# Falling For The Venetian Billionaire

Rebecca Winters

An Italian escape, and a chance to love again?Ginger Lawrence’s heart goes wild when she meets Vittorio Della Scalla on a magical trip to Venice. As the billionaire whisks her around his city, widow Ginger finds she is falling for her gorgeous guide, and loving someone again suddenly seems possible…

An Italian escape...

A chance to love again?

In this Holiday with a Billionaire story, Ginger Lawrence’s heart goes wild when she meets Vittorio Della Scalla on a magical trip to Venice. As the billionaire whisks her around his city, widow Ginger finds she is falling for her gorgeous guide, and loving someone again suddenly seems possible. Except Vittorio isn’t free to love her—he’s imprisoned by guilt. Could Ginger hold the key to unlocking his heart?

REBECCA WINTERS lives in Salt Lake City, Utah. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wildflowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favorite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her romance novels—because writing is her passion, along with her family and church. Rebecca loves to hear from readers. If you wish to email her, please visit her website at www.cleanromances.net.

Also by Rebecca Winters

Captivated by the Brooding Billionaire

Return of Her Italian Duke

Bound to Her Greek Billionaire

Whisked Away by Her Sicilian Boss

His Princess of Convenience

The Billionaire’s Baby Swap

The Billionaire Who Saw Her Beauty

The Billionaire’s Prize

The Magnate’s Holiday Proposal

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Falling for the Venetian Billionaire

Rebecca Winters


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07776-7

FALLING FOR THE VENETIAN BILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Rebecca Winters

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my darling daughter, Dominique, who lived and studied in Italy in her late teens. Like Lord Byron, she fell in love with it.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

AFTER A MORNING of driving his ski boat for his sister and her friends, thirty-year-old Vittorio Della Scalla, finance director of the Della Scalla Shipping and Passenger Lines Company in Venice, Italy, announced he had to get back to the office.

His twenty-four-year-old sister, Maria, padded up to the front. “Please take Paola one more time,” she begged out of earshot. Maria’s best friend, Paola Coronna, was the same age as Maria, and both of them worked at the Della Scalla travel agency. “She’s been practicing on her slalom ski and is dying to show you her front flip.”

Very few skiers could manage it, but Paola and her brother, Dario, who was a year younger, had always been a handful, if not willful at times. He shook his head. “I’m late for work now.”

Maria’s gray-blue eyes pleaded with him. “Do it for me, Vittorio. Paola is crazy about you and wants to impress you.”

That was the last thing Vittorio wanted to hear, but it was the end of vacation for everyone. Since it was September, he wouldn’t be coming out to the family villa on the Lido di Venezia again this year. Before he spent more time here, it would probably be late spring of next year when the weather started to warm up.

Letting out a groan, he murmured, “Bene, but this is the final run. You and Dario are the spotters, remember. Don’t take your eye off her for a second!”

“Grazie.” Maria kissed his bronzed cheek and walked back to tell the others.

Fifteen years ago, Vittorio, along with three friends, had been out here skiing and goofing off. Drinking had been involved. But there’d been an incident. He’d been the driver and no one was watching carefully enough, including Vittorio. When the girl fell while skiing, they didn’t realize it in time for another boat to almost run over her after she’d fallen.

The owner of the other boat happened to be a neighbor who lived on the Lido. He stopped and waited for Vittorio to pull alongside. He gave him a lecture he would never forget and called the police. Apparently, he’d been keeping track of the Della Scallas’ younger son and his antics with his other friends from high-profile families.

This time he reported the drinking and negligence, and it made the newspaper as well as the news on TV. Vittorio’s father had to live with the bad press because there’d been other reports from locals that the privileged teens on the Lido, including Count Della Scalla’s younger son, were a menace. It brought out the paparazzi who followed Vittorio around for a long time.

Vittorio’s father was a kind man, but he didn’t spare the discipline when it came to his younger son. Thus followed several years of humiliating pain for Vittorio, and his privileges were severely curtailed. No more partying on the ski boat, no more scuba diving, no more being allowed at the villa on the Lido without adult supervision.

It didn’t matter that Vittorio hadn’t been the one drinking. He’d been driving the boat and had acted totally irresponsibly. In a vulnerable moment, his father had said that Vittorio’s older brother, Gaspare, would never have brought embarrassment to the family like Vittorio had done.

His father’s disappointment in him, plus the offhand remark, had made a deep impression on Vittorio, who swore never to let anything like that happen again. He turned his life around, threw himself into his studies. In time, he made enough money to buy a sailboat and develop a plan to make money on his own. Even after his father put him to work in the company, Vittorio managed his own business on the side, determined to make his father proud of him.

“She’s ready, Vittorio!”

Brought back to the present, he turned on the engine. After looking around to be sure, he accelerated the throttle, then felt the tug of the rope. Soon he could see she was up. Paola was a good skier and a definite show-off. She did several wide arcs back and forth.

He brought Paola around for the last time and headed to shore, watching her through the rearview mirror. She got in position to do her flip. But suddenly her body flew forward and hit the water at an odd angle.

“Stop the boat!” Dario and his sister yelled at the same time.

With his adrenaline surging, Vittorio swung the boat around and raced toward Paola. When he came alongside her, he put the transmission in Neutral and helped Dario pull her into the boat. That’s when he spotted two slalom skis bobbing in the water. Where in the hell had the other one come from?

Once they’d laid a groaning Paola on the banquette, he saw blood dripping from her ankle. In trying to perform the flip, she had to have hit the other water ski hard for so much damage to have been done. He reached for one of the towels to stanch the flow. Already he could see swelling.

“Hold her still, Dario. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

Within a few minutes he saw the blue flashing lights of a water ambulance coming toward them with its siren blaring. Maria had hunkered down to comfort her.

“You’re going to be fine, Paola. We’re getting you to the hospital.”

Vittorio leaned over her. “I promise to take care of you, Paola.”

