“I know it must have looked as if I was throwing myself at you, but it was quite accidental. I just lost my balance.” Nicola felt her face flame.

“Really?” Dominic drawled. His cynical expression told her clearly that he didn’t believe a word of it. “So you’re saying it wasn’t a come-on?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He smiled grimly. “I suppose next you’ll be swearing you didn’t want to go to bed with me, and trying to blame me for seducing you?”

“I’ve no intention of trying to blame you for seducing me. I did want to go to bed with you.”

Dominic raised a dark, mocking eyebrow. “Tell me, Nicola, do you feel the urge to sleep with every new man you meet?”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in an English village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spend a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbeques for her long-suffering family and friends.

The Venetian’s Proposal
Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘PLEASE come in and take a seat, Mrs Whitney.’

Tall and slender in a navy suit, her corn-coloured hair taken up in a smooth knot, Nicola found herself ushered into a room that was solidly old-fashioned. Plum-coloured carpets, heavy velvet curtains, and above an empty fireplace a wooden mantel that held a ticking clock.

After coffee and condolences, Mr Harthill got down to business. ‘The last time my client was in London he asked me to draw up a new will. In my capacity as executor, I can now tell you that you are the sole beneficiary of that will.’

Staring across a polished mahogany desk at the saggy-jowled solicitor sitting impassively in his brown leather chair, Nicola could only manage to stutter, ‘I—I beg your pardon?’

‘You are the sole beneficiary,’ Mr Harthill Senior repeated patiently. ‘When all the formalities have been observed, you will be a wealthy woman.’

A polite letter summoning Nicola to the West End offices of Harthill, Harthill and Berry had merely stated that Mr John Turner had passed away some three weeks earlier, and that if she would call she would learn ‘something to her advantage’.

Shocked and saddened by the death of a man she had known for such a short time but liked immensely, she had kept the appointment.

The news that John Turner had made her the sole beneficiary to a fortune she hadn’t been aware existed had come as a bombshell.

‘But why me?’ She spoke the thought aloud.

‘I gather that Mr Turner didn’t have any children of his own…’

No, John had never mentioned having a family.

‘As well as his business interests,’ Mr Harthill continued staidly, ‘my client’s estate includes the proceeds from the sale of his London home, and a small palazzo in Venice, known as Ca’ Malvasia. He and his wife were very happy there, I understand.’

The London house Nicola had known about. John had mentioned his intention of putting it on the market, saying it was too big and too empty and he was hardly ever there. But his ‘small palazzo’ in Venice she hadn’t. Though she was aware that John’s deceased wife, Sophia, had been Italian.

‘Is that where he died?’ was all she could think of to ask.

Mr Harthill, used to euphemisms and looking a little distressed by her plain speaking, answered, ‘No. Ca’ Malvasia has been shut up since his wife passed away some four years ago. My client was in Rome on business when he suffered a fatal heart attack…’

She hoped someone had been with him. That he hadn’t died alone.

‘It wasn’t totally unexpected,’ the solicitor went on, ‘and he had made provision. In the event of his death I was to give you this package, which I believe holds a set of keys to the palazzo.’

He handed her a small, thick envelope sealed with tape which bore her name and the address of the Bayswater flat she shared with her friend Sandy.

‘If you wish to view the property I can put you in touch with my Venetian counterpart, Signor Mancini, who has been the family’s solicitor for a number of years. He will be only too happy to help with your travel arrangements and show you the palazzo. Should you decide to sell, he can take the appropriate measures to have it put on the market.’

Sounding as dazed as she felt, Nicola said, ‘I’ll need to make some plans…take time off work.’

‘Of course.’ Mr Harthill rose to his feet to show her out. ‘If I can be of any further service in the meantime, please let me know.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’ She smiled at him. A smile that brought warmth to her heart-shaped face and lit up her green eyes.

A beautiful woman, he thought as they shook hands, and tragically young to be a widow. Even a rich one.

When Nicola let herself into the flat Sandy, a small vivacious redhead, was waiting, agog with excitement.

‘I’ve made some tea. Come and tell all.’

Friends since their days at business college, and flatmates for the past three years, the pair were complete opposites. One an introvert. The other an extrovert.

Even before her young husband’s fatal car crash Nicola had been quiet and self-contained, a woman who tended to stand alone in the wings and watch.

Whereas Sandy, outgoing and outspoken, was at her best bouncing off people.

In what seemed to be a case of role-reversal Sandy worked from home, as an information consultant, sitting in front of a computer screen in what she described as solitary confinement, while Nicola liaised with people, travelling almost non-stop as a conference organizer for Westlake Business Solutions.

Together they went through to the bright little kitchen and sat down at the pine table, where Sandy poured tea for them both.

Nicola accepted a mug and said simply, ‘John made me his sole beneficiary. It seems I’m going to be a wealthy woman.’

Sandy gave a silent whistle.

‘Apart from his business interests and the money from the sale of his London house, there’s also a small palazzo in Venice.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Did you know he had a place in Venice?’

‘No, he never mentioned it.’

‘Sure you haven’t got it wrong?’

‘Certain. It’s called Ca’ Malvasia. I’ve even been given a set of keys to it.’

Taking the padded envelope from her bag, Nicola tore off the tape and tipped the contents on to the table.

As well as a bunch of ornate keys on an iron ring there was a small chamois pouch with a drawstring neck and a letter.

While Sandy examined the keys, Nicola unfolded the letter and read in John’s small, neat writing:

Nicola, my dear, though we’ve known each other just a short time, you’ve been like the daughter I always wanted, and your warmth and kindness have meant a lot to me.

In the pouch you’ll find Sophia’s ring. Since she died I’ve been wearing it on a chain around my neck, but now I sense that I haven’t got much longer I’m lodging it with Mr Harthill.

It’s a singular ring. My darling always wore it. She was wearing it the day I met her. She once remarked that if any ring possessed the power to bring its wearer happiness, this one did. For that reason I would like you to have it, and I truly believe Sophia would approve.

Though we had both been married before, she was the love of my life as, I hope and believe, I was hers. We were very happy together for five wonderful years. Not long enough. But perhaps it never is.

