and a guitar and I’ll show you a major full-blown crush. Evan Dando from the Lemonheads, the tragic Kurt Cobain, even Radiohead’s Thom Yorke, they all leave me weak at the knees.
My mind spools back. I can remember it as if it’s yesterday, standing in a little patch of sunlight, staring at him transfixed and thinking I’d found my ideal man, and what a shame he wasn’t real. It was part of my course in art history – not the lusting bit – but the reason I was in Italy for the summer. I’d only been there a few days but already I’d fallen in love about a million times – with the huge plates of black truffle pasta, the faded ochre-coloured buildings and stunning piazzas, the sound of the water lapping gently against the banks of the canals . . .
And now with this painting.
‘Bit of a cool dude, huh?’
It had been hearing a voice behind me that had finally caused me to drag my eyes away. Otherwise, who knows how long I’d have remained standing there, marvelling at Titian’s skill as a painter and relishing the delicious coolness of the gallery after the baking midday heat outside. Those few words, spoken in an American accent, had made me realise I wasn’t alone and I’d turned round, expecting—
Actually, to this day I’m not quite sure what I was expecting. Nothing really. Just another tourist with a camera and a guidebook. After all, the city was filled with millions of them. If anything, I was probably a bit irritated about being interrupted from daydreams.
And that’s when I first saw Nathaniel.
Long, messy hair. Blond. Jeans and a T-shirt. Converse All-Stars.
And I just knew.
In the split second it had taken for my eyes to sweep over him, standing in the shadows, just a few feet away, with his hands in his pockets and a lazy smile on his face, I’d been hit with something so unexpected, so sudden, so unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was like a lightning strike. A sense of certainty so powerful it had sent me reeling.
The Italians call it colpo di fulmine. Love at first sight¤€at first kght.
This was it. He was the One.
What’s that noise?
Abruptly zoning back, I look up from the book. I can hear a humming sound. A sort of high-pitched whining . . . Puzzled, I cock my head on one side, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. It’s down that way, towards the hallway, I decide, glancing at the crates of paintings stacked up against the wall and the elevator at the far end.
Oh shit.
The elevator.
That’s where it’s coming from.
No sooner has the thought struck than I see the light next to it ping on.
I feel a flash of panic. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That must be him. The client. He’s back!
Jumping up, the book falls from my lap to the floor with an almighty thud and I scrabble for it, while at the same time tugging at my skirt and trying to tuck my hair behind my ears. I want to look suitably professional and composed, and not like someone who’s been snooping around the apartment for the last hour.
Shoving the book hastily back in the box, I turn to see the doors sliding open. OK, don’t panic. Everything’s cool. Just act normal. Right, yes, normal.
Only the problem is, there’s nothing even remotely normal about being in a stranger’s penthouse apartment while they rock up in the private elevator.
I glimpse the doorman first, the familiar flash of his dark green uniform, and then a figure appears from behind him. Tall, receding slightly, wearing a suit and sunglasses, he’s looking down at some mail in his hand as he steps out of the elevator. I watch as the doorman goes back down in the lift, then glance back at the owner of the penthouse.
Unknown
‘Hi,’ I quickly introduce myself, trying not to sound as...
Suddenly aware of my presence, he looks up and slides the sunglasses on to his head. As he does, I see a flash of surprise in his eyes. Pale blue eyes with grey flecks around the irises.
It’s like a ten-ton truck just crashed into my chest.
Oh my God, it can’t be.
It just can’t be< awaontght">On>.
Nathaniel?
Chapter Eight
‘Lucy?’
For the briefest of moments I think I’m going to faint. As my mind goes into freefall, I try telling myself I’ve made a mistake. It’s not him; it’s a trick of the light. I mean, there must be a million