Page 60 of Disarming Caine

Samantha

“Etlapiècederésistance, my studio.” Antonio came up the last steps of the winding metal staircase from the foyer and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, his head nestling on my shoulder.

With an hour to kill before we had to leave for his parents’ house, I was finally getting the grand tour.

The studio was larger than the main room downstairs, with exposed wooden beams crossing the ceiling and off-white walls covered in paintings. The short wall at the far end was all windows, leading to an expansive patio, which likely held a few seating areas in the warmer months. Eight skylights dotted the ceiling, which would bring in a great deal of natural light when the sun was up. “Wow.”

“This is where I paint.” At least sixty canvases were stacked against each other, two on easels by the glass wall, and twenty hung up. The styles varied wildly, from Baroque and Rococo to Cubism and Abstract Expressionism. Two rolling tables like the ones at his office were pushed against one wall, next to a ventilation hood. “I sometimes do restorations here, so had a professional extractor installed. The more sensitive work remains at the office, of course.”

“I love this.” I squeezed his arms around me. Drop cloths under the easels, paint splatters on the floor, and half-finished paintings and sketches. This was my artist’s home.

“This studio is why I bought the place. The glass wall faces south, so it gets a great deal of sunshine.” He kissed my cheek and let go of me, crossing to a stunning canvas at the front of one of the stacks. Three feet by four, it was reminiscent of Monet’sWater Lilies. There were over two hundred paintings in theWater Liliesseries, but the palette reminded me of a particular one which hung at The Met in New York, all rich greens and blues with yellow lily pads and red flowers. It was a distinctly post-Impressionist twist. “I was thinking of giving this to Cassandra and Kevin for Christmas. As a thank you for having me for dinner.”

“I don’t know. They like to keep the price tag low on gifts.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “My father bought it for next to nothing at an antique store.”

I squatted beside it, taking in the brush strokes, the movement, the rich colors. “And you bought my dress and shoes secondhand?”

Laughing, he joined me in front of it. “He bought it when he was first training me. Someone had used polyurethane instead of varnish—” He shuddered theatrically. “—to coat it. It had caked and yellowed, ruining the painting. I worked on it for weeks, an hour or two at a time, scraping the polyurethane off, then filling and correcting the paint.”

“Sounds like fun.” I brushed my fingers along the raised impasto texture, over the ridges and into the valleys.

“It was a terrible job, but he was proud of me for working so long on it. After all that time, he used it as a lesson on how reversible our paints are. He had me go over the entire thing with the restoration paints, then remove them all to reveal the original painting again. Finally, he had me strip all the paint off it and prepare the canvas for fresh paint. At that point, he gave me the canvas to do as I wanted. So, this is what I painted on it.”

The bright lights in the room flattened it somewhat, but if the sun was still up, it would have cast shadows, adding depth and beauty to it. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye while he scanned the painting. My boyfriend. So talented.

“I want to make a good impression on them. This painting has a lot of my soul in it, and I thought that was important.” His eyes fell to the floor, the shy smile making a rare appearance.

What a curveball my life had thrown me. On the road for six years, coming home for Cass’s treatments, and full-on colliding with this amazing man. I’d wanted nothing to do with romance or anything that tied me down. But he’d started chipping away at my resolve, bit by bit. And here we were, four and a half months after meeting, staring at his artwork, talking about how he wanted to impress my sister for Christmas.

I took his hand, and we stood as one. I tucked my arms around his waist and lay my head against his shoulder. “They’ll love it.”

“Bene.” He pressed his lips to my head and sighed.

We separated, and I scanned the paintings on the walls, until I saw one that stood out. Crimson at its center, radiating out to azure at its edges. Like a burning sun in the sky. I gasped and clapped a hand over my mouth. We’d seen it at a gallery in Naples.

“You’ve finally spotted it.” He chuckled, nudging me with a hip. “You said it reminded you of our trip to the beach in August.”

“I said I didn’t want it!” I’d told him it reminded me of the sky, the first day we’d almost had sex, when he had me splayed out on a blanket in the middle of the woods.

“Sì, so I bought it for me.” He took my hands when I tried to shield my eyes. “I had it shipped home after you left.”

Heat crept up my cheeks, and no doubt even my neck was beet-red. “This is humiliating.”

“And worth every penny.” Antonio bit down on his lip, working hard to suppress his laugh. “Now, come see the rest.”

He walked me to the end opposite the wall of windows, set up more like a laboratory. A tall bench extended the length of the shorter wall, shelves above, drawers underneath, with a deep metal sink and equipment I hadn’t seen since college. Including a large table-mounted microscope, several plaster bricks, and stacks of glass bottles and petri dishes.

An eight-foot-long adjustable-height desk with one chair separated the studio from the lab space. It was topped with a laptop, two widescreen monitors, and a printer. “Quite the office.”

He directed me to the lab bench and pulled out a clean petri dish. “I started on my postdoctoral research after I graduated. There are several strains of bacteria used in the conservation of frescoes, and I worked with a few for my doctorate.”

“I remember from your dissertation.”

He smiled. “I thought to continue that and identify new ones or new methods of applying the existing ones. Particularly, to make wall and ceiling work easier. But I enjoy working with my father so much I stopped.”

“But you still have all this equipment here. Ever think about starting it again?”

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