‘Welcome, Raoul,’ a voice said, and she looked around as an ornate arched grille swung open, revealing a man younger than Raoul by some years. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Thank you, Marco,’ he said, passing him their luggage. ‘This is Gabriella D’Arenberg who will be my guest for a while. Gabriella, Marco and Natania comprise my staff. I’m sure Natania will soon be along.’ As he spoke, Gabriella saw a woman skip down the stairs, her layered mini skirt fluttering around her thighs. A wide smile directed at Raoul lit up her face as she appeared, her expression turning more wary when she took in their visitor. With one vertical sweep of her beautiful eyes, she gave Gabriella an inexplicable stab of jealousy. Natania was lush, gypsy-beautiful and she got to live with Raoul on a permanent basis. How on earth could he resist anything so gorgeous?
‘Ah, here is Natania. Anything you need, simply ask.’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Gabriella,’ the younger man said, smiling. Gabriella could see that, while he shared Raoul’s olive skin and Mediterranean colouring, that was where the similarity ended. His long, dark lashes and lush lips softened his face; even the hint of mischief in his eyes gave him a boyish charm.
‘I should have warned you, we don’t stand on ceremony here,’ Raoul explained. ‘Unless you prefer a title—miss? Mademoiselle?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. Thank you, Marco, it’s lovely to meet you too.’
Natania edged closer; big hoops pierced her ears. ‘It will be lovely to have another woman around for a change,’ the newcomer said, holding out her slim hand, gold bangles jangling at her wrists. She moved like a colt, loose-limbed and lithe, her scooped tank top and skirt fitting smoothly, accentuating her perfect figure, the perfect complement to her wild, gypsy eyes. ‘I get so bored being surrounded with just men.’
Marco jerked his head up at this, a wry grin on his lips, something heated skating over his eyes as their eyes met. Gabriella reined in that unfamiliar streak of jealousy. So Marco and Natania were a couple? That was comforting news. As was the knowledge the palazzo didn’t see a passing parade of women.
Unjustifiable, perhaps, because what Raoul did or did not do was no real concern of hers; it wasn’t as if she had any kind of stake in him. But, still, it was there and the knowledge warmed her in places still humming from his touch.
‘Thank you, Natania,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I know I’m going to enjoy it here.’
Raoul led the way to the piano nobile, the noble floor, where his suite sat high above the water’s edge, with views over the canal and no fear of flooding. Downstairs were the minor and service rooms, he pointed out as they climbed, while Marco and Natania shared a smaller suite of rooms on the floor above.
‘You need all this space just for you?’ she asked as he led her to his suite of rooms.
‘Maybe not, but I won it in a card game many years ago. I was not about to quibble with the size.’
‘And you kept it for an investment?’
‘No. I was merely lucky enough not to lose it on the next game. Or the one after that.’
She laughed, because she could not imagine gambling with a property so clearly valuable. ‘You are kidding? Surely you would not risk making the same mistake someone else had?’
‘Why not? It was no risk for me because it meant nothing to me. Maybe that’s why I was lucky enough to keep it. Anyway,’ he said without bothering to explain as he pushed open the door to the apartment, ‘Come inside.’
It wasn’t a living room or even a lobby the suite opened on to, it was a library, lining four walls of the long, narrow room, bookshelves stacked high, even over doorways to the impossibly high ceilings. Gabriella did a double take, blinking with disbelief as she took in the titles, some of them recognisable treasures.
‘You have a library?’ she said, suddenly spinning around, a smile lighting up her face, illuminating her features with a child-like delight that twisted his gut.
So much enthusiasm.
So much life.
Such a waste.
And then she stopped spinning and stood there, almost incandescent with wonderment as she inhaled deeply, as if she could breathe in the collective wisdom contained in a room filled with old books. ‘It’s wonderful.’
He could not bear it. First her excitement at the vaporetto as they’d approached the water-borne city, an excitement that had made it impossible not to want to wrap her in his arms and feel that excitement first hand.
And now here. But this time he resisted the urge to collect her into his arms and feel first-hand the excitement in the shape of her feminine curves.
Did she always see the joy in everything?
Did she not realise it couldn’t last?
‘This way,’ he said gruffly, almost rigid with control as he pulled open a set of double doors, unable or unwilling to stay in the room a moment longer with her. ‘The living room.’
She’d done something wrong. One moment, Raoul had been warm and welcoming—even, she thought, remembering the warmth of his touch pressing against her back and the iron-like feel of his arms around her waist, more like a lover than a friend. His touch had been filled with both tenderness and desire.
Had she been the only one to feel that desire?
But now, it seemed as she watched him both physically and mentally retreat from her, there was nothing warm about him. His back was ramrod straight, the air about him frosty. Yet all she’d done was express her delight at the unexpected discovery of his library.
Had she been too easily impressed? Too gauche? Raoul was more than a decade older than her. She must seem so young and unsophisticated compared to the women he was probably used to, even if they weren’t permitted here. But there would have to be women …
With a heavy heart, she followed him through the doors and into a long, richly decorated room with two long blood-red velvet sofas lining the richly frescoed walls. Four arched doors opposite led to the balcony she had seen from the sea-door landing, she assumed. But it was the chandelier that hung from the decorated ceiling that was the pièce de résistance. It was so exquisite that she stopped following Raoul for a moment to simply absorb its beauty. From its base swept long white plumes tipped with red, all swaying and curving, like the necks of peacocks dancing and craning their heads this way and that. The artist had captured the motion so well, it could almost have been alive.
‘This is the dining room,’ she heard him say. And then he must have turned, looking for her. ‘It’s Murano glass—an original.’
‘It’s exquisite,’ she said, cautious, conscious of not gushing over every last thing in case she further aggravated him.
‘Have you been there? To the island, I mean, to see the glass factories?’
‘Yes, my class did a tour, but I don’t remember seeing anything this beautiful then.’ Probably because they’d all been too fascinated with the tiny animals, the dolphins, fish and the millefiore—the tiny coloured flowers and hearts set in the glass—to take note of any of the more spectacular work.
‘I will take you again, in that case.’
‘You will?’ Then she remembered not to look so excited and schooled her face into something she hoped looked far more sophisticated and calm. ‘Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble, that would