Page 8 of Casanova LLC

We assessed each other.

I took another step forward. “Claire?”

“Alessandro?”

“I have a question for you.”

She closed her eyes, enduring me now. “Shoot.”

“When was the last time you were loved?” Her eyes opened. She stared in the general direction of my knees. “Understood the physical meaning of loving? Of being loved?” One step closer. “When were you last pleasured?” Her eyes met mine. “Captured by a man’s need? His want? His desire not only for you, but to create and witness your desire?” I watched her. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“Have you not been?”The slightest catch in her voice.

“You had an empty marriage.” Her lips parted for a denial, but I kept going. “A marriage empty of what I describe. You have been kept as nothing more than a part of a rich man’s vast collection. Did he take you off the shelf occasionally? Dust you off? Play with you? Worship you properly? Or did he keep you under glass?”

Her eyes. The acknowledgement of truth mixed with the surprise of familiarity. The way you looked at a person right after they said something and right before you said, “I was just thinking that.”

A silence hung between us. Then she replied, that low, cool, control on full display, “So you–your family–have been getting away with this for two hundred twenty-five years? In Venice?” She huffed a small laugh. “Who do you think you are, Casanova?”

“No, he just started it.”

“Who?”

“Casanova. Giacomo Casanova is my ancestor.”

Her back found the wall. She slumped against it, next to the inadequate fireplace. The winter wind picked up and blew a few strands of her good-girl bun loose. She was looking at the river again. So I kept talking. “For two centuries, we’ve hosted women from all over the?—”

“Yes.” Her eyes lifted. “Yes. Is that what you want to hear?”

“... Is that what you want to say?”

She looked at me in a way that I wasn’t used to being looked at by a woman. I had seen wanting. Sometimes salacious, desperate, lewd, even animalistic. But Claire looked at me with curiosity.

Her shoulders stiffened, as though she were about to jump off a cliff. “Yes.”

She was different than I remembered. We were the same age, I knew, almost thirty-three, and while she didn’t technically look any older, she did look more…seasoned. She was exhausted, that much was clear. But in her exhaustion, there was a steel that hadn’t been there before. She’d been poised and serene, as she was now, but five years ago she had seemed ethereal. Untouchable. Now, she was of the earth.

But beautiful. Still beautiful. Maybe even more so.

Not that that mattered.

I stepped forward and extended my hand. “So. You give me my paintings. I give you the VIP Package.”

She muttered ruefully, “Only the best for me.” Then she sobered and took my hand. Hers was freezing. And possibly trembling. “So, do we wait until you have your paintings back?”

“No. Unlike most people, it seems, I trust you. I leave for Venice tomorrow night, for the season. As luck would have it, I had a cancellation two weeks from now.”

“A cancellation?”

“A royal wedding, apparently.”

“Obviously.” She looked down at our still-joined hands. “Two weeks?”

“To the day. Will that work for you?”

“Actually, yes. I’m moving out next week and then…” She looked off again, toward the Hudson, the horizon. Her open waters. Her eyes came back to mine. “I’ll book a flight tonight. The one thing I have in abundance is airline miles. Richard insisted on paying for flights, even personal ones. Corporate tax deduction, you know? I told myself someday, maybe when Visage got a seed round, I’d celebrate by…” She realized she was rambling and dropped my hand. “I’m talking too much—talking while my brain is processing what I’ve just agreed to and it’s all catching up to—good God, never mind.” Both of her hands stole away behind her back.

I stepped toward the door. “I’ll show myself out.”

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