While his sister tried to comfort her, he pulled both skis out of the water. Maybe someone skiing behind the other boat he’d seen in the distance had dropped it trying to get up on one ski. The wake could have brought it in their direction. Or it could have fallen off the transom at the back of a boat. Perhaps it had been out here for a long time. He stored both skis to get them out of the way.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. As the medics put her in the ambulance, he phoned the Coronna family to let them know about the accident. Dario got on board with her to go to the hospital. Maria rode back to the villa with Vittorio, who had to phone the office and tell his private secretary that he wouldn’t be in.

Two hours later Paola had been taken into surgery and put under a general anesthetic. The doctor made a cut on the skin near the ankle. Then special screws and plates were used to put the bones together and hold them in place. Finally a plaster cast was put on below her knee to the toes. After ten weeks an X-ray would be taken to see how the bones were mending.

Vittorio talked with the doctor who explained that the sheer force of hitting the other ski had twisted Paola’s ankle in such a vulnerable spot, it was enough to cause the break. He hoped for a good outcome, but it was too early to tell.

The bad news came when she suffered more pain in January and had to go in for a replacement of some screws. The second surgery, followed by physical therapy, fixed the problem and Paola eventually recovered. But she couldn’t walk on her foot the same way as before the accident. The doctor advised her to wear flats from now on, no high heels.

Maria felt awful and wished she hadn’t asked Vittorio to take Paola on that last run. Naturally he was horrified that there’d been an accident at all. But for it to have happened on his watch, the same way a near accident had happened out here fifteen years ago...

His father wasn’t going to be happy about this. Vittorio had spent years making recompense for his foolish behavior. He’d done everything in his power to preserve the family honor.

Though he wasn’t responsible for this accident today, guilt put a stranglehold on him more intense than before.

CHAPTER ONE

Eight months later

NOW THAT IT was nearing the end of May, Ginger Lawrence’s work in Italy was drawing to an end. She had a laptop bulging with files. Some contained her work writing a series of stories about children around the world. Others contained the research on Lord Byron she’d amassed. The early nineteenth-century British romance poet and writer had been her reason for coming to Europe.

Yesterday she’d come from Genoa, Italy, where Lord Byron had lived in his last Italian home. Today she’d met some researchers in Ravenna, Italy, among them Dr. Welch and Dr. Manukyan with a group known in literature circles as the International Lord Byron Association.

They’d asked her if she’d like to join them for dinner aboard the Sirena, one of the passenger ships on the Adriatic docked outside Ravenna, Italy. She’d been pleased to be invited.

Their group had spent the better part of the day sharing new information on Lord Byron, who’d traveled and had lived in this region. It was here he’d turned to drama and wrote The Two Foscari and one of her favorite plays, Cain, his slant on the biblical Cain.

This evening they met with one of several other board members who’d be presenting material at the Byron Conclave in Armenia in July. Unfortunately, by then Ginger and her coworker friends would be back in California, preparing for fall semester.

Ginger admitted to the group seated with her that she was upset for not having allowed enough time to go to Venice and really explore it. She needed another month, but that was impossible. Her one day in Venice would have to count!

Dr. Manukyan, the Armenian professor and host, smiled at her. “Just remember that Byron’s most important time in Venice was spent at the Armenian Monastery during his San Lazzaro period in 1817.”

Ginger nodded. “I plan to spend the whole day there engrossed.”

“As you probably know, the island of San Lazzaro was named after Saint Lazarus, the patron saint of lepers,” he explained. “The four-hundred-year-old leper colony existed from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries. At the end of that time, Mechitar, an Armenian monk, escaped from the Turks and arrived in Venice, where he was given the island for his Dominican congregation.

“Now there are a dozen-plus monks and Armenian students who come to study Italian and are in charge of its precious museum and library. During his travels in Europe, Byron turned to a new intellectual amusement to supplement physical pleasures and decided to learn Armenian.”

“That’s what I want to learn more about,” Ginger exclaimed. “I know he worked on an English-Armenian grammar book. I’m fascinated by the way Byron’s brain worked and what motivated him.”

Dr. Manukyan nodded. “Byron set himself a project to study the Venetian dialect, too. In truth, Lord Byron had one of his most productive periods in Venice. Besides his work at the monastery, he wrote the first half of Don Juan while there.”

Ginger couldn’t get enough of learning about Byron, while they enjoyed a delicious seafood dinner followed by dessert and coffee. Afterward, Dr. Manukyan announced some other Byron conclaves being held in the future. Too bad she would have to be back in California teaching during those dates and would have to miss them.

With her thoughts on her friends, knowing she would be with them soon, Ginger sat back in the chair pleasantly tired and drank her coffee. Since January, Ginger had been in Italy digging for any fresh information on the life of the poet. Before Christmas her department head at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa, California, where she’d been teaching, had approached her.

Would she like to attend a workshop in Los Angeles on a new academic project about Lord Byron for the famous Hollywood film director Magda Collier? Her revered mogul friend would be producing it, and research was needed to supply original material for the screenwriters.

Ginger would have to leave the university for a semester and travel to Europe. After having lost her husband, Bruce, to cancer over two years before, Ginger had jumped at the opportunity to work in Italy, hoping for new experiences that would help put her pain behind her.

No man could ever replace Bruce. Her pain was doubly excruciating because he’d died before they could have children. Ginger had wanted children more than anything. Her therapist had suggested that since she’d dabbled in writing over the years, she should work on a children’s story, something her own children would have loved.

After so much sorrow and anguish over broken dreams, Ginger knew she needed to concentrate on something else and took her therapist’s advice.

At the seminar she’d met Zoe Perkins and Abby Grant, who’d also been hired. All three had obtained master’s degrees in literature from UCLA, San Jose State University and Stanford respectively, focusing on the romance poets and writers.

Abby had been sent to Switzerland and Zoe had been assigned to Greece, but all three of them had kept in touch through Skyping and phone calls. Her travels and theirs began to feed her imagination, and she got the idea to write about children around the world when she couldn’t do her research.