In your case, I know your time with your husband was very brief. You’re desperately young to have known so much grief and pain, and I’m only too aware that anyone who loses a loved one needs time to mourn. But remember, my dear, no one should mourn for ever. It’s time you moved on. Be happy.

John

Blinking away her tears, Nicola passed the letter to Sandy, and, while the other girl read it quickly, picked up the chamois pouch and unfastened the drawstring. Tilting the pouch, she gave it a slight shake, and a ring slid into her palm.

Both women caught their breath.

It was exquisitely wrought, with twin ovals of glittering green stone sunk at an angle in the softly glowing gold setting.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Sandy’s face held awe. ‘What’s it meant to be?’

Her voice unsteady, Nicola said, ‘It looks like a gold mask, with emeralds for eyes.’

‘Try it on,’ Sandy urged.

With a strange feeling of doing something portentous, Nicola slid it on to her finger.

After Jeff’s death she had lost weight to the point of becoming gaunt, and it was just a fraction too large.

‘Even if it’s only costume jewellery it looks fantastic!’ Sandy enthused. ‘Though it may be a little too spectacular to wear to the local supermarket.’

‘You’re right,’ Nicola agreed. ‘It would look more at home in Piazza San Marco.’

‘Are you going to wear it?’

‘At the moment I’d be scared of losing it. But I’ll certainly keep it with me.’

‘You speak Italian, don’t you? Have you ever been to Venice?’

‘No.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to go?’

‘Yes, I would,’ Nicola said slowly. ‘I was thinking about it on the way home. I’ve time owing to me, so I might take a holiday. Stay there for a while.’

‘Glory be!’ Sandy exclaimed. ‘A sign of life at last. I’d about given up hope. You haven’t had a holiday since Jeff was killed.’

‘There didn’t seem much point. It’s no fun staying in a hotel full of strangers. In any case, it’s too much like work.’

‘But you won’t need to stay in a hotel when you have your very own palazzo.’

Nicola half shook her head. ‘I can still hardly believe it.’

Her smooth forehead wrinkling into a frown, Sandy remarked curiously, ‘I wonder why John Turner never mentioned having a house in Venice?’

‘Talking about it might have conjured up too many ghosts. He absolutely adored his wife, and couldn’t get over her death. It’s one of the reasons he worked so hard and travelled so much…’

Nicola had done the same, only to find that pain and grief couldn’t be left behind. They had travelled with her, constant companions she had been unable to outstrip.

Though she’d never found it particularly easy to make friends, she and John Turner had met and, drawn together by circumstances and their mutual loss, become firm friends—overnight, almost. The immediacy of their friendship had never been discussed or questioned, just accepted.

‘Though there was an age difference of over thirty years, John and I had a lot in common. I was very fond of him. I’ll miss him.’ With a lump in her throat, she added, ‘I’d like to see the house where he and his wife were so happy.’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’ Sandy’s tone was practical.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’

‘I can’t say I’m not tempted, but I’ve too much work on. Besides, Brent would hate me to go to Venice without him. Apart from believing that English women find all Italian men fascinating, he thinks Italian men tend to stare at English women… And while he might not mind them looking, if it came to bottom-pinching…’

‘I rather hope it won’t.’

‘You should be so lucky!’ Sandy said with a grin. ‘So how will you travel? Fly, as usual?’

‘I’m tired of flying, seeing nothing but airports…’ With a sudden determination to lay her own ghosts, Nicola decided, ‘I think I’ll drive down…’

Jeff, who had been the elder by six months or so, had passed his own driving test and taught her to drive in a small family saloon when she was just seventeen. But since his death she hadn’t driven.

‘In early June the weather should be good, so I think I’ll plan a scenic route and take a leisurely trip, stopping three or four nights on the way. I’d love to see Innsbruck.’

Hiding her surprise, Sandy observed, ‘While not wishing to spoil your fun, I must point out that you don’t have a car.’

‘I can always hire one.’

‘And I’ve heard the price of parking in Venice is astronomical. But I don’t suppose you need to worry about it now. By the way, now you’ve money to burn I expect you’ll want to live somewhere a bit more up-market?’

Before Nicola could answer, she added, ‘Don’t think I’m trying to push you off, but Brent is itching to move in. I’ve kept the poor lamb waiting because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about having an extra flatmate, and a man to boot.’

‘So you’ve decided to live together?’

‘For a trial period. If it works out we may get married. Brent would like to.’

‘Well, let me know if you want to spend your honeymoon in a palazzo…’

Without envy, Sandy said cheerfully, ‘I do like having rich friends.’

Signor Mancini, when notified of Nicola’s intentions, had proved almost embarrassingly eager to be of assistance. Though she had assured him that it wasn’t necessary, he had advised her where to stay, and gallantly insisted on making all the hotel bookings.

For some reason, and without ever hearing his voice, Sandy had taken a dislike to the man. She now called him ‘the slimy git’. But, unwilling to hurt his feelings, Nicola had thanked him and, abandoning her busman’s holiday, accepted his well-meant help.

The only thing she had vetoed was that he should meet her on her arrival in Venice and personally conduct her to the hotel.

There was really no need to take up his valuable time, she had insisted politely, and it would tie her to being there at a certain hour.

Her last planned stop before Venice was Innsbruck, and she arrived in the picturesque Austrian city in the early afternoon.

Signor Mancini had arranged for her to stay at the Bregenzerwald, a nice-looking modern hotel just off the impressive Maria-Theresien-Strasse.

Nicola parked her hired car in the underground car park and, leaving her main suitcase in the boot, collected her small overnight bag and took the lift up to the elegant foyer.

It was deserted at that time of the day, except for the desk-clerk and a thick-necked, bullet-headed man sitting by the window, who glanced up at her approach.

Having studied her for a moment, he retired once more behind his newspaper while she completed the formalities and was handed her room key.

It was her first visit to the capital of the Tyrol and, liking Innsbruck on sight, she decided to see as much as she possibly could in the relatively short time at her disposal.

As soon as she had showered and changed into a cream linen dress and jacket she made her way down to the foyer again, to find the same man was still sitting there, intent on his newspaper.

