Prince's Virgin In Venice

by Trish Morey

  She needed to take a moment to get herself straightened up before anyone saw her like this.

  ‘Rosa!’ someone called in a booming deep voice, and a shudder went down her spine and sent the muscles clenching between her thighs.

  She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her dreams at night. She’d imagined hearing it a hundred times a day in the crowded calles and the market stalls along the busy canals. She’d looked around, searching for the source, but it had never been him, of course.

  ‘Rosa!’ she heard—even closer.

  Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. She wasn’t imagining it this time. She peeked out of the bathroom to see a bear of a man entering the room. So tall and broad, with his mane of hair brushed back from his face, his carved features fixed into a frown.

  ‘Vittorio...’ she whispered, before her insides twisted on a rush of heat and sent her lurching once more for the pan.

  There was nothing to lose. Nothing to give up but the strength in her bones and any shred of self-respect she’d ever had as she gagged where she’d flopped, huddled on the floor. But for him to see her this way was beyond cruel.

  And yet he was by her side in an instant, pressing a damp towel to her heated forehead, his big hand on her back, as if lending her strength. As if he were saying, I’m here.

  Gradually the churning eased, the spasms passed. She had the strength to lean back, to take the dampened towel from his hands and press it to her face. Dio, how could she let him see her ghastly face?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, between gasps.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he replied, ignoring her question. ‘You’re ill.’

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to struggle to her feet.

  She was confused. She still had rooms to clean, and Vittorio was here, and she didn’t understand any of it.

  When she turned, Chiara was there at the door to the room, silently watching.

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’ she said.

  ‘Tell me what?’ he said, looking from one woman to the other, but she could see by the dawning realisation on his face that he was already working it out for himself.

  She looked up into a face that spoke of power and strength and everything she lacked in this moment, and told him. ‘I’m so sorry, Vittorio, but I’m pregnant.’

  He roared. A cry of anguish or triumph she couldn’t be sure. But before she could decide she was swept up into his strong arms and cradled against his chest. She could have protested. She was hardly an invalid. She could walk. But instead of protesting she simply breathed him in, The scent was as she remembered. Masculine. Evocative. It was all she could do not to melt into the whump-thump of his heart in his chest.

  ‘Where is her room?’ she heard him say.

  Followed by Chiara’s voice. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘I have to finish my shift,’ she said weakly.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  * * *

  He laid her down on her bed. Reverently. Gently. As if she were a fragile piece of glass blown by a master craftsman rather than made of flesh and blood.

  ‘Leave us,’ he told Chiara, and the usually bossy but now boggle-eyed Chiara didn’t bother trying to argue with him and meekly withdrew.

  He sat down beside her and smoothed the damp hair from Rosa’s brow. ‘It’s mine?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ she snapped, through a throat that felt raw from throwing up.

  He smiled at that, although she didn’t understand why. There was nothing funny that she could see about any of this.

  He looked around at the tiny windowless room that contained two beds—cots, really—a small chest of drawers that doubled as a bedside table with a lamp between them, and a hanging rack filled with an assortment of clothes.

  ‘This is where you live?’

  She nodded, her strength returning enough that she could scoot herself upright with her back to the wall. ‘With Chiara.’

  ‘The two of you?’ he asked, clearly aghast. ‘Here? Barely above the water level?’

  ‘It’s not that bad. It’s cheap for Venice. Chiara said it only floods at king tides, and not very often.’

  He shook his head and swore softly under his breath. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I was still—’

  ‘Working out what to do about it?’

  He’d stiffened as he said it and she noticed an edge to his voice. A harsh edge. Judgmental?

  She swallowed. ‘I was still coming to terms with it. I only found out a couple of days ago.’

  He pulled out his phone, thumbing through it. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

  Rosa closed her eyes. Maybe this was another of her dreams. Maybe the hormones running through her bloodstream had turned her a little bit mad and she’d conjured Vittorio up—a combination of thin air and wishful thinking.

  ‘Well?’

  She opened her eyes, half surprised that he was still there. ‘Chiara said you wouldn’t want to know. That you probably had a wife and four bambini tucked away somewhere.’

  ‘Why would you believe that when you were there that night? You heard what Sirena said. You knew my father wanted me to marry her. Why listen to Chiara?’

  ‘Because you told me “one night and one night only.” That you didn’t do for ever. It made as much sense as your father wanting you to marry his friend’s daughter.’

  This time he swore out loud.

  ‘You mean you don’t have a wife and children somewhere?’

  He smiled down at her, and then whoever he was calling picked up. ‘Elena, I need some help,’ he said, and issued a list of demands. ‘We’re going to get you seen to,’ he said. ‘My housekeeper is organising it. She knows everyone in Venice. And meanwhile we’re going out.’

  She shook her head. ‘I should get back to work. I’ve been away too long already.’

