Chapter 3

Beauty awakens

 

Carina opened her eyes, then immediately closed them, the assault of the jackhammer pounding in her head too intense. My God, she thought. She had not drank that much last night, had she? Surely work hadn’t been so bad that she had drained more of her boss, Peter’s hidden cognac that he kept in the crystal behind his desk, had it? Dear lord, she knew working at the museum would get her into trouble.

 

            She stretched a bit, and all at once realizations assaulted her. She was still fully-clothed, minus only her socks, shoes, coat and jacket. Her jeans and cardigan were still on, which was bizarre since changing her clothes was the first thing she did when she got home, since her cotton shorts and tank top were more comfortable than anything she could wear to work. This also did not smell like her home. Not that it smelled bad—it was quite pleasant actually, but it wasn’t home. And frankly, these bed linens were too good to be hers.

            What the hell happened last night?         

            She tried to move, but the drums in her head were too intense, and moving succeeded only in making her nauseous. Shortly, though, she felt hands on her face. Startled, her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring into eyes so dark she was lost to their tunnels.

“Easy,” he whispered, delighted to see her beautiful eyes. “I was just checking your fever, and to make certain the blood had stopped its gushing from your head.”

He had a deep but pleasant voice, with a lovely accent. She could close her eyes and just listen to him simply speak for hours, she thought, dazed. Closing her eyes sounded good. She felt so tired.

“No, no, open your eyes, cara. You’ve a concussion. You can’t go to sleep.” He smiled when she opened her eyes again. “Now, I won’t hurt you. I came upon you after you were attacked at the terminal last night. You are in my home. Are you hungry?” he asked her.

She was queasy, but starving. The mere mention of food turned her stomach in both greed and unease. “Something light, if you have it,” she answered quietly. She looked at him. She recognized him but couldn’t place him. But oh, he was handsome. Beautiful, even, but dark. He nodded, then walked out of the room, giving her both a view of his backside, which she found superb, and a chance to look at her surroundings.

           This room was a work of art itself, she thought, but only briefly had a chance to wonder at the antiques decorating it before he returned to her with a tray with a bowl of soup, crackers, some club soda, and even a wedge of cheese. Wow, a girl could get used to being waited on in a bed with sheets alone that would cost her a paycheck by a man who could earn a healthy living at Chippendale’s easily. Now, if only the debilitating headache would recede, she’d be a happy little camper at Handsome Hunk Retreat.

           With one arm holding the tray of food, he helped her to sit up, arrange the pillows behind her head and back for support. He helped her situate herself, then sat on the edge of the bed to watch her eat to help her since she was shaking slightly.

         “You’re trembling,” he started. “Is that from your wound, or are you scared?” he asked sincerely. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

            “I’m not scared,” she replied indignantly. “I just don’t know where I am, or who you are, for that matter. What time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Almost five.”

            “In the morning? Wow, I was out for some time!”

            “No, it’s five PM. You slept through today.”

             Her eyes rounded but she said nothing, merely took another bite of her soup. She then looked up at him. “Most people would have called 911 or something, the police, an ambulance. But you didn’t. Why is that?”

              He shrugged. “I’m not accustomed to dealing with authorities to solve my problems. I honestly didn’t think to do so. You were out cold, I didn’t know your name or anything about you, so I brought you back here. I called a friend I know who is a practiced professional to look you over. She said you would wake up on your own, that your fever was receding. You were not in a coma, but you needed to be watched over and cared for over the next few days. She gave you some broth and told me to call her if anything else happened.” He saw no reason to tell her that the professional was actually a practiced witch, but Myriad was well-accomplished in the arts of healing and discretion, two qualities that he found useful.

            “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t think any policeman would have believed my story. I scarcely believe it myself,” she said with a shake of her head.

           His brows furrowed. “Why do you say that? What happened?”

           She shook her head again. “Nothing. I don’t even know if that’s what happened, or if I just used an old family folklore in a dream while sleeping. One of those times where the subconscious makes up a story so you don’t have to deal with the reality.”

            She was a realist. Chances were, she would have a difficult time believing in the impossible. The impossible that was his world, his very life. “Sometimes the unexplainable happens,” he said.

             She nodded and smiled. “My name is Carina Francione. Now it’s your turn, Mr. Dark Eyes, you who’s treating me like a guest at a five star hotel. Who are you?”

