A Venetian Passion

by Catherine George

  Laura breathed in the scent of leather and cologne and man as the rain teemed around them, enclosing them in a private world under the umbrella.

  She had expected to walk back to her hotel the way she’d come, via the floodlit Piazza San Marco, but Domenico took her back along silent, dimly lit alleys punctuated by bridges. Domenico paused on a bridge to point out the moon’s reflection on the water.

  His arm tightened and she held up her face as he bent his head to kiss her. Their lips met in a gentle exploratory caress that quickly flared into something so different that in some corner of her brain Laura marveled at Domenico’s skill in keeping the umbrella upright. As he kissed her with a mounting passion, she responded helplessly, her hands tunneling under his jacket to hold him closer. At last he gave a smothered groan and raised his head a fraction, his breath hot against her cheek as he held her hard against him.

  “Now you see?” he said, in a voice husky with emotion.

  “Yes,” she whispered shakily.

  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 U.K. 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 antique shops.

  Catherine George

  A VENETIAN PASSION

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  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 to the house orchestra, all for the price of coffee or wine. But for her first night only Laura meant to lash out on a snack of some kind as well, whatever it cost, to celebrate her arrival in Venice.

  A waiter led her to a table in the open air at exactly the right distance from the orchestra in its bower of greenery, and in the careful, schoolgirl Italian she’d been practising all the way to the piazza Laura asked for mineral water and a cheese and ham sandwich. Maybe she’d go wild and have coffee later, but right now she was content just to sit here in the floodlit magnificence of the square and listen to the hum of multi-lingual conversation blending with the music. When the waiter brought her order she made her tramezzino last as long as possible while she watched the passing show of people enjoying a leisurely evening stroll through the great square. Some were couples, others entire groups who stopped to talk with friends, with much kissing of cheeks and children part of the scene. Laura gazed at it all with intense pleasure, so absorbed that at first the sound of her own name failed to register.

  ‘Miss Green?’ repeated a deep, husky voice. ‘Buona sera.’

  Laura turned sharply to see Domenico Chiesa looking down at her, an arrested look on his face.

  She smiled, surprised. ‘Good evening.’

  He returned the smile with warmth and charm very different from the impatience that had radiated from him at the airport. ‘I called first at the Locanda Verona. Signora Rossi told me you would be here. I trust that everything is to your satisfaction at the hotel?’

  Laura assured him that it was. And now she had attention to spare for Domenico Chiesa found he was worth looking at. Shoulders broad, hips slim, waving dark hair cut as perfectly as the superb suit he wore. And without the dark glasses his oval, heavy-lidded eyes were a striking aquamarine blue with a look in them that told her he was well aware of every last one of his physical assets.

  ‘I was so intent on the passing show in the piazza I didn’t see you arrive,’ she told him.

  ‘And I startled you. To make amends may I offer you wine, or coffee?’

  Laura hesitated for a moment, then thought, Why not? ‘Thank you. I’d like a caffè macchiato, please.’

  ‘Your accent is most charming,’ he told her, and raised a slim hand. He gave the order to the waiter, then indicated the chair next to Laura’s and said, ‘Permesso?’

  ‘Of course.’ What else could she say? Besides, no woman in her right mind would turn down attractive male company in surroundings like these, with a moon overhead and music playing.

  ‘So, Miss Green,’ he said, after their coffee arrived, ‘what is your first impression of my city?’

  Laura looked round her at the glittering, extravagantly beautiful Piazza San Marco. ‘I’ve seen it countless times in films and television programmes, but Venice for real is breathtaking.’

  ‘I am glad it pleases you.’

  ‘I would be very hard to please if it didn’t!’ She sipped her coffee with relish. ‘A friend told me to make Florian’s my first call, Signor Chiesa.’

  ‘A wise choice.’ He smiled at her. ‘But, please, my name is Domenico.’

  ‘As you know, I’m Laura,’ she said, returning the smile.

  ‘So, Laura, what are your plans for tomorrow?’

  ‘Just to wander round your amazing city.’ She put down her empty cup.

  ‘You wish for more coffee?’ he said at once.

  She shook her head. ‘It was delicious, but no more, thank you.’

  He smiled persuasively. ‘Join me in a glass of Prosecco instead.’

  Once again there was no way to refuse. Besides, Laura reminded herself, he was probably just acting on instructions. Fen had said that Lorenzo would order some underling to make the holiday arrangements—though anyone less like an underling than Domenico Chiesa was hard to imagine.

  ‘Salute!’ he said, raising his glass to her once the Prosecco had arrived. ‘Do you know Signor Forli well?’

  ‘I’ve just met him at my friend’s house a couple of times. He’s married to her sister.’ She drank some of her wine. ‘Do you live here in Venice?’

  He nodded. ‘All my life. Where is your home?’

  ‘My family’s home is in the country in Gloucestershire, but I work and live in London.’

