Jack racing cross-country on a gleaming black stallion, clearing an enormous hedge with effortless ease, his body one fluid motion with his mount, lightning flashing in the distance.
Jack dressed in immaculate Regency fashion, moving through a lavish drawing room, drawing appreciative looks from women of all ages.
Jack arguing with a political opponent in Parliament, face impassioned.
Jack laughing with his valet as the man brushed his coat and adjusted his neckcloth.
Jack was invading me. Thoughts, actions, dreams. That new, scary emotion itched against the backside of my skin, ballooning me from the inside out.
It didn’t help that I was seeing omens everywhere.
Seagulls flying in erratic patterns, promising chaos and confusion.
A shrieking hawk claiming the onset of visions.
The distant hooting of barn owls at night, whispering secrets.
Twice, I woke up downstairs instead of my own bed.
Each time I asked what had happened, Jack countered with more questions about my dreams and my issues with lightning.
No way I was going to talk about either of those things. Aside from the mortifying embarrassment of telling Jack I had been dreaming of him, the entire thing was intensely personal. I barely understood it myself, particularly why my fevered brain seemed to be connecting lightningwithJack from time to time.
More to the point . . . I wasn’t sure Jack could be trusted with my deepest pains and fears. What if he tossed them back in my face? It would destroy me.
Which begged another question: when had I started caring so much about Jack’s good opinion? Because it seemed I definitely did.
This whole dumb mess with the Tempeste family needed to be over. The scribbled notes about lightning had been all my own doing, coming from my own memories. There was no need to be alarmed by them.
I wanted to return to Florence and put some much-needed distance between myself and Jack. That would likely stop the dreams.
But the police insisted they still needed more time to finalize their case. And so I waited.
I woke up on the couch again, five days after arriving at the villa.
Another lightning bolt greeted me, propped up against the coffee table. This time drawn on the back of an old wood panel. How had I managed that?
Jack sat in a nearby chair, face impassive but eyes burning with emotion.
“I did that?” I pointed at the panel.
“You did.”
“Where did the panel come from?”
“The attic.” Jack’s voice was sharp and crisp. “You climbed up into the attic, balanced your way across the beams—rambling about lightning the whole time and screaming at someone to ‘not do it’—nearly stopping my non-existent heart in the process because I was afraid you would fall, before pilfering this panel and stomping back downstairs.”
I swallowed. “Oh,” I managed to say, “is that all?”
Jack’s expression said he was not amused.
I pushed the heavy mass of my hair out of my face, sternly telling my jittery pulse to settle down.
“You need to talk about what’s going on, Chiara.” His gaze flayed me.
Mentally, I pleaded with him.
Me:No, I need you to let this go.
