The Venetian Playboy’s Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Guido began to say, but stopped as he looked at her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  She tried to laugh. ‘Just a bit of a headache.’

  ‘Let me look at you.’ He took gentle hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘My poor girl!’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, feeling more ill by the moment.

  ‘Despite our precautions you’ve caught the sun badly. That fair skin of yours can’t cope with this heat. I should have bought a stronger cream. Are you feeling bad?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said wretchedly. ‘My head aches terribly.’

  ‘Right, we’re going home. Stay here.’

  He settled her on a low stone wall and disappeared. She had no choice but to do as he’d said and stay there. The whole world seemed to be thundering inside her brain. She was only vaguely aware of him returning, saying, ‘I’ve got us a taxi. Hold onto me.’

  He half carried her down the steps to the boat, then sat in the back, holding her close, her head on his shoulder. She felt the vibration as the motor boat started up, the swift movement over the water, and the inexpressible comfort of his arms about her. The pain in her head was dreadful, yet she had a confused feeling that she could go on like this forever, if only he would hold her as he was doing now. Once she was vaguely aware of him making a call on his mobile phone, then everything went hazy again.

  Then they were stopping and she was groping her way out, her eyes half closed, guided by him.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the rest of the way more comfortable like this.’ And he was lifting her in his arms.

  She was too weak to protest, although she could guess what a figure she must cut, being carried through the foyer of the Vittorio. How they would all be staring at her! She heard doors opening and closing behind them, then there was the blessed relief of being out of the sun.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘What must they think of us?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The people in the hotel.’

  ‘We’re not in the hotel. I’ve brought you to my home.’

  She managed to open her eyes and realised that she didn’t recognise anything in her surroundings. Gone was the high, painted ceiling of the Empress Suite. There was no elaborate furniture or gilded decor, only a small, austerely furnished room, with wooden beams overhead. She was still in his arms and he was moving towards a door that he managed to pull open. With her eyes half closed she waited for him to lie her down. Instead she was set on her feet, and the next moment she was drenched in cold water.

  She yelled with shock and made a feeble attempt to struggle, but he was holding her firmly to stop her falling.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he yelled over the water, ‘but getting under the shower is the quickest way to cool you off.’

  ‘It’s freezing,’ she gasped.

  ‘All the better. Lift your head. Let it pour over your face and neck. Please, you’ll feel better.’

  She did as he said. It felt good, insofar as anything could feel good at this moment. At last he turned the tap off and they stood there together, drenched and gasping.

  ‘Here’s the bath towel,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone to get undressed.’ But as he loosened his grip she nearly fell again. ‘I’ll have to do it for you,’ he said.

  ‘Will you?’ she asked faintly.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘I’ll force myself.’

  He was very brave about it, loosening her buttons and slipping her dress off, then her sodden slip. Only her bra and panties were left.

  ‘You’ve got to remove those too or you’ll get pneumonia,’ he said, working on them. At last she was naked, and he towelled her down until she was almost dry, then wrapped her in the vast towel like a parcel, and sat her on the stool while he ripped off his own soaking shirt.

  ‘There’s no point in me making you wet again,’ he grunted, lifting her up.

  This time he carried her into the bedroom and put her to bed, not unwrapping her until the last moment, then tucking the duvet up to her chin with his eyes averted.

  ‘Don’t worry about anything,’ he said gently. ‘It’s quiet here and you can recover in peace.’

  The next moment his front doorbell buzzed. When he returned he was accompanied by a plump middle-aged woman.

  ‘This is Dr Valletti,’ he explained. ‘I called her on the way back. I want to be sure it isn’t serious.’

  He left the room at once. Dr Valletti regarded her with something akin to exasperation.

  ‘You English! When will any of you learn to be sensible about the sun?’

  ‘We don’t have sunshine like this in England,’ she said weakly. ‘I did have a hat, but it blew away.’

  ‘So I understand. And water magnifies the sun’s rays. People with your fair colouring should stay covered up.’ She felt Dulcie’s forehead, took her temperature and asked a few questions before pronouncing, ‘You’re lucky he got you under that cold shower fast. Now a day’s rest in the cool will see off the worst. After that you take it easy for a while. You can go out, but only for a short time, and you cover up. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t-’

  ‘I’ll leave these pills for your head. In summer I keep a supply on me, especially for the English. Goodbye now. Just do everything Gui-your friend tells you to. He’s very worried.’

  Through the throbbing in her head Dulcie heard only ‘your friend’ and ‘very worried’. She lay back as the doctor departed, and vaguely sensed them talking behind the closed door. A few minutes later he entered the room, bearing a cup.

  ‘Tea,’ he announced, setting it down beside her. ‘To take your pills. Let me help you up.’

  His arm was firm beneath her back, raising her gently and holding her against his shoulder while she sipped the tea, which was perfectly made.

  ‘You’ll be nice and cool now, because I’ve turned the air-conditioning on,’ he said as he laid her down again. ‘When I’ve gone, try to get some sleep. Nobody will bother you, I promise.’

