I’m floating. And, although I know that I need to get myself out of this state, I can’t. Not yet. First, I need to calm my heart, which is beating alarmingly fast. Just a second ago, I was about to break my neck, falling down those stairs.
I need to breathe, to take a few deep breaths, since I’m OK. But I can’t. Somehow I seem to have forgotten how to fill my lungs with air. All I can do is stare at the man who is looking down at me with a frown.
His dark blonde hair shimmers like gold in the evening sunlight streaming in through the window. It complements his unusual eyes, which glow a warm amber. And that face — was it chiselled out of stone? High cheekbones, a straight nose, rounded lips. Like one of those male statues made of marble that are so plentiful here in Rome. Maybe his hair is a little too long. It’s falling into his eyes. But still … no one looks that amazing in real life. For a moment, I’m afraid that I really did fall, and have been in a coma ever since.
“Tutto a posto?” the man asks in a deep and very real voice, turning his head slightly to peer down at me — probably in order to convince himself that I really am OK. As he does, I notice a scar on the side of his neck. It’s pale and jagged and begins just above his collarbone. I can’t see how far across his chest it extends because it disappears into the open neckline of his white shirt — but the wound that caused it must have been no laughing matter. I wonder what happened. In any case, the scar doesn’t disfigure him. It actually makes him more real.
He is real, Sophie. I tell myself, as feeling suddenly returns to my body, after the brief numbness of the shock. Suddenly I feel the man’s large hands on my back, and I notice for the first time that my own hands are intuitively gripping the sleeves and lapel of his beige suit jacket.
After a few seconds, I realise exactly what happened and how reckless I was, going onto tiptoes on the step, without holding on to anything. I wanted to take a closer look at the picture hanging on the wall, but when I took another little step forward, my foot snagged on the fabric of my long dress, causing me to topple over. And now, I’m lying in the arms of the man who was coming up the stairs behind me and who, luckily, caught me before anything worse could happen. In the arms of this stranger, so disturbingly close to him that he can look right down my cleavage. The thought helps me catch my breath again.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I mumble. My cheeks are burning as I try to get to my feet again. He helps me up, and even when I’m standing he keeps holding on to my upper arms, as if he doesnn’t trust me to stand on my own. Unfortunately, his guess is correct: I’m feeling pretty shaky. Other guests are walking past us, up the stairs. The reception is probably already in full swing. They look at him and at me, intrigued.
Well, that’s just brilliant, Sophie, I think, frustrated with myself for having begun this important evening with such an embarrassing gaffe. I don’t know what’s thrown me off more — the fall itself, or the fact that I tripped in the first place. Things like that don’t usually happen to me. I’m not a klutz, and I’m not one of those women who like swooning helplessly into men’s arms — that’s for sure. It was all thanks to the dress, the thin straps of which I readjust in annoyance because they’ve slipped down my shoulders yet again.
Never mind the inconvenience of the straps — the dress is to die for — long and red, made of softly draped chiffon. When I spotted it this morning, in a boutique near the Via Nazionale, I had to splurge. Back home in London, I probably wouldn’t have bought a dress like this one. There, I wear simple, classic shift dresses or suits. I’ve brought several of them with me. But here in Rome, my old wardrobe seemed so boring. And the dress had been on sale — not to mention, the colour complemented my dark hair. I had to have it. Of course, I never imagined that the long, flowing skirt would prove to be a tripping hazard.
“You can let go now,” I tell the man, who continues to gaze at me with interest, just a touch too directly for my taste. “Thank you,” I add hastily, trying to sound friendlier. It’s not his fault that I’m annoyed by my own clumsiness. Besides, I owe him. I really could’ve hurt myself, if he hadn’t been there to catch me.
Suddenly I realise that I said all that in English, and he might not even have understood me. He doesn’t look like your typical dark and brooding Italian, but his accent just now sounded pretty authentic. Just as I’m about to repeat the sentence in the local language, he smiles, revealing an extremely attractive dimple in his right cheek, and I find myself staring at him again.
