His Lost-and-Found Bride

This was work. This was only about work. Nothing else.

Being involved in the discovery and identification of a new fresco would be amazing. She couldn’t believe the timing. If she’d still been caught up in negotiations, Alessio could have directed this call to someone else on the team. Even though frescoes were her speciality, the Italian Heritage Board expected all their staff to be able to cover a whole range of specialities.

She drew in a deep breath. Her brain was still spinning, still processing. This was the man she’d lived with, breathed with. What had he been doing these last few years?

Her heart twisted in her chest. Was he married? Did he have children?

‘Lucia?’

His voice had been brisk before, but now it was soft. The way it had been when he’d tried to cajole or placate her. Just the tone sent a little tremor down her spine.

She cleared her throat, getting her mind back on the job. She had to take Logan out of this equation. This discovery could be career-changing. It was time to put her business head on her shoulders.

‘What can you tell me about the fresco?’

He hesitated. ‘I almost don’t know where to start.’ His voice was echoing. He must be standing in the chapel now. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to imagine Logan—his broad shoulders, thick dark hair and oh-so-sexy green eyes. He was already there. Permanently imprinted from the last time she’d seen him.

After all the emotion, all the pent-up frustration and anger, all the tears, she’d been left with his face on her mind. A picture of resolve. One that knew there was no point continuing. One that knew walking away was the only way they would both heal.

She’d known he wouldn’t come after her. They had been past that point. He might not have agreed but he’d realised how much they’d both been damaging each other.

The vision of him standing in the stairwell of their apartment, running his hand through his just-too-long hair, his impeccable suit rumpled beyond all repair and his eyelids heavy with regret had burned a hole in her mind.

‘Just tell me what you see.’ She spoke quickly, giving her head a shake and trying to push him from her mind.

He sighed. ‘I can’t, Lucia. I just can’t. It’s just too...too...magnificent. You have to see it for yourself. You have to see it in the flesh.’

Flesh. Every tiny hair on her arms stood on end. Seeing it in the flesh would mean seeing him in the flesh. Could she really go there again?

‘Wait,’ he said. She could hear him fumbling and for a second it made her smile. Logan wasn’t prone to fumbling. ‘What’s your email address?’

‘What?’

‘Your email. Give me your email address. I’ve just taken a photo.’

She recited off her email address. It was odd. She didn’t even want to give that little part of herself away to him again. She wanted to keep herself, and everything about her, sealed away. Almost in an invisible bubble.

That would keep her safe.

Being around Logan again—just hearing his voice—made her feel vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. No one else had ever evoked the same passion in her that Logan had. Maybe it was what they’d gone through together, what they’d shared that made the connection run so deep. But whatever it was she didn’t ever want to re-create it. She’d come out the other side once before. She didn’t think she’d ever have the strength to do it again.

Ping. The email landed in her inbox and she clicked to open it.

As soon as the photo opened she jerked back in her seat. Wow.

‘Have you got it?’

‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ she breathed. She’d spent her life studying frescoes. Most of the ones she’d encountered were remnants of their former selves. Time, age, environment had all caused damage. Few were in the condition of the one she was looking at now. It was an explosion of radiant colour. So vivid, so detailed that her breath caught in her throat. She expanded the photo. It was so clear she could almost see the brushstrokes. What she could definitely see was every hair on the baby Jesus’s head and every tiny line around Mary’s eyes.

‘Now you get it,’ said the voice, so soft it almost stroked her skin.

‘Now I get it,’ she repeated without hesitation.

There was silence for a few seconds as her eyes swept from one part of the fresco to another. There was so much to see. So much to relish. The palm of her hand itched to actually reach out and touch it.

‘So, what now?’

The million-dollar question. What now indeed? ‘Who owns the property?’ she asked quickly.