He had never wanted this. He was in no position to keep anyone safe, not when he lurched from one dark mood to the next—not when he had been unable to save his own wife.
But he hated the way Gabriella had flinched back there in the library, as if he had physically lashed out and struck her—all because he was incapable of dealing with someone who saw light when he saw dark, who saw hope where there was none.
And afterwards she had withdrawn into herself, quelling her natural spirit until she had become a stilted and stunted facsimile of who she really was, and he hated himself for doing that to her even more.
If he could not repress that side of himself, he would surely frighten her away and she would never agree to marry him.
And he had promised to.
Damn himself to hell and back for it, but he had promised. What happened when you broke a promise to the dead? Did they rise up and come after you? Did they toss and turn in their graves and haunt your dreams and turn your days to nights?
He didn’t want to find out. He already had enough ghosts to last a lifetime.
So he would have to woo her, court her and let her zest for life wash over him. And then afterwards, when Garbas was safely locked away behind bars and could not touch her, he would let her go.
MAYBE it was Natania’s cooking and the superb platter of frittura, the fried fish and calamari she had prepared, or maybe it was the rich risotto al nero di seppa made with squid ink, which Gabriella found surprisingly delicate, that served to soothe Raoul’s dark mood. Or maybe it was just that his appointment had gone well. But, whatever the reason, Raoul was back to his charming best when he returned to the apartment. When he suggested an evening walking-tour of Venice after dinner, she could not resist the chance to explore the city. The air was heavier tonight, full of humidity as a cooler change worked through, but for now it was still warm. Raoul reacquainted her with the big tourist sites, with the highly ornate Basilica di San Marco and the grand Palazzo Ducale in St Mark’s Square where once long ago she’d fed and raced after pigeons with her friends. He pointed out the domed bell-tower of San Giorgio Maggiore standing on its own island across the dark slapping waters. He took her to the Rialto Bridge, the stone wonder spanning the broad Grand Canal, its central portico lit up so it looked like a grand lady dressed up for a night out. Then he showed her places that were off the main trails, wending his way through the darkening city, showing her architectural treasures and little-known pictures carved into stone walls and known only to those who knew Venice beyond the tourist routes.
He could do this, he decided as he led her to a tiny trattoria overlooking the lagoon for coffee. He could force back that black tide inside him and be civil—pleasant, even. He could be interested and attentive. And he could do this not just because he had to but because he honestly wanted to know more about her, more about those lost years when he had missed out on knowing her.
‘What made you decide to become a librarian?’ he asked, watching the ends of her hair play on the soft breeze as she sat down. She’d tied her hair back in a loose knot behind her head before they’d come out, but tendrils had worked their way loose and now danced around her face. He envied them their playfulness. His fingertips itched to brush them away, to linger on her soft skin …
Their coffee arrived; she thanked the waiter and looked back at him, her eyes bright and clear, smoothing the hair from her brow and tucking it behind her ears. ‘I don’t think there was ever a time I didn’t want to do something to do with books. I actually think my profession chose me.’
He realised he liked listening to her too. He liked the sound of her accent, the blend of half-French, half-English, the best of both, Cognac over cream.
‘Tell me what you love about it,’ he urged.
‘It’s just working with books, all of them, every one of them an entire world between the covers. Every new one is a discovery and until you dip into them you just never know what’s inside: new worlds; new discoveries; new characters who leap off the page. It’s all there, just waiting for you to open the cover and turn the page.’
She was so bright, so passionate, and even while he felt the darkness rise, even as his gut churned and rebelled, still it was impossible not to feel that light shine out from her and warm him in places where light had not touched for so long.
‘The books in my library,’ he bit out, coming up with an idea that might hold her, something to keep her interest while she stayed. ‘I don’t even know what’s there.’
He watched her brow pucker as she sensed the almost-crime. ‘Maybe while I’m here—if you didn’t mind, that is—maybe I could look at them and catalogue them for you.’
‘You would do that for me?’
‘I would love to.’
She was so excited, he believed she would.
‘What about you?’ she asked as he finished his coffee, so suddenly that he was taken by surprise.
‘What about me?’
‘What have you been doing all these years?’
Standing still.
Trying to forget.
‘Nothing half as interesting as you.’
She tilted her head. ‘I was sorry to hear that your wife died. You were married such a short time.’
The black tide grew closer. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Only that there was some kind of tragic accident. But it’s such a long time ago now. Did you never think of remarrying?’
Never.
He pushed his chair back. ‘Why don’t we walk?’
A mist had grown while they’d sat in the café, rolling in over the sea, devouring everything in its path. Gabriella forgot about her question and thought there was something so utterly fascinating and serene about watching an entire world slowly vanish, a fantasy world disappearing into the fog as if it had never been real, as if it had never existed.
They found a bridge looking out over the water where the deepening mist rolled in over the lagoon, obliterating and absorbing everything, even sounds, so that it was as though Venice had been buried under a dank, white cloud. Every now and then a light would appear, or the dull rumble of an engine would herald the ghostly shape of a vessel making its way back to shore. She shivered. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.
‘It’s spooky,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Don’t you feel it?’
He looked out into the mist-covered lagoon and she wondered what he was looking for when all anyone could see was white. ‘The ghosts come out,’ he said, ‘When there is a night like this.’
‘Oh, Raoul, please,’ she said, trying to laugh while she fought down the prickles rising at the back of her neck and the shivers running down her spine. ‘I’m not a child you can frighten so easily.’
‘No, it is true. There are many, many ghosts in Venice. And many, many stories.’
And, because she had told him she was no longer a child and could not be frightened so easily, she felt she had no choice but to boldly ask, ‘Like what? Tell me one of your ghost stories, then.’
Still looking out in the mist, a look so intense it was almost enough to make her regret her rash challenge, he began, his voice