The Venetian's Proposal. Lee Wilkinson
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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, straight-faced.
Uncertain whether or not he was laughing at her, she gathered herself, and, needing a topic of conversation, asked a shade breathlessly, ‘Do you live in Innsbruck?’
‘No, I’m here on business.’ His eyes on her face, he went on, ‘I live in Venice.’
‘Oh…’ For no reason at all, her heart lifted.
Still watching her, as though he was half expecting some reaction, he added deliberately, ‘My name’s Loredan… Dominic Irving Loredan.’
‘Are you Italian?’ was all she could think of to say.
‘Half. My father was from the States, but my mother was Italian.’
So that accounted for the faint and fascinating accent she had noticed, and also for the eloquent way he used his long well-shaped hands when he was speaking.
‘You’re English, I take it?’
‘Yes. I’m Nicola Whitney.’
He glanced at her wedding ring. ‘Mrs Whitney, I see.’
‘Yes… No… Well, yes…’
Raising a dark winged brow, he commented, ‘You seem a little uncertain.’
‘I—I’m a widow,’ she stammered.
Perhaps afraid of pitying exclamations, or maybe because to say it aloud made it all too real, this was only the second time she had voluntarily admitted her widowhood.
‘You’re very young to be a widow,’ he remarked evenly.
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘When did your husband die?’
‘Three years ago.’
‘And you’re still wearing your ring?’
She still felt married.
When she said nothing, he pursued, ‘Was his death some kind of accident?’
Because his question was matter-of-fact, unemotional, she was able to answer steadily, ‘Yes. He was killed in a car crash.’
‘So you’re on your own?’
‘I share a flat with a friend, Sandy.’
‘He’s not holidaying with you?’
‘No, I’m alone… And Sandy’s a she.’
Now why had she found it necessary to tell a complete stranger that? she wondered. Other people had made the same mistake and she hadn’t bothered to correct them.
More than a little flustered, she hurried on, ‘We met at college, and after Jeff, my husband, died she invited me to share her flat. I would have liked her to come with me, but she’s a self-employed information consultant and she had too much work on.’
His manner casual, he queried, ‘Are you in the same line of business?’
‘No. I work for Westlake Business Solutions as a conference organiser.’
‘Sounds very impressive. Are you good at your job?’
‘Yes.’
The gleam in his grey eyes showed his appreciation of her answer before he asked, ‘What qualifications are necessary for a job like that? Apart from looks?’
As he added the rider there seemed to be a slight edge to his voice. Or was she just imagining it?
She answered briefly, ‘No qualifications as such.’
‘Then what do you need?’
‘A knowledge of how business works, a flair for judging what different clients want, and a certain originality. The ability to speak at least one extra language fluently is useful.’
‘And do you? Speak another language, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do go on,’ he said smoothly.
She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘On the whole it’s just hard work. Organising accommodation, conference facilities, a supply of suitable food and drink etcetera, and making sure everyone’s happy.’
‘Which I’m sure you do wonderfully well.’
This time there was no doubt about the edge, and, biting her lip, she remained silent.
‘So where do you organise these conferences?’
‘Worldwide…Tokyo, Sydney, Atlanta, Quebec, Paris, London.’
‘That must involve a great deal of travelling.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘And a good chance to meet people? The business delegates, for example?’
Disconcerted by his manner, and feeling a growing tension, she answered awkwardly, ‘I usually only get to meet the people actually attending the conference, if things aren’t going smoothly.’
‘And of course you make sure they are?’
‘As far as possible.’
Apparently sensing her discomfort, he sighed, and, leaning back in his chair, shook his head ruefully. ‘Forgive me. I hope you’ll accept my apologies?’
‘For what?’
He gave a charming grimace. ‘I shouldn’t be grilling you about your life and work. You’re on holiday and the sun’s shining.’
The feeling of tension disappeared as though it had never existed.
And perhaps it hadn’t. Maybe it had been all in her mind? Something to do with his resemblance to Jeff? Or the fact that for the past three years she had avoided socialising in this way, and so had lost her ability to mix and relax on a personal level?
‘What do you have planned for the rest of your day in Innsbruck?’ His low, clear voice broke into her thoughts.
‘As much sightseeing as possible.’
‘Alone?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘As my business is now successfully underway, and I’m alone too, perhaps you’ll allow me to show you around?’
Her heart picked up speed and began to beat a tattoo against her ribcage while she decided what her answer should be.
She found him a fascinating and disturbing man. Disturbing not only because he reminded her of Jeff, but in a way she was unable to put her finger on.
Yet though her time spent in his company hadn’t been altogether comfortable—and perhaps it was her own reaction to his explosive sex appeal that had caused her discomfort—she knew she didn’t want it to end.
To hide the excitement that had suddenly made her feel like a girl again, she answered carefully, ‘Thank you, that would be very nice.’
Whether he was amused by her primness, or pleased by her acceptance, she wasn’t sure, but his white, even teeth flashed in a smile.
It was the first time she had seen him smile, and it added a thousandfold to his already considerable charm.
Dropping some schillings onto the table, he said, ‘Then let’s go.’