She switched on her answering-machine and headed for the door. She needed to be confident. She needed to be professional. Logan would find this situation every bit as awkward as she would.
She was an expert in her field—that’s why she’d been called. And if she could just hold on to the career-defining thought and keep it close, it could get her through the next few days.
Because if that didn’t, she wasn’t sure what would.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCIA STEPPED DOWN from the chartered flight with her compact red suitcase in her hand. She’d spent most of the flight going over notes, trying to determine who the likely artist of the fresco would be.
The style was vaguely familiar. But there were a huge number of fresco artists spanning hundreds of years. Often the date of the building helped with the determination of the artist, but it seemed that Palazzo di Comparino had existed, in some state, for hundreds of years. The chapel even longer. There were a number of possibilities.
The airport in Tuscany was private—owned by some local multi-millionaire—so she was practically able to walk down the steps into the waiting car.
She gave a nod to the driver. ‘Grazie, I will be staying at Hotel di Stelle.’
He lifted her case in the trunk of the black car. ‘No, signorina. A room has been prepared for you at Palazzo di Comparino.’
Her stomach clenched. She’d been definite about booking her own accommodation. Working with Logan was one thing, living under the same roof—even for a few days—was too much.
‘No, I insist. I must stay at the hotel. Can you drop my bag there, please?’
He gave a little smile and climbed into the driver’s seat. The Tuscan countryside flew past. The roads in the area were winding, climbing lush green hills, passing hectares of olive groves and vineyards, filling the air with the aroma of Mediterranean vegetation. Tuscany was known for its rolling hills, vineyards and fine wines and olive oil.
It was also unique in its representation of class. Every kind of person stayed in these hills. They passed a huge array of houses and tiny cottages dotted over the countryside. Medieval villages, castles—some ruins, some renovated—and old farmhouses crowning hilltops.
After thirty minutes the car passed an old crumbling wall and turned onto a narrow road lined with cypress trees, then rolled into the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Lucia put down her window for a better view. The village had two bell towers that were ringing out the hour as they arrived. There was also a piazza surrounded by small shops and businesses, cobblestoned walkways going up and down the narrow streets and a fountain where a few children were walking around the small wall surrounding it and splashing water at each other.
There was an old well on one side next to red-brick houses with gorgeous flower boxes and laundry strung overhead.
A few blue and red scooters whizzed past, ridden by young men with their trousers rolled up at their ankles and their hair flapping in the wind. Helmets didn’t seem to be a priority.
She smiled. It was gorgeous. It was quaint. It could be a setting for a film. Every character that was needed was there—the small wizened woman hanging her washing from a window, the young mother hurrying past with her child, a shopkeeper standing in a doorway and a couple of young girls whispering and watching the guys zipping past on their scooters.
The car turned onto another winding road, again lined with cypress trees. It only took a few moments for the palazzo to come into sight.
It was a sprawling, grand building with lots of little scattered buildings around. Lucia twisted in her seat, but it wasn’t until the car pulled up outside the sweeping entrance of the palazzo that she finally saw the building she was after on the other side of the courtyard.
An old traditional chapel. Dark stonework, arched windows and door. It had two stained-glass windows, which had obviously been added at a later date than the original build.
But before she had a chance to focus on the beauty of the building something else took her breath away.
Logan, emerging from the entrance of the chapel. It had been twelve years since she’d seen him and she hadn’t quite expected the jolt that was running through her body.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair, which was still a little too long. Logan had always been stylish, had always dressed as if the clothes had been made personally for him. Today he had on cream suit trousers and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves pushed up. Only Italian men could get away with cream suits. She imagined his cream jacket would have been discarded somewhere inside the chapel.