The door to the bathing room opened, and she cracked one eye, then two. If she had to wake up with a pounding head there were worse sights to wake up to. Nolan Gray emerged from the steam, wrapping a white towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair. His singing stopped when he saw her but he didn’t stop smiling. ‘Buongiorno, signorina. How is your head?’
The smiling, singing bastard knew exactly how her head felt—she could see the mischief in his eyes. Gianna reached for a pillow, intending to throw it at him. The effort was too much for her body. Her stomach rebelled, the world swam and spun in front of her abruptly upright head. She went hot, then cold, entirely out of control of her body. Oh, no! She couldn’t stop it. Her throat made a panicked sound. Nolan was there, kneeling beside her, a chamber pot at the ready, his hand sweeping back her hair just in time.
She retched most thoroughly not once but twice, her stomach spilling its contents into the chamber pot. It was humiliating and healing all at once. Realising that somehow made it even more mortifying because, when the wave of nausea passed, she was glad she’d done it. Casting up accounts had been exactly what she’d needed.
‘Better?’ Nolan brought a wet washcloth and helped her with her face. The cold water felt refreshing on her skin. She lay back against the bed pillows, feeling drained, but immensely improved. ‘If I could get rid of the pounding in my head, I would be at a hundred per cent.’ She managed a smile, but it was hard considering she’d just thrown up in front of a man dressed in a towel—a man who had already fished her out of the canal and tried to save her from the count’s reckless wager.
He had an answer for that, too. ‘Drink this. It will help your head.’ He passed her a half-filled glass filled with a greenish liquid.
She sniffed and wrinkled her brow. ‘What is it?’
‘My secret recipe for mornings like these.’ He chuckled at her reticence. ‘You can live with the headache or you can try it. I’ve already had mine and look at me.’ He held his arms wide. Look at him indeed. It was hard not to. He was as well made as the glimpses last night had purported. Lean muscles defined his arms and chest beneath the lingering tan of his skin. It was not a deep tan, of course, they were too far into the winter for that, but he had been tan at one point. It made her wonder what he’d been doing. Cards were usually an indoor pursuit, in her experience. It was nice to think he might be more than a gambler.
Gianna gave him a dubious look and downed the glass. She cringed at the taste and swallowed. ‘This had better work.’
‘It will work. It tastes too awful not to.’ He laughed and rummaged in the drawers of the bureau and tossed her a shirt. ‘You can put this on until we can find you something better to wear. I’ll dress in the other room. Come out when you’re decent. Breakfast will be here soon. I have it delivered every day at noon.’
Breakfast? Decent? She was sceptical of both ideas, but Nolan merely laughed at her frown as he gathered up clothes. ‘Nothing fancy, just toast and coffee,’ he assured her. ‘It will help, too, you’ll see.’
Gianna held the shirt against her. She was sceptical of more than breakfast. They had not parted on good terms last night. He’d accused her of deliberately falling into the canal, and she had slapped him. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice?’
Nolan shrugged. ‘Does there have to be a reason? Maybe I’m feeling grateful that my hangover is behind me. It is a glorious feeling to be restored to health, don’t you agree?’ The last was added rather pointedly.
Gianna blushed, but she was not diverted. ‘Maybe it’s more than that.’
‘Maybe,’ Nolan drawled, letting his eyes roam over her. ‘I’m just glad to find you’re still here and that you haven’t robbed me blind. You knew exactly how much I’d won and where it was at.’
‘You insult me.’ She must be feeling better. Her temper stirred a little, a sure sign she was recovering her spirit. It stung that he still didn’t believe she was innocent in all this, that she’d had no part in the wager, no designs to steal from him and return to the count.
‘No,’ Nolan corrected, tossing the words over his shoulder as he exited to the other room. ‘I honour you with the truth. In cases like this, I find it’s best to know where we stand with one another.’
Ah, they were not so dissimilar. They both believed one caught more flies with sugar than vinegar. He was flattering her. Not with words, necessarily. In fact, he was purposely using his words to do the exact opposite in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice. But she’d been in the world of men too long. She knew better. He was flattering her with actions, luring her trust with nightgowns and shirts; hot baths and tea trays; miracle headache cures and timely placement of chamber pots. Do not like him, she admonished, slipping out of the nightgown and folding it carefully before placing it in a drawer.
Gianna slipped her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. The garment was too big, of course. The sleeves had to be rolled up and it fell nearly to her knees. But it was clean and soft against her skin the way only expensive linen could be. She breathed deeply. The shirt smelled good, like him, she realised. It matched the scent that had trailed out of the bathing room with him; sandalwood with the faintest hints of patchouli. She drew another deep breath and knew she had to be careful.
He was a worthy opponent at a time when she needed a more naïve one. Nolan Gray did nothing without a motive. Even this act of dressing her in his shirt was an act of intimacy designed to draw her closer, designed to create the illusion of a bond between them. He wants you to like him, came the thought. She played a question-and-answer game with herself as she fastened the shirt.
Why? Last night he’d wanted to be rid of her.
Because friends tell one another their secrets.
In his eyes, what was her secret?
Answer: he wanted to know why she didn’t want to leave when she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.
Gianna paused, hesitating before picking up the brush laid out on the dresser. He wouldn’t mind. He’d want her to use it, one more act of kindness to bind her to him. She dragged the brush through her tangles, feeling more in charge with each brushstroke, more like herself. Regardless of what anyone said, appearances mattered, even when one was only wearing a shirt, or perhaps especially when one was wearing only a shirt. It was already noon and the clock was ticking. How much time did she have before her freedom ran out?
There were voices in the other room and the clatter of dishes. Breakfast was here. She couldn’t hide in the bedroom any longer. It was time to go out and beard the proverbial lion in his den. For that she needed a strategy, or, better yet, she’d just borrow his tactics. He wanted her to like him. Was that such a bad idea? Wouldn’t she, too, be served by the concept of liking? Maybe being friends was the preferred strategy here. After all, friends did things for one another and there were things she needed doing before she could leave Venice, before she could truly be free. Who better to do them for her than her new friend, Nolan Gray?
Be careful, her conscience whispered, that you don’t do this because it’s easy. You want to like him and this gives you an excuse. This was your mother’s downfall, she liked attractive men and they all failed her in the end. Nolan Gray might have fished you out of the canal, but he also won you in a card game. How good could a man be who’d entertain such a wager? That was the problem. She didn’t know. But at the moment he was all she had. She did feel a twinge of guilt over what she meant to do. But if he was a gambler, he’d understand. A girl had to use her resources