“At your own risk, then,” he says in flawless English and removes his hands from my arms. Then he bends down and picks up my clutch, which is lying on the stairs. As he hands it to me, I notice the scent of his aftershave. It’s crisp and pleasant, and it’s going to my head a bit. “Just be careful,” he adds, widening his already charming smile. “Art is a wonderful thing, but you shouldn’t risk your life over it.”
He’s flirting with me. That’s pretty clear. And I’m more susceptible than usual, probably because my body is still feeling the after-effects of the shock. So I’m happy when he decides to take a step back and look up at the picture on the wall, the root of this entire mishap. He’s obviously trying to work out what it was that caused my near-fall. Following the direction of his gaze, I feel myself gripped by excitement again.
The picture is one of many artworks — paintings, drawings, and sculptures — decorating the entrance hall. Every one of them takes my breath away, but that one in particular caught my eye. If it’s what I think it is, the long trip from London to Rome had already been already worth it.
“You probably wouldn’t understand, but art is my life,” I explain, smiling, without taking my eyes off the picture. “And a Joseph Severn is definitely worth taking a few risks for.”
I’m not certain, I’d need to take a closer look at the painting. But I could swear it’s the work of an English painter best known for his close friendship with John Keats, one of the most important English poets of the Romantic period — and my personal favourite. I never would have expected to find one of Severn’s paintings here in this Roman villa but it’s made me all the more eager to see what else there might be to discover.
Oh, I hope it works out, I think, addressing a hasty prayer to heaven that our British auction house be awarded the commission so that we can be the ones to auction off the artworks in this house. Not that we are doing badly, not at all. But we’ve just recovered from some difficult financial straits and could really do with a new commission. Tensions are running high in the art market right now, and unless we can come up with some interesting offers to tempt bidders, the business will be in trouble. Besides, this would allow us to finally expand our network of contacts in Italy — an opportunity I’ve been wanting for a long time. And we’ll need a greater international presence if we want to beat our competition in the longer term. But how can we do that, if Dad and I can never be away from home for more than a few days at a time?
I hurriedly bite my lip and force myself to think about something else. Because I know it’s unfair, and because I hate self-pity. Things are the way they are and there’s no point in moaning about it.
With a gentle sigh, I turn back to the man, who hasn’t yet replied to my remark. He’s observing me again, with a different expression in his eyes. Despite his radiant smile, he was clearly only casually interested in me before. Now he’s genuinely intrigued, I can tell — and my heart starts beating a little faster as our eyes meet. It would help if I didn’t find him so attractive. But, luckily, I’ve had years of practice at not letting anyone see what’s going on inside, so hopefully I’ll be able to conceal it.
“You know a lot about art.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“It’s a basic requirement in my line of work, so yes,” I confirm.
Many people are surprised by this at first. They obviously don’t trust a twenty-five year old to know much about the subject. But when you’ve grown up among all kinds of paintings and sculptures and the family income is dependent on being able to value and appraise them, you learn fast. While other kids were scribbling away in their colouring books, my father was explaining Van Gogh’s brush strokes to me. I could recite the differences between Impressionists and Expressionists before I could read. My life has always been defined by art. And, if I have any say, it’ll stay that way.
Then I notice that the man doesn’t look at all surprised. Actually, he looks stern. At least, his provocative smile of a moment ago has disappeared. Instead, the furrow has appeared in his brow again, deeper than before, which I find confusing.
“What do you do for a living then?” he wants to know.
I’ve only just noticed how tall he is. He’s a good bit taller than me, even though he’s standing a step below me. Beneath the elegant, light-coloured suit and open-necked white shirt he’s wearing, he has broad shoulders and a body shape that suggests he works out. That’s how he was able to catch me so easily. I swallow. The whole package is impressive, that’s for sure. If only he would stop staring at me so intensely with those amber-coloured eyes of his …
Get it together, Sophie, I admonish myself. Since when have you let a man get to you like this? I clear my throat to answer his question, and decide to introduce myself.
“My father and I run an auction house in London. I’m …”
“Sophie Conroy,” the man finishes my sentence for me, as I’m about to hold out my hand in greeting. It’s a statement again. And it sounds like an accusation.