Full Moon in Florence (16 page)

“Why did you come here? Lorenzo said you don’t like these events.”

“I hate them, but I don’t care about the setting if I have a chance to make Lorenzo’s life more difficult.”

Laine narrowed her eyes. “How are you going to do that?”

Antonio smiled wolfishly. “Wait and see.”

Laine wondered if she should warn Lorenzo. Had he seen Antonio arrive? She looked around the room, trying to spot Lorenzo. As she did, the string quartet switched from playing Bach to Mozart. All eyes turned toward the door as a beautiful, raven-haired woman walked in. She wore a haute-coutûre gown that seemed to have butterfly wings attached to the back.

Laine saw Lorenzo walk towards her.

“Who’s that?” said Laine to Antonio.

Antonio’s eyes seems to glaze over as he smiled, and murmured, “Isabella.”

Then, like a storm cloud passing over the sun, a scowl replaced his smile. “She was once my lover and now she is my sister-in-law.”

Laine turned to him, her brow creased with confusion.

“Sister-in-law?” She looked back at the beautiful woman.

“Yes, Lorenzo’s wife. Did he forget to mention that he’s married? A very small detail.”

Antonio winked and then moved away without a backward glance.

Laine leaned against the wall. Her dress suddenly felt too tight.

Colin

Colin took a taxi to the address Raf had sent him. It seemed like an awfully big do going on at this rowing club or whatever it was. Why had his seller wanted to meet here? Colin adjusted the silver-gray tie that felt like it was strangling him. Signoria Natalia had unearthed a white dinner jacket, dress shirt, black slacks and a tie from her son’s closet. “He’s living on an island in Greece and says he never wants to wear a suit again in his life.”

Colin had similar sentiments, but he knew there was a time and a place for dressing up.

Signora Natalia had clasped her hands to her chest when she saw him come down dressed to the nines. “She will not be able to resist you!”

Colin shook his head. “It’s not for her. This is just work.”

Signoria Natalia shook her finger at him. “You young ones want to turn love into work. Pah! Ridiculous. Life is hard enough already.”

She grabbed his wrists and looked deep into his eyes. Her own seemed to glaze over a bit.

“Tonight you must sacrifice everything for love. Like she has.”

Then she blinked, her eyes refocused, and she said, “I’ll call you a taxi?”

He smiled and nodded. The Signora really was a bit mad with these slips into semi-trances.

In the taxi Colin wondered what sort of sacrifice she was talking about. Laine hadn’t sacrificed anything. As far as he could tell, she’d taken what she’d wanted and was helping herself to more. He felt angry, jealous, hurt, and he wanted to knock out the rich Italian guy with the fancy car, but if he really thought about it, could he blame her for being tempted? What did he have to offer compared to that bloke? For all he knew, an Italian love affair was part of her fantasy.

He thought about their night together. That wasn’t a fantasy. That was
real.
But it wasn’t boring-mediocre real, it was magical-real. Colin shook his head. What was he thinking? He wasn’t making any sense. What he experienced with Laine was way better than everyday reality but it was tangible, too, something they could both hold onto, if they treated it carefully. When he was with Laine, it was as if the worlds of imagination and fantasy reached in and touched him, and her, and gave them the possibility of something greater, deeper, sweeter than anything he’d experienced before.

Colin gripped the door handle of the taxi. He suddenly felt panicky, and full of energy, and confused, and like he would do anything to get Laine back. What was this insanity coursing through him? He took a steadying breath as the taxi pulled up to the curb. He’d have to deal with these feelings for Laine later. He had work to do.

Colin gave his name at the door. The woman there checked her list and told him to wait. A few minutes later a well-dressed Italian man approached him.

“I am Antonio Montrecetti.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Colin, offering his hand.

Antonio glanced suspiciously around him before whispering, “Did you bring the final payment?”

Colin patted his jacket pocket. “Where’s the painting?”

Antonio gestured for him to follow. They went into the party. Drinks were flowing and people were laughing. Colin helped himself to a glass of wine. His beer buzz had begun to wear off and as it did he became grumpier and sadder about Laine.