  ‘And what do you do there, Laura?’ he asked, and listened with flattering attention as she gave a brief description of her work as researcher at a Docklands investment bank.

  ‘I am impressed,’ he told her, then with a sigh of regret finished his wine and rose to his feet. ‘Now I must return to my own duties. But first allow me to escort you back to the Locanda Verona.’

  Laura shook her head, smiling. She’d said yes to him quite enough. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll stay on and listen to the orchestra a little longer. Thank you for the drinks, Signor—’

  ‘Domenico, per favore!’ He smiled down into her eyes. ‘Buona sera, Laura.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Laura watched him walk away, amused by the touch—more than a touch—of arrogance in his bearing. She’d noticed it in all the native male population she’d seen so far, including the waiters. It was obviously a man thing, Venetian style. She watched him until he was out of sight, and after a while, no longer enjoying the evening quite so much now she was alone, looked round for her missing bill. She bent to look under the table, then signalled to a waiter.

  ‘Il conto, per favore?’

  ‘Scusa?’ he said, puzzled.

  Oh, boy, thought Laura. ‘Do you speak English?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘A little,’ he said with caution.

  ‘I’ve lost my bill, and I want to pay.’

  ‘Ah!’ His face cleared. ‘It is paid, signorina.’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes, signorina.’

  Surprised, Laura gave him a tip, wished him goodnight and strolled slowly back to the Locanda Verona.

  Laura woke early next morning, stared blankly for a moment at the wood-beamed ceiling, then grinned like the Cheshire cat. She was in Venice! She got out of bed and stood at the glass doors, stretching luxuriously as she gazed at the view. First on the agenda was breakfast. She hadn’t eaten much in the way of dinner last night. And what she had eaten Domenico had paid for, she thought guiltily. But whatever he did at his hotel he obviously earned a good salary by the way he dressed. Besides, she probably came under the heading of expenses claimed from Lorenzo Forli.

  In jeans and white T-shirt, her hair in a loose braid down her back, Laura went downstairs to ask about the nearest source of breakfast. Armed with directions from Signora Rossi, she found the small bar recommended and ordered coffee and an almond croissant to enjoy while she consulted her guidebook. Some intensive window-shopping was first on the agenda before she actually bought any presents to take home. She finished her coffee, put on dark glasses and sunhat and went off to spend time gazing in jewellers’ windows in the arcades of the Piazza San Marco before salivating over the gorgeous clothes in the stylish shops just off it. Later, remembering to keep to the right among the crush of fellow tourists, she set out on an immensely enjoyable tour of the famous Mercerie, and did her best to look in every shop and boutique all the way to the Rialto. When she reached the famous bridge at last she wandered, fascinated, round the colourful food markets for a while before stopping at a small bar nearby. She ordered mineral water and a roll stuffed with roast ham, and ate standing up again, because her guidebook said it was cheaper than sitting at a table. But after lunch her feet began to complain, and Laura lost her zest for window-shopping. The walk to the Locanda Verona in the afternoon heat seemed so much longer on the way back that her first priority when she got to her room was a long, cool shower followed by a read on her bed, with her hair spread out on a towel ove
r her shoulders to dry.

  The read turned into a siesta and when Laura woke the afternoon was gone. She slid out of bed in a rush, annoyed at wasting so much time in it, and stooped to pick up an envelope that someone had pushed under her door while she was sleeping. Her eyebrows shot to her hair as she read the brief note inside. Domenico Chiesa requested the pleasure of her company at dinner that evening and would call for her at eight. And he was so sure she’d be delighted with the idea there was no address or contact number on the note for her reply. She whistled inelegantly. He’d changed his tune a bit since their first encounter! He’d hustled her off to the boat at the airport as though he couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. Yet he’d turned up at Florian’s later, apparently just to make sure all was well with her—Lorenzo’s idea, probably. She shrugged. She was on such a tight budget that dinner with a handsome Venetian was an offer she’d be mad to refuse. But delightful though her small room might be she had no intention of staying put in it until he called for her.

  Laura spent more time than usual on her face, then, mindful of Fen’s advice to dress to kill if she went somewhere special, put on the second of her three dresses, a silky sheath the colour of ripe raspberries. She piled her hair up in an artfully precarious knot that took ages to get right, clipped on gold filigree earrings and went downstairs to leave a message for Domenico Chiesa at the reception desk.

  Laura strolled out into the warm evening with a smile on her face as she pictured the self-assured Domenico’s reaction when he found the bird had flown. Not that she was flying far—just to Florian’s again to watch the world go by until he came to find her. If he came at all. If his original attitude was anything to go by his male Venetian pride might well be offended because she hadn’t stayed put to wait for him. Though why he’d made the invitation in the first place was a mystery. Lorenzo’s instructions to look after her could hardly have gone that far.