As Ginger had explained to the others at the table aboard ship, tomorrow she would take the train to Venice and spend time at the monastery in the afternoon. That evening she’d meet Zoe at the airport and they’d take the night train to Montreux, Switzerland, where they planned to pick up a hire car and then join up with Abby at Saint-Saphorin on Lake Geneva, where they’d begin their vacation.

Magda had rewarded them with a month’s stay on a vineyard there. They could use it for their home base while they did whatever they wanted.

Ginger turned to ask Dr. Manukyan a few more questions, but he suddenly said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and got up from the table.

Surprised, she watched him walk toward a thirtyish-looking man with raven black hair who’d just entered the dining room. Everything about him, including his elegant dark blue suit and tie, shouted sophistication and an aura of authority he probably wasn’t even aware of.

He stood tall and was the most gorgeous, virile Italian male she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. Every feature from his olive skin to his powerful jaw mesmerized her.

Her heart thumped as the two men walked over to the table. “Everyone,” Dr. Manukyan began, “I’d like to introduce you to Signor Della Scalla. He’s not only responsible for the souvenir menus you’ve all been given, he’s the one who made it possible for us to have dinner aboard ship this evening.”

“I hope you’re enjoying it.” The striking man spoke excellent English with an enticing Italian accent.

Della Scalla. The name was synonymous with one of the most renowned shipping and passenger lines in Italy, let alone Europe. But there were probably hundreds of Italians with the same last name.

Ginger listened while their host introduced the five members of their party to the stranger. When it came her turn, she found herself captivated by a pair of black-fringed cobalt-blue eyes the color of handblown Venetian glass.

Those penetrating orbs seemed to take her all in, as if he were searching for the very essence of her. For the first time since Bruce’s death, another man had managed to take her breath away. Who was he?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he spoke to all of them, but his gaze remained focused on her.

“Won’t you sit with us for a moment?” Dr. Manukyan asked.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m pressed for time. If you’re finished with your meal, does anyone need a ride back to Ravenna? It’ll be on my way. You’re welcome to come in the limo.”

Dr. Manukyan looked pleased. “We’re staying at the Palazzo Bezzi Hotel and were going to call for a taxi. But we’d love a ride, if it isn’t too far out of your way.”

“Not at all.”

“We appreciate your kindness for everything.”

“Let me escort you out.”

Ginger couldn’t credit that they’d be driving back to town with him. She stood up and followed the others to the elevator. It took them down to the deck, where they walked through the covered passageway to the dock.

A black gleaming limousine stood parked right there. Ginger was the last person to climb in. She decided this man had to be an important person, but she couldn’t ask Dr. Manukyan because they weren’t alone.

When Signor Della Scalla came around to help her in, she felt his arm brush hers by accident. A shiver of awareness ran through her.

He rode in front with the chauffeur. Before long they arrived at the hotel near the old town where she’d gone exploring early in the morning before meeting the group. Again, he was there to open the door. Everyone thanked him and said goodbye. Then it was her turn.

“Signora?” She looked up at him before getting out. She found herself drowning in his gaze once more. “How long are you going to be in Ravenna?”

Ginger’s heart was still overreacting, especially when she noticed he didn’t wear any rings. She wasn’t wearing any rings either. Whoever he was, Ginger couldn’t believe she felt such an instant attraction to him. Though she’d been coming to terms with her loss, she wasn’t sure about loving another man again. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

He’d put both hands on the frame of the door, blocking her exit though she knew it wasn’t on purpose. “Where are you going next?”

“To Venice.”

“For a long visit?”

“Don’t I wish, but no. I only have one day before I leave on vacation.”

He cocked his head. “Only one? Couldn’t I convince you to stay on several more? We could meet at your hotel and I could show you around.”

A tremor shook her body. Ginger couldn’t help but be flattered by his interest. Other men had flirted with her while she’d been in Italy, but she’d never been tempted. Not until now. This Italian’s charisma was so overpowering, she couldn’t believe a man like him existed.

“I won’t be in Venice long enough to get a hotel.” Ginger’s heart was in her throat. “There isn’t enough time. I have to spend a good part of the day at the monastery where Lord Byron spent so many hours. It’s part of my job and the reason I’m here at all.”

For some reason the revelation caused his eyes to gleam. “Then be sure to ask for Father Giovanni. I know him well. He’s the resident expert.”

Dr. Manukyan hadn’t mentioned the monk’s name. “Thank you for the information. I’ll remember.”

“Where will you go next?”

He really wanted to know? “My friend and I will be taking the night train to Switzerland.”

His gaze played over her. “I see. He’s a lucky man.”

Ginger sucked in her breath. “No, no. I’m going with my friend Zoe, who’s flying in from Greece. She and I will be meeting another friend at a vineyard on Lake Geneva.”

Good heavens. Ginger had practically told him her life story and had found herself babbling like a schoolgirl. “Thank you for giving all of us a ride. Do you live here in Ravenna?” She found she wanted to know more about him.

“No. I’m a Venetian,” he said in his deep voice. “Unfortunately I have to get back to Venice tonight on business. But perhaps our paths will cross again.”

He moved aside to help her out of the limo. She felt his touch on her arm once again, and felt fingers of delight dart through her body.

“Alla prossima, signora.”

Until next time? There couldn’t possibly be a next time. In two days’ time she’d be in Switzerland with her friends. But the thought of seeing him again made Ginger’s pulse leap. Deep down she didn’t want to say goodbye to him.

Since Bruce had died, Ginger hadn’t paid attention to other men or encouraged them. She couldn’t. The thought of falling in love again only to lose that person in such a terrible way frightened her.

She’d told Zoe and Abby that she didn’t want to give her heart a second time to another man, only for it to end in tragedy. In fact Ginger had never expected to meet a man who could ever help her get over the pain of having to say goodbye to her beloved husband. Only a miracle could cause that to happen.

She didn’t believe in miracles like that. But something shocking had happened for this stranger to take over her thoughts like this. It made no sense that for once she wasn’t thinking about Bruce.

Ginger’s legs felt insubstantial as Signor Della Scalla walked her inside the foyer of the hotel.

“Buona notte, signora,” he whispered.