              He laughed. “My name is Kristoff Maltese, Ms. Francione. You may simply call me Kris. Now, you’ve apparently finished your food. Are you still hungry? There’s more in the kitchen. Would you like a change of clothes? I can offer you a shirt, perhaps. I can make a call and get you a new outfit from the store of your choosing?”

             She laughed at his rush to make her comfortable. “You don’t need to do all that. If I could borrow a shirt from you, that would be great.”

             He was gone in an instant, grabbing her tray of food and moving about so fast her head swam and she wondered just how hard she had hit her head. He returned shortly with a fresh white linen shirt for her, then vanished right out to give her privacy.

             She changed out of her cardigan and slid her arms into his shirt. She breathed in the clean smell, that wonderfully fresh laundry smell, then buttoned it past her navel and let the rest hang loosely about her hips. She had skirts and dresses that were shorter on her than his shirt, she thought with a smile. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and left her denim jeans on before she opened her door and decided to go check out just where Prince Charming had taken her.

              The apartment was expensive. She knew she couldn’t afford a place like this—probably never would. It reeked of fine taste—and old money. There were priceless antiques, collections merely mentioned in books as artifacts long lost. Her heart stopped, though, when she saw the painting in the hallway.

            She had been an art history/anthropology double-major in her undergrad here in Boston, and had plans to attend Texas A&M University for her masters in anthropology. And here it was—the lost painting in a renowned collection, one she personally loved. A piece that had been lost centuries before. And it was hanging two feet away from her.

           “You’re up,” he said from behind her. “You should be resting.”

            Her head jerked towards him on his first word. A voice like his commanded attention. She swallowed. “That—that’s a Renaldi, isn’t it?”

            He nodded. “You’ve got quite an eye,” he said with a smile, pleased to hear that she held such cultured knowledge. He always liked a smart woman.

            “That’s Il Regime, painted by Renaldi in the 17^th century as part of a collection. The entire collection was painted for a Romanian princess, Devlynia Karinina, I believe. The last known owner of this piece was Ana Gardella, given to her by the princess herself. Shortly after, little was known about Ana. Both she and the painting disappeared.”

            “How do you know so much?” he asked, a dark look on his face, as though he were ready to do her bodily harm. How much did she know? He wondered.

             She shrugged her shoulders, not the least intimidated by a glowering expression. “I was an art history major, and Renaldi was one of my favorites. My family is Italian, and I can actually trace my family back to Ana Gardella, if I go back far enough.”

             “Really?” he asked, intrigued and breathless.

             She nodded. “She would be a great-aunt of mine. Her younger sister Isabella was my great-great-great grandmother. I’m named after her, in fact.”

             “You know a great deal about your family.”

             She nodded. “I was orphaned at a young age and was raised by a friend of my parents. I’ve always been fascinated, obsessed really, about where I came from as a result. I found comfort in learning about all the branches of my tree.”

             “And this Isabella and Ana, did you ever find anything interesting about them?”

             She nodded enthusiastically, eyes not able to meet his intense stare. Instead she looked back at the grand painting of gods. “The two sisters had a falling out and Ana was disowned by her parents and shunned by society, though she still remained in Milan. The rumor was that Ana had turned vampire, and then enchanted Isabella’s lover, not only turning him against Isabella in their courtship, but that she had made him into a vampire as well.

             “But that’s just family rumor. Hearsay. Shortly after, the beau was found dead in a ditch, so obviously he wasn’t a vampire, though I think he had suffered lacerations to the neck, most likely prompting the rumors further.  Blamed for the death, Ana and her entire entourage, supposedly including the painting, escaped Italy and headed toward Scotland.”

             “That’s quite a legend you have there.”

             “Yeah, well… what makes me curious is how you ended up with the painting.”

 

Reviews

[Michael X]

now this is a great chapter connexcting the two main characters thus far, and bringing the entire realtionship of his unusual attraction for her into light, many questions are answered like, why he took her home in the first place" i really enjoyed how you switch from voice to voice, plays on the drama aspect
with a theatrical effect, the way you incorporated the painting to release information is highly
visual, one can feel the anticipation building, alive and passionate, absolutely imaginative, very nice job.

[Mckenna Baker]

Amazing, I went to press the next chapter and I was like aw. Oh well I can just wait for the ext chapter.

[Dianne]

I love how you've made the connections here and let Ana fill in some of the back story. Well I've added this book to my library and I hope you will add me to your read requests as you write more chapters.