about my insecurities and tendency to believe the negative over the positive.
We did, however, talk about the flirting.
After the fourth woman on the Ponte Vecchio had said something to him in Italian that had been unmistakably suggestive, I’d groaned and steered him back to the scooter, telling him I couldn’t handle one more of those, and he needed to stop smiling about it.
“My friends have always found that amusing,” he reminded me with a mischievous smile.
I did not return it. “This particular friend needs you to either be less attractive or make it clear that you are not interested in their attentions.”
That had really delighted him. “Is my friend Claire jealous?”
My elbow to his ribs had ended the conversation rather quickly.
Or so I’d thought.
He’d had me sit in front of him on the scooter that time, telling me where to go and terrifying me with letting me drive, though his hands were beside mine the entire time.
And then he’d started the Italian again.
I’d only caught some phrases, but it was enough to ruffle me. “Mi piace che sei geloso.”, “Voglio passare la vita con te.”, “Dammi ragione per sperare.”, “Permettemi di essere il tuo!”
By the end of that ride, I was barely seeing straight, let alone able to drive. We were not going to be riding in this position anymore, especially if he wanted us to arrive anywhere in one piece.
We pulled up to another gorgeous building, one that looked more like a palace than anything else.
“What’s this?” I asked as he turned off the scooter.
“La vostra tua ispirazione,” he murmured into my ear.
I jerked away with a shiver. “Stop that!” I wiped at my ear as if he might have been an irritating gnat flying around it. “Say it in English.”
He grinned. “Your inspiration.”
“What, is that what you call yourself?” I snapped as I tossed the helmet at him.
He hooted a laugh. “Your words, not mine.” He ge
stured to the house. “This is the Palazzo Pitti and the Boboli gardens.”
“I’m not familiar with them,” I said with a frown, staring up at the magnificent facade. “It’s huge.”
“There are several museums and collections in it,” Salvatore replied as he came up beside me. “I thought we might start in the gardens with our picnic and then you could choose which parts of the house we see.”
I turned to look up at him. “Picnic? You didn’t bring any food.”
He grinned at me and tapped my nose. “I am the Duca di Brista, Tesoro. I called ahead and they prepared one.”
I gaped as he took my hand and tugged me along behind him. I knew that influence could do many things, having arranged for several outrageous allowances myself, but I had no idea that a Monterran duke could have any influence at all in Florence. “How does that even work?”
“I called, they arranged.” He shrugged easily. “Semplice.”
I hit his arm hard. “Not what I meant! You’re Monterran!”
“My cousin is a man of some distinction in Italy,” he replied with a laugh, looking the slightest bit sheepish. “He is always willing to use his influence on my behalf.”
“Of course he is,” I muttered.
That earned me a hard look. “You do the same thing, and expect the same thing. No judging, fatina.”
That, at least, was true.
“No judging,” I agreed.
The kitchen staff at the palace, or wherever the food had come from, had outdone themselves. Our “picnic” had been a table in a quiet grove near a fountain, and the amount of food in the basket would have fed a dozen. But there was so much by way of variety that we wound up eating at least half of everything. I had to try it all, and Salvatore was more than willing to help me with it. It was really a beautiful setting, and would have been utterly romantic.
If we were being romantic.
Which we weren’t.
I took a moment after eating to make a quick sketch of the fountain, with Salvatore leaning over my shoulder to watch me work. He’d been respectful and honest, but also surprisingly inquisitive. His praise sounded sweet and sincere without being flattering and over-the-top, which I appreciated, and as I finished, he started laughing to himself.
“What?” I asked, smiling at the sound.
He shook his head, his eyes crinkling slightly as he looked back at me. “I was just wondering when you were going to finish the drawing of me.”
My smile vanished as I stared at him. “The what?”
The look in his eyes was too knowing. “That day of our countryside walk. You started drawing a picture of me. I want to know when you would finish it.”
There was no way he could know about that. I hadn’t let him see my sketchbook and it had never been out of my possession.
But that smug smile…
He knew.
“How did you know about that?” I asked weakly.
His grin spread and he winked. “I didn’t. That was a guess. I just hoped you had.” He held out his hand to head into the palace and I took it with a moan of despair.
“It’s all right, cuore mio,” he soothed, rubbing my hand. “If I had your skills, I would have hundreds of pictures of you by now. But all I have are memories, and they are more than enough.”
My heart decided to do a jig in my chest, and I prayed the gallery within the house would be worth my inner torment.
As it happened, it was a glorious place. The Palazzo Pitti was huge and had so many galleries and collections within its masterful walls that I stared at the options with a gaping mouth, completely paralyzed and unable to choose anything. Salvatore just laughed and steered me off to the Palatine gallery first.
It had some truly magnificent pieces of art; portraits, landscapes, and religious or mythical themes dotting every wall, nearly every surface. It was not arranged like any other museum I had seen, where there was organization by theme or style or time period. Here it was almost completely random, a true collection of various pieces for whatever reason.