“Buona notte, signor.” She sensed his eyes still on her until she rounded a corner to take the elevator to her room.

To her dismay when she finally got in bed, Ginger’s thoughts were still haunted by one incredibly handsome Italian male and the way she’d felt when his gaze swept over her at the dinner table. It was as if every cell in her body had been ignited by a bolt of electricity. She’d never lay eyes on him again, but that didn’t mean his image would go away. Not ever.

* * *

At nine o’clock the next morning, a showered and shaved Vittorio, wearing a black suit, left the centuries-old Della Scalla palazzo on the Grand Canal. Last night he’d flown back to Venice in the helicopter with a plan in mind to meet up with Signora Lawrence the next day at the monastery.

But this morning, after his flight home from Ravenna last evening, he’d awakened to the gut-wrenching news that his father had passed away early in the morning.

Overnight Vittorio’s world had changed forever. After leaving his grieving family with the doctor, he drove his speedboat out to the lagoon toward the nearby island of San Lazzaro two kilometers away.

Many boats crowded the canal. He passed by the boat ferrying passengers who intended to visit the Armenian monastery, the sole feature of the island. After pulling up to the jetty, Vittorio alighted and hurried past the welcoming signs printed in several languages to the main building. A plaque had been placed there commemorating the famous English writer and poet Lord Byron, who was known as a “Faithful friend of Armenia.”

Since it was always open in invitation, Vittorio entered the doors to the cloister that enclosed a garden. Beyond it lay the incense-filled chapel covered in mosaics. He hoped to find his brother, Gaspare, who was known among the brothers as Father Giovanni, but only a few monks were present in here. That meant he was probably in the famous museum, which had many treasures, including a mummy and a bust of Napoleon’s son.

But further exploration didn’t lead Vittorio to his thirty-four-year-old brother. If he wasn’t in the private enclosure for the monks, then he had to be in the room designated as Lord Byron’s studio.

Vittorio’s brother, who’d studied in England before joining the priesthood, had a passion for Byron. Vittorio entered the studio with a reproduction of a painting of Lord Byron above the door.

In the early 1800s the poet had studied the Armenian language here over a two-year period while he’d been in Venice. Prized books and manuscripts in this library drew crowds of tourists as well as serious scholars at all seasons of the year.

Vittorio scanned the room and saw his brother in his brown habit at the other end, talking to some visitors. Their backs were toward him while they were discussing a manuscript under glass.

Vittorio moved closer with a heavy heart, knowing their father’s death would come as a great blow.

“Gaspare?”

His brother looked around, having been taken by surprise. “Vittorio—”

After a pause, he turned back to the visitor. “I must ask to be excused,” he said in English. “I’ll send Father Luca to assist you.” On that note, he joined Vittorio and they moved out of earshot.

Since Gaspare had become a monk, the only consolation for Vittorio had been the ability to visit his brother here on occasion and confide in him. Just three years separated them. They loved each other and had been close growing up.

“Something tragic has happened. I see it in your countenance.”

Vittorio stared into the same blue eyes of his sibling. The two bore a superficial resemblance to each other in height and their black hair. Both were taller than their father. His throat tightened in fresh pain.

“Papà died early this morning,” he spoke quietly. Vittorio could still visualize the scene at the palazzo a little while ago.

Dr. Farini, the longtime physician of the family, had examined their father before sliding the sheet over his face. Count Mario Goretti Della Scalla, beloved husband, father, brother, friend and CEO of the Della Scalla Shipping and Passenger Line Company, was officially dead.

The doctor had stared into Vittorio’s eyes. “You are now Count Della Scalla. Your father has been blessed to have a son like you ready and able to step into his shoes.”

There was another son Vittorio felt should be taking his place, but that wasn’t possible. Soon the news would be out. The bells would toll throughout Venice for the loss.

“How did he die, Vittorio?”

“Dr. Farini said it was a heart attack. It happened quickly, the only blessing I can see.”

Gaspare’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He was too young.”

“No one expected it.”

A deep sigh of pain escaped. “How are Mamma and Maria?”

“I’m sure you can imagine.”

He bowed his head. “They worshipped him.”

“We all did,” Vittorio whispered. “I left a message with Uncle Bertoldo’s maid. He and Aunt Miah are due back from Rome before the day is out. The doctor is with the family and will stay until you and I arrive. Being with you will help all of us get through this.”

His brother stood stock-still, but Vittorio saw the mask of sorrow that had already settled. “Wait here for me. I have to talk to the abbot and gather a few things. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

While Vittorio waited, Gaspare walked back to the visitors and said something to them before he left through a side door. The action reminded him that Signora Lawrence would be coming to the monastery before long seeking out his brother. The image of her had been constantly in his thoughts.

Vittorio had determined that the woman who’d caught his interest last night had been maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, dressed in a summery blue and white print suit. As he’d moved closer to the dinner table, he’d been stunned by her beauty. She’d possessed such exquisite features, he hadn’t been able to look anywhere else.

Her glossy short black hair of soft natural curls made his breath catch. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen an hourglass figure like hers. Luminous gray eyes fused with his.

Vittorio had felt her appraise him with unexpected candor before she got up from the table with the others. In his opinion the gorgeous creature looked too young to be a professor, yet she’d been with a team of experts on Lord Byron. It was for this group he’d arranged the dinner on board one of the Della Scalla passenger liners.

Vittorio had instructed the captain of the Sirena to make a special stop in Ravenna. He’d done it as a special favor for Gaspare, whose birthday would be celebrated in a few days, an early present. His brother had been longtime friends with Dr. Manukyan, who was from Yerevan State University in Armenia and had been visiting Ravenna.

But when Vittorio had made the arrangements, little did he know there’d be a woman like Signora Lawrence attached to this group. Had he realized, he could have flown there earlier to eat dinner with them and get to know her better.

He was still thinking about her when he heard Gaspare’s voice. “I’m ready.”

His head swung around. “I didn’t see you come back in.”

Gaspare stood there carrying a suitcase. “I’m not surprised. None of us could imagine this day arriving this soon in our lives.”

