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The Vineyards of Calanetti
Saying ‘I do’ under the Tuscan sun …
Deep in the Tuscan countryside nestles the picturesque village of Monte Calanetti. Famed for its world-renowned vineyards, the village is also home to the crumbling but beautiful Palazzo di Comparino. It’s been empty for months, but rumours of a new owner are spreading like wildfire … and that’s before the village is chosen as the setting for the royal wedding of the year!
It’s going to be a rollercoaster of a year, but will wedding bells ring out in Monte Calanetti for anyone else?
Find out in this fabulously heart-warming, uplifting and thrillingly romantic new eight-book continuity from Mills & Boon Romance!
A Bride for the Italian Boss by Susan Meier
Return of the Italian Tycoon by Jennifer Faye
Reunited by a Baby Secret by Michelle Douglas
Soldier, Hero … Husband? by Cara Colter
His Lost-and-Found Bride by Scarlet Wilson
The Best Man & the Wedding Planner by Teresa Carpenter
His Princess of Convenience by Rebecca Winters Saved by the CEO by Barbara Wallace
His
Lost-and-Found
Bride
Scarlet Wilson
SCARLET WILSON writes for both Mills & Boon Romance and Medical Romance. She lives on the west coast of Scotland with her fiancé and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached via her website: www.scarlet-wilson.com.
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This book is dedicated to my fellow authors
Susan Meier, Jennifer Faye,
Michelle Douglas, Cara Colter, Teresa Carpenter,
Rebecca Winters and Barbara Wallace.
It has been so much fun creating this series with you!
Contents
Cover
The Vineyards of Calanetti
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Extract
Endpage
Copyright
PROLOGUE
‘SIGNOR! SIGNOR, VENGA ORA!’
Logan Cascini was on his feet in an instant. As an architect who specialised in restoring old Italian buildings, to get the call to help transform the Palazzo di Comparino’s chapel for a royal wedding was a dream come true.
The property at the vineyard was sprawling and over the years areas had fallen into disrepair. His work was painstaking, but he only employed the most specialised of builders, those who could truly re-create the past beauty of the historic chapel in the grounds and the main palazzo. Most of the buildings he worked on were listed and only traditional building methods could be used to restore them to their former glory.
Timescales were tight in order to try and get the chapel restored for the royal wedding of Prince Antonio of Halencia and his bride-to-be, Christina Rose. No expense was being spared—which was just as well considering he had twenty different master builders on-site.
‘Signor! Signor, venga ora!’
He left his desk in the main palazzo and rushed outside to the site of the chapel. His stomach was twisting. Please don’t let them have found anything that would hold up the build. The last thing he needed was some unexpected hundred-year-old bones or a hoard of Roman crockery or coins.
This was Italy. It wouldn’t be the first time something unexpected had turned up on a restoration project.
He reached the entrance to the ancient chapel and the first thing that struck him was the fact there was no noise. For the last few weeks the sound of hammers on stone and the chatter of Italian voices had been constant. Now every builder stood silently, all looking towards one of the walls.
The interior of the chapel had been redecorated over the years. Much of the original details and façade had been hidden. The walls had been covered first in dark, inlaid wood and then—strangely—painted over with a variety of paints. Every time Logan came across such ‘improvements’ he cringed. Some were just trends of the time—others were individual owners’ ideas of what made the building better. In restoration terms that usually meant that original wood and stone had been ripped away and replaced with poorer, less durable materials. Sometimes the damage done was irreparable.
His eyes widened as he strode forward into the chapel. Light was streaming through the side windows and main door behind him. The small stained-glass windows behind the altar were muted and in shadow. But that didn’t stop the explosion of riotous colour on the far wall.
A few of the builders had been tasked with pulling down the painted wooden panelling to expose the original walls underneath.
There had been no indication at all that this was what would be found.
Now he understood the shouts. Now he understood the silence.
Beneath the roughly pulled-back wood emerged a beautiful fresco. So vibrant, the colours so fresh it looked as if it had just been painted.
Logan’s heart rate quickened as he reached the fresco. He started shaking his head as a smile became fixed on his face.
This was amazing. It was one of the most traditional of frescoes, depicting the Madonna and Child. Through his historical work Logan had seen hundreds of frescoes, even attending a private viewing of the most famous of all at the Sistine Chapel.