Having collected a street map from the desk, she turned to go.

The bullet-headed man had abandoned his paper and, his gaze fixed on her, was talking into a mobile phone. Their eyes met briefly, and perhaps embarrassed to be caught staring—even absently—he instantly looked away.

Map in hand, Nicola made her way into the sunny street, and after getting her bearings set off to explore.

There were plenty of horse-drawn carriages offering sightseeing tours, but, needing to stretch her legs following the day’s drive, she decided to walk.

The sky was cloudless, the sun warm enough to make her push up the sleeves of her jacket, but traces of snow were still visible on the surrounding Alps.

After a look at the milky-green, fast-flowing Inn river, she made her way to the old part of town. The Altstadt, with its famous golden-roofed balcony and bulbous-domed Stadtturm tower, was colourful and bustling with tourists.

Strolling through the narrow, cobbled lanes, she was stepping back to admire one of the painted buildings when the thin heel of her court shoe slipped into a crack between the smooth stones and wedged tightly.

As she struggled to free it she heard the clatter of approaching hooves bearing down on her.

A second later she was swept up by a pair of strong arms and whisked to safety, while the horse-drawn carriage rattled harmlessly past.

For a moment or two, shaken, she lay with her head supported by a muscular shoulder, vaguely aware of the feel of silk beneath her cheek and the fresh masculine scent of cologne.

Then, pulling herself together, she raised her head and said a trifle unsteadily, ‘Thank you. Believe me, I’m very grateful.’

‘It was, perhaps, unnecessarily dramatic…’ His voice was attractive, well-educated, his English perfect with only the faintest trace of an accent. ‘But I’m glad I was on hand.’

Her rescuer was darkly handsome, without being swarthy, and just looking into his face took what was left of her breath away.

Apart from the colour of his eyes, he was a lot like her husband. Jeff’s eyes had been a warm, cloudy blue, whereas this man’s were a cool, clear grey. His hair was thick and raven-black—cut just short enough to restrain its desire to curl—his face lean and hard-boned, with a straight nose and a firm, chiselled mouth.

As she stared at him as though mesmerised, he said, ‘Now I’d better retrieve your footwear.’

Setting her down carefully, so she could lean against the plastered wall of a building, he stepped out into the roadway.

He was tall and broad-shouldered and moved with an easy, masculine grace. Well, but casually dressed, in stone-coloured trousers and an open-necked shirt, he could have been simply a holidaymaker.

But there was something indefinable about him—a kind of sureness? An air of authority?—that convinced her he wasn’t.

Having eased the shoe free, he carried it back. ‘The heel’s a little scuffed, but apart from that it’s undamaged.’

Settling on his haunches, he slipped the court shoe on to her slender foot, before straightening to his full height—some six feet plus.

Looking down at her heart-shaped face, with its pure bone structure and flawless skin, he commented, ‘You still look shaken…’

She was. But not for the reason he imagined.

‘What you need is that panacea for all ills, a nice cup of tea.’

His hand beneath her elbow, he led her round a corner to the Stadsbiesl, a tiny restaurant with overhanging eaves and white stucco walls. Its tiled roof sloping every which way, the old building leaned, supported like an amiable drunk between its neighbours.

A tunnelled archway gave access to a small sunny courtyard with three or four unoccupied tables covered with red-checked tablecloths.

‘But perhaps, as you’re fair-skinned, you’d prefer to be indoors?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I love the sun and, so long as I don’t do anything foolish, I tan quite easily.’

‘Then al fresco it is.’

He helped her off with her linen jacket and hung it over the back of her chair.

The moment they were seated a white-coated waiter appeared with a pitcher of iced water and two glasses.

‘Just tea?’ Nicola’s companion enquired. ‘Or would you like to try a plate of the delectable cakes they serve here?’

‘I had a late lunch, so just hot tea with lemon, thank you.’

He gave the order in fluent German, though she felt sure it wasn’t his native tongue.

As the waiter moved away she remarked, ‘You seem to know the Stadsbiesl well?’

‘Yes. I eat here from time to time.’ Studying her, he added, ‘Your colour’s coming back. Feeling better?’

‘Much better.’

‘On holiday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this your first time in Innsbruck?’

‘Yes.’ Reluctantly, she added, ‘Though I’m only staying for one night. I’m on my way to Venice.’

‘From England?’

‘Yes. I’m driving down. Taking the scenic route.’

‘It’s a magnificent run over the Brenner Pass.’

‘I’m sure it must be. I’m looking forward to it.’

But not so much as she had been.

Their pot of tea arrived, strings and tags dangling from beneath the lid. It was accompanied by a silver bowl of sugar cubes and another of thinly sliced lemon. On each bowl there was a pair of silver tongs shaped like twin dragons joined at the tail.

Indicating the pot, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’ll pour?’

‘Of course. Lemon and sugar?’

‘Just lemon, please.’

She filled both cups, and passed him one. Then, made unusually clumsy by the knowledge that he was studying her, she dropped a piece of lemon into her own, so that it splashed tea down the bodice of her dress.

Getting to his feet, he felt in his pocket and produced an immaculate handkerchief. He dipped the corner into the pitcher of water and leaned over her to rub gently at the orange-brown stains.

Though his touch was light and impersonal, every nerve-ending in her body responded, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

He moved back and, his head tipped a little to one side, studied the results of his ministrations. ‘There are still one or two faint marks but nothing too obvious.’

‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice.

‘It was my pleasure entirely,’ he responded, straight-faced.

Uncertain whether or not he was laughing at her, she gathered herself, and, needing a topic of conversation, asked a shade breathlessly, ‘Do you live in Innsbruck?’

‘No, I’m here on business.’ His eyes on her face, he went on, ‘I live in Venice.’

‘Oh…’ For no reason at all, her heart lifted.

Still watching her, as though he was half expecting some reaction, he added deliberately, ‘My name’s Loredan… Dominic Irving Loredan.’

‘Are you Italian?’ was all she could think of to say.

‘Half. My father was from the States, but my mother was Italian.’

So that accounted for the faint and fascinating accent she had noticed, and also for the eloquent way he used his long well-shaped hands when he was speaking.