Shocked to have been caught distracted while their father’s death was on their minds, he headed for the doorway to the museum. Gaspare caught up to him, and they left the monastery for the boat.

There were many things to discuss, not the least of which was the planning of the funeral. No one had expected their father to die for at least twenty more years.

But even with so many weighty matters to consider, including the running of the company, Vittorio had a difficult time putting the enticing American woman out of his mind. How incredible was it that she’d planned to come to the monastery today and he would miss her by only a few hours!

The fact that he might never see her again shouldn’t matter to him, but it did... He couldn’t understand it.

Vittorio had enjoyed several intimate relationships with women in his adult life. They’d been important to him, but he hadn’t fallen in love with one of them to the point that he wanted to be married.

Maybe it was the burden of the family name and title, plus all the expectations that came with it, that had prevented him from wanting to settle down yet. Growing his side business had taken up any free time Vittorio had away from the company.

If an affair of the heart was going to happen, Vittorio hadn’t felt it.

Until last night...

Just looking at her had caused something to come over Vittorio—an indescribable feeling that had pulled at all his senses and more. Vittorio had been so drawn to Signora Lawrence, he’d invited the whole group of scholars assembled to ride to their hotel with him in the hope of talking to her for a while longer. But it had increased his guilt over Paola, who still thought he would marry her. How was he going to let her down gently?

* * *

Once he and Gaspare reached the jetty, they climbed on the boat and Vittorio headed toward the bell towers of San Marco and San Giorgio Maggiore in the distance. As the island receded behind them, his mind was still on a certain gorgeous woman who would be arriving there soon.

But before long they reached the palazzo, where their devastated family was waiting for them to arrive. Once again Vittorio felt the dark cloud of sorrow descend, knowing their father was gone and he was now the head of the family. He felt the heavy weight because already the family looked to him for everything.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT DAY nothing went the way Ginger had planned. First of all, when she arrived in Venice and went to the monastery, she discovered that Father Giovanni, the resident authority on Byron, had been called away for the better part of a week.

One of the other monks showed her around, but he didn’t have the information to certain questions only an expert could answer. Disappointment swept through her before she took a water bus back to Venice. By five in the afternoon she met Zoe’s plane.

Ginger was thrilled to see her friend. They ate dinner and headed for the train station, excited to meet up with Abby and enjoy their month in Switzerland. But another disappointment awaited all of them the next day when they arrived in Switzerland and found out the vineyard where they’d be vacationing had been sold.

Magda’s friend had died.

Though they could stay on while the caretakers ran the place, the girls decided they would prefer to go somewhere else and not be a burden. They were planning to travel to Europe together to make the most of their last few weeks. Then came another shock—Abby had met an attractive French relative of the previous owner staying at the vineyard, and he invited her to travel to Burgundy with him.

The invitation had included Ginger and Zoe, but they didn’t want to intrude if something of a romantic nature was happening to their friend. Instead they agreed to go back to Italy and Greece, where they could spend a week in each place.

After taking the morning to visit a chocolate factory in Switzerland, Ginger and Zoe bid Abby goodbye, wishing her luck, and left in a rental car for Italy with Ginger doing the driving.

A sigh escaped Zoe’s lips en route. “Our famous vacation at the vineyard in Switzerland fell apart fast, didn’t it? Trust a man to ruin our plans.”

Ginger nodded, but to her chagrin, her thoughts weren’t on Bruce. Instead she’d been thinking about Signor Della Scalla. He was constantly in her thoughts. “In all honesty you have to admit that Raoul Decorvet wasn’t just any man,” she reminded Zoe.

“No, I suppose not, but it’s hard to trust someone so attractive.”

Zoe’s unfaithful husband had done a lot of damage. Given time, and hopefully a wonderful man, love would come into her life.

As for their friend Abby, she’d been smitten, an old-fashioned word that seemed to suit. The more she thought about it, the more Ginger began to realize the same thing had happened to her.

Since that unforgettable moment at dinner aboard the passenger liner outside Ravenna where she’d met the gorgeous Italian, Ginger had a lot more insight into why Abby had accepted Raoul’s invitation to travel to France.

“It’ll be interesting to see how that turns out,” she murmured.

“After what Nigel did to her heart, Ginger, let’s pray this Frenchman doesn’t end up breaking it.”

There were a lot of ways a heart could be broken, as all three women had found out. Ginger had been trying hard not to dwell on the fact that in losing her husband, she had lost her chance of happiness. There’d never be a man she could love as she had Bruce. Thanks to his death, Ginger hadn’t had the chance to have children. It had raised the fear that she might never have them, not without a remarkable husband. Ginger couldn’t believe one existed.

Being an only child, Ginger had longed to raise a family with Bruce. They’d talked about it from the beginning, but his death had ended that hope.

Perish the thought of meeting a man she could fall in love with a second time. If something ghastly were to happen to him, Ginger knew she’d never be able to handle it. Ginger shivered as the image of Signor Della Scalla passed through her mind.

On Zoe’s mournful note, they drove on. By the evening they’d arrived back in Venice and had checked in at the Hotel Arlecchino. It was one of the hotels where you could park a car in their garage.

They immediately began exploring the area called Frezzeria, a part of Venice where Byron had lived above a merchant’s textile shop. It was no wonder the poet had chosen to stay here. This was one of the most famous districts of the city and included the Piazza San Marco with its cluster of restaurants, shops and museums frequented by the glitterati of Venice. Perhaps some detail would come to light they could send on to the writers working on Magda’s film.

But the next morning, Zoe broke down and was honest with Ginger. “Venice is fabulous, but as long as I have a little more free time before going back to California, Greece is where I want to be.”

Zoe had fallen in love with Greece, but Ginger knew something else more important was propelling her to go back. So far, Zoe hadn’t told Ginger what was really on her mind. That was all right. Ginger had been entertaining a few private thoughts about the gorgeous Italian that didn’t bear scrutiny.

“I understand completely, Zoe. The trouble is, I hated leaving Venice when I was here before. Now I have a chance to finish up some more research for Magda’s project.” Maybe she’d find that Father Giovanni was back at the monastery.