  ‘You’re not going back to work today. If I have anything to do with it you’re never going to clean another room in your life.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you all right to walk now?’

  She nodded. She felt a million times stronger than she had before, but she was still confused. Nothing he said made sense. The fact he was even here made no sense.

  ‘Good. Then get changed,’ he said, gently pressing his lips to her forehead. ‘I’m taking you out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘First of all I’m taking you somewhere you can get a decent meal. You need feeding up. And then we’re going to sit down for a talk.’

  * * *

  He took her to a restaurant tucked away in an alleyway behind the Rialto Bridge, where the tables were dressed in red and white checked tablecloths. Clearly they were off the tourist trail, in a restaurant that catered to locals, because instead of the multitude of languages she was used to hearing in the hotel and the calles the predominant language was Italian.

  There they lunched on the best spaghetti alle vongole Rosa had ever tasted—but then, she wasn’t just hungry by then, she was ravenous. The pasta with tiny clams filled a void inside her, and her once rebellious stomach welcomed every mouthful. Relished it.

  Not even the presence of this man opposite could stop her. He seemed to heighten her appetite along with her senses. Maybe it was because he was content just to eat his own pasta as he watched her eat hers, watching approvingly every mouthful she consumed.

  But there was something going on behind those cobalt blue eyes, she could see. Something that went beyond ensuring that she ate well. Something calculating. Unnerving.

  ‘What have you been doing the last few weeks?’ she asked between mouthfuls, wanting to break the tension, to see if she could encourage him to say what was on his mind.

  ‘This and that,’ he said, giving nothing away. ‘What a
bout you?’

  ‘Same. Work, mostly. I was planning to take a few days off and go home. Rudi, one of my brothers, and his wife Estella are due to welcome their second child soon. But that was before I found out—well, you know.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you still go home?’

  She shook her head, halting her loaded fork halfway between bowl and mouth. ‘I don’t know that I can face my father or my family right now. I don’t think my head’s in the right place.’

  ‘Will they even be able to tell so early?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s because I feel like I’ve let them down. Papà wanted me to live and see the world—he wouldn’t have encouraged me to leave the village otherwise. But I don’t think he was expecting this to happen. Not to me. Not so soon.’

  ‘Would he be angry?’

  ‘No. Not exactly. Probably just—disappointed.’ She put her fork down and looked up at him. ‘And isn’t that worse?’

  Vittorio didn’t know. He had a father who specialised in anger. He’d got so used to disappointing his father over the years it was no longer a deterrent. If it ever had been. It had become more like a blood sport between them rather than a familial relationship.

  Rosa finished off the last of her pasta and leaned back in her seat. ‘That was amazing. Thank you.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And now we need to talk.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

  But he shook his head, looking at the tables full of diners clustered around them—tables full of diners who all spoke Italian and who might overhear. ‘Not here.’

  * * *

  She had to hand it to Vittorio—if you had to sit down to have a talk you could find a worse venue than floating down the Grand Canal. She’d raised her eyebrows when he’d stopped at the gondola stand, but he’d merely shrugged and said, ‘When in Venice...’ and handed her into the gently rocking vessel.

  He was doing it again—sweeping her out of her world and into his—but this time there was no panic. No fear. Because it was broad daylight and she knew enough about him to trust him. Besides, it was his child that she carried in her womb. His seed that had taken root.

  Once they were seated on the golden bench the gondolier set off, sweeping his oar rhythmically behind them in the time-honoured way, sending the long, sleek vessel effortlessly skimming over the surface of the canal.

  All these months she’d been in Venice and never once had she taken a gondola ride. It was something for the tourists, and hideously expensive in her eyes, but here on the water you gained a different perspective. It was seeing Venice as it was meant to be seen, from the watery streets that made up its roadmap.

  For a while they were content to take in the views and point out the sights as they slid under the magnificent white Rialto Bridge, with its eleven arches, crowded with tourists looking down at the passing traffic, looking down at them with envy.

  And if Venice in the fog had been atmospheric and mystical, under the pale blue skies of spring it turned magical. It was as if the city had been reborn and emerged fresh and renewed from under its winter coat.

  The colours of the buildings popped. Red brickwork stained with salt, pastel pink and terracotta, Tuscan yellows and even shades of blue trimmed with white competed for attention as they stood shoulder to shoulder above the slick green-grey waters of the canal.

  And at its heart were the waterways they traversed, the canals alive with vaporetto and motorboats and gondolas all fighting for space. For a few minutes they were just two more tourists, enjoying the sights and sounds.

  And there, with Vittorio smiling at her, she couldn’t imagine a place she’d rather be—not even at home in her village, with her papà and her brothers and their families nearby. It was magical. And the most magical thing about it was that Vittorio was actually here, bursting into her life as suddenly as he had on that cold, fog-bound night of Carnevale.