  He went to the window and closed the shutters, making the room almost dark. Then he was gone. Dulcie lay still, willing the pills to take effect, and at last they began to do so. Gradually her consciousness slipped away.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when she awoke. The light was dim because of the shutters. Her head was better but she still felt weak. His words, ‘Nobody will bother you, I promise,’ were there in her mind. He’d spoken them like a knight laying his sword on the bed between himself and his lady, a chivalrous vow of chastity.

  It was a strange thought. This was the man she’d come here to expose as a liar and a cheap seducer. Yet he’d averted his eyes, as much as a man could avert his eyes from a woman he was undressing, and whatever her head might say, her heart instinctively trusted him.

  She dozed, half awoke, dozed again, in the grip of a dream that seemed always to be with her, waking or sleeping. She was gliding, as if on an endless canal, but then suddenly she was falling endlessly. She reached out and felt her hand clasped by another which held her tightly, keeping her safe. With their fingers entwined she sensed all trouble fall away. Then she was gliding on again, and all about her was the sound of water and music, and happiness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  S HE opened her eyes on total darkness. Her headache was gone and she felt light. Easing her way out of bed she discovered that she hadn’t yet recovered. It took all her strength to walk to the window and undo the shutters.

  Outside was a world of calm shadows. It was dark, the only light coming from the moon seeking to penetrate the narrow canals below. This little apartment seemed to be in a backwater, with a narrow canal, or rio running beneath. She couldn’t tell where she was, except that this wasn’t the glamorous part of the city. It was the homely part, where the Venetians lived. A young couple wandered along the opposite bank, dressed almost alike in jeans and sweaters. They looked up, saw her watching them and vanished into the shadow
s.

  Switching on the bedside light she saw that the bathrobe was now lying on the bed, although it hadn’t been there when she’d fallen asleep. When had he done that? She had no idea, but there was no doubt he’d entered the room and left it without disturbing her.

  She realised that she was still more overheated than she’d thought, because the fire that had consumed her body earlier hadn’t quite died down. Either that or it was the knowledge that he’d looked at her while she was oblivious.

  She slipped the cotton robe on and quietly opened the bedroom door. It led straight into a large living room, also in darkness except for moonlight. By its light she managed to identify the bathroom, and crept in, closing the door silently behind her.

  The first thing she saw was her sodden clothes hanging over the bath, perfectly arranged, as if by an artist.

  The sight of herself in the mirror was a shock. Her normal pale colour had given way to a pink that she didn’t find becoming. Under the bathrobe her shoulders felt tender, and a glimpse beneath it showed her the worst. The sun had burned her wherever it had touched.

  ‘So much for the temptress,’ she thought wryly. ‘Turning into a lobster wasn’t part of the plan.’

  She splashed cold water on her face, but it didn’t do much for her. She’d used up a lot of strength just getting this far, and the journey back looked like a marathon.

  Emerging from the bathroom she had a clear view of someone sleeping on the sofa. Since he was a tall man and it was a short sofa his discomfort was evident, even under the duvet that half covered him. Her face softened as she viewed him, wondering how long he’d been there, and what state he would be in when he awoke.

  She began to make her way back to the bedroom, but it was hard because her remaining strength was seeping away fast. After a few steps she stopped, clinging onto a chair, breathing hard, her forehead damp. The next chair was three feet away. She began to plan how she would make it, short steps, sliding her feet along an inch at a time, then a quick dash.

  She managed the first bit all right, but she miscalculated the dash, fell short by several inches and collided hard with the sofa, making its occupant slide to the floor and awaken, tangled in the duvet and cursing vividly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, clinging onto the back of the sofa.

  He was on his feet in a moment, a lithe, smooth-chested figure in shorts and nothing else. ‘It’s all right,’ he said quickly. ‘Here. Hold onto me.’

  She did so, thankfully. ‘I thought I was better,’ she murmured, ‘but when I got up-I just don’t know-’

  ‘You don’t get over this sort of thing in five minutes. It’ll take a day or two. How’s your headache?’

  ‘It had gone, but it’s coming back.’

  ‘Let’s get you into bed then, and I’ll make you some tea and you can have two more of those pills. The doctor left me complete instructions.’

  They had reached the bed but he put her into a chair and held up a finger to tell her to stay there. Then he descended on the bed in a whirl of activity, finding fresh pillowcases, smoothing the undersheet and shaking the duvet out until it was fluffy.

  ‘You’re very domesticated,’ she said admiringly.

  ‘My father taught me. He said you should never depend on women for these things because they weren’t reliable.’ He spoke with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled. ‘Back to bed.’

  She made a move as if to undo the robe, but then remembered that she had nothing on underneath. He pointed to some drawers. ‘You’ll find some vests in there.’ He left.

  She chose one of his vests and had slipped back into bed by the time he returned with tea. She drank it thankfully and took more pills for the headache which had returned with a vengeance.

  ‘There’s a little bell by the bed,’ he said, removing the cup and settling her. ‘Ring it if you need me.’

  ‘You’re a wonderful nurse,’ she murmured, sliding down contentedly.