I would have thought that such a thing would have bothered me, seeing how I tended towards organization and order in all things. But somehow, I enjoyed the variety and almost chaotic nature of the arrangement.
It was free. Like the art itself.
Not that I would have arranged a museum or gallery like that myself, but it did give me pause. Not everything had to be in perfect order and clean lines, especially when it came to art.
And there was so much to see! Incredible and intricate pieces, beautiful reminders of the Renaissance and all it left as its legacy, and I suddenly found myself wishing I had ages of time to spend studying every piece
“All of these pieces belonged to the Medici family,” Salvatore said as we walked into yet another room. “Part of their private collection. And there is more of it upstairs in the Royal Apartments. Most people consider the rooms themselves to be works of art, you know.”
I glanced up at him in suspicion. “How do you know all that?”
He pretended to look offended. “I know things.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “You looked it up.”
“I did not,” he protested firmly. Then he smiled. “I called yesterday and spoke to someone here who could recommend the galleries we should see and give me insight to impress you with.”
That was oddly adorable, and I beamed up at him. “Thank you for trying. It’s very sweet.”
Salvatore shrugged, though his smile told me he was very pleased with my comments. He slid his hand into mine, and I let him. Why not? He was trying and he was being sweet, and if he wasn’t flirting with other girls…
Well, I was only human.
“How did you know I would love this place?” I asked him as we moved into the Room of Iliad, craning my neck to see it all.
He was silent for a long moment, long enough that I had to look back up at him. “I just knew,” he finally said.
“That’s not an answer,” I scolded, squeezing his hand.
That made him smile. “But it is the truth.” He pulled me close and murmured into my hair, “Ti voglio bene. Non finisce mai l’amore che ho per te.”
I bit back a sigh and let myself lean against him. “I don’t know what that means,” I reminded him.
He chuckled softly. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out eventually.”
“What if I want to know now?” I asked him, trying for a grin even though I was going to pieces inside.
“Learn Italian,” he told me with a wink. “Then you’ll know exactly what I’m saying.”
“And why?”
Again he was silent, musing as we walked the room, the art no longer drawing me in as much as he was. “Well,” he answered, his voice surprisingly rough, “you should already have a fair understanding of the why.”
I frowned at that. I should know what? That he found me attractive? That he wanted to spend time with me? That he thought about me enough to plan out a day of brilliant art I adored and called ahead to arrange things for us?
I wasn’t sure what any of that meant.
But I was finding it harder and harder to stick to my resolution. Just friends was starting to feel more like a punishment for me than a safe boundary to save me.
I could be strong. I could wander this beautiful gallery of Renaissance works that belonged to one of the most powerful families in Italy in a house that also belonged to them with a gorgeous Monterran who had arranged this entire day with me in mind, without completely losing my mind, self-respect, and worst of all, my heart.
I could.
“Oh, there he is.” Salvatore pulled me along quickly. “I arranged for a private tour guide to take us through the rest of the gallery and the Royal Apartments upstairs to give us more of the real story. He’s supposed to be the best, and believe me, I asked.”
I couldn’t. Oh, I couldn’t. A private tour of this exquisite gallery on top of everything else?
I was living in a dream
and I did not want to wake up.
Ricardo, as it turned out, claimed he could trace his family back to the most powerful members of the Medici family, though he could not name who they were when pressed. But he absolutely insisted that he was, and that the same powerful blood flowed through his veins if I were ever to be free and interested.
Salvatore growled something in Italian at the old man, who wheezed a laugh and responded in kind, which made Salvatore snort with laughter. I could only presume it was inappropriate, which made it even more hilarious. Even I could laugh at the way they were laughing.
We followed Ricardo for a while, who also happened to claim an artistic ability for himself, though his art was sold down by the Arno every Saturday morning for roughly twenty Euro. But he would be happy to make me a better offer if there was a piece I liked more.
Under his influence, the Palatine Gallery and Royal Apartments came alive for us, more than it had before. I could almost see the members of the Medici family coming in and out of the rooms, barely glancing at the art they knew so well. I was jealous of their good fortune, and not only because of the splendor in which they lived. They most likely had no idea how brilliant the artwork they had meticulously collected and cultivated was. It would have been a perfectly commonplace sight for them, nothing to get excited about and certainly nothing for anyone to see.
Salvatore was almost as riveted as I was on the pieces, asking thoughtful questions and encouraging Ricardo’s overly elaborate stories, keeping his hand in mine or a hand at the small of my back the entire time. I loved being close to him, knowing he was loving this as much as I was, even if he might have been mostly ignorant.
Surely he couldn’t fake all of this.
Surely he felt… something.
Because I was feeling everything.
And I needed him to feel something, if not everything, too.
He led me out of the gallery when we had finished, back to the scooter, where I held him tighter than I had before, letting myself sink into him and hold him the way I had been dying to.
I had no idea where we were going, and I didn’t care. I was with him, and that was all I wanted.
The Royals of Monterra: Royal Rivals (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 9
