SEVEN
Chiara
Don’t make me regret this more than I already do.” I pulled around a slow moving car, driving south toward San Gimignano.
“I was merely pointing out that there are numerous speed cameras along this route, and you are displaying a shocking disregard for posted speed limits.” Jack’s tone from behind me was absurdly reasonable.
Why did anything said in an upper-crust English accent have to sound so authoritative?
“Why would you care?” I asked. “If I get a ticket, it doesn’t affect you in any way. Even if I get in a car accident, you won’t be harmed. You just need to let this go.”
“I would prefer not to watch you die.”
“Are all ghosts this melodramatic?”
“A concern for your well-being hardly qualifies as melodrama.”
“Tomayto. Tomahto.”
“I haven’t a clue what that is supposed to mean. Why would you pronounce tomahto as tomayto?”
Yep. Totally regretting this decision.
The logic that had landed me here ran something like this:
The mafia may or may not be looking for me. But I had woken up to a lightning bolt of unspecified origin. It was better for everyone if I disappeared for a couple days. Going to a hotel or a friend’s house could be easily traced and/or put others in danger. The best place would be somewhere that had no immediately obvious ties to the D’Angelos.
Enter Jack’s new villa. Who even knew that Jack had purchased it? It came with built-in, twenty-four-hour ghost security, and free was a reasonable price.
The only drawback, of course, was its proximity to Jack and his too-seeing gaze.
I already felt raw, exposed and panicky from the events of the past couple days: the weird bird omens, the references to lightning, the Tempeste threat and unnerving appearance of the paper lightning bolt.
I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to handle Jack’s soul peering superpower without cracking.
So I had hummed and hawed, trying to wriggle out of it. But then Branwell threw in a bag of bomboloni fresh from the bakery around the corner.
Curse him for knowing my absolute weak spot.
My car was filled with the heavenly odor of fried pastry sitting on the seat beside me. Pity Jack couldn’t smell them.
“Tomayto. Tomahto. Google it. It’s a thing.”
Jack’s expression in the rearview mirror said he wasn’t sure. Granted, the fact that his knees were tucked practically to his ears probably contributed, too.
Whenever he traveled by car, Jack sat in the back seat, the tinted windows obscuring him from the casual observer. In a normal car, this was no big deal.
But I drove a MINI Cooper.
I adored my car. It was just like me. Small. Compact. Stylishly peppy with lots of attitude.
We were the perfect match.
Bonus. I could reach the gas pedal and see over the steering wheel at the same time.
Of course, MINI Coopers left much to be desired in the way of back seat leg room. Which meant Jack was a ghost pretzel—his calves drifted into the back of the passenger seat while his head came perilously close to poking out the roof.
He looked comical. I told myself not to smirk over it. Really, I did. But as has already been established, sometimes I have the maturity level of a twelve-year-old boy.
Jack stared me down in the rearview mirror.
His gaze said, I see what you are doing. You can try to make me less, but I still see you.
That shut me down.
Stop looking into my soul, I glared at him in return. It’s not polite.
Him: I can’t help it. You’re totally transparent.
Me: Says the ghost.
Him: Consider becoming an adult. Maturity would look good on you.
I wrenched my eyes away from his. For some reason, blood pounded in my ears. My face felt hot and my thoughts scattered. How he got that reaction from me with just a glance . . .
Silence for a few heartbeats.
“Why lightning bolts?” Jack asked. “Are they also a ‘thing’?”
He managed to air-quote the word through tone alone. Was that something he learned in Lord School?
“Nope. Not discussing that.”
My history vis à vis lightning bolts was not something I discussed. Ever. Just thinking about it sent my pulse into hyperdrive.
“Could we talk about you hiring an assistant?” I went on the offensive. If I had learned one thing from having three older brothers, it was the importance of a solid offense. “Playing social secretary with all this media attention around you has been difficult.”
“An assistant? I should think not. I will simply ignore this madness.”
