He brought his lips to her ear. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep the Florentine men at bay this evening. You’ll have to stay very close to me.”

Julia squealed as he put his arms around her, lifting her so he could kiss her properly, which required Julia to reapply her lipstick and both of them to check their appearance in the mirror before they left their room.

Gabriel held her hand during the short walk to the Uffizi and even after they were whisked to the second floor by a rather pudgy gentleman wearing a paisley bow tie who introduced himself as Lorenzo, Dottore Vitali’s personal assistant.

“Professore, I’m afraid we have need of you.” Lorenzo glanced between Gabriel and Julia, his eyes darting to their conjoined hands.

Gabriel tightened his grip.

“It’s for the—how you say—on the screen? PowerPoint?” Lorenzo gestured to the room behind them where guests were already congregating.

“Miss Mitchell has a reserved seat,” said Gabriel pointedly, irritated that Lorenzo was ignoring her.

“Yes, Professore. I shall accompany your fidanzata personally.” Lorenzo nodded respectfully in Julia’s direction.

She opened her mouth to correct his characterization, but Gabriel pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, murmuring a promise against her skin. Then he was gone, and Julia was escorted to her place of honor in the front row.

She took in her surroundings, noting the presence of what looked like members of Florence’s glitterati mingling with academics and local dignitaries. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, enjoying the whispering sound of the taffeta beneath her fingers. Given the appearance of the other guests, along with the presence of a bevy of photographers, she was glad that she was well-dressed. She didn’t want to embarrass Gabriel on this most important occasion.

The lecture was being delivered in the Botticelli room, which was devoted to the finest of his works. In fact, the lectern was situated in between the Birth of Venus and the Madonna of the Pomegranate, while Primavera hung to the audience’s right. The artwork on the wall to the audience’s left had been removed, and a large screen had been hung, on which Gabriel’s PowerPoint slides would be projected.

She knew how unusual it was to have a lecture in such a special space and silently said a prayer of thanks for this incredible blessing. When she’d spent her junior year in Florence she’d visited the Botticelli room at least once a week and sometimes more often. She found his art both soothing and inspiring. As a shy American undergraduate, she never would have imagined that, two years later, she would be accompanying a world-renowned Dante specialist as he lectured in that very room. She felt as if she’d won the lottery a thousand times over.

More than one hundred people crowded into the room, some even spilling into the standing area at the back. Julia watched Gabriel as he was introduced to various important looking guests. He was a very attractive man, tall and ruggedly handsome. She especially admired his glasses and the way his sleek, dark suit fit perfectly.

When he was blocked from her view by other people, she focused her attention on picking out his voice. He chatted amiably, switching seamlessly from Italian to French to German and back to Italian again.

(Even his German was sexy.)

She grew warm as she remembered what Gabriel looked like under his suit, his form naked and strained above her. She wondered if he was having similar thoughts whenever he looked at her, and in the midst of her private musings, he made eye contact and winked. His momentary display of playfulness put her in mind of their interlude on the terrace that morning, and a pleasant tremor traveled up and down her spine.

Gabriel sat politely through Dottore Vitali’s introduction, which took no less than fifteen minutes as he painstakingly rehearsed the professor’s accomplishments. To the casual observer, Gabriel appeared relaxed, almost bored. His nervousness was telegraphed by the way he unconsciously shuffled his lecture notes, notes that were merely an outline to the remarks that would come from his heart. He’d made a few last minute changes to his lecture. He couldn’t speak of muses, love, and beauty without acknowledging the brown-eyed angel who’d bravely given herself to him the evening before. She was his inspiration, and she’d been so since she was seventeen. Her quiet beauty and generous goodness had touched his heart. He’d carried her image with him as a talisman against the dark demons of addiction. She was everything to him, and by God, he’d say so publicly.

After much flattery and applause, he took his place behind the podium and addressed the crowd in fluid Italian. “My lecture this evening will be somewhat unusual. I am not an art historian, yet I will be speaking to you about Sandro Botticelli’s muse, La Bella Simonetta.” At this, his eyes sought Julia’s.

She smiled, trying to suppress the blush that threatened her cheeks. She knew the story of Botticelli and Simonetta Vespucci. Simonetta was referred to as the Queen of Beauty in the court of Florence, prior to her death at the tender age of twenty-two. To be compared to Simonetta by Gabriel was very high praise, indeed.

“I am tackling this controversial topic as a professor of literature, choosing Botticelli’s artwork as a representation of various female archetypes. Historically speaking, there have been many debates as to how close Simonetta was to Botticelli and to what degree she was the actual inspiration for his paintings. I hope to skirt some of those disagreements in order to focus your attention on a straightforward visual comparison of a few figures.

“I shall begin with the first three slides. In them, you will recognize pen and ink illustrations of Dante and Beatrice in Paradise.”

