One Christmas Night in Venice. Jane Porter
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were in debt at the time you died and unable to leave me anything. Your mother, however, scraped together twenty thousand dollars to help me start my new life, perhaps put a down payment on a condo somewhere. She also promised to pay the bulk of my medical bills. It was the least she could do, she said. It was in your memory. She said you’d want her to do it.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes shuttered, his expression inscrutable.
“I don’t have my cane, so I’ll need my costume staff,” she added, with as much dignity as she could muster.
His dark head inclined. “I’ll send for it.”
“Thank you.”
He crossed to the table behind her and pressed a hidden button. Moments later the butler appeared. Domenico relayed his request but the butler had already retrieved it. “I have it here,” he said, reaching for the wooden staff propped outside the door. He carried it into the room and presented it to Diane with a bow. “For the Contessa.”
The Contessa.
Diane’s lower lip trembled. And just like that she was the Contessa again.
Impossible. Improbable. The dead did not come to life. Tragedies did not reverse themselves. Nightmares do not have happy-ever-afters.
Hand shaking, she reached for the staff. “Thank you, Signor d’Franco.” Her voice came out low, hoarse.
“You remembered!” the butler exclaimed.
“I remember everything,” she said thickly, and the tears she’d been fighting returned. And when the tears wouldn’t be held off she covered her face rather than have either man see her cry.
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