The Venetian's Proposal. Lee Wilkinson
Читать онлайн книгу.
opposite, she knew her impression that they were alike was totally false.
The only similarity was the height and colouring.
Jeff had been over six foot, but compared to this man’s broad chest and mature width of shoulder he had been… The thought that came to mind was weedy…
Feeling dreadfully disloyal, she pushed it away.
Both had hair that was a true black and wanted to curl, but while this man’s was cut short and tamed Jeff’s had been a boyish riot of tight ringlets.
He had still been boyish in many ways, his hands big-knuckled and bony, as though he hadn’t yet grown into them, his face thin and sensitive-looking, with fine features and the air of a dreamer.
This man was anything but boyish. His hands were strong and well-shaped, with blunt fingers and neatly trimmed nails; his face was lean, with patrician features and an air of toughness and authority.
Jeff, by nature, had been kind and gentle and considerate.
Of Dominic’s nature she knew nothing.
Yet looking at him now, and recalling the way he had adjusted her stole, she felt oddly certain that, like a lot of powerful men, he might well be tender and protective.
She missed that. The tenderness. The caring.
Watching her face, noting the wistful expression, and misinterpreting it, Dominic said, ‘It’s about time we changed the subject. You’re starting to look sad, and talking about your husband can’t be easy.’
‘A short while ago, it wouldn’t have been possible,’ she admitted. ‘But I think I’m finally coming to terms with his loss.’
That was the truth. Tonight, though there had been tricky bits, on the whole it had been relatively painless to talk about Jeff.
There were so many happy memories, and he would always have a very special place in her heart. But, as though a heavy load had been lifted, she no longer felt that crippling weight of grief she had carried for the past three years.
Watching her expression, Dominic said gravely, ‘Welcome back to the world. What plans have you for the immediate future?’
‘Short-term, I shall stay in Venice for a month or so. Make this holiday a new beginning. You see, I…’
His grey eyes were fixed on her face, intent, waiting.
On the point of telling him about John and her reason for travelling to Venice, she hesitated. Then, deciding she had done more than enough soul-baring for one night, changed her mind. ‘I haven’t taken a holiday since I joined Westlake, so I decided it was time I took a break.’
Their waiter appeared to ask if they wanted anything further and, after consulting Nicola, Dominic ordered coffee with cream for her, espresso for himself, and two brandies.
It arrived quite quickly, accompanied by a silver filigree plate of chocolates.
When the waiter had moved away on silent feet, Dominic asked, ‘Have you ever been to Venice before?’
‘No, though I’ve always wanted to. I’ve often visualised the warmth and colour, the wonderful old buildings, water everywhere, and crowds of people…’
‘That about sums it up,’ he said with a smile. ‘Though the crowds are usually there only in the summer and at carnival time, and mostly in the touristy areas.’
‘Then you don’t find them a problem?’
‘Not personally. There are many parts of Venice that hardly ever see a tourist—quiet backwaters, picturesque or decaying, depending on your point of view, where the ordinary Venetians live.’
‘Have you lived there long?’
‘All my life, apart from three years at Oxford and a year spent travelling. As I said, my father was from the States, but my mother’s family have lived in Venice since the time of the Doges, when Italy was a great seafaring nation and one of the most prosperous settlements in Europe. Now, five hundred years past its heyday, Venice is still one of the most spectacular cities in the world.’
Noting that his voice held both enthusiasm and pride, she said, making it a statement rather than a question, ‘And you like living there.’
‘Yes, I do. For one thing it never becomes stale. There’s always so much atmosphere, whether it’s sunny, or rain-lashed, or there’s a fog rolling in off the Adriatic. And in the evening Piazza San Marco is the perfect place for lovers. Something about the ambience makes couples of all ages sit and hold hands…’
The thought of sitting in Piazza San Marco holding hands with Dominic sent little shivers of excitement running through her.
Seeing that slight movement, he asked, ‘Getting cold?’ Before she could find her voice, he signalled the waiter, adding, ‘I suppose it’s time we were making a move. We’ve both got a fair drive tomorrow, and I could do with an early start.’
The bill paid, he rose to his feet and, with what she was beginning to recognise as his habitual courtesy, pulled out her chair.
Sorry that what had proved to be a magical evening was over, she allowed herself to be escorted back down the long, worn flight of steps, through the dining room and hall, and out into the flare-lit courtyard.
Dominic’s car had been brought to the door, and, feeling the chill of the night air, she was grateful that the hood was now up.
Cupping a hand beneath her bare elbow, making her pulses leap, Dominic settled her into her seat, then slid behind the wheel just as the Baron appeared and stood beneath the huge metal lantern to wave them off.
They both returned his wave, and a moment later they were through the archway and following the mountain road down to the valley.
Dominic drove with silent concentration as, their lights sweeping a path through the darkness, he negotiated the steep bends.
Nicola, very aware of his potent sex-appeal, thought only of him, and what tomorrow might hold when they reached Venice.
Feeling a thrill of expectation, she wondered whether he’d ask where she was staying, or suggest seeing her next morning before they each started their journey.
It would be lovely if he proposed having breakfast together…
She was still enjoying the glow of excitement and anticipation as they drew into the car park at the Bregenzerwald.
He helped her out and, a hand at her waist, accompanied her to the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
When they reached her room she felt in her bag for the key and, having found it, fumbled to fit it into the lock.
She was starting to feel a little light-headed. Perhaps, as she wasn’t used to drinking, she shouldn’t have had a brandy with her coffee. But it was too late now.
‘Allow me.’ He took the key from her, and, having opened the door, handed it back with a smile.
‘Thank you…’
She took a step into the room, and reached to put the key and her bag on the small table just inside the door. Then, with a sudden fear that he might just walk away, turned quickly to say, ‘And thank you for a lovely evening. I’ve really enjoyed it.’
The sudden movement made her head spin, and, momentarily off balance, she swayed towards him and put her hands flat-palmed against his chest to steady herself. She could feel the warmth of his body through the fine lawn of his evening shirt.
Becoming aware that he had stiffened and was standing absolutely motionless, she backed away a step, saying huskily, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s really no need to be sorry… And I’m pleased you enjoyed the evening.’
Though the words were easy enough, there was a tautness about him, a look on his face that seemed to suggest