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  This time she slept long and awoke feeling refreshed. Throwing open the shutters she found a brilliant morning and took some long, deep breaths. Her head was better, although she still felt wobbly.

  Donning the robe, she peered around the bedroom door, but found no sign of her host. In a small, single-floor apartment, with all rooms leading off the main one, it took no time to ascertain that he’d gone out.

  It was a peaceful, pleasant place, with white walls, a cool terrazzo floor, and furniture that was sparse and functional. The only sign of flamboyance was the profusion of masks that hung on the walls. Some were simple, some fantastic with long noses and sinister slits for the eyes. They seemed to cover every wall, and Dulcie surveyed them with interest.

  Looking at the tiny sofa she winced with sympathy for him. It seemed so unfair for him to sleep in that cramped place while she had his whole double bed at her disposal.

  But of one thing there was no further possible doubt. This was a man who had very little money.

  An inspection of her dress in the bathroom showed that it was unwearable after its drenching. An inspection of herself showed that the pink of her skin had faded, but still wasn’t a colour she’d have chosen. She was considering how matters stood when she heard the front door open, and went out to see him enter, loaded down with shopping. She hastened to rescue some bags that were slipping from his fingers.

  ‘Dump them in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘No, just these. I’ll take those.’ He whisked a couple of items away from her, dropped them on the sofa and guided her into the kitchen. ‘You’re looking better.’

  ‘I feel it. I just wish I looked it.’

  ‘Good healthy colour.’

  ‘T’isn’t! It just tells the world I’m an idiot.’

  ‘I’m not answering that. Let me sit down. I’ve been staggering under this lot for too long.’

  ‘Shall I make you some coffee?’

  ‘No thank you,’ he said with more speed than gallantry.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re English,’ he said, not mincing matters.

  ‘Meaning we don’t know how to make coffee?’

  He just grinned and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll make the coffee for both of us, then I’ll get your breakfast. Something light I think. Soup, and then-yes, that would be it.’

  He refused to say any more, watching her with a glint of mischief as she helped him unpack the food. He seemed to have shopped for an army.

  ‘I’ve been having a look at my dress,’ she said.

  ‘Did the shower leave it in a state? Sorry about that. I suppose I should have ripped it off you first.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not complaining, you did the right thing. It’s just that I’m having visions of me going back to the Vittorio looking a fright.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that. Go and have a look at the bags in the other room.’

  Puzzled, she did so, and her eyes widened at the contents.

  ‘I knew you’d be needing some fresh clothes,’ he said, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching her. ‘It’s just cheap stuff from market stalls, and not what you’re used to.’

  That made her feel bad because it was exactly what she was used to. He’d bought her a pair of white jeans and two coloured tops to go with them. And he’d assessed her size perfectly, as she realised when she considered the other items.

  ‘You had the cheek to buy me-?’

  ‘You need underwear,’ he said defensively. ‘Excuse me, the coffee’s perking.’

  He vanished into the kitchen and closed the door, leaving Dulcie examining the bras and panties that he’d chosen for her. They were lacy, delicate confections, designed to be seen. A woman would choose such things if she planned to undress in front of a man. And a man would choose them if he wanted to see them on a woman, or wanted to see the woman remove them, or wanted to think about her wearing and/or removing them.

  Dulcie hastily silenced her thoughts. But what she c
ouldn’t shut out was the way he’d hurried away and put a door between them. It was almost as though he was shy as well as shameless.

  Further investigation revealed a nightgown. Unlike the underwear it was fiercely sexless, unadorned cotton, with a front that buttoned up to the neck. She sat for a while, contemplating the prosaic nightgown on the one hand and the sexy underwear on the other. There was no understanding him. Which was strange, considering how simple she’d expected him to be.

  She glanced up as the kitchen door opened again, and one eye appeared. It looked nervous.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said, chuckling.

  The other eye appeared. ‘The coffee’s ready. Am I forgiven?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, joining him in the kitchen, where he set coffee before her. ‘You had a cheek buying me panties that look like that.’

  ‘But I like them,’ he said innocently.

  ‘And you had an even bigger cheek buying me a nightie that my grandmother could wear.’

  His hint of mischief disappeared. ‘I think I was right,’ he said simply. ‘While you are ill it’s better that you look…’ he hesitated ‘…like a grandmother. At least, not a grandmother exactly because you could never look like that but-safe. You must feel safe.’ He tore his hair. ‘I’m not saying this very well-but perhaps you understand-’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, touched. ‘I do understand you. It’s very kind of you to think of my safety.’

  ‘Somebody has to think of it. You’re shut up here alone with a man of bad character, enfeebled by illness, nobody to protect you if you shout for help.’

  ‘Perhaps he isn’t a man of bad character.’

  ‘But he is. Definitely. You should dress in sensible clothes to prevent him indulging in disgraceful thoughts about-’ he caught her enquiring eyes on him ‘-about what you would look like if you weren’t wearing sensible clothes, or even if you weren’t wearing-I’ll start the soup,’ he finished hurriedly.