“Thanks for understanding.” Zoe immediately phoned the airline to make a reservation for an evening flight. After dinner Ginger drove her to the San Marco airport in their rental car. They pulled up outside the terminal. “I wish you’d come to Greece with me, Ginger.”

“After I finish up my research here, I’ll probably fly to Athens and join you. I know you loved it there and it was hard for you to leave.”

“Only time will tell. Are you sure you’re all right if I leave you?”

“Positive. Who knows?” Father Giovanni still might not be there. “I could be joining you sooner than you think.”

“I’d love that,” Zoe exclaimed before getting out of the car with her suitcase.

Ginger smiled at her. “Text me when you arrive so I’ll know you got there safely.”

“You know I will. Enjoy Venice to your heart’s content. Before long we’ll all be back in class lecturing again and dreaming about days like this.”

At the moment Ginger couldn’t comprehend being anywhere else but here. She watched until Zoe disappeared, then she headed back to the hotel to park the car.

As she passed the front desk at the hotel, Ginger made arrangements to visit Burano, a place Byron loved for its color. The film being made on Byron would be enriched by some scenes from there. After she got back to her room, Ginger had a surprise phone call from Abby.

“Abby? Hey—what are you doing phoning this late?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m flying to Venice tomorrow and will try to plan a flight that fits in with your and Zoe’s schedule.”

“You’re not staying in Burgundy?”

Ginger heard Abby release a shuddering sigh. “No.”

“So the ‘come and see my notebook’ thing turned out not to be for real.”

“Actually there was a notebook with a poem, but it wasn’t an authentic signature of Byron’s.”

“But he really had something to show you?”

“Yes. I met his grandparents and they showed it to me.”

“Then he was on the level.”

“Yes.”

“You sound odd. Are you okay? What’s going on with you two?”

“It’s been a very full day with a funeral and a dinner. He’s a very important man. Don’t let me keep you up any longer. Shall I come early or late? You’d better check with Zoe.”

“She’s not here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zoe decided to fly to Greece early, so I took her to the airport this evening and now I have the car. Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m going to Burano Island for a couple of days. I’ve already paid for travel and the hotel room for two nights on a special deal. Why don’t you check flights for Tuesday and I’ll meet you whenever you say?”

Ginger heard a hesitation, then, “That sounds fine. I’ll call you Tuesday and we’ll plan from there.”

“Perfect.”

Ginger realized something had gone wrong with Abby’s plans. What a shame for her.

The next morning Ginger left on a water bus for Burano and explored the island. The bright colors of the houses were remarkable, and she was glad she had come. After another productive day, Ginger returned to the hotel in Venice, tired and happy.

The next evening, she was getting ready for bed when she received a text from Abby rather than a phone call.

I won’t be flying to meet you after all. Maybe you should be sitting down. Raoul and I are going to be married in two days in a civil ceremony. We don’t want to wait. I adore him and I know it’s forever. We’ll have a church service later on and I hope you and Zoe will be able to come. I promise to tell you everything later. Love, Abby

Ginger read the text three times. How absolutely amazing and wonderful for their friend. Zoe would have received a text, too. But Ginger was worried for Abby. Wasn’t she nervous about getting married so fast when her engagement to Nigel had ended so painfully?

Abby hadn’t even known that Nigel was married and had children back in England. Now she was going to marry a Frenchman after such a short period of knowing him? It sounded very scary to Ginger. But at the same time she had to admire their friend who’d decided to take the plunge anyway and not let fear prevent her from following her heart.

Ginger got up from the side of the bed, realizing that’s what she was doing, following her heart by wanting to return to the monastery. Of course, she desired to talk with Father Giovanni, but she now knew he was friends with Signor Della Scalla. The monk was her link to the dark-haired stranger who’d mesmerized her.

She could still hear what he’d whispered. “Alla prossima, signora.” Did he really hope to see her again? After asking her to spend another day with him, Ginger had to believe it.

Her heart pounded painfully to imagine seeing him again. The possibility gave Ginger the impetus to follow through with her plan. Abby’s decision had given her a little more daring.

By the next morning Ginger was up early to drink coffee and eat a roll, unable to sleep any longer. She checked her hair and makeup in the mirror.

Today she teamed a short-sleeved pink-and-white-striped blouse with a summery white skirt. After putting a small notebook in her purse, she left the hotel at nine thirty and took a water taxi to the island.

A semicloudy sky covered the lagoon with its boats and ferries. The temperature would be a little warmer today.

Father Giovanni ought to be on the island. He just had to be.

* * *

For the last seven days Vittorio had spent all of his time with family while they dealt with the funeral and interment. Now he had to attend to business. But with his father gone, Vittorio wasn’t prepared for the pang of loss he felt as he arrived at the Della Scalla Shipping and Passenger Line Company.

As Vittorio’s uncle Bertoldo was the general manager, he’d asked the executive secretary to call a June meeting of the fifteen-member board set for 9:00 a.m. His father’s successor would have to be voted in as chairman. Everyone needed to be here, no exceptions.

Vittorio was the financial director for the company. He would prefer to stay in that position. But with the funeral over, it was necessary to restructure the business. Now there would have to be changes. One by one the board members arrived and took their place around the conference table.

Vittorio was the youngest board member and was probably resented by some of the older men. Maybe a few of them, like his uncle, had a hard time realizing he was the new Count Della Scalla. He despised the whole title business. Bertoldo, two years older than Vittorio’s father, never had children.

There were other problems. Bertoldo had his own ideas on how the company should be run. The two brothers had argued over the company’s direction for a decade, but it had never been full-out war.

Long ago Vittorio’s grandfather, the former Count Nunzio, had secretly influenced the board to vote in his son Mario instead of Bertoldo when he’d stepped down because of ill health. Of course, it didn’t stay a secret, and Bertoldo had always carried a grudge.

As Vittorio grew older, he recognized the wisdom of putting Mario in charge. His father had vision and knew when to take the necessary risks. Which is why he’d kept the business in the black at a time when Italy was going through economic crisis.

