‘Or good reproductions, or maybe copies. If we can find paperwork for the provenance, that will help.’ She looked at him. ‘Why did you ask me to help?’
‘Because my grandfather and my sister like your show,’ he said. ‘Nonno says you understand art. That you love it.’
‘I do,’ she agreed.
‘And your biography on the Hidden Treasure website says that your studies are in the exact area of my grandfather’s collection. Nineteenth-century Italian painters—the Macchiaioli, to be precise.’
* * *
Had he looked her up on only the Hidden Treasure website? Or had he seen the other stuff that would come up on an Internet search of her name?
As if the thought showed on her face, he said gently, ‘And I saw your interview. Sorry, that’s not meant to be unkind. Just that it was the next thing on the search results.’
‘I know.’ But it also meant that he knew everything that Eric had done. What a fool she’d been. ‘And you still want me to look at the paintings?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Speaking out like that takes courage. I admire what you did. And I admire the way that you’ve moved on, done something good with your life.’
She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying. ‘I wanted to help other people in my situation. The interview seemed like the best way.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘that you went through something so horrible.’
‘It’s past,’ she said. ‘And I’ve moved on.’ That wasn’t completely true. She’d completed her MA and started her PhD, forged a new career. She’d proved to herself that she wasn’t the pathetic mess Eric had wanted her to believe she was. But she hadn’t dated anyone since Eric. She couldn’t trust herself not to get it so badly wrong as she had last time.
And this wasn’t about relationships. Yes, so far, Angelo Beresford seemed like a nice guy. He’d been sensitive about her past. And he was attractive—he would’ve made a perfect artist’s model. But for all she knew he could be in a committed relationship. Even if he wasn’t, it didn’t meant that anything could happen between them. She didn’t trust herself—either to find the right person for her, or to make it work. This was going to be strictly business.
‘All right. I’ll come to Florence and see the paintings.’
‘Good. Tomorrow?’ he asked.
She stared at him. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘I know it sounds like a rush.’ Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.
‘It is a rush,’ she corrected.
‘Time’s the one thing I don’t have,’ he said.
She thought of her own grandfather and how much she missed him since his death; she would have done anything to help him in his last days. Anything to make him smile instead of looking so lost and desolate, the light in his eyes gone. Clearly Angelo Beresford wanted to do the same for his grandfather. Who was she to deny that? ‘All right,’ she said.
‘May I have your mobile number?’ Angelo asked. ‘I’ll get my secretary to book the flight and contact you with the details.’ He took a business card from his desk and scribbled something on the back. ‘My private mobile, email and address, and my office details on the front,’ he said, handing the card to her. ‘If you do think the paintings are worth working on, what happens next?’
Now she was on safer ground. Work, not emotions. ‘I’d photograph them, front and back,’ she said. ‘Then I’d set up a computer file for each one and work through the provenance.’
‘How long would that take?’
‘Photographing, maybe half an hour for each one. Less if I have someone to help me take them down from the walls and put them on an easel. The paperwork really depends—I can do some things online, but I’ll also need to look at any paperwork your grandfather has. I’d like to talk to him about each of the paintings and for him to tell me what he remembers about them, if he’s well enough.’
‘Nonno’s always well enough to talk about art,’ Angelo said. He looked as if he was weighing up her words, working something out. ‘So if we allow, say, three days to take the photographs, and a couple of days to talk about the paintings, we can fly back to London next Friday.’