‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘He’s tracked down the actual cottages.’
The next photograph was of another building with a steep red tiled roof and small windows; it looked as if it, too, was made from brick and flint, but the entire building had been painted white. There was a tiny porch over the front door, and on the front of the building was a large black sign with ‘Red Lion’ and a stylised lion painted on it in red.
‘We’re getting closer. This was where Nonno said he stayed in the village,’ Angelo said.
There were two more photographs of the pub, and then one of a large house.
‘Do you think that’s the “big house” he talked about?’ she asked.
‘But it’s not the house that’s actually in his painting,’ Angelo said.
Mariana checked her notes. ‘He went to the farmhouse, and they suggested trying the big house. So maybe this is the farmhouse.’
Angelo turned to the next photograph. ‘No. This one looks like the farmhouse in the painting.’
‘Agreed,’ she said.
When he flipped over to the next photograph, he dropped the lot on the table. ‘It’s Nonno. Outside the big house. With the painting showing the farmhouse. And you can see where the canvas wasn’t framed, where the mice ate the corner,’ he whispered.
‘It all ties in with everything he told us,’ Mariana said, putting her arms around him and hugging him. ‘We’ve found it. And this is bona fide documentary evidence that no expert would ignore or say is just circumstantial.’
The next thing he knew, his mouth was against hers and he was kissing her. Really kissing her. And she was kissing him back, her lips warm and sweet, giving and demanding at the same time.
The world spun on its axis.
He shouldn’t be doing this. She was vulnerable, she’d been hurt, and if her biological clock started ticking then he’d end up letting her down. She was off limits.
And if he let himself fall for her and the whole thing went wrong, the same way it had gone wrong with Stephanie, he’d end up with his heart broken a second time. Better not to risk it in the first place. He needed to stop this. Right now.
With an effort, he tore his mouth from hers. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... That was unprofessional, and I apologise.’
She took a step back from him. ‘It wasn’t just you. We both got carried away with the excitement of finding the photographs.’
It was an excuse, and he knew it. But he took it gratefully. ‘Yes.’
‘We’ll pretend it didn’t happen,’ she said.
‘Good idea.’ He took a breath. ‘I’ll go and make us coffee.’
‘I’ll keep going with the paperwork,’ she said.
Putting distance between them would definitely help, he thought, and left the room before he said something foolish. Or before he did something reckless like hauling her back into his arms and kissing her until they were both senseless.
* * *
Mariana closed her eyes when Angelo had left the room. How could she have been so stupid?
Eric’s voice echoed in her head.
Who on earth do you think would be interested in you?
The contempt. The sneer in his voice.
She shook herself. No. She’d moved on. And she would find someone else to share her life with. Just... Maybe not yet.
By the time Angelo came back with coffee, she’d unearthed a couple more important pieces of paper.
‘I’ve found the receipts for the sketches your grandfather bought in Norwich,’ she said.
He read it out loud. ‘“Study of a farmhouse, pencil on paper, signed and inscribed, Domenico Carulli. Nine inches by twelve inches.” Hopefully that’s our farmhouse.’ He blinked. ‘And he paid twenty-five pounds for a sketch, back in 1963? That’s a lot of money.’
‘Your grandfather had a good eye,’ she said.
He looked at the second receipt. ‘“Study of a female, pencil on paper, signed. Twelve inches by nine inches. Domenico Carulli. Inscription on reverse: Alice.” Do you think that was the model’s name?’
‘Possibly. Or he might have written it on the back of the paper for another reason. Given the size, they sound as if they came from a sketchbook,’ she said. ‘If the dealer is still around, we can ask to see the records, or they might be in an archive. We can check where the dealer bought the sketches, and trace them back.’