But now the situation had changed. Vittorio knew Bertoldo hoped to be made chairman. Both Vittorio and Gaspare liked their uncle well enough despite his view of limiting company expansion beyond Italy’s borders. His ideas would have held them back. In that regard, Vittorio had his own ideas about venturing further afield and knew his father had been in agreement, as well as Renaldo Coronna, his father’s friend and Paola’s father.

With Mario gone and their grandfather no longer alive to influence the vote, it was possible Bertoldo would finally achieve his dream. Vittorio could live with that if he had to. But there were other men on the board perfectly qualified to run the company.

In a few minutes the executive secretary called the meeting to order. Everyone in the room took a turn to express their sympathy over Mario’s passing. They’d all been to the funeral and had talked to Vittorio and his family, but he was touched by the outpouring of praise for his father.

Finally, the secretary called for the vote to elect the new chairman. Vittorio knew whom he wanted and wrote down the name Salvatore Riva, one of the directors. Within ten minutes the ballots were collected and tallied.

Their secretary cleared his throat and stood up. “Without question, the will of the group has prevailed. Congratulations, Vittorio. Please stand and say a few words.”

The possibility that he could be voted in had come to pass. Vittorio’s only consolation at the moment was that his father would have been happy about it.

Vittorio looked around. Nobody had jumped up and run out of the room, but he knew there were several people there, including his uncle, who couldn’t wait to leave and vent in private.

“Signori,” Vittorio began. “This is a great honor, but overwhelming since I’m still grieving over the loss of my father. No one could ever take his place. Please be patient and give me time to take on a mantle that could fit the shoulders of anyone in this room more qualified than I am. We’ll meet in a week or so when I’ll have had an opportunity to take a good look at everything. Mille grazie.”

Now it was Vittorio who left the room in a hurry. His brother, Gaspare, had known this meeting was going to happen and was waiting for him. With business concluded, he headed for the speedboat. His brother sat on a banquette reading. When he saw Vittorio, he stood up. The two men eyed each other before he gave him the news.

“I knew you would be chosen.”

“Then you knew something I didn’t. I’m aware you don’t want to hear me say it, Gaspare, but you should have been the one voted in to head the company.”

“It would never have been me. There’s greatness in you. Don’t forget you have your calling. I have mine.”

Yes, he did. Gaspare had known by his early teens he’d wanted the religious life. To show his approval, their father had established a perpetual fund to help support the monastery.

Still it didn’t help the wrench of separation from the family, Vittorio reflected, as he started the engine and they left for the monastery. Once they reached the jetty, he tied up the boat and they headed for the building.

Because Gaspare had taken family bereavement leave, his presence had helped all of them to begin the healing process. But Vittorio needed his ideas and counsel more than ever about the direction of the company. “How soon can I visit you, Gaspare?”

“Any time.”

“Then I’ll come soon and plan to stay overnight so we can really talk about more foreign investments.”

Vittorio also had a personal matter to discuss to do with the situation with Paola, which had grown serious. Meeting Signora Lawrence had increased his guilt and anguish because he knew he couldn’t marry Paola even if it was expected. He needed some objective advice on that subject. No one had a more level head than Gaspare.

The abbot had granted Vittorio special privileges to stay inside the clausura, the heart of the cloistered monastery where the public wasn’t allowed to enter. He followed his brother to his room.

Gaspare lowered his suitcase to the floor and smiled at him. “I always look forward to your visits and will expect to see you when you can make it. As you know, I also need someone to confide in and have done a lot of that in the last year. I’m unworthy in so many ways, but when I’m with you, I feel better.”

“I could tell you the same thing.”

At that moment one of the monks appeared in the open doorway. “Father Giovanni? A tour group has arrived to speak with you. They’re waiting in the museum. And there’s an American college teacher from California who has been here before and is also waiting in the garden, hoping to talk to you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Vittorio’s head reared. Could he possibly mean Signora Lawrence? Was it possible she’d come back from Switzerland?

He’d already made up his mind to call Dr. Manukyan and get more information on Signora Lawrence. But if she was here at the monastery for some miraculous reason, then he didn’t have to go to the trouble of contacting the other man.

His heart thundered so hard in his chest, he feared his brother could hear it. Was she the person outside?

After the other monk walked on, Gaspare smiled at Vittorio. “I’m afraid I have to get to my duties.”

“Then I’ll walk you as far as the museum.” Vittorio wouldn’t be leaving the monastery until he knew the identity of the woman. When they reached the doorway, he put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Gaspare.”

“God keep you, Vittorio.”

* * *

Ginger was excited because she’d just learned that Father Giovanni was here. She already knew that he was the most knowledgeable about Lord Byron’s life when the poet had spent time at the monastery.

Ginger wanted to pick his brains. That’s what she kept telling herself, but she also knew there was another reason. Signor Della Scalla was a friend of the monk’s. Ginger wanted to know who he really was. She couldn’t rest until she found out.

While she waited, Ginger took a walk around the colonnaded courtyard. A ledge with tubs of flowers placed between the columns enclosed the lush green garden where Byron had strolled during his studies.

Ginger didn’t care if the monk was busy for a long time. She would stay until she’d spoken with him. After a few more minutes, she sat on the garden bench. Before long someone came and sat down near her.

When she looked up, Ginger almost fainted to see a certain unforgettable black-haired Italian male. She’d never expected to see him again. This morning he was wearing a luxurious dark gray suit and tie. He turned in her direction. His left arm slid along the top of the bench.

On the third finger of his hand gleamed a gold and red signet ring that looked royal for want of a better word. He hadn’t been wearing it the night of the shipboard dinner. It isn’t a wedding ring. Those fabulous cobalt eyes stared into hers in recognition. Her pulse was racing.

“We meet again, Signora Lawrence. I thought you only had one day to be in Venice.”

She could hardly breathe. “My plans changed.”

“So did mine,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“What do you mean?”

“After the night we met, I’d intended to find you here the next day, but fate intervened.”

