THIRTEEN
Jack
I awoke to Chiara’s worried voice. “Jack? Jack. Please come back to me, Jack!”
I opened my eyes and found myself staring into Chiara’s brown gaze, her face just inches from mine, forehead wrinkled in concern. Turning my head, I realized I was still outside, collapsed and hovering about a foot off the ground.
Part of me was surprised by this. But . . . of course I would still be in the same place. How could Chiara have moved me? It wasn’t as if she had a ghost lasso to tug me inside.
Memory rolled through my mind . . . Chiara’s foolhardy attempts to chase off the man. Me pushing myself into near invisibility, trying to hide. The agonizing pain of holding my body in that position. The paparazzo threatening Chiara.
The sudden jolt of finding myself corporeal.
In hindsight, it was obvious. I had pushed my entire body nearly out of this world, and I had rebounded by coming more into this reality.
It was a rubberband effect. If pushed too hard one way, I sprang back an equal distance in the opposite direction.
But . . . the sheer shock of the moment, of finding myself entirely corporeal for the first time in forever. The barrage of sensation.
Why had I ever taken it all for granted before?
The weight of the stifling summer air. The smell of mown grass and flowers. The instant stickiness of dense Tuscan humidity. The rustle of my clothes as I breathed in and out. The feathery sensation of the soft breeze across my skin.
And Chiara. Staring, open-mouthed, pupils dilated, the slight wind ruffling her dark hair and the red silk of her blouse.
The paparazzo had said something about a kiss. My eyes dropped to her lips. Every other thought had scattered.
This had been my wish.
For the first time since leaving the shadow world, I could feel my body again. I had no intention of wasting the opportunity. Two steps and I had her in my arms, her back curved, pressing her into my chest.
I was a gentleman. I didn’t ravish women.
But something about that first touch of Chiara D’Angelo.
The flood of sensation short-circuited my brain.
The petal softness of her cheek against my palm. The perfect fit of my hand at the nip of her waist. The arching rise of her body to meet mine.
The lush give of her mouth.
All of it . . . crazed madness.
I lost any sense of time, of reason. I could have spent centuries kissing this woman.
And now, facing her, all sensation having faded . . . I realized I would probably spend centuries reliving the memory of that kiss.
Huzzah for me.
Chiara sat cross-legged on the ground, her face level with mine. “Are you all right?” Concern laced her voice. “You gave me another good scare there.”
Chiara worried about me? I could get used to this.
I sat up. A wave of fatigue rolled over me.
“I . . .” I swallowed. “I am tired but I don’t think there was any permanent harm done.”
“You sure?” Her gaze anxious.
Looking around, I noted the lengthened shadows. I had been out for several hours. Chiara must have sat by me the entire time, watching over me. The thought caused my non-existent heart to tremble.
“What happened with the paparazzo?” I asked.
She gave a decidedly Italian shrug of her shoulders. “He ran off. I didn’t see him after you—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, after we—” She huffed, eyes squinting. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Her concern was starting to concern me.
Sarcasm? Pithy rejoinders? Snide comments? Yes.
But this uncharacteristic worry . . .
Was I in that bad of shape? Did I look different?
I surveyed myself. I appeared the same, though my shirt was now effectively unbuttoned to the top of my waistcoat. The memory of her small hands—fisting my clothing, clutching my hair, touching my skin—momentarily swamped my brain.
Anguished loss crashed in behind.
I wanted to hold her again, to kiss her, to cuddle her in my arms and promise to never let her go.
Being given just a taste of the life I had lost . . . it was too cruel.
Odd how the sensation of panic—tight chest, constricted throat—was the same even without a physical body.
Keep yourself together.
Chiara continued to run her eyes over me.
“You changed.” Her non sequitur not quite clear.
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Your clothes, your hair.” She waved a hand indicating my entire body. “They’re different now. You’ve looked exactly the same since I first met you.”