I choke-snorted . . . ehr, I chorted. “Easy for you to say when you aren’t the one getting midnight calls from a woman named Candy.”
“Candy, eh?” Jack’s laugh lit up the car. “Intriguing.”
“Jack.” My tone warning.
He waved a dismissive hand, his fingers flying into the car roof. “Public opinion is fleeting, Chiara. This interest will quickly fade away.”
“Do you have any facts to back up that statement? Cause from where I’m sitting, I’m not so sure. People love a mystery and you’ve presented a potent mix: lost treasure, ocean adventure and dashing drama all topped with a healthy dollop of sexy British lord. It’s not going away.”
More silence.
Jack dropped his voice a full register, moving into throaty territory. “You think I’m sexy?”
Face palm.
“ That’s your takeaway from my little speech?” I locked eyes with him in the mirror. My heart did that stuttering thing again, zings of sensation flying down my spine.
Jack grinned, stretching out his arms and lacing his fingers behind his head, nearly sending his elbow out the window. “Yep. It was the most salient point, truth be told. And”—he raised his eyebrows—“you haven’t denied it.”
Stupid man. So what if he was sexy? Could he be any more full of himself?
“Could you be any more full of yourself?” The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
Mentally, I cringed.
Filters, Chiara. Work on your filters. Don’t say the first thing that pops into your head.
Jack pulled a wispy hand from behind his head and stared at it. “Why yes, I do believe I could. Another fifty percent of me would be greatly appreciated. I think you telling me I’m sexy would definitely help with that.”
Right to snark. That was the Jack I knew.
Once again, I asked why I let Jack bother me so much? Despite his teasing, Jack was a good man. I knew this. So why did I constantly rise to his baiting?
I darted another glance at him in the mirror, my eyes tracing the clear line of his jaw, the shadowy stubble on his cheek.
Sensing my eyes, Jack brought his gaze to mine.
I flinched and look away.
Jack chuckled and leaned toward me. “You still haven’t denied that I’m hot.”
Grrrr.
“I don’t think you’re sexy,” I deadpanned.
“You’re lying.”
I was totally lying.
But whatever. He was being insufferable.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Oy. This could go on for hours. And he accused me of being the juvenile one here?
I turned up the stereo. Twenty-first century code for, ‘This conversation is over.’ To ensure the message got across, I pulled out a bombolone.
There are very few things in life as delicious as a fresh, Tuscan bombolone. Imagine the lightest doughnut possible, warm from the oven, dusted with powdered sugar and filled with vanilla custard.
I may have moaned when I bit into it.
“Uhmmm . . . sooooo good.” I licked sugar off my lips and took another bite of decadent fried heaven. My eyes rolled back in my head.
Honestly.
It’s the little things in life.
I was on my fourth bite before I glanced in the rearview mirror.
Jack met my gaze, his expression fierce and predatory. If I had to label it, I would call it longing. Yearning.
His eyes flicked to the doughnut still in my hand.
Right.
Not letting my eyes leave his, I popped the rest of the doughnut in my mouth. Chewed with intense pleasure. And then slooooooowly licked the remaining sugar off my fingers.
One.
At.
A.
Time.
By the end, Jack’s irises had bled from sunny blue to homicidal black.
He shook his head, breaking the trance. “Chiara D’Angelo, you are a truly sadistic woman.”
I knew he wanted it to be a threat, but his tone was more admiration than anything.
Game. Set. Match.
Seriously. All you needed was a good offense.
One more win for me.
I cranked the stereo and bopped my head to Justin Bieber. Personally, I wasn’t much of a Belieber. But Bieber annoyed Jack. So, I really had no choice but to listen to him. Obnoxious, remember?
Jack stared out the window for the rest of the drive, face impassive and stoic. So very lordly.
I brutally suppressed the tiny voice in my head that whispered Jack was right. I was behaving immaturely. I needed to grow up.
