The Venetian's Proposal. Lee Wilkinson
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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,