‘You’re English, I take it?’

‘Yes. I’m Nicola Whitney.’

He glanced at her wedding ring. ‘Mrs Whitney, I see.’

‘Yes… No… Well, yes…’

Raising a dark winged brow, he commented, ‘You seem a little uncertain.’

‘I—I’m a widow,’ she stammered.

Perhaps afraid of pitying exclamations, or maybe because to say it aloud made it all too real, this was only the second time she had voluntarily admitted her widowhood.

‘You’re very young to be a widow,’ he remarked evenly.

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘When did your husband die?’

‘Three years ago.’

‘And you’re still wearing your ring?’

She still felt married.

When she said nothing, he pursued, ‘Was his death some kind of accident?’

Because his question was matter-of-fact, unemotional, she was able to answer steadily, ‘Yes. He was killed in a car crash.’

‘So you’re on your own?’

‘I share a flat with a friend, Sandy.’

‘He’s not holidaying with you?’

‘No, I’m alone… And Sandy’s a she.’

Now why had she found it necessary to tell a complete stranger that? she wondered. Other people had made the same mistake and she hadn’t bothered to correct them.

More than a little flustered, she hurried on, ‘We met at college, and after Jeff, my husband, died she invited me to share her flat. I would have liked her to come with me, but she’s a self-employed information consultant and she had too much work on.’

His manner casual, he queried, ‘Are you in the same line of business?’

‘No. I work for Westlake Business Solutions as a conference organiser.’

‘Sounds very impressive. Are you good at your job?’

‘Yes.’

The gleam in his grey eyes showed his appreciation of her answer before he asked, ‘What qualifications are necessary for a job like that? Apart from looks?’

As he added the rider there seemed to be a slight edge to his voice. Or was she just imagining it?

She answered briefly, ‘No qualifications as such.’

‘Then what do you need?’

‘A knowledge of how business works, a flair for judging what different clients want, and a certain originality. The ability to speak at least one extra language fluently is useful.’

‘And do you? Speak another language, I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do go on,’ he said smoothly.

She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘On the whole it’s just hard work. Organising accommodation, conference facilities, a supply of suitable food and drink etcetera, and making sure everyone’s happy.’

‘Which I’m sure you do wonderfully well.’

This time there was no doubt about the edge, and, biting her lip, she remained silent.

‘So where do you organise these conferences?’

‘Worldwide…Tokyo, Sydney, Atlanta, Quebec, Paris, London.’

‘That must involve a great deal of travelling.’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘And a good chance to meet people? The business delegates, for example?’

Disconcerted by his manner, and feeling a growing tension, she answered awkwardly, ‘I usually only get to meet the people actually attending the conference, if things aren’t going smoothly.’

‘And of course you make sure they are?’

‘As far as possible.’

Apparently sensing her discomfort, he sighed, and, leaning back in his chair, shook his head ruefully. ‘Forgive me. I hope you’ll accept my apologies?’

‘For what?’

He gave a charming grimace. ‘I shouldn’t be grilling you about your life and work. You’re on holiday and the sun’s shining.’

The feeling of tension disappeared as though it had never existed.

And perhaps it hadn’t. Maybe it had been all in her mind? Something to do with his resemblance to Jeff? Or the fact that for the past three years she had avoided socialising in this way, and so had lost her ability to mix and relax on a personal level?

‘What do you have planned for the rest of your day in Innsbruck?’ His low, clear voice broke into her thoughts.

‘As much sightseeing as possible.’

‘Alone?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘As my business is now successfully underway, and I’m alone too, perhaps you’ll allow me to show you around?’

Her heart picked up speed and began to beat a tattoo against her ribcage while she decided what her answer should be.

She found him a fascinating and disturbing man. Disturbing not only because he reminded her of Jeff, but in a way she was unable to put her finger on.

Yet though her time spent in his company hadn’t been altogether comfortable—and perhaps it was her own reaction to his explosive sex appeal that had caused her discomfort—she knew she didn’t want it to end.

To hide the excitement that had suddenly made her feel like a girl again, she answered carefully, ‘Thank you, that would be very nice.’

Whether he was amused by her primness, or pleased by her acceptance, she wasn’t sure, but his white, even teeth flashed in a smile.

It was the first time she had seen him smile, and it added a thousandfold to his already considerable charm.

Dropping some schillings onto the table, he said, ‘Then let’s go.’

She gathered up her bag and jacket and they left the sunny courtyard, his hand at her waist.

Just that casual touch made her heart beat in a way that it had never done before. She had loved Jeff deeply, but they had been brought up together, he had been part of her life, so it had been a gentle, familiar caring. A feeling of warmth and safety rather than a mad excitement.

‘Innsbruck is a compact city as far as sightseeing goes,’ Dominic Loredan remarked as they emerged into the street. ‘Almost everything of interest is here in the Altstadt—unless you’d like to see the Olympic ski jump, or the Europabrucke, Europe’s highest bridge? Though tomorrow, if you head south on the motorway, you’ll cross it.’

‘I think, as time’s limited, I’ll stick with the historical part.’

‘Then I suggest we start with the Hofburg Palace and the Hofkirche Chapel… That is, if you haven’t already seen them…?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ she said, no longer caring overmuch what she saw. Just being with this charismatic man was enough.

‘They’re just across the way from each other…’

His mouth was fascinating, she thought. It was a mouth that was at once coolly austere and warmly sensual. A clear-cut mouth that sent little shivers down her spine…

‘Then later I’ll take you up to Schloss Lienz for dinner.’

She dragged her gaze away from his mouth and, feeling her colour rise, echoed, ‘Schloss Lienz?’

‘The schloss dates from the sixteenth-century and has quite a turbulent history. To begin with it was a fortress, then it was used as a royal hunting lodge, now it’s a first-class restaurant. From the terrace, which seems to hang in space, there’s a superb view over the city.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’ Glancing down at the faint marks still visible on her dress, she added, ‘Though I’ll need to get changed first.’

‘So will I. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Bregenzerwald.’

‘What a coincidence!’

‘You mean you are?’

‘Room 54.’

Hardly able to believe it, she marvelled, ‘I’m in room 56.’