But the detail in this fresco was stunning and being able to see it so close was a gift. He could see every line, every brushstroke. The single hairs on Mary’s head, baby Jesus’s eyelashes, the downy hair on his skin, the tiny lines around Mary’s eyes.
Both heads in the fresco were turned upwards to the heavens, where the clouds were parted, a beam of light illuminating their faces.
Part of the fresco was still obscured. Logan grabbed the nearest tool and pulled back the final pieces of broken wood, being careful not to touch the wall. Finally the whole fresco was revealed to the viewers in the chapel.
It was the colour that was most spectacular. It seemed that the years behind the wood had been kind to the fresco. Most that he’d seen before had been dulled with age, eroded by touch and a variety of other elements. There had even been scientific studies about the effects of carbon dioxide on frescoes. ‘Breathing out’ could cause harm.
But this fresco hadn’t had any of that kind of exposure. It looked as fresh as the day it had been painted.
His hand reached out to touch the wall and he immediately pulled it back. It was almost magnetic—the pull of the fresco, the desire to touch it. He’d never seen one so vibrant, from the colour of Mary’s dark blue robe to the white and yellow of the brilliant beam of light. The greens of the surrounding countryside, the pink tones of Jesus’s skin, the ochre of the small stool on which Mary sat and the bright orange and red flowers depicted around them. It took his breath away.
He’d hoped to restore this chapel to its former glory—but he’d never expected to find something that would surpass all his expectations.
‘Signor? Signor? What will we do?’ Vito, one of the builders, appeared at his elbow. His eyes were wide, his face smeared with dirt.
‘Take the rest of the day off,’ Logan said quickly. ‘All of you.’ He turned to face the rest of the staff. ‘Let me decide how to proceed. Come back tomorrow.’
There were a few nods. Most eyes were still transfixed on the wall.
There was a flurry at the entranceway and Louisa, the new owner of the palazzo, appeared. ‘Logan? What’s going on? I heard shouts. Is something...?’ Her voice tailed off and her legs automatically propelled her forward.
Louisa Harrison was the American who’d inherited Palazzo di Comparino and hired him to renovate both it and the chapel back to their former beauty. She was hard to gauge. Tall and slim, her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing yoga pants and a loose-fitting top. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at the fresco and shook her head. ‘This was here?’ She looked around at the debris on the floor. ‘Behind the panelling?’
He nodded while his brain tried to process his thoughts. Louisa would have no idea what the implications of this could be.
She turned back to face him, her face beaming. ‘This is wonderful. It’s amazing. The colours are so fresh it’s as if the painter just put down his paintbrush today. I’ve never seen anything like this. Have you?’
He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve seen a few.’ He gave a nod to the wall. ‘But none as spectacular as this.’
She was still smiling. It was the most animated he’d seen her since he’d got here. Louisa rarely talked to the tradesmen or contractors and when she did it was all business. No personal stuff. He’d learned quickly that she was a woman with secrets and he still had no idea how she’d managed to inherit such a wonderful part of Italian history.
But her intentions seemed honourable. She’d hired him after going along with the request for a wedding venue from Prince Antonio. And with his growing reputation, thriving architecture business and natural curiosity there had been no way he’d turn down the opportunity to do these renovations.
‘It will be the perfect backdrop for the wedding,’ Louisa said quietly, her eyes still fixed on the fresco. ‘Won’t it?’
He swallowed. Exactly how could he put this?
‘It could be. I’ll need to make some calls.’
‘To whom?’
‘Any new piece of art has to be reported and examined.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘And a fresco falls under that category?’
He nodded. ‘A fresco, any uncovered relics, a mosaic, a tiled floor...’ He waved his hand and gave a little smile. ‘We Italians like to keep our heritage safe. So much of it has already been lost.’
‘And you know who to call? You can sort this all out?’ He could almost hear her brain ticking over.
He gave a quick nod.
‘Then I’ll leave it to you. Let me know if there are any problems.’ She spun away and walked to the door.
Logan turned back to the wall and stood very still as he heard the quiet, retreating footsteps. The enormity of the discovery was beginning to unfurl within his brain.
He could almost see the millions of euros’ worth of plans for the prince to marry here floating off down the nearby Chiana River.
In his wildest dreams the prince might get to marry his bride with this in the background. But Italian bureaucracy could be difficult. And when it came to listed buildings and historic discoveries, things were usually painstakingly slow.
