Page 49 of Ice To Meet You

Delicious pasta cooked and consumed thanks to Matteo: check.

The beautiful tiramisu I’d bought from the delicatessen was currently being demolished and nobody had questioned the wine I’d served. All in all, a successful evening.

I ran my gaze across the table to Matteo. His dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight. I didn’t mind at all that he’d stayed longer than planned.

Just as he’d promised, he’d kept Marianne entertained while I laid out my plans for the new gallery. Alessandro had listened and I swear I’d almost got him to sign on the bottom line then and there. I just needed a little more time.

“More wine, Alessandro?”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Thank you, yes. But I feel we’ve been so busy talking shop, we’ve neglected Marianne and your friend.”

“Assistant,” I corrected.

He tipped his head, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders.

I reached for the decanter, my fingers tightening around the glass. His gaze flicked to Matteo, holding just a beat too long. My stomach twisted. Was he about to ask why he looked like a vintage porn star with his unbuttoned shirt? I bit my lip. He did look oddly sexy, though.

“You know,” Alessandro said to Matteo, “It’s been bothering me all night. You look so familiar. Have we met before?”

Matteo shifted in his seat and finished the wine in his glass. “I don’t think so. But you may have met my grandfather, Gio Romano. He and Esmé may be working together soon.”

The second Matteo mentioned Gio’s name, Alessandro’s eyes widened, and the silence around the table was worthy of a pin-drop. I bunched my hand into a fist at my side. Marianne hinted her husband had heard about my new gallery, but they didn’t know the specifics. Did I really want to play my hand so early?

My association with the Romano family may put Alessandro off. The art world was full of giant egos, and I didn’t have the measure of Marianne’s husband yet.

She clucked at Matteo’s side. “Iknewyou looked familiar. You have Gio’s dimples. I haven’t seen him for years. Tell me, how is he?”

I fought a smile. If Marianne knew Gio’s dimples so well, I wondered how well she knew him in other ways.

“He’s as busy as usual,” Matteo said. “He’s advising Esmé on her new space in Rome. I’m shadowing her for a time. Learning how she operates her gallery.”

Marianne nodded. “Sothatexplains why you’re here. Though I didn’t realise ancient monasteries were among Esmé’s specialities.”

“Monasteries?” Alessandro asked.

His wife patted the back of his hand. “Matteo’s an expert on French provincial new wave medieval art. You should hearwhat he has to say about the monks and their squirrel-tail brushes. It’s fascinating.”

Alessandro curled a brow at his wife before turning his sights back to Matteo. “Gio was always such a force at the auctions—charming, sharp as a tack.”

“It’s true,” I said, clearing my throat. I needed to redirect the conversation. As much as I liked Matteo, I hadn’t planned on this evening being about him and his pedigree. Tonight was about the Rossis investing in my new gallery. “Gio is an incredible patron of the arts. I’m so grateful for his insights, and of course, his introductions.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you are,” Marianne said with a gleam in her eye. “Breaking into a new region, a new country, is always difficult.”

Her tone was light and non-committal, but something in her words made butterflies stir in my belly.

“And I imagine having Matteo here must be,” she paused, “Verycomforting.”

I froze, my skin prickling under her gaze. She’d laced her last word with enough treacle to cause a toothache, but I couldn’t ignore the undertone. Up to now, I’d avoided any insinuation Matteo’s presence wasn’t business related.

I picked up my glass, choosing my words carefully. “Matteo is very capable. He’s been assisting me with the du Comtois exhibition and getting to know Paris.”

Marianne tilted her head. “Of course, of course. I just meant it must be nice having someone so enthusiastic by your side. Young energy is contagious, don’t you think?”

I took a solid slug of my wine. Marianne had used the word “young” just like Lola. I steadied my breath, ignoring the flashbacks of long dead queens and classic movie stars.

“And then there’s Matteo’s unusual knowledge about the artworks you sell. I’ve never met anyone with such colourful information.”

I wasn’t sure the word “colourful” covered the stories he’d made up on Marianne’s impromptu tour around my gallery. Try ridiculous.

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