Scarlet Wilson - His Lost-And-Found Bride

Logan let out a laugh. ‘Oh, Lucia, I forget that you don’t keep up with the news. Prince Antonio of Halencia and Christina Rose. It’s only a few short weeks away.’

‘And you’re still renovating?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. All the Italian renovation projects that Logan had been involved with before had taken months to complete. Months of negotiation for the correct materials sourced from original suppliers and then the inevitable wait for available master craftsmen.

This time he didn’t laugh. This time there was an edge to his voice. ‘Yes. I have around forty men working for me right now. This fresco—it was more than a little surprise. There was wood panelling covering all the walls. Every other wall we’ve uncovered has been bare. We expected this one to be the same.’ He sighed. ‘I expected just to use original plaster on the walls. It should only have taken a few days.’

Now she understood. This discovery was amazing—but it could also cause huge hold-ups in Logan’s work. She’d known him long enough to know that would be worrying him sick.

Logan never missed a deadline. Never reneged on a deal. And although she hadn’t heard about this wedding she was sure it must be all over the media. If Logan couldn’t finish the renovations of the church in time the whole wedding would be up in the air and his reputation would be ruined.

Not to mention his bank balance. She’d no idea who the owner was, but there was every chance she’d put a clause in the contract about delayed completion—particularly when it was so vital.

‘I’ll come.’ The words were out before she really thought about it. She grabbed a notebook and pen. ‘Give me the address and I’ll make travel arrangements today.’ As her pen was poised above the paper her brain was screaming at her. No. What are you doing?

She waited. And waited.

‘You’ll come here?’ He sounded stunned—almost disbelieving.

Her stomach recoiled. Logan obviously had the same reservations about seeing her as she had about him. But why—after twelve years—did that hurt?

But he recovered quickly, reciting the address, the nearest airport and recommending an airline. ‘If you let me know your flight details I’ll have someone pick you up.’

His voice was still as smooth as silk but she didn’t miss the implication—Logan hadn’t offered to pick her up himself.

It didn’t matter that she was alone in her office, she could almost feel her mask slipping into place. The one that she’d used on several occasions over the years when people had started to get too close and ask personal questions. When past boyfriends had started to make little noises about moving to the next stage of their relationship.

Self-preservation. That was the only way to get through this.

‘I’ll email you,’ she said briskly, and replaced the receiver. She ignored the fact her hands were trembling slightly and quickly made arrangements on her computer. Alessio would be delighted at the prospect of a new fresco. As long as it wasn’t a complete fake and a wasted journey.

But it didn’t sound like a fake—hidden for years behind wood panelling in a now-abandoned private chapel. It sounded like a hidden treasure. And even though she didn’t want to admit it, Logan was so experienced in Italian architecture and art he would have enough background knowledge to spot an obvious fake.

She sent a few final emails and went through to give the secretary she shared with five other members of staff her itinerary for the next few days. It was five o’clock and her flight was early next morning. She needed to pick up a few things and get packed.

She turned and closed her window. Venice. She’d felt secure here these last few years. She’d built a life here on her own. She had a good job and her own fashionable apartment. There was security in looking out her window every day and watching the traffic and tourists on the Grand Canal. The thought of heading to Tuscany to see Logan again was unsettling her. She felt like a teenager.

She picked up her jacket and briefcase, opening her filing cabinets to grab a few books. She had detailed illustrations of just about every fresco ever found. There were a few artists who’d lived in Tuscany who could have painted the fresco. It made sense to take examples of their work for comparison.

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.