He sucked in a deep breath. The air in the chapel was still but every little hair stood up on his arms as if a cool breeze had just fluttered over his skin. He knew exactly what this fresco would mean.
He knew exactly who he would have to contact. Who would have the expertise and credentials to say what should happen next. Italy’s Arts Heritage Board had a fresco expert who would be able to deal with this.
Lucia Moretti. His ex.
CHAPTER ONE
LUCIA STARED OUT of the window, sipped her coffee and licked the chocolate from her fingers.
If her desk hadn’t been on some priceless antiques list somewhere she would lift her aching legs and put them on it. She’d just completed a major piece of work for Italy’s Art Heritage Board. Months of negotiations with frazzled artefact owners, restorers and suppliers. Her patience had been stretched to breaking point, but the final agreement over who was going to fund the project had taken longest. Finally, with grants secured and papers signed, she could take a deep breath and relax.
She pushed her window open a little wider. Venice was hot, even for a woman who’d stayed there for the last twelve years, and the small-paned leaded-glass window obstructed her view out over the Grand Canal. A cruise ship was floating past her window right now—in a few months these larger ships wouldn’t be allowed along here any more. The huge currents they unleashed threatened the delicate foundations of the world-famous city. So much of Venice had been lost already—it was up to the present generation to protect the beauty that remained.
Her boss, Alessio Orsini, put his head around the door. His eyes were gleaming and she straightened immediately in her chair. Alessio had seen just about every wonder of the world. There wasn’t much left that could make his eyes twinkle like that.
‘I’ve just had the most interesting call.’ She waved her hand to gesture him into her room, but even though he was in his late seventies he would rarely sit down.
‘What is it?’
He gave a little nod. ‘There’s been a discovery. A new fresco—or rather an old one. Just been discovered in Tuscany during a chapel restoration. I’ve given him your number.’ He glanced at her desk. ‘Seems like perfect timing for you.’
She smiled. Alessio expected everyone around him to have the boundless energy he had. But her interest was piqued already. An undiscovered fresco could be a huge coup for the heritage board—particularly if they could identify the artist. So many frescoes had been lost already.
It seemed as though the whole of Italy was rich with frescoes. From the famous Sistine Chapel to the ancient Roman frescoes in Pompeii.
The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up straight away. This could be the most exciting thing she’d worked on in a while.
‘Ciao, Lucia.’
It was the voice. Instantly recognisable. Italian words with a Scottish burr. Unmistakable.
Her legs gave a wobble and she thumped down into her chair.
‘Logan.’ It was all she could say. She could barely get a breath. His was the last voice in the world she’d expected to hear.
Logan Cascini. The one true love of her life. Meeting him in Florence had been like a dream come true. Normally conservative, studying art history at Florence University had brought Lucia out of her shell. Meeting Logan Cascini had made it seem as though she’d never had a shell in the first place.
He’d shared her passion—hers for art, his for architecture. From the moment they’d met when he’d spilled an espresso all down her pale pink dress and she’d heard his soft burr of Scottish Italian she’d been hooked.
She’d never had a serious relationship. Three days after meeting they’d moved in together. Life had been perfect. He had been perfect.
They’d complemented each other beautifully. He’d made her blossom and she’d taught him some reserve. He’d been brought up in a bohemian Italian/Scots family and had often spoken first and thought later.
She’d had dreams about them growing old together until it had all come to a tragic end. Getting the job in Venice had been her lifeline—her way out. And although she’d always expected to come across him at some point in her professional life she hadn’t realised the effect it would have.
Twelve years. Twelve years since she’d walked away from Logan Cascini. Why did she suddenly feel twenty years old again?
Why on earth was he calling her after all this time?
He spoke slowly. ‘I hope you are well. Alessio Orsini suggested you were the most appropriate person to deal with. I’m working in Tuscany at the Palazzo di Comparino in Monte Calanetti. I’m renovating the chapel for the upcoming wedding of Prince Antonio of Halencia and Christina Rose, and yesterday we made the most amazing discovery. A fresco of the Madonna and Child. It’s exquisite, Lucia. It must have been covered up for years because the colours of the paint are so fresh.’
His voice washed over her like treacle as her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. How stupid. Of course. Alessio had just told her he’d given someone her number. He just hadn’t told her who.
