Her heart went out to him. Hadn’t they both suffered enough when they had lost their parents? Yet Raoul had suffered another blow by losing his wife not long after.
She started down the ladder, the book still clutched in her hand. It was so unfair.
It would be enough to drive any man to despair.
She resolved that she would not cause him more pain. As he had come to her rescue with Umberto’s death, rescuing her from her sudden loneliness, so she too would do everything she could to ease his suffering so that he would never rue the day he had invited her here.
She was almost at the last step when the door swung open behind her. One-handed, she turned and lost her footing, and would have fallen, but he was there to steady her, his hand like a steel clamp around her wrist, the other at her waist, easing her gently down to the floor. ‘Bella, what are you doing?’
She looked up at him, breathless and grateful, intending to find him a sympathetic smile, to let him know she understood about his pain and his loss. But just the very sight of him warmed her soul so much—his dark features, the angles, planes and dark recesses that combined to stir her senses—that her smile became so much more besides. ‘Raoul,’ she said as he bent down to kiss her cheeks, leaving her almost breathless as his evocative scent filled her lungs. ‘I thought I would get started on your library. To earn my keep.’
‘I have a better way,’ he suggested. ‘It is a beautiful day outside. Come and share it with me.’
‘But the library?’
‘Has waited this long. It will still be there tomorrow. Come, Bella—you do want to see something of Venice while you are here?’
‘Of course. I’ll just go and get changed.’
‘Please don’t,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘You look good in anything you wear—but in those jeans, Bella …’ And his words put a sizzle all the way to her bones. Then he tilted his head and looked almost genuinely contrite.
‘I probably should not say such things.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, licking suddenly dry lips—the dust from the books, she assumed. ‘I don’t mind. I … I’ll just grab my jacket.’
He had her. From the moment he had kissed her on that Venice path last night, he had sensed that she was his. Ridiculously easily, as it happened. He could not imagine why any woman, let alone one as beautiful and filled with life as Gabriella, would be drawn to someone as dark and as accursed as him. But for whatever reason—maybe that trait in her that had her believing the best in everyone—she seemed all too ready to forgive him his faults, if he could only repress that dark part of him and act civilised every now and then.
So he donned the air of a civilised man, not one plagued by dark deeds and darker moods. In the ensuing days, he showed her the best of Venice. He walked her to the Castello area in the evening, lingering in the Giardini—the gardens created only two short centuries ago after Napoleon’s invasion—then spent time in the Via Garibaldi, where they sipped bitter spritz with fat green olives amongst the locals taking time out. He took her to the museums and galleries, both the well-known and obscure, and he treated her to the best and least well-known of Venice’s restaurants on the outlying islands, while treating her to the most exclusive of Venice’s boutiques nearby.
He listened to her talk, seemingly endlessly, about the books she’d discovered in his library where she explored every day. And he let her joy of discovery wash over him, knowing he must if she was to trust him.
He had been the perfect host. And tonight would be no exception, he decided as he slipped on his jacket. Tomorrow he would take her to the glass-making factories and shops of Murano, but tonight would provide one more piece for the fairy-tale picture she was building up of Venice. And, if tonight’s excursion went as well as expected, they would be shopping tomorrow for more than just glass.
He swallowed back on the now-familiar pang of guilt, that what he was doing might be wrong or unfair, or was somehow taking advantage of her. Because it wasn’t as if he didn’t like her. It wasn’t as if he had to pretend to be attracted to her; it wasn’t as if he had to lie about those things. They were old friends, he told himself, and it wasn’t as though he planned to hurt her. He was protecting her, just as her grandfather had requested.
And Umberto had been right—there would be nothing worse for her than if she fell into the clutches of someone like Garbas.
If marrying her was what it took to prevent that, he would do it.
Gabriella’s body hummed with anticipation as she waited. Raoul had promised her something special tonight, a secret he had refused to reveal, even when she had teased him and begged him to let her in on the secret.
He was different, she decided as she looked down from the balcony at the never-dull vista that greeted her. Could one ever get sick of the sight and sounds of Venice? It was a world unto itself—a place of incredible beauty on the one hand, of secrets and hidden depths on the other.
Just like Raoul himself.
For even lately in these last few days, even when he had played the host role to perfection, there had been times—glimpses, really—when she would turn her head and look at him, catch him unawares and see something lurking in the depths. Something troubled, menacing and sometimes even sinister that made her want to reach out with her hands, smooth his brow, untangle his thoughts—and then he would look up, see her watching him and smile, chasing the shadows away.
Venice suited him, she thought, sighing into the soft breeze and, just like Venice, he was unique. One of a kind. Impossible not to fall in love with.
She stilled at the railing, her heart skipping a beat and then resuming just that slight bit quicker. She couldn’t love him, could she? Not really?
Sure, she had always loved him; he had been almost family.
Except that wasn’t what she was thinking now.
When she had been no more than a child, she had worshipped him as a child worshipped someone she adored like a hero, someone she could look up to.
As an adolescent, her fantasies had been based more on fairy tales and rampant teenage hormones, of a fantasy Raoul that was larger than life that she could only dream about, the product of her own wild imagination.
And now?
Now she was a woman. Surely she did not imagine that tingle every time they touched? Surely she did not imagine the magic of their kiss?
Those things were no fantasy.
Those things were real.
But love? Could she really be falling in love with Raoul? They had been together just a few short days, after all.
She must be crazy even to think it.
She must be.
And yet the magic of the last few days had not simply been all about Venice. Venice delighted her, it was true. But it wasn’t Venice that had her blood pounding or her heartbeat quickening right now, it was the thought of spending the evening with Raoul. Of losing herself in his bottomless gaze and feeling the heat from his body feed into hers, warming her in an endless, sensual glow.
It was more than just Venice.
It was Raoul, and she was falling in love with him.
He found her waiting for him in the living room, standing on the balcony overlooking the canal, her expression pensive. She was more beautiful than ever in a soft pastel-print dress with a cinched waist and full skirt that made the most of her tan skin, chestnut hair and the near-sinful proportions of her figure, the feminine curve from breast through waist to hip.
When had he gone from merely noticing that she had grown up to thinking she had grown into a very desirable woman? When had just a glance at her turned from benevolent approval of the changes time had brought about to something deeper and