From Venice With Love. Alison Roberts
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darkness rise, even as his gut churned and rebelled, still it was impossible not to feel that light shine out from her and warm him in places where light had not touched for so long.
‘The books in my library,’ he bit out, coming up with an idea that might hold her, something to keep her interest while she stayed. ‘I don’t even know what’s there.’
He watched her brow pucker as she sensed the almost-crime. ‘Maybe while I’m here—if you didn’t mind, that is—maybe I could look at them and catalogue them for you.’
‘You would do that for me?’
‘I would love to.’
She was so excited, he believed she would.
‘What about you?’ she asked as he finished his coffee, so suddenly that he was taken by surprise.
‘What about me?’
‘What have you been doing all these years?’
Standing still.
Trying to forget.
‘Nothing half as interesting as you.’
She tilted her head. ‘I was sorry to hear that your wife died. You were married such a short time.’
The black tide grew closer. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Only that there was some kind of tragic accident. But it’s such a long time ago now. Did you never think of remarrying?’
Never.
He pushed his chair back. ‘Why don’t we walk?’
A mist had grown while they’d sat in the café, rolling in over the sea, devouring everything in its path. Gabriella forgot about her question and thought there was something so utterly fascinating and serene about watching an entire world slowly vanish, a fantasy world disappearing into the fog as if it had never been real, as if it had never existed.
They found a bridge looking out over the water where the deepening mist rolled in over the lagoon, obliterating and absorbing everything, even sounds, so that it was as though Venice had been buried under a dank, white cloud. Every now and then a light would appear, or the dull rumble of an engine would herald the ghostly shape of a vessel making its way back to shore. She shivered. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.
‘It’s spooky,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Don’t you feel it?’
He looked out into the mist-covered lagoon and she wondered what he was looking for when all anyone could see was white. ‘The ghosts come out,’ he said, ‘When there is a night like this.’
‘Oh, Raoul, please,’ she said, trying to laugh while she fought down the prickles rising at the back of her neck and the shivers running down her spine. ‘I’m not a child you can frighten so easily.’
‘No, it is true. There are many, many ghosts in Venice. And many, many stories.’
And, because she had told him she was no longer a child and could not be frightened so easily, she felt she had no choice but to boldly ask, ‘Like what? Tell me one of your ghost stories, then.’
Still looking out in the mist, a look so intense it was almost enough to make her regret her rash challenge, he began, his voice low and heavy with foreboding. ‘Once there was a wealthy merchant who had the world at his feet. He had riches beyond measure—he was good-looking, some even said—and he had a beautiful wife, famous and talented. And he thought that he had it all. He thought that he was happy.’
She held her breath as the fog swirled silently around them, knowing this could not end well.
‘And then one night, a night filled with the pleasures of the flesh as so much of his life had become, he introduced his wife to two brothers, supposedly two friends of his. But the two brothers conspired against him. They promised the merchant’s wife the world and spirited her away.’
‘She went willingly?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can say? The man was a fool, you see, who saw nothing before him but his perfect life, and nothing afterwards but a blind rage. And when he found her one storm-ridden night, lying with one of the brothers, it almost destroyed him.’
‘What happened?’
‘They died that night, both the woman and her lover.’
‘The merchant killed them?’
‘He might as well have. Because she haunted him every night afterwards until he thought he was going mad with the darkness. And even now, on nights such as these, you can hear her voice on the mournful breeze calling for him, searching for him, waiting for him to pass by so she can suck him into the watery depths.’
Through the gloom of the fog the soft wind moaned and a light flickered faintly once, twice, before it disappeared back into the swirling fog. Gabriella grabbed hold of Raoul’s arm, chilled beyond measure. ‘It’s late,’ she said, trying not to tremble as she clung to him. ‘And it’s been a long day. Let’s go home.’
They walked back hand in hand, the soft lamps along their route and Raoul’s solid presence banishing thoughts of ghosts, legends and what must have been just wild imaginings, turning her thoughts away from the ghostly and much more towards the physical and the real. Her hand fitted well in his, she mused; his long fingers were warm and strong. She squeezed her hand and he squeezed back, looking down at her. ‘I want you to be happy, Bella. Are you glad you came to Venice?’
She smiled, thinking she would be happy to be with Raoul anywhere when he was like this—charming, warm and the perfect host. But to be here with him in Venice, against the backdrop of mediaeval palazzos, with the rumble of the vaporettos and the snatches of love songs from passing gondoliers, she couldn’t think of a better place to be. ‘It’s magical, Raoul. Thank you for insisting I come.’
He stopped and pulled her to him, his free hand curving around her neck and sending delicious shivers coursing through her as leaned down, his eyes on her mouth. She gasped as their lips met, breathing in the taste of him, dark, rich and potent, much like the man himself. His mouth weaved some kind of magic on hers. So tender and evocative was his kiss that she wanted to fall into it and go with it wherever it might lead so that, when he lifted his head, she almost mewled a protest.
‘What was that for?’ she asked, suddenly breathless and dizzy, hoping for all kinds of things that were probably as unlikely as building an entire city on water—yet here it was.
‘Because,’ he said, his dark eyes swirling with heated intent, ‘There was no way earthly way I could not.’
She lay awake a long time that night in the big king-sized bed surrounded by the endless orgy, a celebration of the act of love in all its iterations, still reeling from Raoul’s kiss, still tingling at the memory of his touch and the sensual brush of his lips against her own.
Buzzing at the erotic images on the walls around her.
On the wall before her a nymph kissed her lover, his hand at her plump breast. She could almost imagine that hand on hers, tweaking her nipple, coaxing it to hardness. With a groan she turned over, willing herself to think of something less sensual, less arousing—only to be welcomed by a wild-eyed woman, her head thrown back in ecstasy as her lover pressed close behind her. She turned on her stomach, buried her face in the pillow and tried to ignore the ache in her breasts and the pulsing insistence between her thighs.
Such a big bed.
Such a lonely bed.
Such a waste.
And when she did fall asleep it was to restless dreams of potent, well-built gods, wicked satyrs—and a dark and dangerous man who kissed like one of those gods, who probably made love like one of those gods and who was sleeping a mere room away …
Raoul was out when she rose the next day, so she pulled on jeans and sneakers and a singlet top that could