She held her breath as the fog swirled silently around them, knowing this could not end well.
‘And then one night, a night filled with the pleasures of the flesh as so much of his life had become, he introduced his wife to two brothers, supposedly two friends of his. But the two brothers conspired against him. They promised the merchant’s wife the world and spirited her away.’
‘She went willingly?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can say? The man was a fool, you see, who saw nothing before him but his perfect life, and nothing afterwards but a blind rage. And when he found her one storm-ridden night, lying with one of the brothers, it almost destroyed him.’
‘What happened?’
‘They died that night, both the woman and her lover.’
‘The merchant killed them?’
‘He might as well have. Because she haunted him every night afterwards until he thought he was going mad with the darkness. And even now, on nights such as these, you can hear her voice on the mournful breeze calling for him, searching for him, waiting for him to pass by so she can suck him into the watery depths.’
Through the gloom of the fog the soft wind moaned and a light flickered faintly once, twice, before it disappeared back into the swirling fog. Gabriella grabbed hold of Raoul’s arm, chilled beyond measure. ‘It’s late,’ she said, trying not to tremble as she clung to him. ‘And it’s been a long day. Let’s go home.’
They walked back hand in hand, the soft lamps along their route and Raoul’s solid presence banishing thoughts of ghosts, legends and what must have been just wild imaginings, turning her thoughts away from the ghostly and much more towards the physical and the real. Her hand fitted well in his, she mused; his long fingers were warm and strong. She squeezed her hand and he squeezed back, looking down at her. ‘I want you to be happy, Bella. Are you glad you came to Venice?’
She smiled, thinking she would be happy to be with Raoul anywhere when he was like this—charming, warm and the perfect host. But to be here with him in Venice, against the backdrop of mediaeval palazzos, with the rumble of the vaporettos and the snatches of love songs from passing gondoliers, she couldn’t think of a better place to be. ‘It’s magical, Raoul. Thank you for insisting I come.’
He stopped and pulled her to him, his free hand curving around her neck and sending delicious shivers coursing through her as leaned down, his eyes on her mouth. She gasped as their lips met, breathing in the taste of him, dark, rich and potent, much like the man himself. His mouth weaved some kind of magic on hers. So tender and evocative was his kiss that she wanted to fall into it and go with it wherever it might lead so that, when he lifted his head, she almost mewled a protest.
‘What was that for?’ she asked, suddenly breathless and dizzy, hoping for all kinds of things that were probably as unlikely as building an entire city on water—yet here it was.
‘Because,’ he said, his dark eyes swirling with heated intent, ‘There was no way earthly way I could not.’
She lay awake a long time that night in the big king-sized bed surrounded by the endless orgy, a celebration of the act of love in all its iterations, still reeling from Raoul’s kiss, still tingling at the memory of his touch and the sensual brush of his lips against her own.
Buzzing at the erotic images on the walls around her.
On the wall before her a nymph kissed her lover, his hand at her plump breast. She could almost imagine that hand on hers, tweaking her nipple, coaxing it to hardness. With a groan she turned over, willing herself to think of something less sensual, less arousing—only to be welcomed by a wild-eyed woman, her head thrown back in ecstasy as her lover pressed close behind her. She turned on her stomach, buried her face in the pillow and tried to ignore the ache in her breasts and the pulsing insistence between her thighs.
Such a big bed.
Such a lonely bed.
Such a waste.
And when she did fall asleep it was to restless dreams of potent, well-built gods, wicked satyrs—and a dark and dangerous man who kissed like one of those gods, who probably made love like one of those gods and who was sleeping a mere room away …
Raoul was out when she rose the next day, so she pulled on jeans and sneakers and a singlet top that could afford to get dusty and threw herself into the task of cataloguing the library while he was away. Marco found her a step ladder so she could reach all but the highest shelves and promised he would help her when she got to those. Even on the lower shelves, the breadth of the collection dazzled her. Mostly they were books printed in Italian, as she had expected, but a quick scan revealed titles on geography, the sciences, history and the arts, with some dusty tomes at least a century old; a veritable treasure trove.
She flipped through one volume, a history of the palazzos of Venice by the looks of it, its spine creaking with age and stiffness. But the illustrations were still wonderful, leaping from the page with life, the buildings along the Grand Canal instantly recognisable even now. Her heart raced with the possibilities of her task—maybe there were volumes here that had never been documented before. Why not?
But with only her schoolgirl Italian to help her she would need help. One of her colleagues from the library would be able to help her, she was sure. She needed to call her boss anyway. She would call later today, when she had more idea of the size of the task ahead.
Then with a pang she remembered she needed to find out what was happening with Consuelo. She had barely spared him a thought ever since she’d arrived, yet there must be news by now. Even if he could not answer her messages, someone must know what was happening to him. Raoul had intimated there was nothing she could do, but there had to be something she could do to help. She was a friend, after all, and he would do the same for her; she was sure of it.
She was just about to descend the ladder when she saw it—the slim volume wedged tightly between two others. Even with her imperfect Italian she could make out the title: Ghostly Tales of Venice.
Thinking it must have been the source of Raoul’s story, she pulled it out, curious, leafing through the pages and searching for his story of the wealthy merchant who was haunted by his lost love. She flipped the pages, just able to decipher a few words here and there. One was a story of children lost in the mist who had disappeared for ever, their gondola found floating listlessly the next day. Another was of a murdered soul who haunted the bridge where he was brutally killed, and yet another told of a woman lost at sea whose unearthly casket could be seen floating on the lagoon on mist-shrouded nights.
Maybe Raoul had been right, she thought as she flipped through the book, her blood running cold with even just a snatched word here and there and a pencil-sketch illustration. Maybe there really were ghosts in Venice’s mist-shrouded waterways. She had felt something last night; she was sure of it.
But she reached the last page of the slim volume and closed the book without finding what she had been looking for. There was no mention of Raoul’s wealthy merchant, nothing that came close to the story he had told her, of the wife lost with her lover who had haunted her merchant husband ever since.
And like the cold slice of steel through flesh an idea came to her and she wondered …
Had it been a legend?
Or had Raoul been telling his very own ghost story?
The lost wife, the tragic death, the darkness he seemed to carry around with him as if the past still had hold of him, weighing him down, refusing to let him go. Was Raoul that haunted merchant?
She clutched the small book to her chest and shivered as she remembered the cool detachment with which he had related the tale, as if it had had nothing to do with him. But Raoul too had lost his wife in tragic circumstances. And he had cut Gabriella off earlier when