A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon
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A Venetian Affair
Catherine George
Susan Stephens
Lucy Gordon
MILLS & BOON
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A Venetian Passion
by
Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. and instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antiques shops.
Chapter One
THE flight from Heathrow was punctual. For this at least he was thankful. His eyes smouldered. If any other man—or woman—had asked him to meet the plane in person he would have refused. With impatience he scanned the new arrivals streaming through the Marco Polo concourse. Many of them were young women with fair hair, but none seemed to be travelling alone. At last he saw a solitary female figure hurrying in his direction, dragging a small suitcase on wheels. His eyes narrowed. It could be. A white cotton sunhat was pulled low over a face hidden by enormous sunglasses, but she was young, small, and the rope of hair hanging down her back was most definitely blonde.
‘Miss Green?’ he said, moving to intercept her.
She turned warily. ‘Yes?’
‘Welcome to Venice.’ He bowed slightly. ‘I am Domenico Chiesa, from the Forli Group. Signor Lorenzo Forli, the Presidente, asked me to meet you.’
She smiled in surprise. ‘Really? How very kind of him.’
It is even kinder of me, he thought irritably. ‘Come. You need a ticket for the vaporetto.’ He hurried her to the office near the exit. ‘The No.1 Aligaluna waterbus leaves almost at once.’ He bought a ticket and handed it over with a diagram showing the route from the Piazza San Marco to her hotel. ‘This will help you find the Locanda Verona, Miss Green.’
She smiled politely as she accepted it. ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’
‘I regret—’ he began, but she was already hurrying away to the quayside. He stared after her, lips compressed. He had been about to say he was too busy to make the journey with her, but the lady, it seemed, had not expected—or desired—him to do that. His eyes darkened as he boarded a water taxi. He had been forced to leave a very difficult situation to come to Marco Polo, but he had dutifully guided the lady to the right vaporetto and given her directions to the hotel he had personally arranged for her. Yet her gratitude had been all for Lorenzo Forli, who had merely given orders from group headquarters in Florence. Here in Venice Miss Laura Green had virtually ignored the man who had taken time he could not spare to meet her.
Unaware that she’d given offence, Laura managed to find a space at the rail of the vaporetto to get the best view, deeply grateful to Lorenzo Forli for arranging her trip to Venice. She knew from the guidebook that this particular boat travelled down the Grand Canal slowly enough for passengers to gaze at the architecture, and she settled down to enjoy every second of the journey as each ancient, fragile building and palazzo succeeded another, some seeming almost to lean together for support. Amazing! It was her first visit to Venice, yet everything seemed so extraordinarily familiar, as though she’d been here before. The media was responsible for the déjà vu feeling, of course. Venice was the most filmed and photographed city on the planet.
Laura’s excitement mounted as she saw the famous bell tower soaring high above Piazza San Marco, and when the boat docked she was among the first of the stream of passengers to pass the lion of St Mark high on his pillar. As she reached the piazza she gazed in awe at the oriental extravagance of the Basilica as she threaded through the crowds clustered at its central entrance, and looked with longing down its great length. She couldn’t wait to explore this fabulous square, but right now the first priority was to find the Locanda Verona. Her Italian lessons at school had never actually been put into practice, so even if she managed to ask directions there would be no earthly chance of understanding a reply. Laura checked with the diagram, settled her canvas satchel across her chest, and trundled her suitcase through the tourists and pigeons to cross the vast, arcaded piazza. To her delight the pair of bronze Moors on the clock tower struck the hour as she neared the arch below them, and she stopped to watch before passing through on her way to the famous Mercerie, where she’d read that shops tempted visitors all the way to the Rialto. But not this visitor right now, she thought with regret. According to the brusque Mr Chiesa’s diagram her hotel was situated somewhere beyond in the network of narrow streets called calles, where the canals were spanned by the famous bridges of Venice. And eventually, after only a couple of wrong turnings, Laura found a bridge that led her right to the door of the hotel.
The Locanda Verona was a small guest house with ochre-coloured walls and typical Venetian windows, and, most important of all to Laura, surprisingly affordable charges for the San Marco area. The high-ceilinged reception hall was blessedly cool after the late afternoon heat and the smile of the handsome woman at the desk reassuringly friendly as she introduced herself in careful English as Maddalena Rossi, wife of the owner. Once the usual formalities were over she conducted Laura to a room on the top floor.
‘The room is small, but you have your own bathroom, Miss Green,’ Signora Rossi announced, unlocking the door. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here.’
‘I can’t fail to be!’ Laura gazed in delight at the vaulted, wood-beamed ceiling and the Botticelli print over the pristine white of the bed.
Signora Rossi moved past the bed to a pair of narrow, half-glazed doors and with a flourish opened them onto a small roof garden. ‘Here is your view.’
Laura took in a deep breath as she looked down on the picturesque buildings lining the canal below. ‘And what a wonderful view it is! Thank you very much indeed.’
Looking pleased, the signora reminded Laura that meals were not provided. ‘But there are many eating places close by. Information on these can be obtained at the reception desk.’
After a call home to her mother to report safe arrival, Laura unpacked, took a swift shower, then got to work with a hot brush until her hair was dry enough to coil up in a smooth twist. She made up her face with the speed of long practice, put on a plain black dress packed as a safe choice for eating out alone in Venice, and went downstairs to tell Signora Rossi where she was going as she left her key at the desk. At last, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, Laura went out into the warm evening and crossed the bridge over the canal to find her way back through the picturesque alleys to the Piazza San Marco. Her goal was the famous Café Florian, where she knew one could sit at a table and listen