But the thought of willingly letting Jack peer into my soul constricted my breathing and caused fluttery panic to attempt to beat its way out of my chest, choking me and making my palms sweat—
Yeah.
So . . . not doing that.
But I did take pity on Jack (and, let’s be honest, myself) and switched to Michael Buble instead of Bieber for the rest of the drive.
After another thirty minutes of winding through lush, Tuscan countryside, I turned off the main road and onto the long, cypress-lined lane to Jack’s villa.
Jack’s new place was a Renaissance-era villa perched atop a small hill in central Tuscany. Orange-yellow stucco with enormous white corner stones, the villa featured a sweeping staircase up to the grand front entrance. Every window sported a breathtaking view over the surrounding countryside—rolling green hills and fields of sunflowers, far-off castle towers, the lingering smoke of farmers burning off fields glinting in the setting sun.
I supposed it was a fitting house for a former English lord.
I parked the car and wrestled my suitcase and bag out of the trunk, up the wide stairs, through the entrance hall and into the gilded drawing room to the left of the front door.
Jack grimaced as I set down my heavy bags. “I truly dislike being unable to help at times like this.”
“I can manage, your lordship.” I was breathing heavily. My bags weighed a ton . . . probably time to reevaluate my shoe obsession. “I can do this. You think these puny little arms need help?”
I flexed for him. Jack cocked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. I shrugged and looked around.
The room had changed over the past few weeks. I had walked through the place with Tennyson a month ago, but with minimal furnishings, the house had been a hollow shell.
Since then, Jack and my brother had been busy. The room gleamed with new furniture, some of it still in plastic wrap. The ubiquitous ginormous flatscreen TV of all male residences sat to one side of the room, facing a comfy looking couch and club chairs. The other side had elegant chairs and sofas around the tall marble fireplace, all backed by a gleaming grand piano. Overhead, frescoes punctuated gold-leafed beams and moldings.
Wires poked out of the walls here and there, interrupting the svelte look of the space.
“The contractors have not finished installing the home automation devices.” Jack nodded toward the bare wires.
I sighed and kicked off my shoes. “Translation—you will need me to turn things on and off for you.”
“I do love your quick mind, Chiara.” He grinned. “Would you please turn on the television for me? I would like to catch up on today’s news and rest my sexy body on this couch.”
“Not sexy, Jack.”
“Really? What changed between the car and now?” He mockingly looked at his ever-same self. “I distinctly remember someone saying I was, and I quote, ‘a healthy dollop of sexy English lord.’”
“I should have cut out my tongue first.”
“I think your subconscious just got the better of you. It loves my impossibly handsome self. You’re right. Let’s forget about the TV. We’ll chat about my gorgeousness while you unpack instead.”
He swept his hand, indicating the way toward the kitchen, expression far too innocent.
I didn’t exactly stomp over to the massive television, but I certainly muttered threats under my breath. Fortunately, it didn’t take me long to find a gossip channel discussing the latest Beyoncé slash Jay Z fiasco.
Score.
Jack groaned. “Change it.”
“Not a chance, buster.”
“ Chiara.”
“Jack.” I nudged the volume up.
His eyes narrowed. I hate you.
Right back atcha, big guy.
I paused, waiting.
Hey, what do you know? I managed to not say that line. Maybe I could be the adult here.
Progress.
I mentally high-fived myself and walked through into the kitchen. Now I just needed to stop mooning over Jack’s pretty eyes and broad shoulders and decidedly kissable lips—
Whoa, there. Definitely needed to nip those thoughts in the bud.
I unpacked yogurt, milk and some bagged salads into the fridge. Unfortunately, I could hear the loud television all the way in here.
So . . . not a total win for me.
Sources close to Jay Z say that . . .
Mmmm. I might need to rethink my strategy. I focused on tuning out the babbling white noise.
Unfortunately, ten minutes later, the television intruded again.
People everywhere have been asking questions about this mysterious photo of Jack Knight-Snow. Why is the man so reclusive? Should we consider this a publicity stunt?
