by Joanne Walsh
Christmas in Venice
A Christmas Around the World Novella
Joanne Walsh
Christmas in Venice
Copyright © 2014 Joanne Walsh
Kindle Edition
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-942240-20-4
Dedication
To Mum and Dad. Thank you for all our wonderful Christmases, and for encouraging me to write. I believe that you’re both still with me in spirit, and hope that I’m making you proud.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Dear Reader
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
The Unexpected Bride
Christmas Around the World Series
About the Author
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Christmas, Venetian style! I chose the setting of this beautiful Italian city as it’s one of the most amazing and stylish places to spend the festive season. In the run-up to Christmas Day, its ancient piazzas host bustling, colorful markets full of wonderful things to buy, eat and drink, and the canals are filled with spectacular tributes to Babbo Natale (Father Christmas) and the Nativity. Who could fail to be charmed and inspired by such a magical backdrop?
Ashlynne and Lorenzo are reunited unexpectedly in Venice, just before Christmas and five years after their brief marriage broke down. Each is still wrestling with grief, guilt and hurt about what went wrong, but they’ve never stopped loving one another—if only they could admit it! Of course Christmas is a time of miracles, so forced together by heavy snow and a determination to share the celebration they never managed when they were husband and wife, can they rekindle the passion and warmth?
I wish you all the best for your own holiday celebrations and hope that you will find a little bit of Christmas magic of your own.
With warm wishes
Joanne
Chapter One
‡
Ashlynne looked different. Lorenzo di Grechi surveyed his ex-wife as she sat huddled in the cabin of the water taxi taking them slowly across the Lagoon to his home city of Venice. She looked older, though not in a negative way—in fact, she was more beautiful than ever. Her extraordinary long red-gold curls glinted like a Mediterranean summer sunset, despite the Artic conditions of driving snow and freezing fog outside. Her normally pale, creamy-skinned cheeks were slightly pinkened by the raw wind, and her aquamarine eyes were fringed by dark lashes that had minute crystals of ice on them. She looked like a woman.
Whereas five years ago, when he’d last seen her in the offices of his London divorce lawyer, she’d been a girl. There was a less bubbly, more self-possessed air about her now. It suited her and, though she was bundled in a dark winter coat and fall-colored animal-print silk scarf that complimented her coloring, the kick to his groin made him realize he desired her as much as ever.
“Are you still cold, tesoro?” he asked her solicitously. Compelled to touch her, he took her icy bare hands in his gloved ones, intending to rub some life into them.
“Yes!” Her voice was edgy as she pulled her fingers out of his grasp. “And I’m not your darling!” She moved uncomfortably in her seat and looked away from him.
“My apologies,” he said softly. “Old habits, I guess.”
“It’s alright,” she replied wearily. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound snappy. I’m near-frozen, hungry and tired, and I thought I’d be home by now.”
“I would be too, if I were you,” Lorenzo conceded. “It was a stroke of luck that we ran into one another at Marco Polo.”
She turned to look at him, a faltering smile playing around her full-lipped, pink mouth. “I guess. Otherwise, I’d most likely be spending the holiday in the airport, waiting for the weather to improve.” She peered out of the windows and at the murky mist that surrounded them. “Look at the blocks of ice floating in the Lagoon! I’ve never seen that before.”
He smiled back and shrugged. “A once-in-a-century weather event throughout Europe, they’re saying. Planes grounded, trains stopped, roads blocked. The forecast says that it’s set to worsen tonight, and things probably won’t improve for a couple of days. Looks like you’re stuck with me for Christmas.”
She turned to him and he was captured by her clear, dark-turquoise gaze. He’d always thought she had amazing eyes—almond-shaped and stormy-sea-colored when she was upset or angry—and the sparks in them now still beguiled him.
“Maybe I should have stayed at the airport,” she retorted brightly, raising an arched brown brow.
He laughed at her remark. She meant it humorously, that was clear, but still it somehow stung him. She’d changed. The shy, sweet girl he used to be married to wouldn’t have made sharp comebacks. Though he had to admit, the thought of sparring with this new Ashlynne excited him too. “If the prospect of celebrating with me is that bad, I can have the vaporetto turn around and take you back to Marco Polo,” he responded dryly.
She shook her head. “If I have to be stranded, I’d rather it be in your sumptuous palazzo apartment. You still have it, I presume?”
“I do. So you know there’s plenty of room for you to avoid me, if you wish.”
He was surprised when she touched him on the arm. Even through the thick wool of his overcoat, an electric charge fizzed to his nerve endings.
“Thanks for offering me a place to stay, Lorenzo, I appreciate it. I don’t want to spoil your Christmas. You never know, maybe they’ll find a way to re-open the airport tomorrow and I’ll only be around for one night.”
He could see her vulnerability again now, a flash of the Ashlynne who was once his wife. “I doubt whether conditions will improve in the next twenty-four hours, and you could never spoil my Christmas, cara,” he replied. He felt a rush of guilt as he said it, and was thrown back five years, to a Christmas past when undoubtedly but unwittingly he’d spoilt hers, with what he knew now had been his selfishness and single-mindedness. As the unhappy memory glowered in his mind, his hand crept to caress hers.
