One Christmas Night in Venice. Jane Porter

deep raw breath. “He didn’t die.” Domenico’s eyes searched hers waiting for the news to register. “He lived. He’s alive. He’s here—with me.”

      He’d expected a scream, a cry—something. But she stood utterly still, her enormous eyes locked on his.

      “Diane, you’re a mother,” he pressed on, not understanding why she didn’t respond. “The baby didn’t die. You have a son.”

      And then she did the strangest thing.

      She laughed.

      Laughed. Even as her eyes welled with fresh tears.

      But her laugh wasn’t a happy laugh. No, it reminded him of ice cracking. Cold. Brittle. Fragile. “I don’t believe you. You lie.”

      Diane tipped her head back and looked into the face of the man she’d loved with all her heart and mind and soul. The man who’d had everything. She’d never understood why he’d wanted her. Needed her. But he’d said he did.

       He’d said.

      And now he said their baby hadn’t died. Their baby was here. Alive.

       Alive.

      She shivered, shuddered, her blood freezing in her veins. There was no child. Her child had died. Her baby hadn’t survived. Domenico’s mother couldn’t have been so cruel. “I don’t want any part of this … deception … play … masquerade … whatever it is. Let me go. I must go.”

      “Don’t be scared. It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay—”

      She silenced him with a furious slap across his face, hitting him hard, as hard as she could. She could hear the slap echo shockingly loud in the chamber. Worse, the blow stung her hand, making her palm ache.