Before she could ask him anything else, he stood up because a monk had walked out to the garden and approached them. When she turned around, she let out a quiet gasp.

The monk bore such an amazing resemblance to Signor Della Scalla, she realized they had to be brothers. But the latter had longer, wavy hair and might have been a little younger.

Both men were tall with similar features and black hair that shouted their blood relationship. They had a solid build and presence that made them stand out from other men.

“Father Giovanni? May I introduce you to Signora Lawrence. She was with Dr. Manukyan’s group aboard the Sirena the other week and we met. I told her I knew you well.”

The monk’s eyes smiled at Ginger. “Good morning. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. There’s still another tour group ahead of you.”

Ginger was so dumbstruck, she couldn’t find words. In a daze, she slowly got to her feet. “Good morning, Father. I was told you might be here today.”

“Please forgive the difficulties. Summer is a particularly busy time.”

“I understand and it doesn’t matter. If or when you’re free, I’d appreciate it if you had time to discuss Lord Byron’s preface to the grammar book with me.”

“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be available shortly and can give you an hour before I have to take charge of another tour. Until then, continue to enjoy the garden.”

Ginger had just walked past it. “Thank you.”

After Father Giovanni headed for the museum, she turned to his brother. Again, she felt his all-encompassing gaze study her.

“I’m afraid I’m the person who prevented you from seeing Father Giovanni the first time.”

She found his Italian accent irresistible. “Why was that?”

“Our father died in the early-morning hours on the day you were coming to Venice a week ago. I drove to the island to inform my brother and take him home, where our family was waiting for him.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said on a rush of emotion. “How terrible for all of you.”

“It’s been the most painful shock of my life so far. As I look back on the events of the night before, I realize you and I weren’t properly introduced.” A faint smile appeared, causing a fluttering sensation in her chest. “My name is Vittorio Della Scalla.”

Vittorio.

Ginger knew the Della Scalla name, but it wasn’t until she’d returned to the hotel the night of the dinner and pulled the menu out of her purse that her questions were answered. They’d been honored to eat aboard one of the Della Scalla passenger liners docked in the port.

Later in Switzerland when she’d been in her room at the farmhouse watching the news, she’d heard that the head of the company, a count of the old Della Scalla aristocracy, had died recently. Suddenly the signet ring on his finger took on significance for her. Everything fit and all the pieces fell into place.

Vittorio personified the quintessential nobleman of the modern-day Italian aristocracy.

CHAPTER THREE

GINGER COULDN’T HELP staring at him. “The likeness between you and your brother is so striking, it’s like two sides of the same coin.”

“Growing up people thought we were twins even though there’s a three-year difference in our ages. What’s your first name, signora?”

“Ginger.”

“Like the spice.”

A soft laugh escaped. “I’ve learned the Italians don’t use it much except in the southern part of your country.”

One black brow lifted. “It sounds like you’ve been here awhile.”

“Five months.”

He studied her for a moment. “Dr. Manukyan introduced you the other week as a Californian professor who’s an expert on Lord Byron.”

“Maybe one day I’ll attain that status once I’ve received my doctorate. But yes, I teach classes on the romance writers of the early nineteenth century at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa.”

“I traveled to that area years ago with friends. You come from a beautiful part of the US.”

“Considering where you come from, that’s a generous admission.”

“Not at all.” He cocked his dark, handsome head. “I can tell you that you’ve come to the right person to learn about Byron’s passion for the oppressed as well as his genius for words.” Ginger couldn’t have said it better. “How long are you going to be in Venice?”

The first time he’d asked her that question, it could have been an idle one. But not this time. Afraid to sound too interested—like a certain starry-eyed widow she knew—Ginger said, “I’m not sure. My research leads me many places.”

“Considering we’re talking about Lord Byron, it would.” Something told her Vittorio Della Scalla probably knew as much on the subject as his brilliant brother. “His journeys were legendary. Besides all the travel, Byron accomplished a massive amount of work during his short thirty-six years.”

She nodded. “Since I’ve been in Italy, I’ve decided Byron was a man with nine lives.”

His eyes smiled. “A very apt description. If you’re returning to Venice after your meeting with my brother, I’ll be happy to give you a ride. As you already know, I live there and I’m still anxious to show you around.”

The man’s charm was lethal. Ginger swallowed hard. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t know how long I’m going to be, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He got to his feet. “A presto, signora.”

It meant see you soon, and sent an adrenaline rush through her. She’d lost track of time while they’d been talking. Without waiting for his brother, who’d just emerged from the doorway, Vittorio strode down the length of the courtyard on his long powerful legs and disappeared.

Ginger knew her cheeks were flushed when Father Giovanni asked her to return to the studio with him. He made no mention of his brother.

They discussed the problem of Father Pasquale Aucher, Byron’s teacher who’d instructed him in Armenian. Aucher was offended because in the preface of the grammar book, the poet referenced the Turks, who’d kept the Armenian people under their rule. Which is why he didn’t give Byron credit for the book, and the poet took it badly. Eventually Father Aucher added Byron’s name to the grammar, but not as a sign that he’d done an expert job.

Following that conversation, they discussed the letter Byron had written to his English publisher, John Murray, in 1817 about the time he’d spent at the Armenian monastery.

Before Ginger had to leave because the next tourist group had arrived, Father Giovanni quoted the last few lines of the letter from memory, lines that had become famous. The last line Byron wrote about life in the monastery made an impact. “‘“There is another and a better” even in this life.’”

Obviously Father Giovanni, who’d come from such an aristocratic family, had found a better life here, too.

Ginger thanked him for making this visit so memorable. She’d finished her research here and left the building, not knowing if Father Giovanni’s brother was truly waiting for her. She felt jittery with anticipation as she walked past another group of tourists to reach the dock.

“Signora Lawrence?” She’d know that voice anywhere and looked to the right.

Vittorio Della Scalla was standing in a sleek-looking blue and silver ski boat. Despite his modern clothes, she could imagine him one of the fierce Venetian warriors of the fifteenth century who’d opened up the Mediterranean trade routes in defiance of the Ottomans and Spaniards.