*
Ashlynne felt the warmth of Lorenzo’s thumb as it feathered across her palm. Since when had he become so touch-feely? That had never been his style before. And, truth be told, how many times had she longed for this, for him, since he’d gone? She shook herself mentally, withdrew her hand and reminded herself that she was supposed to be past him now. Maybe not quite over him, but definitely past him and living a good, happy life that was all of her own making.
Her heart had sunk when, on her flight back to London from Athens, the pilot had announced that the worsening weather was forcing them to stop over at Marco Polo. Once they’d landed and been shepherded into the airport, the airline had told the passengers that all flights were grounded. The terminal was rammed full of people who’d been ejected from planes, and who were panicking because they weren’t likely to g
et home in time for Christmas. Her mood had hit her boots. She could think of nowhere worse than being trapped there for perhaps the next couple of days—either spending the holiday in this crowded, dirty lounge, or if she was lucky, moved to a faceless, basic out-of-town hotel, instead of being with her family in England. Venice held some bad, sad memories for her because of her failed marriage to Lorenzo, and Christmas had become a bittersweet celebration.
But then, as if he’d picked up on her thoughts by telepathy, she’d spotted him across the heaving concourse: tall, dark and as impossibly handsome as ever, in a dark overcoat that screamed Continental elegance and style, over a black polo neck, jeans and boots. Her heart had leapt a million feet in the air—with shock, but also with a weird excitement, because he looked so familiar, so gorgeous . . .
She’d stood glued to the floor, because he’d seen her and, without hesitation, made his way over to her, threading his way assertively through the throngs of travellers. The temptation to rush towards him and throw herself into his arms had been unexpectedly strong. But that had been before . . . and she’d willed herself to stay where she was.
When he’d reached her, they’d stood like two wooden figures until he’d leaned forward, clutched her arms and kissed her three times on both cheeks in the Italian way. His lips on her skin had been soft and sensuous, and the smell of his cologne spicy, sophisticated and oh, so sweet, and just for a moment, the heat and chaos of their surroundings had ebbed away. Then, he’d stepped back and she was alone once more, facing her ex-husband . . . the man whom she’d adored, but who’d shattered her dreams when he hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed him, who’d betrayed her and their marriage.
Now, sitting here in the water taxi, she found herself in the strange and unforeseen position of going with Lorenzo to spend Christmas with him at his apartment. She could have refused his invitation; indeed, she’d hesitated for long seconds when he’d offered. But her pride had kicked in with a funny reaction: instead of raising her hackles and urging her to turn him down, it had challenged her to handle this. After all, hadn’t she rehearsed meeting him again sometime in her head over and over? Thought of how nonchalant she would be, and how her bright, breezy comebacks would say to him, I’m so over you; I don’t need you anymore? She could get through a couple of nights, couldn’t she? Truth be told, the further they traveled across the Lagoon towards the city, the more she wasn’t so sure. She’d told herself she was past him and had come almost to believe it . . . until she’d actually come face-to-face with him. There was still something irresistible—magnetic—about Lorenzo.
She swallowed hard. Enough of the confusion! She had to deal with it, make the best of it. She was twenty-eight years old, another person now. So she asked as coolly and conversationally as she could manage, “What were you doing at the airport? Were you on your way somewhere for the holidays?”
“I was flying to Mauritius, to join a villa party hosted by someone I know in the hotel industry.” His eyebrow raised in that teasing way she knew so well and he added, “Just think, in a few hours, I could have been lying on a sun lounger on a white sandy beach next to a cobalt-blue sea, holding a long, cold drink in my hand.”
“Well, at least there’s plenty of opportunity to indulge in the cold part here,” she said, finding herself easily pulled into the kind of teasing banter that had always been a feature of their attraction to one another.
“Certainly is,” he agreed. “Talking of cold, I was surprised that you actually accepted my invitation to stay. Relations between us haven’t exactly been . . . um . . . warm since our divorce. In fact, we haven’t spoken since.”
“A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. Surely we’ve both moved on.” She shrugged, pleased she sounded unconcerned, like she’d always hoped and planned she would. She wasn’t going to admit that, once their divorce had been finalized, she’d found his dismissal of her crushing. Or that today, at the airport, her heart had pounded like an out-of control hammer when he’d extended the offer to stay with him, and she’d had the urge to turn tail and hide in the ladies’ loo. “Actually, it was the child being sick in the litter bin in Arrivals that persuaded me.”
He laughed, and she was gratified by the spark in his eyes. “You haven’t lost your British sense of humor,” he said. “And you’re right. Five years is a long time. Maybe we’re both different people now?”
“I’d like to think so,” she returned, raising her chin. “Older, wiser . . . ”
“You don’t look a day older, cara,” he said silkily.