I tried to pat my hair, but of course could not. “How bad is it?”
Chiara shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Well, if someone hadn’t decided to rearrange it for me—”
“Don’t you dare, Jack!” Her entire body exploded into motion, hands flying, expression outraged. Ah. That was better. “You kissed me.”
I had. And thoroughly enjoyed it.
“There are better ways to get attention,” she continued. “Has daytime TV taught you nothing?” She drew her hand across her mouth. “ Why did you kiss me?”
“You didn’t seem to mind.”
“What? It was awful.” She snorted. “Like kissing my brother.”
Our eyes locked. We both knew that was an absolute lie.
I couldn’t help it. I grinned.
She rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re going to be impossibly smug now, aren’t you?”
“I have it on good authority that you find me sexy.”
“You kissed me!” She jabbed a finger at my chest.
“You kissed me back. Enthusiastically, I might add.” I wiggled my eyebrows. “You even moaned.”
She blushed and covered her face with her hands, shaking her head. “You need to stop, Jack. Besides, you still haven’t said why you kissed me.”
Several thoughts flitted through my brain.
I kissed you because I adore you.
I kissed you because I couldn’t bear the thought of never knowing how you would feel in my arms.
Despite the improvement in our relationship, I knew Chiara wasn’t ready for such truthful answers. So I backtracked and went with a safer response.
“It was a test,” I said.
“What? Kissing me was a test?”
“True love’s first kiss. You thought it might be a thing.”
Silence.
Her brows drew down, skeptical of my motives. She was an intelligent woman, after all.
“That was one hell of a kiss just for . . . ‘testing.’” She air-quoted the word.
“Thank you.”
She may have growled.
Of course, she honed in on the unsaid implication of my words. “You do realize that true love’s first kiss requires, ya know, true love and all that?”
Her subtext was clear: If you expect me to buy that as your explanation, then you’re going to have to confess to loving me.
She had successfully backed me into a corner.
I wanted to be angry, but her cleverness was too impressive.
I replied as any other man in my situation would—I laced my fingers behind my head and shot her a cocky smirk, letting her interpret it as she would.
Chiara held my gaze for a moment, shooting visual daggers but saying nothing.
Like I said, smart woman.
Finally, she shook her head. “Well, regardless of your motives, it didn’t work.”
I swept a hand down my front. “Clearly.”
“At least we know that you can become entirely corporeal. It is possible.”
“Yes, if only in reaction to pushing myself nearly invisible.”
“It’s a start. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll be able to hold your physical form for more than a minute or two.”
Ah. Life goals. I was torn between laughing or crying.
Hell, who was I deceiving? I laughed . . . but only because I physically couldn’t cry.
Surely there was a profound philosophical message in that simple fact.
“Glad you’re okay and we can move on from this.” She stood up, brushing her pants. “I’m going to go find me some lunch.”
With that parting shot, she walked away, head high.
Chiara’s dismissal of our ‘situation’ was shockingly short-lived.
The next morning I was watching a French chef make chocolate pastries (mesmerizing, by the way) when Tennyson called.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Jack. What the hell?!”
Not quite the greeting I had anticipated.
“Good morning to you, too?” It came out as a question.
“What have you been up to with my sister?”
Uhm, aside from driving each other insane and stealing a kiss?
Probably not the best thing to say.
I went with, “Why do you ask?”
A beat.
“Have you turned on the news this morning?”
Uh . . . no. But I would now. Barking a voice command, I changed the channel. An image flared across the screen, burning into my brain.
Chiara and I wrapped around each other. I had a hand pressed into the small of her back, lifting her up to meet my lips. She was on tiptoe, hand tangled in my hair, spine arched to reach me.
Three more images popped up, showing a stuttering succession of motion.
It was romantically dramatic. Damn but we looked good together. Not the reaction Tennyson was going for, I guessed.
A woman’s voice droned in the background.