Great. Now Jack would be even more insufferable. When would this all go away? That was the only question I wanted answered.
Gritting my teeth, I stomped back into the drawing room.
“No.” Jack jumped to attention, putting out a hand as if he could prevent me from turning off the television. “You made me listen to Justin Bieber. You owe it to my sexy self to let me watch this.” Jack winked at me.
Oh!
“For the last time, I. Do. Not. Find. You. Sexy!” I growled through gritted teeth.
When reached for comment, Chiara D’Angelo of D’Angelo Enterprises agreed with our own Candy White that Jack Knight-Snow is every bit as sexy in person as he is in his now-famous photo.
I froze.
The horror of that moment.
The intense burn up my neck and cheeks.
Jack’s face lighting up like Christmas morning.
His loud, guffawing laugh.
Honestly, I hadn’t been this humiliated since the time stupid Jenny Jenkins announced to my entire eighth grade art class that I was drawing a love portrait of Mr. Miller, our art teacher. For the record, Mr. Miller was a looker, and Jenny Jenkins proved herself to be a total self-absorbed narcissist in high school.
But still.
The damage was done.
And judging by the triumphant look on Jack’s face . . . I wouldn’t be living this down anytime soon. I changed the channel to the BBC and tossed the remote onto the couch. Jack opened his mouth, obviously intent on gloating more.
“Save it, Jack. I’m sure you’ll come up with a thousand ways to taunt me with this by morning. Let’s savor the silence until then.”
Jack’s expression dimmed, his brows drawing back.
“Chiara, I—”
“It’s enough, Jack. Let’s just leave it be.”
I finished unpacking everything to the sound of snooty monotone British men arguing over the economic impact of Brexit.
Jack made no comment.
Maybe he felt bad. Maybe I had hurt his feelings somehow. Or maybe he was already plotting all the ways he was going to ‘lord’ this over me. Who knew.
I stomped upstairs and chose the fanciest bedroom for myself before slapping a hastily hand-drawn ‘No Ghosts Allowed’ sign up and crawling into bed.
All the while, I studiously ignored the sound of the television and the lingering memory of Jack’s triumphant laughter.
As soon as I fell into a deep sleep, my fevered subconscious handed up a strange dream. The owl during my surveillance mishap had foretold a vision of the departed. Somehow my brain decided that the departed in question should be Jack.
The scene unfolded gently. A fluttery flower of sensation with every detail precise and distinct.
Jack sat in a library or study of sorts.
He was fully corporeal and solid, dressed in breeches, slippers, a loose white shirt and an oriental silk banyan. Reading glasses perched upon his nose and a book open in his hands. He was the epitome of dashing aristocratic manhood. He looked to be a few years younger than the Jack I knew, but it was hard to tell.
The worst part? He was sexy.
Like text your girlfriends, squeal in excitement, spend long hours fantasizing about H-O-T. Dark auburn hair carelessly styled with just the right amount of flair. Chiseled cheekbones, a strong jawline and faint laugh lines that promised confidence and mischief in equal measure.
Sun streamed in from the open window behind him, a summer breeze rustling the heavy curtains to either side. The room was lined with bookshelves and littered with maps, stacked books and loose papers.
A scholar’s refuge.
Sounds drifted in. Birds quarreling outside the window, their small shapes darting back and forth. The excited barking of a dog. The shrieks and laughter of children.
The door snicked open. Jack raised his head at the sound. The noise of children giggling and feet running instantly increased. Pandemonium lived outside the door.
A woman glided into the room. She cradled a baby of about six months of age in the crook of her arm with one hand, the other hand holding up the skirt of her high-waisted muslin dress.
“I have torn the hem of my gown and must see Betsy to fix it.” She lifted her skirt higher. A section of the bottom of her dress hung loose, a ragged tear.
Jack lowered his book and tilted his head, surveying the woman over his glasses. “Though I appreciate the openness of your announcement, Catharine, I fail to perceive how a ripped hem affects myself.”