‘Well, well… It seems coincidences are like swallows; they come in pairs…’

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of excitement. Nicola hadn’t known this kind of happiness for over three years.

She found that Dominic Loredan was an easy and interesting companion, who proved to have an extensive knowledge of the city, an appreciation of beauty, and a dry sense of humour when pointing out the more droll aspects of the scenery.

When the pair had finally finished traipsing around the cobbled lanes of the old town, and seen most of what was to be seen, warm and a little dusty, they took a horse-drawn carriage back to their hotel.

Leaving her at her door, Dominic asked, ‘How long will you need? An hour? Half an hour?’

Not having expected to dress up for dinner, she would have to go down to the car for her main suitcase. Even so…

‘Just long enough to have a shower and get changed,’ she answered quickly, begrudging even this amount of time spent away from him.

‘Good.’ Grey eyes smiled into green. ‘I’ll give you a knock in about half an hour.’

As she looked up at him he brushed her cheek with a single finger, and while she stood mesmerised, he bent his dark head and touched his lips to hers, a thistledown kiss that turned her knees to water and melted every last bone in her body.

Totally bemused, a hand to her lips, she watched him disappear into his own room. Then, like someone under a spell, she went into hers and gently closed the door.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR a little while she stood quite still, feeling again that most fleeting of caresses. Pulling herself together, she went to pick up her car keys.

Frowning, she stared at the empty space where she remembered them being before glancing around. Instead of lying on the chest of drawers, the keys, with their rental tag, were on the dressing table.

Perhaps she was mistaken? Maybe that was where she had left them? Or possibly one of the chambermaids had come in and moved them?

Whichever, the important thing was they were still there. So long as the car hadn’t been stolen it wasn’t a problem.

Stolen…

The implications of that thought made Nicola check her overnight case. A quick glance through the contents showed her passport and spare money were untouched, and so was her grandmother’s jewellery box, which held most of the things she treasured.

Holding her breath, she released the catch and opened it. Everything seemed to be there. A small string of pearls Jeff had bought her for a wedding present, her grandmother’s locket, the keys to John’s house in Venice…

With a sigh of relief, she closed the lid and replaced the box.

Then, picking up the car keys, she took the lift down to the car park and hurried over to the blue saloon. Releasing the central locking, she moved to lift the lid of the boot.

It refused to budge.

Another press of the key released it. Which undoubtedly meant that it hadn’t been locked in the first place.

Oh, but surely she’d locked it?

Or had she?

She lifted the boot lid, half expecting to see her case gone, but it was still there, exactly as she’d left it.

No, not exactly.

As if someone had closed it in a hurry, caught between the two zips where they met in the centre, was a small piece of material.

Opening the case, she looked inside. Once again nothing was missing. Everything seemed to be as it should be, apart from that tell-tale scrap of ivory satin that had been caught in the zip.

Eager to be off that morning, she had wasted no time in packing, so perhaps she had left that bit of nightdress hanging out?

But wouldn’t she have noticed it?

Apparently not.

The only rational explanation had to be her own carelessness.

Yet the three things—the keys being moved, the car being unlocked, and the material caught between the zips—made a logical sequence that was very hard to dismiss.

Except that in the long run it made no sense.

If someone had got into her room and, finding the distinctive rental-tagged keys, gone to the trouble of locating the car and searching her case, wouldn’t they have taken everything worth stealing? Including the car?

Instead there was nothing missing and the keys were still there. Which seemed to prove the whole thing was just a strange coincidence.

And coincidences did happen. Dominic Loredan being in the same hotel and having the room next to hers was proof of that.

Her thoughts having flown back to Dominic and the evening ahead, she lifted out the case, locked the car and hurried over to the lift.

Once in her room, having showered in record time, she donned fresh undies and a smoke-grey silk chiffon dress that Sandy had nagged her into buying, saying, ‘You never know…’

It was a romantic dress, with a cross-over bodice, a long, swirling skirt and a matching stole. Shaking out the stole, which was lined with scarlet, Nicola hesitated, still unsure.

But recalling how, when she had hesitated at the colour, Sandy had exclaimed crossly, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! You can’t go on wearing widow’s weeds for ever’, she made up her mind to take it.

Placing it on a chair with her small evening bag, she stood in front of the mirror to take up her thick, naturally blonde hair.

As she held the smooth coil in place on top of her head and began to push in the pins her eyes were drawn to her wedding ring.

Her task finished, she studied the thin gold band. Married for barely a year when Jeff was killed, she had now been a widow for considerably longer than she had been a wife.

As John had said, anyone who had lost a loved one needed to mourn, but no one should mourn for ever.

Maybe the time had come to let go of the past.

Slipping off the ring, she put it carefully with her other treasures.

Anxious to look her best—for the first time in more than three years—she picked up her cosmetic case and turned back to the mirror.

With somewhat darker brows and lashes, and a clear skin, she needed very little in the way of make-up. A dab of powder to stop her small straight nose from shining, a touch of green eyeshadow and a light coating of pale lipgloss and she was ready.

A knock made her snatch up her evening bag and stole and hurry to open the door.

Looking devastatingly handsome in a black tie and evening jacket, Dominic Loredan was waiting.

His gaze travelled over her from head to toe and back again, making her feel oddly shivery, before he remarked evenly, ‘You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

Just for an instant she had the odd impression that his words hadn’t been intended as a compliment.

Perhaps he read the uncertainty in her face, because he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

The romantic little gesture and its accompanying smile smoothed away the impression, as the sea smoothed away footprints in the sand.

Her heart lifting, she returned his smile. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to thank you for a lovely afternoon.’

Taking the stole from her, he put it around her shoulders and offered her his arm. ‘The evening should prove to be even better.’

His sleek white sports car was waiting in the car park, its hood back, and in a matter of minutes they were making their way out of the city. Though the sun had gone, the air was still comfortably warm, and in the low-slung seats they were shielded from too much wind.

Soon they began to climb steadily, the view changing with every horseshoe bend. Stands of trees set in sloping green meadows… The flash of water and a roadside shrine bright with flowers… Wooden chalets, with a steepled church perched high on a bluff above them… Then, set against the magnificent backdrop of mountains, a turreted castle.

