Her First-Date Honeymoon. Katrina Cudmore
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that huge, frankly scary-looking lion’s head brass knocker on the front door sounding at any moment, and having to explain her presence to another person tonight.
‘Are you still expecting her?’
His eyes swept over her lazily. ‘No.’
Every inch of her skin tingled. For a moment she gazed longingly towards her suitcase, propped open beside an ornately carved walnut dressing table. She hadn’t had the energy to unpack earlier, but had fallen into bed after a much needed shower instead.
She moved towards the suitcase, aware he was following her every move. She grabbed the first jumper from the messy jumble spilling from it and pulled on the thick-knit polo neck. A shiver of comfort and relief ran down her spine; she no longer felt so susceptible to his dangerous gaze.
He moved back across the room towards the door. ‘I need to speak to my grandmother.’
‘She isn’t here.’
He pulled up short. ‘What do you mean, she isn’t here?’
‘She said she had to return home to Puglia. That there was an emergency.’
He shook his head in disgust and twisted away. He rolled his shoulders and then his spine in a quick, impatient movement, the fine wool of his suit jacket rippling in a fluid motion. He moved with the ease of the super-rich. Even his hair—a perfect one-inch length, tapering down in a perfect straight line to hug the tanned strength of his neck—looked as though it had been cut with diamond-encrusted scissors by a barber to the nobility of Europe.
This room—this palazzo, this stunning city La Serenissima—all so grand and overwhelming, proud and mysterious, suited him. Whereas she felt like an alien amongst the wealth and elegance.
Wealth. Elegance. A grandmother with the surname of Vieri...
Her brain buzzed with the white noise of astonishment while her heart jumped to a thumpety-thumpety-thump beat. No wonder he looked familiar.
‘You’re Matteo Vieri, aren’t you?’
The owner of one of the world’s largest luxury goods conglomerates.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and popped a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘So you know who I am?’ His casual stance belied the sharp tone of his response.
Did he think she had engineered her stay here because of who he was? Engineered being in his bed for his arrival? Did he think she had designs on him romantically? That possibility, if it hadn’t been so tragic, would have been laughable.
‘I used to work at St Paul’s Fashion College in London. One of your companies—VMV—sponsors its graduation show.’
‘Used to work?’
‘I left last week to move to Sydney.’
Well, that had been the plan anyway. Until it had all fallen apart. When was life going to start co-operating with her, instead of throwing her endless grenades of disastrous calamity?
Yet more uncomfortable heat threaded along her veins. She had slept in Matteo Vieri’s bed. He was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. She needed to clarify how all this had happened.
‘Your grandmother told me I was welcome to use any room I wanted. I didn’t realise this room was yours.’ She paused and gestured around the room to the walnut four-poster bed, the pale green silk sofa—all so beautiful, but without a trace of him. ‘None of your belongings are on display, no clothes...I had no idea it might be someone’s bedroom.’
‘When this palazzo was built in the fifteenth century not much thought was given to adjoining dressing rooms...my clothes are further down the hallway.’ He spoke like a bored tour guide, tired of the same inane tourist questions.
‘But your bathroom is full of...’ She trailed off, not sure how to say it. It was full of delicious but most definitely girly shampoos and conditioners, bath and shower gels, lavish body lotions...
He gave her a don’t push it frown. ‘I do own those companies.’ His lips moved for a nanosecond upwards into the smile of a man remembering good times. ‘Those products are there for my dates to use.’
She tugged at the collar of her jumper, feeling way too hot. The image of a naked Matteo Vieri applying one of those shower gels was sending her pulse into the stratosphere.
She went to her suitcase and squashed the lid down, fighting the giddiness rampaging through her limbs, praying it would zip up without its usual fight.
‘I’ll move to another room.’
He stood over her, casting a dark shadow over her where she crouched. ‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’ll have to leave.’
She sprang up, her struggle with the suitcase forgotten. ‘But I have nowhere to go! I spent all of today searching for a hotel, but with it being Carnival time there are no rooms available. I’ve tried everywhere within my budget. Meeting your grandmother...her kind offer of a room was like a miracle.’
‘I bet it was—an invitation to stay in a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice!’
Did he have to sound so cynical? ‘I appreciate this situation is far from ideal, but I have nowhere else to go. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.’
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit jacket with a stiff, annoyed movement. His cufflinks flashed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. ‘I apologise for my grandmother’s behaviour. She shouldn’t have given you a room without my authorisation. I have a busy week ahead, with clients from China coming to Venice for Carnival. It does not suit me to have a house guest.’
‘Are they staying here?’
‘No, but—’
‘Honestly—I’ve tried every hotel in Venice.’
He glared at her, and for a moment she was transported back to her pointe classes as an eleven-year-old, when she used to shake with fear about getting on the wrong side of the volatile ballet master.
‘Why are you in Venice, Signorina...?’ His voice trailed off and he waited for her to speak.
‘Fox. Emma Fox. I’m here because...’ A lump the size of the top tier of her wedding cake formed in her throat. She gritted her teeth against the tears blurring her vision. ‘I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon.’
* * *
His stomach did a nosedive. Dio! She was about to cry.
Something about the way she was fighting her tears reminded him of his childhood, watching his mother battle her tears. Unable to do anything to stop them. To make life okay for her. Not sure why she was crying in the first place when he was a small boy other than having a vague understanding that she was waiting for his father to come back. The father he’d never known.
And then in later years, when she had accepted that his father was never going to return, her tears had been shed over yet another failed relationship. But he hadn’t even tried to comfort her in those years. His own pain had been too great—pain for all the men who had walked out of his life without a fight, father figures, many of whom he had hero-worshipped.
People let you down. It was a lesson he had learned early in life. Along with coming to the realisation that he could only ever rely on himself. Not trust in the empty promises of others.
A loud sniffle brought him back to his present problem. To her lowered head he said, ‘On your honeymoon?’
She emitted a cry and bolted for his bathroom.
This time his grandmother had gone too far. To the extent that he was tempted to follow her down to Puglia and give her a piece of his mind, this time not falling for her apologies and pledges to behave. Nor, for that matter, being diverted by plates of her legendary purcedduzzi—fried gnocchi with honey.
He understood her compulsion to help the poor and