She blinked. ‘Are you serious? You want me to spend practically a week in Florence? With no notice?’
‘I want the project done as soon as possible,’ Angelo said. ‘You can stay at the palazzo with us, or I can book a suite in a hotel for you if you’d prefer.’
Stay at a complete stranger’s home—even if he was an elderly man in his final days? This was all going way too fast for her. ‘I haven’t even seen the paintings yet. Until I have, I can’t make any promises.’
‘My grandfather believes they’re genuine, Miss Thackeray, and I trust his judgement. Give me that week. I’ll book a hotel for you. If you come to Florence with me tomorrow, see the paintings and you think I’m wasting your time, then that gives you a few days’ holiday. If you don’t think it’s a waste of time, then that’s a few days of work with some art that I’m guessing will be useful for your studies. Either way, I will pay you a consultancy fee for your time.’
Florence. Where, if the paintings turned out to be a disappointment, she could visit the Galleria d’Arte Moderna at the Pitti Palace, her favourite place in the city, and see some of the paintings she was studying. On the other hand, this could be the chance to see some paintings by her favourite artists that had been lost for decades...
How could she turn down an opportunity like this? ‘All right.’ She took one of her own business cards from her handbag. ‘That’s my work mobile number.’ She scribbled down some more information on the back. ‘And my private mobile and email.’
‘I’ll let you know the flight times and I’ll arrange for a taxi to take you to the airport in the morning,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Miss Thackeray. If you give my secretary your bank details on your way out, I’ll transfer a consultancy fee for your time.’ He named a sum that made her eyes widen.
‘Working on the basis that you’re right about the collection, I’ll need to bring my camera, tripod, photographic lights and an easel,’ she said. ‘Plus my laptop. And I’d prefer them to travel with me in the cabin rather than in the hold.’
‘Noted. I’ll organise the baggage details. And if you can give my secretary your passport details,’ he said, ‘she’ll check you in on the flight.’
In some ways, this was surreal. But it was also the first time she’d felt properly enthusiastic about something since the court case. Maybe this would be the tipping point, the thing that finally helped her to move on and put the past completely behind her.
‘I’ll go home now and arrange it,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Miss Thackeray. I appreciate it.’ He held out his hand to shake hers.
Again, her skin actually tingled where it met his. She’d have to be very careful not to let her attraction to him get in the way. She knew what she was doing where work was concerned, but relationships were a very different matter. Something she really wasn’t good at.
‘May I borrow those photographs?’ she asked. ‘So I can talk to my producer.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
* * *
On the way home, Mariana used her phone to snap the photographs, emailed the images to Nigel, and then called him.
‘I’m just out of the meeting and I’ve emailed you some photographs. Here’s the elevator pitch. Imagine the equivalent of a chateau full of lost paintings by Degas, Monet and Pisarro. And the owner wants me to catalogue them all and check out the provenance of some of them.’
‘No way,’ Nigel said. ‘No way is there a chateau full of lost French Impressionists.’
‘Equivalent,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s a palazzo in Florence, so we’re talking Italian rather than French Impressionists. It’s the Macchiaioli, the ones I’m studying. And I’m going to see the paintings tomorrow.’
‘What?’
‘Angelo Beresford wants me to authenticate the paintings—and the painting in that last shot I sent you is unsigned. If it’s what my gut tells me it is, then it’d be perfect for the show.’
‘If something sounds too good to be true, Mariana, it usually is.’