Swept Away By The Venetian Millionaire. Nina Singh
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“Rameri. Vittorio Rameri,” he supplied as he took her hand into his. Her skin felt surprisingly warm for someone who’d just taken a plunge in dirty water. “I’m often called Vito.”
“Hello, Vito. I’m Maya Talbot. From the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And I wish we hadn’t had this very mortifying meeting. Nothing personal,” she added after a pause, wringing out the tail of her shirt.
Oh, but he was so very glad that they had met. Damned if he could put his finger on exactly why that was so. He only knew that today was the first time in a long while that he’d felt drawn to study the features of a woman. He wanted to examine further the way the sunlight brought out the golden specks of her eyes, how the dampness of her hair took it to a dark shade of ebony that framed her delicate chin.
He wanted to think of how it would feel to sculpt what he was seeing before him. An instant desire to squash the urge rose in his chest. In his soul, he knew he wasn’t ready just yet. Not to handle clay.
“I suppose I better get going back to my hotel,” she said as he continued to stare. If she noticed the way he was looking at her, she was too polite to mention it.
“Are you alone?”
Her shoulders fell. The question seemed to deflate her even more. He found himself intrigued. What exactly was her story?
She shrugged and looked away before answering. “I’m afraid so. It’s just me. By myself. In one of the most romantic cities in the world. Go figure.”
Now that was surprising. By the looks of her, Vito would guess she wasn’t often lacking for male companionship. “I see.”
She dabbed a wet, trembling finger against his chest. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” she supplied. Vito guessed it had to be the alcohol that had her talking so freely to the stranger who’d just pulled her out of the canal. “I was supposed to be here with my fiancé,” she continued.
“Uh-huh.”
“But the...what do you call it? Bastardo? Yes, that’s it. He was a bastardo. I learned that word from the hotel housekeeper who brought a complimentary bottle of valpolicella to my room earlier.” She smiled at him.
Well, that explained the early drinking. Maya Talbot was a jilted bride. Or almost bride, as the case might be. But had she had the whole bottle? Still, he felt a twinge of admiration at the fact that she’d decided to come solo on a trip that had obviously been planned to include a romantic partner.
She twirled her fingers at him. “Well. Ta-ta. I should be going.”
Vito reached for her arm before she could take a step. “Un momento.” He couldn’t just let her walk away. The woman was in no condition to be by herself in an unfamiliar city.
She blinked at him in surprise. “Yes?”
“Do you actually know where you’re going?”
She blinked yet again before looking off into the distance to her left. Scratching her forehead, she turned to look the opposite way. It was blatantly clear she had no idea where she was. Let alone where she was going. “Well, I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Vito weighed his options. Leaving her to her own devices was out of the question under the circumstances. For all he knew, she might actually trip and fall into the water again. He could offer to buy her a cappuccino at the café; clearly she could use the caffeine. But she was soaked to the skin. He doubted she’d be comfortable for long sitting in a wooden chair as wet fabric clung to her skin. Not to mention the attention the sight of her would attract from passersby. He could always load her into a vaporetto and send her on her way, but the likelihood that she’d get seasick was all too real.
Based on some past benders he’d been on himself, he figured the thing she needed the most was just to be able to lie down until the effects of the alcohol passed.
“Perhaps I can be of help.”
Her eyebrows lifted over those dazzling amber eyes. “How?”
“My place is just over the bridge.” He pointed in that direction. “We can go get you dried off and cleaned up.”
She narrowed her gaze on him, suspicion clouding her features immediately. Not that he could blame her. She didn’t know him from the street vendor selling gelato a few feet away.
“You expect me to accompany you, a man I’ve never laid eyes on before, to your apartment? Thanks, but no thanks.”
He should have explained better. Fluency only got a person so far, it appeared.
Shaking his head, he tried to explain. “Scusa. First of all, it’s not an apartment. I own an art studio near Le Mercerie. A public studio. Open for business. There’s a comfortable sitting area complete with a sofa for browsing patrons. I might even have some dry clothing for you.”
She looked him up and down. “I doubt we’re the same size.”
“I meant ladies’ clothing.”
Relief and understanding washed over her features. “Your wife’s clothing, you mean.”
Vito cringed inwardly at the word. Even after all this time, he hadn’t quite adjusted to the new reality that he no longer had a wife. And he never would again.
He shook his head. “I don’t have a wife. But my models have been known to leave things behind.” Not that any kind of model had graced his space in the past several months.
“Your models? What kind of studio are we talking about exactly? Are you a photographer? Or some kind of artist?”
That was one way to put it, Vito supposed. Though, truth be told, he hadn’t been any kind of artist in quite a while.
SHE’D CLEARLY BEEN dining on cotton. Maya tried to swallow past the dry ash that seemed to be coating her mouth and tongue. All she managed was a squeaky croak.
Water. She was in desperate need of water.
Maya forced her lids open and winced at the pain behind her eyes once she did. For heaven’s sake. She hadn’t even had the whole bottle. Just went to prove what a lightweight she was. After all, wasn’t that a point that Matt had continually made? How often had he told her that she needed to let loose a little? To not be so constrained and proper all the time.
Maybe if she had done so every once in a while, her tolerance level would be a little higher.
Well, if he could only see her now. Sprawled out on a couch in what appeared to be the back room of an Italian art studio that she’d followed a stranger to. She could hear soft Italian voices from somewhere in the building. Two male voices and one female. Maya didn’t understand a thing that was being said. She heard the sound of a door open, then close.
Maya struggled to sit up. She wore a soft cotton tunic of some sort. She vaguely remembered stepping behind a curtain to take off her clingy wet capri pants and tank top, nearly toppling over in the process.
But she also remembered other things. Gentle, sympathetic chestnut-brown eyes. Wavy hair so dark it had reminded her of the moonless New England sky. A set of strong arms steadying her on her feet after helping to lift her out of the water. Who was he, exactly?
She really had no idea of the identity of the man who’d brought her here.
A gasp escaped her chest. How utterly mortifying. She’d left herself at the total mercy of a complete stranger. A stranger in a foreign city where she didn’t know a soul. No one would even know to come looking for her if this handsome artist man turned out to be a cold-blooded psycho killer.
Maya bit back a groan. Definitely one of the dumber things she’d done. But