Logan Cascini was calling for purely professional reasons—nothing else. So why was she so disappointed?
It wasn’t as if she’d spent the last twelve years pining for him. There was a connection between them that would last for ever. But she’d chosen to leave before they’d just disintegrated around each other. Some relationships weren’t built to withstand tragedy.
She tried to concentrate on his words. Once she’d got over the initial shock of who was calling, her professionalism slipped back into place.
This was work. This was only about work. Nothing else.
Being involved in the discovery and identification of a new fresco would be amazing. She couldn’t believe the timing. If she’d still been caught up in negotiations, Alessio could have directed this call to someone else on the team. Even though frescoes were her speciality, the Italian Heritage Board expected all their staff to be able to cover a whole range of specialities.
She drew in a deep breath. Her brain was still spinning, still processing. This was the man she’d lived with, breathed with. What had he been doing these last few years?
Her heart twisted in her chest. Was he married? Did he have children?
‘Lucia?’
His voice had been brisk before, but now it was soft. The way it had been when he’d tried to cajole or placate her. Just the tone sent a little tremor down her spine.
She cleared her throat, getting her mind back on the job. She had to take Logan out of this equation. This discovery could be career-changing. It was time to put her business head on her shoulders.
‘What can you tell me about the fresco?’
He hesitated. ‘I almost don’t know where to start.’ His voice was echoing. He must be standing in the chapel now. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t need to imagine Logan—his broad shoulders, thick dark hair and oh-so-sexy green eyes. He was already there. Permanently imprinted from the last time she’d seen him.
After all the emotion, all the pent-up frustration and anger, all the tears, she’d been left with his face on her mind. A picture of resolve. One that knew there was no point continuing. One that knew walking away was the only way they would both heal.
She’d known he wouldn’t come after her. They had been past that point. He might not have agreed but he’d realised how much they’d both been damaging each other.
The vision of him standing in the stairwell of their apartment, running his hand through his just-too-long hair, his impeccable suit rumpled beyond all repair and his eyelids heavy with regret had burned a hole in her mind.
‘Just tell me what you see.’ She spoke quickly, giving her head a shake and trying to push him from her mind.
He sighed. ‘I can’t, Lucia. I just can’t. It’s just too...too...magnificent. You have to see it for yourself. You have to see it in the flesh.’
Flesh. Every tiny hair on her arms stood on end. Seeing it in the flesh would mean seeing him in the flesh. Could she really go there again?
‘Wait,’ he said. She could hear him fumbling and for a second it made her smile. Logan wasn’t prone to fumbling. ‘What’s your email address?’
‘What?’
‘Your email. Give me your email address. I’ve just taken a photo.’
She recited off her email address. It was odd. She didn’t even want to give that little part of herself away to him again. She wanted to keep herself, and everything about her, sealed away. Almost in an invisible bubble.
That would keep her safe.
Being around Logan again—just hearing his voice—made her feel vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. No one else had ever evoked the same passion in her that Logan had. Maybe it was what they’d gone through together, what they’d shared that made the connection run so deep. But whatever it was she didn’t ever want to re-create it. She’d come out the other side once before. She didn’t think she’d ever have the strength to do it again.
Ping. The email landed in her inbox and she clicked to open it.
As soon as the photo opened she jerked back in her seat. Wow.
‘Have you got it?’
‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ she breathed. She’d spent her life studying frescoes. Most of the ones she’d encountered were remnants of their former selves. Time, age, environment had all caused damage. Few were in the condition of the one she was looking at now. It was an explosion of radiant colour. So vivid, so detailed that her breath caught in her throat. She expanded the photo. It was so clear she could almost see the brushstrokes. What she could definitely see was every hair on the baby Jesus’s head and every tiny line around Mary’s eyes.
‘Now you get it,’ said the voice, so soft it almost stroked her skin.
‘Now I get it,’ she repeated without hesitation.
There was silence for a few seconds as her eyes swept from one part of the fresco to another. There was so much to see. So much to relish. The palm of her hand itched to actually reach out and touch it.
‘So, what now?’
The million-dollar question. What now indeed? ‘Who owns the property?’ she asked quickly.
‘Louisa Harrison—she’s an American and inherited the property from a distant Italian relative. She hired me to renovate the palazzo and chapel for the upcoming royal wedding.’
Lucia frowned. ‘What royal wedding?’
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.