“And don’t think you can get around me anymore with your smooth talk,” she retorted, though she knew her warning was kind-of flirting, and that her lips curved upwards at his compliment. He always did have the power to charm and disarm her. And that, of course, had been her downfall.
“As if I would.” His eyes held hers for long seconds, then his gaze was averted as the water taxi glided to a halt in St Mark’s Basin. “I think we’ve docked.”
She let herself be helped onto the landing stage. The temperature inside the water craft hadn’t been warm, but the bitterness of the air and the falling snow outside came as a shock again. She wrapped her scarf higher so that it covered her head and ears. Her fingers started hurting with the cold very quickly—she didn’t have any gloves with her—and she thrust them into her coat pockets. She began to walk, head down against the snow, and immediately started slipping about in her heeled boots on the icy dock. She just wasn’t suitably dressed for this sudden big freeze.
“Careful.” Lorenzo’s arm shot around her waist to steady her, and she found herself leaning into his bulk, her hand rising out of her pocket to splay against his chest. The wool and cashmere of his coat felt soft and comforting to her chilled fingers and she couldn’t resist burrowing them in a little.
“Okay?” he questioned. “Come with me. I’ve found a porter to take our luggage to the apartment.”
She nodded and stood upright again. She knew it wasn’t far to walk through the narrow Venetian lanes to Lorenzo’s apartment. It was situated in the bustling and central San Marco sestiere, on a surprisingly quiet residential campo and overlooking the Grand Canal, not far from the Rialto Bridge. It was mid-afternoon, so dusk was descending and lights were coming on to pierce the freezing fog that hung over the city. All around them were snow-speckled buildings with magnificent Byzantine and Renaissance facades in every shade of terracotta that had once been so familiar to her. As they walked along, Lorenzo’s hand placed supportively on the small of her back to stop her falling, a knot of tension swelled in her stomach. She’d lived a life as Mrs. Lorenzo di Grechi here for a while, and had experienced the depths of despair. Had she made a huge mistake in letting herself be brought back to this place?
The palazzo building where Lorenzo still lived was many centuries old and converted into luxury apartments. The grand, high-ceilinged entrance hall and the door to the concierge’s flat was still the same. But, on entering Lorenzo’s apartment and then its huge main salon, she realized with a small start that the décor had changed. When they’d live here as husband and wife, she and Lorenzo had chosen a mix of old and ultra-modern furniture. Most of those antiques were still in situ, but he’d added more pieces. The contemporary furnishings had been updated in rich colors, and new works of art hung on the walls. The effect now was less homely than when she’d known it. In a way, she was glad. If everything had still been the same, she knew she might have broken down. But, contrarily, it shook her too to find that some things were different. She stood, silently taking it all in.
“Are you okay?” Lorenzo’s voice came from behind her. She turned round and met his concerned gaze.
“Yes. I was just a little surprised that you’ve changed the décor.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it.”
His mouth quirked ruefully. “If I’m honest, after you went, I needed to
wipe the slate clean and revamping the apartment a little was therapeutic.”
“You mean, getting rid of any evidence of me.” As soon as the words were out, she wanted to pinch herself. She knew she sounded mean and bitter.
He shook his head. “I wanted to move on, and that did involve changing the surroundings that we’d lived in.” He paused and looked at her hard. “Are you telling me that you didn’t do the same—change things?”
Her eyes skittered away from his. She’d put herself through a total makeover mentally, professionally and socially. She never wanted to feel so alone, helpless and hurt again, and that had meant pushing herself to say goodbye to the naïve girl she had been and find herself as an independent, resilient woman. She’d thought she’d succeeded, until today.
She looked at him again. “Of course, I made lots of changes as well. Anyway, it sort of seems the same here, just a bit different.”
“Kind of like you, eh?” he said softly. When she didn’t pick up on this, he carried on, “But you haven’t told me if you like it or not.”
She looked about her and nodded. “I like the color scheme. It just doesn’t seem quite as . . . lived in as when I was here.”
“That’s probably because I hired an interior designer,” he confessed. “I picked out the new furniture and paintings, and sourced a few more antiques. But I left it to the designer to choose the textiles and color scheme and pull it all together. She did a good job and the apartment was featured in a couple of international magazines. But maybe it does lack that extra personal touch. I’m not away working these days as much as I used to be, but I’ve not yet achieved that lived-in feel.”
Ashlynne gave him a small smile. So, he’d finally stopped living the life of a transient tycoon and was spending more time at home? That was interesting. When his large coffee-brown eyes crinkled and he smiled in return, her insides unexpectedly lurched. As much as she didn’t want him to, he looked so damn sexy, with his rumpled hair still slightly damp from the icy atmosphere outside and a day’s growth of dark beard. She felt a sudden urge to stroke his tanned face, let her fingers trail down his defined cheekbone, and trace the fullness of his mouth and classical firmness of his chin. A shimmer of heated sensation coiled between her legs and shot down her thighs. Oh, God! Why were her brain and body reacting like this?