Two sparrows alighted on the window sill behind Jack, adding their opinions to his statement, chirping and quarreling.
The woman laughed. Catharine, I supposed. Hers was that laugh all woman perfect—one part humor, one part frustration and three parts ‘don’t be an idiot.’
Catharine crossed the room and, without warning, deposited the baby in Jack’s surprised arms.
“Lottie would love to spend some time with her Uncle Jack.” Catharine kissed the child’s head and walked back out the door.
“I have an entire army of servants at your disposal, Catharine. Not to mention our mother, three other sisters, a brother and a sea of children,” Jack called after her. “I most certainly do not need to be the one to hold your child.”
But as Jack spoke, he wrapped a hand around Lottie’s middle and pulled her back against his chest, the possessive motion entirely negating the frustrated tone of his words.
Laughing, Catharine poked her head back into the room. “It does the soul good to cuddle a child from time to time, brother dear. Ignore your grumpy uncle, Lottie-love. He adores you.”
The shrieks and screams drew nearer. A piping little voice from outside called, “Ready or not, here I come!” Two small children whipped around Catharine, darting into the room.
“Don’t tell Suzy we’re in here, Uncle Jack,” a red-headed boy whispered as both children dove under a cluttered desk.
Jack sighed, shooting a scathing look at Catharine.
“Save your lordly stare for those who need it, Jack,” she laughed again. “We all know you are fluffy meringue underneath it. You love a house full of family and life.”
“You are such a disappointment to me,” Jack intoned. He did not, however, disagree with her.
Catharine chuckled and shut the door.
Shaking his head, Jack leaned forward, surveying the children under the desk.
“Pull your jacket in tighter, Thomas,” he instructed. “Suzy will see you from the door otherwise.”
Grinning, the boy did as he was told, both children giggling like maniacs.
Jack frowned, looking down at Lottie. For her part, Lottie stared at him and then proceeded to stuff her fist in her mouth.
“Humph.” Jack’s frown deepened, shooting glances at the children hiding underneath his desk. “Humph,” he said again.
He kissed Lottie’s head before propping his book back up, positioning it in front of the baby.
“I bet your mother only reads Byron to you, Lottie. Scandalous, I say. Let us peruse some Homer together, shall we?”
The tableau seared into my soul.
Jack cradling Lottie, protective and gentle. Light streaming across them from the window behind.
Even in my dream, tears pricked at my eyes. Obviously, this scene wasn’t a real memory from Jack. How could it be? Just my stupid mind projecting for some reason. Would the Jack I know ever have behaved like this?
But the underlying truth remained.
How much had Jack lost?
The answer was simple, I supposed:
Everything.
Jack had lost everything that had ever mattered to him. Not just a way of life and his position in society. Not just his very identity. But his entire family, too. Death of a loved-one was still death, no matter when it happened. The people he loved were still gone. He would never see them again.
Loss swamped me. How would it be to lose everyone? My mind couldn’t encompass it.
I had only lost one person close to me . . . my father.
Of course, thinking about my father sent the scene swirling and morphing, moving from fantasy to memory.
A different room appeared. The large drawing room in Villa Maledetti. Not as it was now, but as it had been when I was a child. Older furniture and a television that was more box than screen. Sunlight lapped the room and all the doors and windows were thrown open in hopes a breeze would stir the heavy warmth of summer.
I rested against the curve of my father’s shoulder, Cesare’s arms around me. Dante, Branwell and Tennyson crowded onto the couch with us. But Daddy’s arms were all for me.
We were watching television. Nothing more.
Why had my memory dredged up this? I had to be around ten, making the triplets fourteen. One of the summers we had spent with our babbo—daddy in the Tuscan dialect—after he and mom had decided to live apart, us kids living with her in Portland while Babbo stayed in Italy.