He looked around the room and noticed a stage at one end. He saw an eight by eight painting on an easel. The Botticelli. The painting of the girl who looked like Laine. Colin wanted to go closer to inspect it.

“Why’s it up there?” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Antonio, looking at his watch. “Meet me outside by the dock in fifteen minutes.” He pointed to the open doors leading to a large balcony.

Colin was about to ask why, thinking Antonio was acting a bit strange — usually these deals were struck in offices or appraisers studios, not at society parties — but then Colin thought he saw Laine near the balcony doors. A second later, a large man in a ruffled shirt obstructed his view and by the time he turned back, Antonio was gone. Had he really seen Laine? Why would she be here? Colin scanned the room and saw another man he recognized, the one with whom Laine had been sharing lunch — and other things…

Colin’s jaw clenched as his mind wandered. Whatever he’d imagined in the car on the way over went up in a puff of jealous smoke.

He strode toward the balcony doors and then onto the balcony. A woman wearing pink was walking toward the dock near the river’s edge. Was it her? He followed.

“Laine?”

She turned around and all of a sudden he felt so happy to see her. Until she started talking. At first she looked confused to see him but then she put her hands on her hips and said, rather coldly,

“What are
you
doing here?”

Colin took a fortifying sip of his wine. Why was he here again? He had to remind himself.

“I’m meeting my seller, Antonio Montrecetti.”

Dumbfounded, Laine stared at him. “
You’re
the buyer?”

“My client, Lady Allbright is. I’m just handling the transaction. Why? What are you doing here?” Colin was pretty sure the answer would involve the handsome Italian from lunch and he braced himself.

“Lorenzo Montrecetti, Antonio’s brother, has already donated the painting to
my
museum coalition.”

“His brother?” Colin put the pieces together. “So
you’re
the ‘crazy museum lady’?” Colin started to laugh.

Laine narrowed her eyes until Colin stopped laughing. He shrugged.

“Sorry. That’s what my contact called you.”

“And I gather you’re the ‘profiteering painting pimp’?”

He frowned. Laine seemed really angry. Colin wasn’t sure why.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“So am I, and I’d appreciate it if you’d hightail it out of here and not mess it up for me.” She started to turn away.

“Oh, I see.” Colin smirked. “It’s all about
work
. I suppose a donation of this sort would really boost your career. So that’s why you turned on all the taps for
Lorenzo
, why you let him seduce you with that fancy lunch, let him drive you off in his private car…”

She whirled around to face him. “That didn’t happen!”

“I saw you. At the Caffè de Medici.”

“How did you even know I was there?” She looked genuinely perplexed.

He paused, not wanting to admit he had followed her. “I was out walking, just happened to see you across the piazza.”

“And you
just happened
to see me climb into his car?”

“I saw the car pull up after lunch… I saw you both walk toward it…”

“I didn’t get
in
the car, Colin. And I can’t believe you’re accusing me of all this when you have plans to go off with some other woman as soon as you get back to London!”

“What?”

“You and your ‘shagging’ plans for Brighton.” Laine rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“What are you talking about?”

“I— inadvertently— saw your text from some guy named Rudi. Were you even going to tell me about
Cassandra
?”

Colin’s hand swiped across his forward and he scrunched up his eyes.

“Rudi! That blasted prick!”

“—Does she even know you’re in Florence
with me
?”

Laine was shaking her head, a look of judgmental disbelief hardening her normally soft features.

“Laine, she means nothing. I don’t even know her. She thinks—”

“—This was just a little fling to you wasn’t it? I’m just some bit of American ass for you to play with on a business trip. That’s what your friend Rudi called me.”

That was it. That pushed him over the edge.

“You’re not
some bit
of anything!” stormed Colin. “If all I wanted was a bit of ass I’d go for a romp in Brighton with Cassandra or whomever. That’s exactly what I
don’t
want! That’s why I’m
here
. That’s why I came to Florence to meet you! To be with
you!
”

Though they’d walked down to the dock at the river’s edge to talk, they were beginning to draw attention as they argued. But Colin didn’t care. If everything went pear-shaped with Laine, Colin doubted he’d ever return to Italy again. What did he care what a pack of blasted Italian aristocrats thought of him.