  It was no wonder that she’d missed him. No wonder that she’d dreamed of him. He was tall and broad and powerful. He was larger than life. He was—more. More than anything she’d ever experienced before. And he made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt.

  At one stage she was smiling up at the bridge they were about to pass under when she turned and saw the he was taking a photograph of her. She tried to protest. ‘I would have made more of an effort,’ she said, pulling her hair away from her face.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, and her heart felt as if it would bursting.

  And still the question that he had not yet answered hung between them.

  ‘Why did you come today?’ she asked. ‘I never expected to see you again.’

  ‘I came with one purpose. But now you have given me another.’

  Her brow furrowed with confusion. ‘I don’t understand...’

  He took her hand in his. ‘I wanted to see you, even if briefly. And seeing you again has reminded me. We were good together, Rosa.’

  Sensation skittered down her spine. She blinked. She hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not that. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  More than good. She’d dreamed about him. Had replayed every moment of their lovemaking until she could run it on a loop in her head, and the experience was still as exciting as it had been the first time.

  He smiled as he pressed her hand to his lips. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Back to that. She looked at the buildings, glorious relics of centuries gone by and still defying the logic that said buildings must be built on solid ground.

  She turned back to him. ‘What can I do? I have so few options. But I want to do what’s best for the baby.’

  He nodded and squeezed the hand he still held.

  ‘Marry me.’

  The words were gone before she could grasp and process them, lost on the lapping waters and the hustle and bustle and sounds of the busy canal. She couldn’t have heard right.

  ‘Scuzi?’

  ‘Marry me. Our child will have a mother and a father and you’ll have no need to feel ashamed when you go home. And you’ll never have to clean another hotel bathroom in your life.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vittorio. I don’t expect a proposal. That’s crazy.’

  ‘Rosa, I mean it.’

  She looked up into his face and the fervent look in his blue, blue eyes stopped her in her tracks. ‘You’re actually serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious.’

  ‘But it’s so sudden. You can’t make a decision like that so quickly.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘But I can’t!’

  The idea was ridiculous. There were all kinds of reasons why it made no sense. They barely knew each other. And it was so early in her pregnancy—anything could happen, and then they’d be stuck together, and one or both of them would resent it for ever.

  The gondola slipped slowly down the sinuous canal and the richly decorated palazzos drifted by, at odds with the turmoil going on in Rosa’s mind.

  She’d always wanted to marry for love. She wanted what her mother and father had shared before her mother had been cruelly wrenched from them by her disease: a deep, abiding love, the kind of love that took death to break it apart.

  She knew that it was no idle dream, no fantasy that she aspired to, that she wished for herself. She’d witnessed it first-hand, initially with her grandparents and then with her parents, and she wanted it for herself. More than that, she believed she deserved it.

  So this—Vittorio’s bizarre offer—wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This was all wrong. She was pregnant by a man she’d met only once before and now he was asking her to marry him because of the baby she was carrying.

  It was so not how she’d imagined a proposal to be.

  It would be crazy to say yes.

  Even if a part of her was tempted.

 
She gasped in a breath as she numbly watched the passing parade. How many nights had she lain awake, when all was silent aside from Chiara’s soft breathing, and thought about that night? Replaying the events, the emotions, the heart-stopping pleasures of the flesh he’d revealed to her? He’d taught her so much. Had given her so much.

  For how many nights had she dreamed he would come for her?

  And here he was.

  And if a city could defy logic and be built atop the sea then maybe what he said could make some kind of sense too. He’d come for her today. Despite saying they’d never see each other again.

  He’d tilted her world off its axis in just one night. If he could do that, then maybe it wasn’t so impossible. Maybe they had what it took to make a marriage work?

  She turned back to him. ‘Did you come here today to ask me to marry you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said, slipping his hand into his trouser pocket. ‘Otherwise I would have come prepared with a ring to offer you. But I do have this...’

  And there, in the palm of his hand, lay her grandmother’s gold and pearl earring.

  Her hand went to her mouth as her heart skipped a beat. She could scarcely believe it. She reached down to touch it, still not believing it was real, curling her fingers around the precious item, still warm from being tucked away next to Vittorio’s body.

  ‘This is the reason I came today. I found it nestled on your pillow after you had gone.’

  She looked up at him. ‘But I went to your palazzo. Your housekeeper said nothing had been found.’

  ‘She didn’t know. I intended to return it before now.’

  ‘I thought I’d lost it for ever.’

  ‘I meant to have Elena package it up and send it to you. But then, if I had...’

  She looked up at him as electricity zipped down her spine. ‘You might never have found out about the baby.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Serendipity,’ he said.

  And she curled the hand holding the earring close to her chest, tears of gratitude, of relief, of joy, pricking at her eyes.