“. . . these shocking new images showing Jack Knight-Snow caught in a moment with a woman. Sources close to Mr. Knight-Snow have identified the woman as twenty-nine-year-old Chiara D’Angelo of Florence. D’Angelo Enterprises have been instrumental in handling the sale of the Knight-Snow horde. It appears that Ms. D’Angelo’s interest in Mr. Knight-Snow is decidedly more than just business, given these photos showing the two of them in an intimate embrace at Mr. Knight-Snow’s Tuscan villa south of Florence.”
The screen cut to two television commentators laughing at their desk. Both oozed Hollywood—the older man botoxed to the hilt and the younger woman bleached blond, tan and flawless.
“Isn’t this the same Chiara D’Angelo who said she found Jack Knight-Snow sexy, Candy?”
“It’s exactly the same person, Tom. Of course, I speak for women everywhere when I say, none of us blame her.”
“And what about those clothes, Candy? Mr. Knight-Snow’s fashion sense has already been noted in that previous image of him.”
“I know, Tom. The internet has flipped over them. Everyone is wondering if Jack Knight-Snow regularly dresses like his long ago British namesake. I chatted earlier with a wardrobe designer for several BBC costume dramas. The designer couldn’t get over how authentic Knight-Snow’s clothing looked.”
“C’mon, though. What grown man dresses up like Mr. Darcy in this day and age? It’s gotta be just a little mental, don’t you think, Candy?”
“Mental or not, sign me up. Jack Knight-Snow is the hottest thing on the internet right now. This is only going to increase the demand for more information about the reclusive treasure-hunter.”
Tennyson stayed silent on the phone line. As he was on bluetooth speaker phone, he clearly heard everything. I muted the television.
“Sooooooo . . . ,” Tennyson drawled, “I obviously am not going to call you out and go all pistols at dawn but seriously? How did you manage to look so solid in the photos? And why was anyone close enough to you guys to take the photos? And, more to the point, why are you kissing my sister?”
Right.
This was definitely a moment which would benefit from a solid three fingers of scotch.
The plight of being a ghost.
With a sigh, I explained to Tennyson all that had happened, starting with my burgeoning ability to make myself corporeal and moving through to the paparazzo.
In the middle of my conversation with Tennyson, I heard Chiara come down the stairs and clank around in the kitchen. She was talking to someone on the phone, too. Probably Nonna on her cruise. But possibly another brother or maybe her mother who might be up late in Portland, Oregon.
I had lots of uncomfortable conversations lining up for my future.
To his credit, Tennyson simply listened to my explanations and offered the occasional comment.
“Going totally corporeal is good news,” he said once I was done.
“It is. Now I just have to learn how to do it intentionally, not as a side effect of pushing into the shadow world.”
“Agreed. So given that the whole world knows generally where you live, what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Like I’ve said, this internet thing isn’t going to magically go away. And you’ve effectively just dumped gasoline on the fire. I don’t know how we’re going to keep you secret without resorting to confining you in a cellar somewhere. You certainly can’t stay in your villa for the time being.”
I grunted in reply. We chatted about a few options. Chiara finished her phone call in the other room.
“Hey, Tenn.” She walked in and slumped into the couch next to me. “We got larger crisis than just ol’ Jack here looking hot in photos.”
I suppressed a smile.
Chiara noted my smile and determined that it was smug.
It was.
She returned with a death-stare.
“What’s up?” Tennyson asked.
“I just got off the phone with the police. Given that my face is now plastered on every media site between here and Antarctica, we have bigger problems.”
“Namely . . .”
“I’ve just made myself significantly more identifiable. Which means I am now more likely to be targeted by the mafia regarding this ongoing police investigation.”
Ah.
“To say Inspector Paola is annoyed with me would be a massive understatement. The good inspector strongly suggested that I go deeper to ground, and as she eloquently put it, ‘Avoid being a media whore.’ Got any suggestions?”