Page 44 of Chasing Caine
Mario continued. “They’re preparing a new exhibit. It’s off limits for another couple of weeks, but they’re letting us in to preview and see several pieces which won’t be included. Want to know what it is?”
“Who’s letting us in?” Antonio asked, arms still around me, the hardness which had pushed against my hip easing.
Mario waggled his eyebrows. “The curator I’m taking to dinner on Saturday night.”
I stifled a laugh, attempting a step back, but failing to separate from Antonio’s grip. “What’s the display?”
“Some looted items which were recently returned during confession at a nearby church. The tombarolo who took them—although he claimed at first they were in his family for generations—said he’d been suffering horrible luck for years and needed to give them back.”
Tombaroli—the Italian term given to grave, tomb, and ancient site thieves—were a big part of the cultural heritage crime problem in Italy. The country was so rich in buried antiquities it was near impossible to police.
“Where were they looted from?” I asked.
“You have one guess,” said Mario, holding up his index finger. “And it must be related to a lecture you gave me.”
My hand flew to my chest to hold my heart in. “Civita Giuliana?”
Mario winked at me.
I looked back and forth between my sex-god boyfriend and the archaeologist promising me the chance of a lifetime. The choice was obvious, at least for me. And I knew Antonio knew it, too. “I’ll make it up to you, Antonio.”
Chapter 16
Samantha
ThursdaywasfortouringSorrento. Antonio and I stood waiting for gelato—the best in the world, according to him—on a narrow pedestrian street. Tall buildings, shops, and cafés shaded by awnings lined each side. Two stories above us, laundry dried on lines spanning the gaps between metal balconies. The gelateria was small, and the line was thirty people deep. Although in perfect Italian style, it was more a mass of people who instinctively knew when it would be their turn.
“Lemon?” Antonio wore a black silk V-neck, white linen pants, and boat shoes. Ravishing, as always. He’d begged for me to wear a pale yellow dress, which fell almost to my ankles, and a wide-brimmed hat. His request for high heels was rejected. There was no way I was going on a walking tour in anything but well-cushioned sandals.
I shook my head. “I’ve had more than enough lemons at the villa to last a lifetime. Mario’s obsessed.”
“Vanilla?”
“Boring!”
He tsked at me. “Vanilla gelato is the ultimate of craftsmanship. Creating a simple flavor requires a better recipe, finer ingredients, and takes more effort to master.” He folded our joined hands behind my back to pull me closer. I had to tilt my head so the giant hat brim didn’t poke his eye out. It left me at the perfect angle for him to kiss my cheek.
He smiled broadly, while I craned my neck to check if the staff was still working inside; it was taking so long.
“Bella, patience. The gelato here is worth a small wait.”
I frowned, but he leaned in for another kiss. Something I’d never tire of.
The exhibit preview yesterday had been fascinating. And the decision to drop the investigation to just be in the moment with my sexy Latin lover was the right one. We’d made love when we got back to the villa, curled up to watch a movie Mario picked, ate takeout, and made love again. And again.
The idea of chasing down the fresco and pigments was exhilarating—the sort of thing I’d wanted to do since I was a kid. But something changed inside me over the last month. After my divorce, I did everything on my own, moving from town to town for my job and living out of my little RV. Choosing Antonio meant putting an end to that lifestyle.
He’d been by my side for the auction painting and the burned Chagall investigation, and somehow that made them both more satisfying. That was new for me. Scary. And as terrifying as that realization was a few days ago, it already felt almost comfortable.
I sighed and squeezed his hand. It was a glorious day. On the streets of Sorrento with my adoring and ridiculously amazing boyfriend. Touring, chatting, being in… whatever this was.
“How about gianduja?”
My mouth watered at the word. “Now you’re speaking my language!”
“No, bella, that’s my language. If I’d said chocolate hazelnut, that would have been yours.”
I rolled my eyes, unable to stifle the laughter. I lifted on my toes to give him a peck on the lips. “You’re so cheesy.”