Her First-Date Honeymoon. Katrina Cudmore
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jumper, today in a light-knit navy blue. Her chestnut hair hung over one shoulder in a thick plait.
‘I hope you found my note?’
‘Thank you—yes...it was a lovely breakfast.’
The exhaustion of last night was gone from beneath her eyes. She gave him a can we try to act normal? smile and then gestured to the canal.
‘There’s the most incredible flotilla sailing up the canal—you must come and see.’ Her smile was transformed into a broad beam, matching the excitement in her eyes. She beckoned him over.
He should get back to work. But it seemed churlish to refuse to look. The canal was teeming with boats, and onlookers were crowding the fondamente—the canal pathways.
‘It’s the opening parade of the Carnival,’ he explained.
For a few minutes he forgot everything that was wrong in his life as he joined her in watching the parade of gondolas and ceremonial boats sail past. Most of the occupants, in flamboyant seventeenth-and eighteenth-century costume, waved and shouted greetings in response to Emma’s enthusiastic waves.
Seeing the contrast between her upbeat mood now and the sobs that had emanated from his bathroom last night twisted his stomach, along with the memory of his grandmother’s words this morning. He had called her with the intention of lambasting her, only to be pulled up short when he’d learned that she had gone home because one of the homeless men she helped had been involved in an accident, and that she had helped Emma because she had found her in a desperate state in a café yesterday.
He pushed away the guilt starting to gnaw a hole in his gut. He had enough problems of his own. Anyway, he didn’t do cohabitation. He had never shared his home with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start with an emotional runaway bride.
Below them, the regatta started to trail off.
‘I have found alternative accommodation for you in the Hotel Leopolda.’
Her smile dropped from her face like a stone sinking in water. ‘Hotel Leopolda? The five-star hotel close to St Mark’s Square?’
‘Yes.’
She stared back at the canal, a small grimace pulling on her mouth. ‘I can’t afford to stay there.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
She stepped away from him before meeting his eye. ‘I said it last night—I’m not taking your money.’
‘I can appreciate how you feel. If it makes you happier, you can repay me some time in the future.’
‘No.’ Those hazel eyes sucked him in, dumped a whole load of guilt on his soul and spat him back out again.
‘I’ll make some calls myself—check the internet again. I’ll find somewhere suitable,’ she said.
This woman was starting to drive him crazy. He had had to use all his influence to secure her a room. He doubted she would find anywhere by herself.
‘I want to resolve this now. My event co-ordinator for the Chinese trip has gone into early labour. I’ll be tied up with organising all the final details for the visit for the rest of the day.’
She stepped back towards him, her crossed arms dropping to her sides. Concern flooded her eyes. ‘I hope she’ll be okay. How many weeks pregnant is she?’
He had no idea. It had been a sizeable bump. Once he had even seen a tiny foot kick hard against the extended bump during a meeting. It had been one of the most incredible things he had ever seen.
That image had haunted him for days afterwards. Catching him unawares in meetings, distracting his concentration. Bringing a hollow sensation to his chest, a tightness to his belly, knowing he would never see the first miraculous stirrings of his own child. Knowing he would never be a father. Knowing he would choose the empty feeling that came with that knowledge over the certain pain of letting someone into his life, of risking his heart in a relationship.
‘I’m not sure...eight months?’
Did she have to look at him so critically? Suddenly he felt he had to defend himself. ‘I asked for flowers to be sent to her.’
‘I don’t think flowers are allowed in hospitals these days. Anyway, I reckon flowers are the last thing on her mind right now.’ She threw him another critical stare before adding, ‘I hope she and her baby will be okay.’
Why, all of a sudden, was he the villain in all of this? ‘Of course I do too. My employees’ welfare is of great importance to me. It’s why they all receive a comprehensive healthcare package.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Her tone didn’t match her words. Her tone implied he was a close relative of Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko.
‘About your accommodation...’
‘How long are your clients here for?’
Hadn’t she heard him? This conversation was supposed to be about her leaving. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Have you someone to take over from your event planner?’
A tight dart of pain prodded his lower back. He stretched with a quick movement, but it brought little relief. ‘No. My event management team are already stretched, co-ordinating the upcoming spring/summer shows. Most of the team are already in New York, getting ready for the shows there.’
She pulled her lips between her teeth as if in thought. When they popped back out they formed an even fuller pout, had turned a more sensual red than usual. Emphasising their cupid’s bow shape. She had a beautiful mouth...
A sudden urge to take her in his arms and taste those lips gripped him. Maybe he was more stressed than he’d realised?
* * *
Emma’s mind whirled. Could she drum up the courage to suggest she take over the event planner’s role? Work for Matteo Vieri? Without question it was what every ambitious marketing assistant dreamt of. She should be genuflecting right now in front of this business legend; this marketing genius, instead of deliberately trying to antagonise him. What was that about?
A niggling thought told her that not only was she trying in vain to ignore how attracted she was to him—especially when he openly stared at her with interest, as he was doing right now, with particular attention focused on her mouth—but that it would hurt to have another person reject her. Which, rationally, she knew was crazy. They barely knew each other. But even after so many rejections it still hurt when others turned her away.
Working for him would be the kick-start her career needed. Even a week of working with him would open doors for her.
But she was a mess.
She had come to Venice to heal and to get her game plan together. She felt hollow and abused. She was in no position to deliver the best performance of her career.
A mocking voice echoed in her head. You said you were going to toughen up. Time for action and a lot less talk.
And having a purpose, being busy, might stop the stream of guilt and sadness that was constantly threatening to break through her defences—defences of shock and numbness, of a determination to tough it out. Being in control, having a structure to her days, was what she needed.
She spoke before she had time to talk herself out of it. ‘I’ll do it.’
His gaze moved from her lips to her eyes. Very slowly. So slowly that time seemed to stand still while her cheeks spontaneously combusted.
‘You?’
Did he have to sound so appalled by her proposal?
‘In my role at the fashion college I often helped pull events together—from the graduation show to organising the visits of academics and sponsors. Last year I co-ordinated the visit of some members of a faculty from a Chinese fashion college. I’m in need of a place to stay...you need an event co-ordinator.’