From Venice With Love. Alison Roberts
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cold in his veins while he watched her over his shoulder. ‘Do you love him, Bella—this man who abandoned you yesterday on a day you needed friends to stand by you? Is that why you are so desperate to help him?’
‘No.’ She made a sound like a whimper. ‘No, but does it have to be about love? He’s a friend, and he’s going to need all the friends he can to get through this.’
‘And yesterday, when you needed a friend? Where was he then, if not already running, if what the paper suggests is true? Why else would his offices be raided? Why else would he have been arrested at the airport like that article says if he was not trying to flee? Unless he had plans to travel that you knew about?’
‘No.’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘We were planning on having a quiet dinner together.’
‘Then how much help do you think you can be, without proving him to be a liar with your evidence?’
She collapsed on the un-made bed, her face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know! I just don’t know what to do.’
She looked so vulnerable and broken, so desperate and despair-ridden, that he could not help but feel guilty, even when Garbas was scum and had it coming to him. There was little triumph here. In kicking Garbas, he’d kicked her too when she was already down, even if it was to save her.
But there was no way now he would walk away and leave her here in Paris, not like this. All she knew was death and loss here, and a friend she was determined to defend. She was just as likely to go to the police and ask to speak to him. If she asked him if he had done it and Garbas said he had not, of course she would believe him. She would never be free of him, not really, not unless …
God, what a mess.
‘Bella,’ he said, sitting alongside her, pulling her into his arms. ‘I will tell you what you must do. You must pack your bags and come with me to Venice and you will forget all about what is happening here.’
She sniffed again against his chest, a fresh torrent of tears hot against his fresh shirt. ‘But you don’t want me there,’ she sobbed. ‘You said you didn’t.’
‘I’m asking you now.’
‘So why now and not last night? You didn’t want me to come last night. You sent me home.’
He sighed, stroking her hair, looking across the room at nothing in particular. ‘Last night I was reminded of things I would rather forget. Not because of you, Bella, but Umberto’s death reached me in places I did not want to go. And I was angry. Unthinking. Careless of your feelings. But I cannot leave you here like this in Paris, all alone, with Umberto gone and your friend in jail.’
She shook her head. ‘But …’
He took her chin in his hand and lifted it so he could see her eyes. ‘You have leave. Why not make the most of it? How long has it been since you had a real holiday?’
Too long, if the lost look in her eyes was any indication. ‘You said it has been years since you were in Venice,’ he said, knowing she was swayed. ‘I have an apartment on a canal, big enough that I could do my work and you could sightsee to your heart’s content. And we could sip wine in the evening on the balcony and watch the gondolas slip by. What do you say?’
Her eyes swirled with the possibilities. He saw them; he saw her hesitation and felt her temptation as she tasted the opportunity before her. And still she wavered. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘And then in a few weeks, when all this has all settled down and you are feeling stronger, come back and see what you can do for your friend then. Maybe it will have all blown over. But things will be clearer then, I know.’
She looked up at him, and he could see she was torn. ‘You really think so?’
‘I know so.’
Her teeth found her lip—swollen and bruised from yesterday’s stresses he realised—and he put a thumb to her lip if only to stop her injuring herself further. ‘You’ve hurt yourself. Don’t do that.’ And even as he brushed her lips apart with his finger she looked up at him with those wide cat’s eye. Even though he knew it was folly, even though he knew it could lead nowhere good, he could not resist. So he dipped his mouth to hers, tentatively, whisperingly soft, no more than a brush of skin against skin.
Yet she shuddered against him like the world had quaked beneath her feet.
My doing, he thought with a touch of satisfaction as he tasted her lips and felt the foundations of his own soul shift and stir and bring him reluctantly to awareness—where he had no intention of going.
He returned the finger to her lips, pushing himself away, reminding himself why he was doing this. He would have to kiss her, he told himself, if this was to work. It meant nothing. And then, once she was safe, he could let her go. She would be free to find someone worthy of her, someone who could offer her a future filled with life and love.
She looked up at him, all blinking eyes and breathlessness, her lips parted as if she could not draw in enough air any other way, as if waiting for him to kiss her again.
Later, he thought, knowing he shouldn’t rush her, knowing he should take his time. Because he had no choice, even though it was the wrong choice. He couldn’t leave her here.
Because, like it or not, Umberto had been right all the time.
There was no other way.
VENICE enchanted her. From the moment she first caught sight of their destination as their plane came into land at Marco Polo airport, Gabriella was struck by the soft beauty of this ageing city perched upon the sea. From the air it had looked like a fantasy land, seemingly floating atop the waters of the lagoon, the tell-tale S of the grand canal slicing through its many islands.
From the vaporetto as they approached the city, it appeared even more magical. She sighed with pleasure, soaking up the soft sun on her bare arms, the breeze dancing through her hair. It felt like for ever since she’d felt the sun’s kiss on her skin or the whispering breeze in her hair and she tossed her head back, letting her hair flick and dance on the warm air.
There was something exotic and timeless about approaching the city by water. She could almost imagine herself as a mediaeval princess being ferried across the sea to meet her new husband, a wealthy Venetian merchant, mesmerised by the sight of such beautifully decorated buildings jostling shoulder to shoulder for space. Some were topped with intricate domes, others with towers pointing upwards as if in the search for space, while the water lapped at their feet. There were palaces, churches and rows of gondolas tied to candy-striped posts bobbing on the water. It was all utterly unreal. Utterly magical.
‘Happy?’ Raoul asked alongside her, his blue-black hair pulled into a short ponytail, his eyes covered with sun-glasses that only added to his dark appeal. Her eyes drank him in. Already he looked different, as if he’d lost some of the tension that had lined his features just yesterday. His shirt softly draped in the breeze, sculpting against his broad chest, while the unbuttoned collar revealed a tantalising vee of olive skin at his neck with a sprinkling of dark hair.
A sizzling heat zipped its way up Gabriella’s spine and momentarily struck her dumb. If the mediaeval princess was lucky enough to have someone like this man waiting for her, she would be one very lucky woman indeed.
But, no—this man was more likely the pirate who came to retrieve his bride from the clutches of the wealthy merchant.
He tilted his head and smiled. ‘You certainly look happy.’
Happy didn’t come close. She was arriving here in Venice, in a magical city with a man who took her breath away every time she looked at him. How had she ever imagined there was anything sinister about him when she had felt that sliver of apprehension