The Italian's Cinderella Bride. Lucy Gordon
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which made it hard for him to settle to steady employment, although he had finally found a niche in the tourist firm that Pietro owned, where his charm made him a knockout with the customers.
It also made him a risk-taker, walking a fine line between acceptable behaviour and going a bit too far. Pietro knew that Gino loved to impress the girls by pretending that he came from the aristocratic Bagnelli family, and although he disapproved it also made him shrug wryly. It was just Gino amusing himself.
Now he was beginning to worry that Gino had amused himself in a way that might bring tragedy.
‘Can you tell me where he is?’ she asked.
‘He’s off travelling at the moment. He works for me in a tourist firm I own, and he’s exploring new places.’
‘But he’ll be home soon?’ she asked with a hint of eagerness that both touched and worried him.
‘No, he’s on a long trip, finding places where I can mount tours.’
‘I see,’ she said with a little sigh.
Pietro asked his next question carefully.
‘Does Gino know you well?’
At first he thought she hadn’t heard, so long did she take to reply. Then she shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He won’t know me. Nobody knows me any more. I don’t know myself, or anybody else. I know who I was then—’
‘Then?’ he queried gently. ‘When was that?’
‘About a year ago—or perhaps a little more. I’ve got the date written down somewhere—’ She saw his troubled face and gave a half smile that was oddly charming. ‘I sound quite mad, don’t I?’
‘I don’t think you’re mad at all,’ he said firmly.
‘You could be wrong about that. I’ve been in a special home for—well, most of the last year. Now I’m trying to find my way back into the world, only I don’t do it very well.’
‘Then it’s lucky you found a safe place, and a friend,’ he said.
‘How can you be my friend when you don’t know who I am? Whoever I was then, I’m someone else now. I just don’t know who.’
‘You must know your name or how could you travel?’
‘My name is Ruth Denver.’
A spoon fell out of Pietro’s hand and hit the terrazzo floor with a ping. Cursing his own clumsiness, he leaned down to pick it up, glad of the chance to hide his face, lest it reveal his shock at hearing the name Ruth Denver.
When he looked up again he was in control and able to say calmly, ‘My name is Pietro Bagnelli.’
‘Gino’s cousin?’ she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly glowing. ‘He told me a lot about you, how you grew up together.’
‘We’ll talk some more in the morning,’ he interrupted her hastily. ‘You’ll be better when you’ve slept.’
He was becoming more disturbed every moment, and needed to be alone to do some thinking before he talked further. If she was who he was beginning to believe she was, he needed to tread with care.
‘I’ll get a room ready for you,’ he said. Pausing at the door, he added, ‘Don’t go away.’
She regarded him quizzically, and he realised he sounded crazy. Where could she go? But he had a strange feeling that if he took his eyes off her she might vanish into thin air.
‘I promise not to disappear,’ she said with a glimmer of humour that was evident even through her distress.
‘Just to make sure you don’t—Toni, on guard.’
The huge mutt came forward and laid his head on Ruth’s knee.
‘Stay like that, both of you, until I get back,’ Pietro said.
In the next room there was a couch that could be turned into a bed. He made it up, his mind in turmoil. What was happening was impossible. There was no way that this could be Ruth Denver.
He returned to the living room to find that both its occupants had obeyed him. Toni’s head was still on Ruth’s knee, and she was stroking it, regarding the dog with a smile of fond indulgence.
‘Your room’s ready,’ he said. ‘Try to get plenty of sleep. I won’t let anything disturb you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and slipped away.
As soon as he was alone Pietro poured himself a large brandy. He had never needed one so much.
He felt stunned.
At first he’d thought this might be one of Gino’s discarded girlfriends who hadn’t given up hope. It happened often, but there were reasons why it couldn’t be the answer this time.
As Pietro brooded on those reasons he grew more and more troubled.
Just over a year ago Gino had fallen in love with an English girl, a tourist in Venice. Pietro had been away at the time and when he returned she’d gone back to England, so he’d never met her.
For once Gino had seemed genuinely smitten, to the point of marriage. Pietro’s wedding gift was going to be a grand reception in the palazzo.
‘But I want to meet this paragon,’ he told his young friend. ‘She must be really special to persuade you to settle down.’
‘Yes, she really is special,’ Gino enthused. ‘You’ll love her.’
‘I hope not,’ Pietro teased. ‘I’m a respectable married man.’
‘And you don’t want Lisetta throwing pots and pans at you.’
‘She never would,’ Pietro said quietly. ‘She thinks of nothing but pleasing me.’
‘So I should hope. And imagine how pleased you’re going to be when she gives birth to that son. When is it due now?’
‘One month.’
‘We’ll have the wedding just after that.’
It was arranged that Gino would go to England for the firm, and bring his fiancée back with him for a pre-wedding visit. His work in England had been expected to last two weeks, but he was home in five days, mysteriously pale and quiet, which was so unlike Gino as to be alarming. In response to Pietro’s concerned questions he would only say that the marriage was off. He and his lover would never meet again.
As far as Pietro could tell Gino never called her, and if his cell phone rang he jumped. But it was never her.
‘Did you quarrel?’ Pietro asked cautiously. ‘Did she catch you flirting?’
‘Not at all. She just changed her mind.’
‘She dumped you?’ Pietro asked, incredulous. Such a thing had never happened before.
‘That’s right, she dumped me, and asked me to leave her alone.’
Before Pietro could explore further, his wife went into premature labour, and died giving birth to a son, who also died. In the aftermath of that tragedy all thoughts of Gino’s problems were driven from his mind.
When he was able to function again he saw that his friend hadn’t recovered his spirits. Pietro’s kind heart prompted him to send Gino away on a number of trips, seeking out new destinations for the firm.
Now and then Gino returned to Venice, seeming more cheerful. But always his first question was whether there had been any news from England, and Pietro realised that this young woman had callously broken his heart.
Her name had been Ruth Denver.
‘But it can’t be her,’ he growled to himself. ‘She doesn’t look anything like her. I’ve seen her picture—’