The Venetian Playboy's Bride. Lucy Gordon
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he emerged and began to negotiate his way to the shore. She took a quick look at the picture to make sure she had the right man. Yes, there he was, smiling at Jenny, playing the mandolin.
Thank goodness he didn’t have a passenger, she thought as she hobbled off the bridge and along to where he’d pulled in.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she called. ‘I just turned my foot and the shoe slid off and went right over the side of the bridge before I could grab it. And then it hit you on the head. I’ll never forgive myself if you’re hurt.’
He grinned, holding up the dainty gilt sandal with its absurdly high heel.
‘But I am hurt, very badly. Not in my head but—’ he bowed gallantly with his hand over his heart.
This was what she’d expected. Practised charm. Right! She was ready for him.
He’d pulled in by a short flight of steps that ran down into the water.
‘If you will sit down, I’ll return this to you in the proper fashion,’ he said.
She sat on the top step and felt her ankle grasped in strong, warm fingers as he slid the shoe back onto her foot, adjusting it precisely.
‘Thank you—Federico.’
He gave a little start. ‘Fed—?’
‘It’s written there.’ Dulcie pointed to a label stitched near his collar, bearing the name Federico.
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Guido said hurriedly. He’d forgotten Fede’s mother’s habit of sewing nametapes on the gondolier shirts of her husband, two brothers and three sons. No matter. He would simply tell her his real name. But he became distracted by the feel of her dainty ankle in his palm, and when he looked up he found her watching him with a quizzical look that drove everything else out of his mind. What did names matter?
‘And you are new to Venice?’ he asked.
‘I arrived only today.’
‘Then you must accept my apologies for your rough introduction to my city. But let me say also that the stones of Venice will not be kind to those shoes.’
‘It wasn’t very bright of me to wear such high heels, was it?’ she asked, looking shamefaced. ‘But I didn’t know, you see. Venice is so different to anywhere else in the world, and there’s nobody to tell me anything.’ She managed to sound a little forlorn.
‘That’s terrible,’ he said sympathetically. ‘For a beautiful young lady to be alone is always a shame, but to be alone in Venice is a crime against nature.’
He said it so delightfully, she thought. Lucky for her she was armed in advance.
‘I’d better go back to my hotel and change into sensible shoes before I have another accident.’ She became aware that his fingers were still clasped about her ankle. ‘Would you mind?’
‘Forgive me.’ He snatched back his hand. ‘May I take you to your hotel?’
‘But I thought gondoliers didn’t do that. Surely you only do round trips?’
‘It’s true that we don’t act like taxis. But in your case I would like to make an exception. Please—’ He was holding out his hand. She placed her own hand in it and rose to her feet, then let him help her down the steps to the water.
‘Steady,’ he said, helping her into the well of the gondola, which rocked, forcing her to clutch him for safety.
‘You sit here,’ he said, settling into the rear-facing seats, an arrangement that would enable him to see her face. ‘It’s better if you don’t face the front,’ he hurriedly improvised. ‘At this hour people get the setting sun in their eyes. And you might get seasick,’ he added for good measure.
‘I’ll do just as you say,’ she agreed demurely. She supposed she could be blinded by the setting sun from either direction, depending on which route he took, but she appreciated his strategy.
It suited her, too, to be able to lean back and stretch out her long, silk-clad legs before his gaze. True, she was supposed to be tempting him with the prospect of money, but there was no harm in using the weapons nature had bestowed.
He cast off, and for a while they went gently through narrow canals, where buildings rose sheer out of the water. They glided under a bridge and as it slid away she saw that it seemed to emerge direct from one building, over the water and straight into another. Dulcie watched in wonder, beginning to understand how this city was truly different from all others.
He was a clever man, she thought. He knew better than to spoil it by talking. Only the soft splash of his oar broke the silence, and gradually a languor came over her. Already Venice was casting its spell, bidding her forget everything but itself, and give herself up to floating through beauty.
‘It’s another world,’ she murmured. ‘Like something that fell to earth from a different planet.’
An arrested look came into his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly it.’
They seemed to drift for ages, one beauty crowding on the last, too many impressions for her to sort them out. Vaguely she remembered that this wasn’t why she was here. Her job was to work on the man standing there, guiding twenty-two feet of heavy, curved wood as though it was the easiest thing in the world.
She considered him, and found that she understood why a naïve, sheltered girl like Jenny found him irresistible. He was tall, not heavily built but with a wiry strength that she’d already felt when he’d helped her into the boat. Just a light gesture, but the steel had been there, unmistakable, exciting. He handled the heavy oar as though it weighed nothing, moving with it, lithe and graceful, as though they were dancing partners.
They passed into a wider canal, and suddenly the sun was on him. Dulcie looked up, shading her eyes against the glare, and at once he removed his straw boater and tossed it to her.
‘You wear it,’ he called. ‘The sun is hot.’
She rammed it onto her head and leaned back, taking pleasure in the way the light illuminated his throat and the strong column of his neck, and touched off a hint of red in his hair. How intensely blue his eyes were, she thought, and how naturally they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. And he smiled easily. He was doing so now, his head on one side as though inviting her to share a joke, so that she couldn’t help joining in with his laughter.
‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked.
‘There?’ he asked with beguiling innocence. ‘Where?’
‘At my hotel.’
‘But you didn’t tell me which hotel.’
‘And you didn’t ask me. So how do we know we’re going in the right direction?’
His shrug was a masterpiece, asking if it really mattered. And it didn’t.
Dulcie pulled herself together. She was supposed to toss the hotel name at him, advertising her ‘wealth’. Instead she’d revelled in the magic of his company for—good heavens, an hour?
‘The Hotel Vittorio,’ she said firmly.
He didn’t react, but of course, he wouldn’t, she reasoned. A practised seducer would know better than to seem impressed.
‘It’s an excellent hotel, signorina,’ he said. ‘I hope you are enjoying it.’
‘Well, the Empress Suite is a little overwhelming,’ she said casually, just to drive the point home.
‘And very sad, for a lady alone,’ he pointed out. ‘But perhaps you have friends who’ll soon move into the second bedroom.’
‘You know the Empress Suite?’
‘I’ve seen the inside,’ Guido said vaguely. It was true. His friends from America regularly stayed there, and he’d downed many a convivial glass in those