‘The Schloss Lienz,’ Dominic said.

‘It’s a real picture-book place,’ she remarked delightedly.

‘I’m pleased you like it,’ he said gravely, as he took the winding road up to the schloss. When they reached it they drove through an archway into a vast cobbled courtyard. Set around it were metal sconces holding long torches that looked like enormous bulrushes.

Having helped Nicola out, he handed the car keys to a hovering attendant, and it was whisked through another archway, out of sight.

At this height the alpine air was appreciably cooler and fresher as she stood staring up at the grey stone walls towering above them. Seeing her slight shiver, Dominic thoughtfully adjusted her stole higher on her shoulders.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, suddenly feeling cosseted and cared for, a feeling she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

At the entrance to the schloss they were greeted by a thick-set man with blond hair, who was, Nicola discovered later, the Baron Von Salzach.

In heavily accented English, he said, ‘Good evening, Dominic. It is nice to see you again. Mrs Whitney, welcome to Schloss Lienz. If you will follow me, you have a table on the terrace, as requested.’

‘Thank you, Franz.’

Their host led the way to the end of a large flagged hall and through a carpeted, chandelier-hung dining-room, where a quartet of musicians played Mozart and most of the well-dressed clientele seemed to be in decorous groups.

As they followed him Nicola noticed that several of the women with middle-aged escorts gave Dominic a second surreptitious glance, and her an envious one. As they reached a long, curving flight of stone stairs, Franz said, ‘Please be careful. The steps are old and worn in places.’

The stairway led up to a flagged open-air terrace, which held only a handful of widely spaced tables, four of which were already occupied.

‘Out here it’s somewhat less stuffy,’ Dominic remarked sotto voce.

His sidelong smile convinced her he wasn’t referring to the temperature.

When they were seated at a table set with gleaming crystal and a centrepiece of fresh flowers, the Baron said, ‘I hope you will enjoy your meal,’ clicked his heels, and departed.

Intrigued by the glowing charcoal braziers standing at intervals along the waist-high outer wall, Nicola remarked, ‘They look so wonderfully appropriate.’

‘As soon as the sun goes down they’re necessary to keep the air comfortably warm,’ Dominic explained. ‘Though before they were installed, a couple of years ago, the hardy diner would risk pneumonia for the sake of the view.’

Gazing at the wonderful panorama of Innsbruck spread below them in the wide, flat valley of the Inn, she said, ‘If you want my opinion, it was well worth the risk.’

‘When all the city lights start to come on, you’ll find it’s even better.’

As they ordered and ate a superb dinner she found he was right. In the blue velvet dusk the glittering lights turned the twenty-first century into a fairy tale. While at the castle itself the lanterns on the terrace and the flaring torches in the courtyard below gave the scene a medieval feel.

Though he drank little himself, Dominic kept Nicola’s glass topped up with an excellent Riesling that was light and subtle and easy to keep sipping.

Caught up in the magic of the moment, a magic that had a lot to do with the schloss but even more to do with her companion, she failed to notice just how much she was drinking.

During the meal he had steered clear of anything remotely personal, so it came as a complete surprise when, reaching across the table, he lifted her bare left hand and remarked, ‘You’ve taken off your ring.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I—I’m not sure,’ she stammered, shaken both by his touch and his question. ‘The time just seemed to be right.’

Something in his look made her go on to explain, ‘I suddenly realised I’d been a widow for longer than I’d been a wife.’

Releasing her hand, he queried, ‘How long were you married?’

‘Not quite a year…’

Perhaps it was too much wine that loosened her tongue, or maybe, at long last, the time had come when she felt it a relief to be able to talk about the past.

Whichever, she found herself opening up to a perfect stranger in a way she hadn’t been able to open up to anyone, except John.

‘Jeff and I had a traditional white wedding on my twenty-first birthday.’

‘But you’d lived together before that?’

‘Virtually all our lives… Oh, I see what you mean. No, we hadn’t lived together in that sense.’

Seeing his slight frown, she explained, ‘Jeff’s parents were my parents too. My foster parents. They had been my grandmother’s friends for a number of years, and they took care of me while she was in hospital and after she died.’

‘How old were you then?’

‘Just turned five.’

‘And your husband?’

‘He was a few months older, and their only child.’

‘They never tried to officially adopt you?’

‘I think they would have liked to. They had hoped for more children, but they were well past middle-age when Jeff was born, so they would have been considered too old.’

‘You had no grandfather?’

‘He’d died the previous year.’

‘What about your natural parents?’

‘I’d never known them, and one day, having realised that most of my peers had a mummy and daddy, I asked my grandmother why I didn’t. She sat me on her knee and gave me a cuddle while she explained that mine had gone away. Because of something one of my little friends had said, I translated “gone away” as “gone to heaven”, and over the years my foster parents, no doubt thinking it was for the best, allowed me to go on believing they were dead.

‘Then when I reached sixteen, perhaps as an awful warning, they decided I was old enough to know the truth. My natural mother, whose name was Helen, was my grandmother’s only child. From the age of thirteen she’d been a bit wild, and she was barely sixteen when she discovered she was pregnant.

‘It seems she wanted to have an abortion, but my grandmother was horrified and insisted on her going through with the pregnancy.

‘She hated the whole idea of motherhood, and even before I was born blamed me for spoiling her life. When I was only a few weeks old she disappeared, leaving my grandmother to take care of me.’

‘Your grandmother must have been quite young when she died?’

‘She was in her middle fifties. She had some kind of minor operation that went tragically wrong.’

Running lean fingers over his smooth chin, Dominic remarked thoughtfully, ‘So, with having the same parents, you and your husband must have been brought up like sister and brother?’

Made a little uncomfortable by the bluntness of the question, she answered, ‘We were always very close. Though we spent most of our time together—we even went to the same school—we never argued or fell out… I can’t ever remember not loving Jeff, and it was the same for him.’ Smiling fondly, she added, ‘He once told me he’d loved me since I was a scrawny five-year-old with big solemn eyes and a pigtail.’

‘Didn’t close friends think it strange that you never quarrelled like other siblings?’

