She had deleted them all immediately.
But they had stayed in the recently deleted file, so since she was looking at them again—and not for the first time since she’d landed on British soil—she moved them back out. She told herself that it was forensic evidence, nothing more. It was a learning guide.
It was the way she was going to teach herself how to do what needed to be done.
Though it seemed that the answer was to simply let Giaco take the lead, no matter what it did to her nervous system. What these pictures taught her was that it didn’t matter what shefelt. It mattered howhemade itlook.
A thought that made her think about the discoveries she’d made in the castle that day. The ones that led her to be certain that his whole act was one big charade. Because if he could make things look anyway he wanted them to look, what did that say about all those splashy tabloid exposés that everyone took as the truth of him?
What was he hiding, she wondered, that he would do it in such a blinding spotlight?
“You will not get your inheritance or help a single orphan if you focus on the mysteries of one of the richest and most spoiled men alive in the world,” she muttered at herself and set her mobile aside again.
But since Giaco was so good at these games and clearly loved to play them at all times, Ivy decided that the better part of valor was to not respond to his text at all. Lethimwonder about something for change.
Assuming he ever did something so pedestrian aswonder.
The next day, she presented herself at the same airfield outside London where she’d caught Umberto’s plane two weeks before. And once again, she was greeted by exquisitely polite staff who ushered her on board. She refused the offers of food and drink and told herself it was because she was preparing herself for whatever battles awaited her.
It was more truthful, if silly, to admit that there was some part of her that worried if she ate and drank something Giaco provided for her—however indirectly—she would be dragged straight down the rabbit hole and actually turn into that girl she’d seen in the photos he’d taken.
That girl she still had trouble believing was her.
Once in bright, sunbaked Rome, a waiting car whisked her into the ancient city and brought her to what she at first thought was a hotel, then realized it was a private house in a tony neighborhood, not far from one of the most famous squares in Italy.
She supposed it stood to reason that Giaco would live in a place like this, an eternal disaster in the eternal city, surrounded by untold centuries of the remains of creatures who looked just like him. Perhaps he was his own pantheon here, she thought as the car slid into a private courtyard that somehow managed to make it seem as if they were not in a busy city at all.
She climbed out, not surprised to find a different set of staff waiting for her. Though she was slightly surprised to find them standingjust so, as if posing with the blooming wisteria canopy overhead—
You are confusing his staff with him, she lectured herself.Not everything is a photo opportunity.
“Bongiorno, Signorina Amis,” said one of the women waiting for her. She stepped aside, making it clear that the old, thick vine marked the entrance to the house. “If you will come with me.”
Ivy nodded and followed, expecting to be led into yet another sterile museum of a house, created entirely for clout and having nothing to do with the way that anyone actually lived.
This house was nothing like that.
It turned out that the beautiful wisteria was a hint that Giaco did not treat his house the way his father did. This house of his was eclectic. Surprising and interesting. The rooms were bright and filled with a haphazard sort of collection of things, from whimsical rugs to art that was clearly not there as investments, but because its owner liked it.
Or perhaps that was what he wanted her to think, she corrected herself.
It was not until they’d walked up a flight of stairs and into an open gallery that looked over a different courtyard below, this one green and lush with a water feature in the center, that Ivy realized this was actually ahome.Hishome.
It was obvious, once she accepted the possibility that a person like Giaco Tavian could actuallyhavea home that he poured this kind of energy into. There was no connecting or overarching theme between rooms. There was noaesthetic. If she had walked into this house with no knowledge of who might live here, she would have assumed that the owner was eccentric, had unlimited funds, cared deeply about comfort, and had a wicked sense of humor.
She wasn’t sure which part of that shocked her more.
Her staff guide took her into a set of rooms that were clearly a guest suite. The woman looked askance at the small tote that was all Ivy had brought with her, but indicated that she should place it on one of the tables in the outer sitting room.
“The master has prepared a selection of items for you,” she told Ivy. “The stylists will arrive at 3:00 p.m. But first, there are the looks, if you wish to take a peek.”
She didn’t wait for Ivy to respond, she simply walked into the next room, where Ivy found herself confronted by racks of clothing.
Ivy was no poor country mouse, overwhelmed by the sight of high fashion. By most standards, she lived a flash life. She went out of her way to appear to live even more bright and beautiful than she actually was. One thing she knew from her mother was that rich people loved nothing more than to give money to people who already had it. The more that Ivy presented herself as anit girlwho happened to have a passion for charity, the more likely she was to get the donations she needed. Any hint of need or desperation and she’d get nothing.
She had a very nice wardrobe and she knew how to dress the part, but she was still surprised by everything that waited for her here. Outfits upon outfits, all of them extraordinarily beautiful—even the simplest pieces.
“This is much too much,” she found herself saying, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin to choose something.”