Gabriel couldn’t help but admire the images himself, transported as he was to the first time he’d welcomed Julianne into his home. That was the night he’d realized how much he wanted to please her, how beautiful she looked when she was happy.

As he gazed at the quiescence of Beatrice’s expression, he compared her countenance with Julia’s. She sat with rapt attention, her lovely head turned in profile as she admired Botticelli’s handiwork. Gabriel wanted to make her look at him.

“Notice Beatrice’s face.” His voice grew soft as his eyes met those of his sweetheart. “The most beautiful face…

“We begin with Dante’s muse and the figure of Beatrice. Although I’m sure she needs no introduction, allow me to point out that Beatrice represents courtly love, poetic inspiration, faith, hope, and charity. She is the ideal of feminine perfection, at once intelligent and compassionate, and vibrant with the kind of selfless love that can only come from God. She inspires Dante to be a better man.”

Gabriel paused a moment to touch his tie. It did not need straightening, but his fingers lingered against the blue silk. Julia blinked at the gesture, and Gabriel knew that he’d been understood.

“Now consider the face of the goddess Venus.”

All eyes in the room except Gabriel’s focused on the Birth of Venus. He looked over his notes eagerly as the audience admired one of Botticelli’s greatest and largest works.

“It appears that Venus has Beatrice’s face. Once again, I’m not interested in a historical analysis of the models for the painting. I’m simply asking you to note the visible similarities between the figures. They represent two muses, two ideal types, one theological and one secular. Beatrice is the lover of the soul; Venus is the lover of the body. Botticelli’s La Bella has both faces—one of sacrificial love or agape, and one of sexual love or eros.”

His voice deepened, and Julia found her skin warming at the sound.

“In the portrait of Venus, the emphasis is on her physical beauty. Even though she represents sexual love, she maintains a venerable modesty, clutching part of her hair in order to cover herself. Notice the demure expression and the placement of her hand across her breast. Her shyness increases the eroticism of her portrayal—it doesn’t diminish it.” He removed his glasses for dramatic effect and fixed Julia with an unblinking eye. “Many people fail to see how modesty and sweetness of temper compound erotic appeal.”

Julia fidgeted with the zipper on her purse, resisting the urge to squirm in her seat. Gabriel replaced his glasses.

“Eros is not lust. According to Dante, lust is one of the seven deadly sins. Erotic love can include sex but is not limited to it. Eros is the all-consuming fire of infatuation and affection that is expressed in the emotion of being in love. And believe me when I say that it far outstrips the rivals for its affections, in every respect.”

Julia couldn’t help but notice the dismissive way with which he’d pronounced the word rivals, punctuating his expression with a wave of his hand. It was as if he were casting aside all previous lovers with a mere gesture, while his blazing blue eyes fixed on her.

“Anyone who has ever been in love knows the difference between eros and lust. There’s no comparison. One is an empty, unfulfilling shadow of the other.

“Of course, one might object that it is impossible for one person, one woman, to represent the ideal of both agape and eros. If you will allow my indulgence for a moment, I will suggest that such skepticism is a form of misogyny. For only a misogynist would argue that women are either saints or seductresses—virgins or whores. Of course, a woman, or a man for that matter, can be both—the muse can be lover to both soul and body.

“Now consider the painting behind me, Madonna of the Pomegranate.”

Again, the eyes of the audience shifted to one of Botticelli’s paintings. Gabriel noticed with satisfaction the way Julia intentionally fingered one of her diamond earrings, as if she understood his revelations and received them gladly. As if she knew he was revealing his love for her through art. His heart swelled.

“Once again, we see the same face repeated in the figure of the Madonna. Beatrice, Venus, and Mary—a trinity of ideal women, each wearing the same face. Agape,eros, and chastity, a heady combination that would make even the strongest man fall to his knees, if he was fortunate enough to find one person who manifests all three.”

A cough that sounded suspiciously as if it were covering a derisive remark echoed throughout the room. Angry at being interrupted, Gabriel scowled in the general direction of the second row, over Julia’s shoulder. The cough was repeated once more for dramatic effect and a testosterone fueled staring contest began between a clearly annoyed Italian and Gabriel.

Conscious of the fact that he was speaking into a microphone, Gabriel resisted the urge to curse and, with a scathing look at his detractor, continued.

“Some have argued that it was a pomegranate and not an apple that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden. With respect to Botticelli’s painting, many have argued that the pomegranate symbolizes the blood of Christ in his suffering and his subsequent new life through the resurrection.

“For my purposes, the pomegranate represents the Edenic fruit, the Madonna as the second Eve and Christ as the second Adam. With the Madonna, Botticelli hearkens back to the first Eve, the archetype of femininity, beauty, and female companionship.

“I’ll go further, by asserting that Eve is also the ideal of female friendship, the friend of Adam, and thus she is the ideal of philia, the love that emerges out of friendship. The friendship between Mary and Joseph manifests this ideal, as well.”