She answered truthfully, ‘I don’t recall having a really close friend, apart from Jeff, until I got to college. As children, our parents didn’t encourage us to mix much, and really we never seemed to need anyone else.’

‘What about when you grew into adults?’

‘You mean did we stay friends?’

‘I mean when did you become lovers?’

‘Jeff wanted us to sleep together as soon as I’d turned eighteen.’

‘But you didn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘No… Though after he’d died I almost wished we had. It seemed such a waste of three years… But although our parents were kind, they were quite strict and God-fearing, and they seriously disapproved of anyone having sex outside marriage.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Jeff suggested we should get married, but we were due to start college and neither of us had any money. Eventually he decided to approach our parents and tell them we loved each other and wanted to be together.

‘When he did, they said if we waited until we’d finished college—to be sure we weren’t making a mistake—they would give us their blessing and pay for a white wedding and all the trimmings. That way they could be proud of us.’

Seeing Dominic’s expression, she admitted, ‘It must seem terribly old-fashioned, but we’d been brought up to respect their wishes, and living under their roof meant accepting their standards. Apart from anything else they’d been very good to me, and I didn’t want to let them down, so finally we promised to wait.’

His grey eyes intent, Dominic asked, ‘Surely a promise like that went by the board once you got into student accommodation?’

‘The college was only just down the road, and in the circumstances it seemed sensible to keep on living at home.’

Dominic’s flicker of a smile said it all.

Disturbed by that smile, she found herself defending the decision. ‘It was what our parents wanted us to do. They said some of the students were a wild bunch and we’d be better off at home.’

‘I would have bet on it.’

Before Nicola could make any comment, he pursued smoothly, ‘So you finished college and had a white wedding… Then what?’

Unused to dissembling, she spoke the exact truth. ‘I moved into Jeff’s room.’

‘Didn’t you find being under your parents’ roof somewhat…inhibiting?’

She had, more so than Jeff.

A little defensively, she explained, ‘It wasn’t how I would have chosen to do things. We’d both graduated with honours—Jeff in Design Engineering, me in Modern Languages and Business Studies—but neither of us had managed to get a job… In any case our parents, who had lived in rented accommodation all their lives, wanted us to stay with them until we could afford to start buying a place of our own, and Jeff was in agreement…

‘I know that must sound a bit staid and unexciting…’

His voice almost angry, Dominic said, ‘It sounds soul-destroying.’

Nicola flushed painfully.

Watching her colour rise, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made a remark like that.’

As lightly as possible, she said, ‘That’s all right. And it wasn’t really so bad. At least Jeff and I were together…’

Then, wistfully, ‘Though it would have been nice if we’d ever been able to move into a place of our own…’

‘So you never succeeded in getting away?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d managed to get an office job, but Jeff was unlucky. The company he’d joined made massive cutbacks, and he was one of the first to be made redundant, so we were still trying to save up when the accident happened.’

‘Earlier you mentioned that after the accident you went to live with your friend Sandy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t remain at home.’

‘Our parents were killed in the same accident. The three of them were coming to pick me up from work when a lorry went out of control and hit them. We were all going on a family holiday.’

‘So you were left with no one.’

‘Sandy was very kind.’

‘How did you cope with your freedom?’

She looked up startled. ‘I suppose the answer’s not too well. Though I never thought of it as freedom… It just seemed more like loneliness. I missed Jeff so much…’

‘Having lived together for most of your lives, I suppose you were bound to. What was he like?’

‘Very much like you.’ She spoke without thinking.

The look in Dominic’s eyes was swiftly veiled, yet she felt certain that he was far from pleased by the comparison.

Coolly, he said, ‘Well, as you obviously loved him a great deal, I should feel flattered… Though I’m not convinced you know me well enough yet to compare us.’

‘I—I meant in looks,’ she stammered. ‘Like you, he was tall, dark, and handsome…’

‘A hackneyed phrase that can cover a multitude of sins,’ Dominic observed mockingly. ‘However, do go on.’

But as she described her late husband, visualising his face as she spoke and superimposing his features on the man sitting opposite, she knew her impression that they were alike was totally false.

The only similarity was the height and colouring.

Jeff had been over six foot, but compared to this man’s broad chest and mature width of shoulder he had been… The thought that came to mind was weedy…

Feeling dreadfully disloyal, she pushed it away.

Both had hair that was a true black and wanted to curl, but while this man’s was cut short and tamed Jeff’s had been a boyish riot of tight ringlets.

He had still been boyish in many ways, his hands big-knuckled and bony, as though he hadn’t yet grown into them, his face thin and sensitive-looking, with fine features and the air of a dreamer.

This man was anything but boyish. His hands were strong and well-shaped, with blunt fingers and neatly trimmed nails; his face was lean, with patrician features and an air of toughness and authority.

Jeff, by nature, had been kind and gentle and considerate.

Of Dominic’s nature she knew nothing.

Yet looking at him now, and recalling the way he had adjusted her stole, she felt oddly certain that, like a lot of powerful men, he might well be tender and protective.

She missed that. The tenderness. The caring.

Watching her face, noting the wistful expression, and misinterpreting it, Dominic said, ‘It’s about time we changed the subject. You’re starting to look sad, and talking about your husband can’t be easy.’

‘A short while ago, it wouldn’t have been possible,’ she admitted. ‘But I think I’m finally coming to terms with his loss.’

That was the truth. Tonight, though there had been tricky bits, on the whole it had been relatively painless to talk about Jeff.

There were so many happy memories, and he would always have a very special place in her heart. But, as though a heavy load had been lifted, she no longer felt that crippling weight of grief she had carried for the past three years.

Watching her expression, Dominic said gravely, ‘Welcome back to the world. What plans have you for the immediate future?’

‘Short-term, I shall stay in Venice for a month or so. Make this holiday a new beginning. You see, I…’

His grey eyes were fixed on her face, intent, waiting.

On the point of telling him about John and her reason for travelling to Venice, she hesitated. Then, deciding she had done more than enough soul-baring for one night, changed her mind. ‘I haven’t taken a holiday since I joined Westlake, so I decided it was time I took a break.’

