Free Full Moon in Florence by KC Martin Page A

over the cherub’s hands and fell across the angel’s shoulders into a wide, flower-like basin. The aesthetic of sound and sight was further enhanced by the scent of the surrounding orange trees in blossom. Laine practically swooned from the heady fragrance. She stepped carefully over the wide gaps between the tumbled marble paving stones, as she headed toward the fountain. She laid her hand on the curved edge. It was cool and damp and so smooth. All senses except taste were activated in the span of two minutes since she’d entered the Palazzo Montrecetti, and she’d only reached the courtyard.
    “Miss Dixon,” she heard over her shoulder, and over the splash of the fountain.
    Laine turned and saw a tall broad-shouldered man with luxurious dark hair and lightly tanned olive skin walking towards her.
    “It is an honour to receive you in my family home.”
    He held his hands out to her. Laine stood there speechless.
    “I am Lorenzo Montrecetti. Welcome.” His large, firm hands gripped hers. His brown eyes searched her face and seemed to examine every feature, which made her feel self-conscious.
    She finally found her voice. “Thank you. It’s an honour to be here.”
    She looked around and up at the interior double loggia enclosing the courtyard. She did this to avoid Lorenzo’s dark, penetrating gaze, which seemed to be drinking her in one ounce at a time. A bird rustled in a nearby orange tree and then flew down to the fountain’s edge where it began to bathe.
    “It’s a stunning home,” she said.
    “It’s been in our family for 400 years.”
    Laine gaped.
    “Of course it had to be abandoned on a few occasions due to war and invasion, but on for the most part the Montrecetti family has been in charge of this property for many, many generations.”
    “Such history is difficult for an American to fully comprehend,” said Laine.
    “And why would you want to when the New World has such delightful distractions?” He lifted Laine’s hand to his lips and brushed lightly, gentlemanly, as if this was the most natural of welcoming gestures. Maybe in Italy, maybe by a man who could claim his family was 400 years old. Laine couldn’t help but blush. Lorenzo dropped her hand as easily and gracefully as he had lifted it.
    “Please, follow me to my office.”
    He led her away from the fountain, through the first floor loggia arcades and into the depths of the grand home. Old tiles covered with tapestries lined their walk. Antiques and artwork and even a full suit of armour decorated the large main hall. He pushed open a set of double wooden doors and nodded for her to go head of him. She stepped into a beautiful room lined with bookshelves. A long, ornately carved wooden desk dominated the center of the room.
    “Please sit down,” said Lorenzo gesturing to one of two high-backed carved chairs. Laine felt as if she were sitting on a throne. As Lorenzo took his seat behind his desk, Laine noticed he had a modern leather and chrome office chair. He had a new desktop computer, printer and other gadgets, all of which looked out of place in this ancient looking room.
    An older man entered carrying a tray with two small cups. The sweet scent of espresso wafted through the room.
    “Thank you, Salva,” said Lorenzo to the man. He gestured for Laine to help herself to a cup. She dropped a rough cube of brown sugar into it and stirred. When she sipped the hot, rich liquid, she realized all of her senses had now been initiated.
    Lorenzo tossed back his espresso in one smooth gulp. Then he turned a small desktop easel her way. On it was an eight by eight wooden panel. Laine leaned forward, her lips parted in interest and scrutiny. The image was of a young woman in profile in front of a window.
    “It’s gorgeous,” she said, sighing.
    “This perfect little Botticelli is one of my grandfather’s treasures. I was hoping you’d appreciate it.”
    “Who wouldn’t?” It was exquisite. Exceptional.
    This painting would