It wasn’t as if Babbo and Mom hadn’t loved each other still. They had. That was the tragedy of it all. But by that point, Babbo had become increasingly unstable. The visions and feelings that assaulted him on a daily basis were overwhelming. He wanted to be with us but feared inadvertently hurting us more. His hold on reality had been tenuous, fragile. And so he had sent us away, knowing that the safest place for us was far from him.
I didn’t care. I was daddy’s little girl cuddled into the security of his arms, breathing in his distinct scent: expensive cologne, peppermint and something else that was indefinably him.
My brothers laughed. A poorly-designed puppet alien had appeared on the screen. The alien awkwardly stumbled about, the Japanese actors saying wooden lines in badly dubbed English. Outside voices gave sarcastic commentary on the campy film.
Mystery Science Theater 3000. It was a ritual with us.
Babbo’s arms tightened around me and I snuggled closer, not caring that the warmth of his body made me simmer in the July heat. I had missed him so much this past year and didn’t want to waste a single minute of the time we had together. A slight breeze rustled through the room and thunder rumbled in the distance, both promises of rain in the near future.
The boys laughed again. The alien stomped on an obviously cardboard city, firecrackers going off in what were supposed to be impressive explosions. It was so dorky. I pressed my ear against Babbo’s chest, reveling in the sound of his rumbling chuckle.
A sparrow suddenly darted into the room, flapping around the furniture and chirping omens of winter.
“Ah, man!” Branwell groaned.
“I told you we shouldn’t leave the doors open.” Tennyson stood up, making a shooing motion to get the bird out of the room.
“It’s fine,” Dante grumbled. “You’re blocking the TV, Tenn.”
Tennyson chased the bird around the room, the poor thing evading his hands and the windows. It finally landed on the TV, head angled as if to say, What are you looking at?
Another loud explosion from the television sent the sparrow off again. The actors had lured the alien into an odd pod-like structure and were frantically working to zip it shut.
“Let the poor thing be, Tenn,” Babbo said. “It will find its own way out eventually.”
Grumbling, Tennyson sat down with an oof.
Babbo pressed a kiss to my forehead, pulling me even closer.
“I love you, mia passerotta.” His breath tickled my ear.
“I love you, too, Babbo.”
“I’ll always love you,” he said, “even when I’m gone.”
“You can’t leave. I won’t let you.” I clutched him tighter.
“Of course. You are right.” His voice a soft murmur. “How could I ever leave my little passerotta—”
I threw myself out of the memory, lurching upright in my bed.
Disorientation swamped me. That moment between waking and sleep where I couldn’t process the moonlit, gold-leaf baroque wall paper, crystal sconces and plush canopied bed. Where was I? Had I wandered into Jack’s memory for real?
Recollection and reality clicked into place behind the thought. Leaving Florence. Jack’s villa. Fancy bedroom. Strange dreams and memories I had long-ago buried.
Right.
I forced my breathing to slow down, told my heart to let go of this shattered feeling. And then, piece-by-piece, I dismantled the memory of my father and stuffed it deep down into my emotional black hole .
Babbo was not something I intended to dwell upon. That way lay madness.
As for Jack . . .
I knew he had a brother and several sisters, one of whom was named Catharine. But I had never really contemplated the world that he had left behind. He must have had a life full of friends and family and chaos. He never talked about them, but surely he missed them. Underneath all that lordly exterior had to be a lonely man adrift in a strange world . . . and I had never even bothered to ask about his family.
Dammit. I blinked back the stinging in my eyes and grumpily snuggled back into bed.
I kept saying I was going to be kinder to Jack, to think before I spoke, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t being kinder or more understanding.
Was something broken within me? Why couldn’t I just be . . . nice?
Tennyson’s words from earlier in the day shot through my mind:
Seeking help doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It means you’re smart.
Would that help? Opening up my heart and allowing it to bleed to some unknown therapist?
Panic choked me at the thought. No, thank you.
So I had baggage? And cute little eccentricities? Who didn’t? I could overcome them on my own.
But I did vow to be nicer to Jack.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would start.