Their waiter appeared to ask if they wanted anything further and, after consulting Nicola, Dominic ordered coffee with cream for her, espresso for himself, and two brandies.

It arrived quite quickly, accompanied by a silver filigree plate of chocolates.

When the waiter had moved away on silent feet, Dominic asked, ‘Have you ever been to Venice before?’

‘No, though I’ve always wanted to. I’ve often visualised the warmth and colour, the wonderful old buildings, water everywhere, and crowds of people…’

‘That about sums it up,’ he said with a smile. ‘Though the crowds are usually there only in the summer and at carnival time, and mostly in the touristy areas.’

‘Then you don’t find them a problem?’

‘Not personally. There are many parts of Venice that hardly ever see a tourist—quiet backwaters, picturesque or decaying, depending on your point of view, where the ordinary Venetians live.’

‘Have you lived there long?’

‘All my life, apart from three years at Oxford and a year spent travelling. As I said, my father was from the States, but my mother’s family have lived in Venice since the time of the Doges, when Italy was a great seafaring nation and one of the most prosperous settlements in Europe. Now, five hundred years past its heyday, Venice is still one of the most spectacular cities in the world.’

Noting that his voice held both enthusiasm and pride, she said, making it a statement rather than a question, ‘And you like living there.’

‘Yes, I do. For one thing it never becomes stale. There’s always so much atmosphere, whether it’s sunny, or rain-lashed, or there’s a fog rolling in off the Adriatic. And in the evening Piazza San Marco is the perfect place for lovers. Something about the ambience makes couples of all ages sit and hold hands…’

The thought of sitting in Piazza San Marco holding hands with Dominic sent little shivers of excitement running through her.

Seeing that slight movement, he asked, ‘Getting cold?’ Before she could find her voice, he signalled the waiter, adding, ‘I suppose it’s time we were making a move. We’ve both got a fair drive tomorrow, and I could do with an early start.’

The bill paid, he rose to his feet and, with what she was beginning to recognise as his habitual courtesy, pulled out her chair.

Sorry that what had proved to be a magical evening was over, she allowed herself to be escorted back down the long, worn flight of steps, through the dining room and hall, and out into the flare-lit courtyard.

Dominic’s car had been brought to the door, and, feeling the chill of the night air, she was grateful that the hood was now up.

Cupping a hand beneath her bare elbow, making her pulses leap, Dominic settled her into her seat, then slid behind the wheel just as the Baron appeared and stood beneath the huge metal lantern to wave them off.

They both returned his wave, and a moment later they were through the archway and following the mountain road down to the valley.

Dominic drove with silent concentration as, their lights sweeping a path through the darkness, he negotiated the steep bends.

Nicola, very aware of his potent sex-appeal, thought only of him, and what tomorrow might hold when they reached Venice.

Feeling a thrill of expectation, she wondered whether he’d ask where she was staying, or suggest seeing her next morning before they each started their journey.

It would be lovely if he proposed having breakfast together…

She was still enjoying the glow of excitement and anticipation as they drew into the car park at the Bregenzerwald.

He helped her out and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her to the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

When they reached her room she felt in her bag for the key and, having found it, fumbled to fit it into the lock.

She was starting to feel a little light-headed. Perhaps, as she wasn’t used to drinking, she shouldn’t have had a brandy with her coffee. But it was too late now.

‘Allow me.’ He took the key from her, and, having opened the door, handed it back with a smile.

‘Thank you…’

She took a step into the room, and reached to put the key and her bag on the small table just inside the door. Then, with a sudden fear that he might just walk away, turned quickly to say, ‘And thank you for a lovely evening. I’ve really enjoyed it.’

The sudden movement made her head spin, and, momentarily off balance, she swayed towards him and put her hands flat-palmed against his chest to steady herself. She could feel the warmth of his body through the fine lawn of his evening shirt.

Becoming aware that he had stiffened and was standing absolutely motionless, she backed away a step, saying huskily, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s really no need to be sorry… And I’m pleased you enjoyed the evening.’

Though the words were easy enough, there was a tautness about him, a look on his face that seemed to suggest a conflict of emotions, amongst them a touch of…censure?

It was gone in an instant, the smile back in place, convincing her that she must have imagined it.

A little awkwardly, she said, ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Nicola.’

It was the first time he’d used her name.

Fascinated, she watched his mouth frame the syllables, and knew she wanted him to kiss her. Needed him to kiss her.

As though in answer to that unspoken need his hands closed around her upper arms and, drawing her towards him, he covered her mouth with his.

Though there was nothing diffident about it, his kiss was light, almost experimental, as though he was holding back to calculate her reaction before he decided exactly how to continue.

But once again her knees turned to water and her very bones seemed to melt, so that she was forced to lean against him for support.

His arms went around her, and as her lips parted helplessly beneath his he deepened the kiss.

It was like a brilliant flash of light, showing up both past and future, a revelation that was followed by a deep, black velvet darkness.

When he took her hand and led her into her room, closing the door behind them, she made not the slightest protest, conscious only of him and the need he had aroused.

Setting her back to the panels, one hand on the warmth of her nape, he bent to kiss her again while his free hand began to smooth over her slender figure: the small waist, the flare of her hip, the curve of her buttocks.

After a while the silk chiffon became an unwelcome barrier and, unzipping her dress, he eased it off her shoulders, allowing it to fall at her feet. Then his lips left hers to sensuously explore the line of her collarbone and the smooth skin of her shoulder.

When they reached the tender junction where neck and shoulder met, his kisses changed to little nibbling bites that made her stomach clench and her toes curl.

His mouth returning to hers, he unclipped her strapless bra and, cupping one of her small, firm breasts, brushed his thumb over the nipple.

While she was still struggling to cope with the sensations he was provoking, he bent his head and, having laved the other erect nipple, took it into his mouth and suckled sweetly.

She was suddenly into sensual overload, the pleasure so intense that she gave a little moan and, running her fingers into his dark hair, held his head away from her breast.

A moment later she was swept up in his arms and carried to the bed. The only light was from the street outside, but in the gloom she saw the gleam of his eyes as he laid her carefully on top of the covers and sat down beside her to take off what remained of her clothing.

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