An idea came and her eyes narrowed as she thought it through. She dug through her clothes until she found her three skirts, three pairs of dress trousers and a few tops that she typically wore for work. This might be Italy, and Antonio might dress like a beach bum, but she was supposed to be a PA. Maybe if she dressed like one, he’d stop wanting to paint her and see her as the worker she was supposed to be.
She slipped into a gray skirt and white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, pulled her hair back into a bun at her nape, sans pencils this time, and slid into gray flats. Instead of her contacts, she wore brown-framed glasses.
Antonio wasn’t at breakfast that morning, so she ate quickly and headed for the office. He wasn’t there either. But that was fine. She still had plenty of fan letters to answer. She ate lunch alone, fighting the urge to ask Rosina if she knew where Antonio was. She was a secretary, not his girlfriend. Or even his friend. If she wanted to keep her job, then she couldn’t see herself as his friend anymore. She had to work the job correctly. Not insinuate herself into his life.
Not secretly long for a relationship with him.
But when he wasn’t there at supper time or for breakfast the next morning, she got nervous, antsy. What if his plan was to avoid her for two weeks, tell her the PA thing hadn’t worked out and give her another two weeks of alone time to rest? What if she was working to prove herself when there really was no possibility of her keeping this job?
In the office, she lifted the final three fan letters. In an hour, she’d have nothing to do. She answered the last pieces of fan mail and set the letters on top of the stack she’d generated the day before.
He hadn’t even come in to sign the letters.
Where was he?
Was she going to let him avoid her so he could take the easy way out? Just send her off with a pat on her head?
She straightened her shoulders. She’d be damned if yet another man would send her off with a pat on her head. And if she had to drag him into this office by the scruff of the neck, he would see that one of two things was going to happen here. Either he would let her work for him—really work—or she was going home. She did not take charity.
Still, she needed the job more than her pride. She was not going to let him slide out of giving her a chance to prove herself by avoiding her. He was going to answer the requests for commissioned paintings with her. He was going to do his job, damn it!
All fired up, she marched out of the office and into the kitchen. “Rosina?”
The maid looked up. “Sì?”
“Where is Mr. Bartulocci?”
She frowned. “He say not to tell you.”
She shoved her shoulders back even farther. “Oh, really? Would you like me to tell his father that you stood in the way of him getting the help in his office that he needs?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then let me suggest you tell me where he is.”
Rosina sighed. “Mr. Constanzo might be bossy, but Antonio is my boss.”
She spun on her heel. “Fine. Then I’ll simply find him myself.”
“Okay. Just don’t go into his studio.”
Her hand on the swinging door, Laura Beth paused, turned and faced Rosina. “His studio?”
Rosina went back to kneading her bread. “I said nothing.”
Laura Beth’s lips rose slowly. “I wasn’t even in the kitchen.”
His strong reaction to painting her had led her to believe his studio would be the last place he’d want to be. So it confused her that he’d be in the old, crumbling house that reminded him he couldn’t paint.
But whatever. The plan was to find him, no matter where he was, and force him to see she could be a good employee for him.
It took a few minutes to locate the door that led to the studio. The old stone path had been repaired, but appeared to be the original walkway. The house’s door was so old the bottom looked to have been gnawed by wild animals. She tried the knob and it moved, granting her entrance.
The cluttered front room held everything but canvases and frames. Paint cans—not artist’s paint, but house paint—sat on the floor. Strips of fabric lay haphazardly on metal shelves. She recognized one of the swatches as the fabric for one of the chairs in his dining room.
She glanced around. Most of this stuff corresponded to something in his house. He’d stored leftovers and castoffs here.
He’d said he hadn’t painted since his wife’s death. But if the items in this room were any indicator, it had been longer than that.
She stepped over a small stack of lumber and around some paint cans and walked through a door that took her into the huge back room, empty save for Antonio, who sat on a stool, staring at a blank canvas.
Light poured in from a bank of windows on the back wall and set the entire room aglow. She didn’t know much about painting, but she imagined lots of light was essential.
“Think of the devil and look who appears.”
She walked a little farther into the room. “Are you calling me Satan?”
“I’m telling you I was thinking about you.”
In a room with a blank canvas.
Because he wanted to paint her.
Because he thought she was classically beautiful.
Tingles pirouetted along her skin. She told herself to ignore them. He didn’t want what he felt for her and she did want this job. Acting like a PA had jarred her out of her feelings, so maybe forcing him to see her as a PA would jar him out of his.
She cleared her throat. “I have nothing to do.”
He sucked in a long breath and said, “Fine,” as he turned on the stool. But when he saw her, he burst out laughing. “Trying to tune in to my librarian fantasy?”
She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m trying to look like a PA so I get a fair shot at working for you.”
He rose from the stool and walked toward her, stopping mere inches in front of her. “You still want to work for me?”
Her heart jumped. The pirouetting tingles became little brush fires. A smart girl might take Constanzo’s severance and run. But though Laura Beth prided herself on being smart, she was also a woman who didn’t take charity and who liked a long-term plan. This one, working for Antonio, living in Italy, was a good one. She couldn’t afford New York. She didn’t want to burden her parents. Keeping this job was the right move.
Instead of stepping back, she stepped forward, into his personal space, showing him he couldn’t intimidate her. “Yes. I still want to work for you.”
“You’re a crazy woman.”
“I’m a desperate woman. Your confusion about painting me isn’t going to scare me.”
He out and out laughed at that. “Fine.”
She motioned to the door. “So let’s get back to the office and tackle those letters requesting commissions.”
* * *
He almost followed her to the door, but hesitated. He’d been thinking about painting her. Imagining it. Mentally feeling the sway of his brush along the canvas. The ease of movement of his arm and hand as they applied color and life to a blank space.
But his hand had shaken when he’d reached for a brush. His heart had pounded. His fingers refused to wrap around the thin handle.
“Come on, mister. I don’t have all day.”
He laughed. Dear God, how he wished he could