And then another argument broke out out on the balcony above. This argument was in Italian, and shoving was involved.

Colin and Laine turned toward the commotion. They saw Antonio running down the path toward the dock with something wrapped up under his arm. He scrambled across dock ramp gesturing wildly at Colin and yelling, “
Ottenga nella barca! Ottenga nella barca!
”

“What’s he saying?” said Laine.

“No idea,” said Colin, and then he saw Antonio, wide eyed, pointing to the long boat pulled up alongside the dock.

“Untie it! Get in!” yelled Antonio. He looked over his shoulder. “Hurry!”

Lorenzo was now barrelling down the path yelling obscenities at his brother.

“Stop him!” he cried when he saw Laine on the dock.

“Good lord, he’s got the painting,” said Colin. “What the devil is he thinking?”

Colin hurried over to the boat. He wasn’t exactly thinking straight either. Should he untie it?

“You can’t
steal
it,” said Laine. “Lorenzo already gave it to me.”

“And Antonio’s already taken my client’s money,” barked Colin, “So technically it’s mine.”

“What?” Laine looked astonished, but Colin had no time to explain.

Antonio was now two strides from the boat. Lorenzo, his face fierce with anger, was only two strides behind his brother.

Antonio’s face looked flushed and triumphant.

And then it crumpled in confusion and pain.

His toe hooked on a protruding nail. It was just enough to knock him off balance. He went sprawling, arms and legs flailing.

The package under his arm soared over the dock, over the boat, over the water…

“Oh no!” cried Laine.

“Bollocks!” yelled Colin. He dove into the river.

Laine

The crowd had followed the brothers’ fight down to the riverside and now everyone heaved a collective gasp as Antonio tumbled into the still tied up boat, the painting plopped into the Arno, and Colin dove after it with a splash.

Laine got down on her hands and knees at the edge of the dock. Everything was forgotten — the Botticelli painting, Lorenzo, her life in San Francisco — all she could think about was Colin. She held her breath until his head broke through the moonlit surface of the river. He took a deep breath and then he lifted his arm high above the water, the square panel clasped in his fingers. The crowd gasped again.

Laine barely noticed that Lorenzo had sprinted down to the dock, hauled his brother out of the boat, and was giving him a few slaps about the head. They barked at each other in harsh Italian as Colin swam one-armed back toward the dock.

Lorenzo took the painting from his outstretched hand and examined it while Laine and Antonio helped Colin out of the water.

“Don’t worry, Laine. We’ll get this fixed. The restorers work wonders. My
brother
and his coconspirator will pay for this mess.”

Lorenzo snapped his fingers and two burly bodyguards grabbed hold of Antonio and Colin.

Laine protested, reaching for Colin, who seemed to be trying to lunge for Lorenzo but the bodyguard held him tight as Lorenzo slipped his arm possessively around Laine, saying, “By the time we get back from Tuscany, the painting it will be perfect again.”

Laine reeled on him and slapped him across clean-shaven angular jaw. His smug smile turned to surprise.

“What was that for?”

“Why don’t you ask your wife?”

Lorenzo glared at Antonio, who started chuckling.

Colin was staring wide-eyed at Laine. He was smiling. Laine’s hand was stinging.

The party crowd that had gathered around the dock parted as a gorgeous statuesque woman who looked like a butterfly paraded down the dock ramp.

“What in God’s graces is going on here?”

Antonio, his hands being held behind his back, started chattering to Isabella in fast-paced, passionate Italian.

“Antonio,
per favore
. Settle down.” Isabella turned to her husband. “Lorenzo, the Italian authorities have just barged in. Can you please explain what’s going on?”

Lorenzo’s face fell. Antonio scowled in defeat. He muttered a few choice words to his brother as several uniformed polizia gathered on the balcony. They started barking orders immediately and the party began to break up.

“What’s happening?” said Laine to Lorenzo.

Isabella looked down her perfectly proportioned Latin nose at her.

“So you’re the American girl my husband is presently infatuated with?” She shrugged. “The last one was Dutch and looked like a Rembrandt peasant.”

She frowned dismissively, flipped her hair, and then swirled away in her beautiful dress.