The romantic, lush setting of the villa and Tuscan countryside. Me bent backwards, Jack’s hand in the small of my back pulling me up to him, his other hand cradling my head. Like I was precious. Like I mattered.
The images were sweepingly cinematic.
Jack and I were wind-swept lovers. Black and white film classics suddenly turned vivid color. Rick and Ilsa in foggy Casablanca. Scarlett and Rhett against a fiery sunset sky. Holly Golightly and Paul on a rain-drenched New York street.
The sleazypaparazzomight have been a lech, but he was talented with a camera, I would give him that much.
No wonder Inspector Paola had ordered me to find a new hiding place. The images were too dramatic tonotmake a huge splash in the media.
It hadn’t taken more than a couple hours to arrange a getaway. I had called and booked us a room—under assumed names, of course—in a small hotel in the mountains north of Florence. It would be as good a place as any to lie low. Busy enough that one more tourist wouldn’t be news, but still small enough that anything too out of the ordinary would be noted. Even Dante had agreed it was a good choice.
Jack and I were headed toward Florence first. As we had to drive through the city to get to our destination, I planned to stop at the family palazzo downtown and retrieve those poorly scanned pages of Cesareil Pompaso. His vague notes hadn’t been much, but perhaps the missing scanned pages would provide more insight. We wouldn’t know until we looked at them.
In the meantime . . . Jack had gone quiet on me.
I cleared my throat. “I can’t help but bring it up. I mean, how could it have worked anyway? By definition, in order for something to be true love’s first kiss, both parties actually have to be in love . . .” My voice trailed off.
Jack raised his eyebrows, swinging to meet my gaze in the mirror. “Of course. That is exactly it.”
But his words lacked oomph. Like I had somehow offended him.
I replayed my words in my head, trying to see where I had been rude. For once, my mental scan turned up nothing.
I didn’t think I had been unnecessarily rude.
I pulled up behind a slow moving semitrailer on the narrow highway toward Florence, tapping my brakes to prevent myself from hydroplaning.
Why was Jack upset? He was the one who had suggested the true-love’s-first-kiss thing.
Iwas the victim here.
Hewas the one who kissed me first.
Hewas the one who said the kiss had meant nothing.
I mean, it had to mean nothing, right? Because kissing a ghost couldn’t mean anything.
My thumping heart acted like it thought differently.
Stupid heart.
Stupid heart to beat for an even stupider man.
There was a break in the traffic, so I pushed my little MINI Cooper out and around the slow semi.
Besides . . . how would you even carry on a relationship with a ghost? Would it just be lots of talking and angst-ridden looks? Would he go corporeal for a few minutes once a week so we could hold hands or kiss or . . . whatever? I spent a solid fifteen minutes running through scenarios before it really sank in.
I was fantasizing about kissing and cuddling and . . . stuff . . . withJack.
That was weird. Jack was my ghost guyfriend.
But . . .
As I studied his face in the rearview mirror, I realized something.
Jack was more than just my ghost guyfriend.
He was snarky and maddening and high-handed and a bit of an arrogant ass.
