Falling For The Venetian Billionaire

Their secretary cleared his throat and stood up. “Without question, the will of the group has prevailed. Congratulations, Vittorio. Please stand and say a few words.”

The possibility that he could be voted in had come to pass. Vittorio’s only consolation at the moment was that his father would have been happy about it.

Vittorio looked around. Nobody had jumped up and run out of the room, but he knew there were several people there, including his uncle, who couldn’t wait to leave and vent in private.

“Signori,” Vittorio began. “This is a great honor, but overwhelming since I’m still grieving over the loss of my father. No one could ever take his place. Please be patient and give me time to take on a mantle that could fit the shoulders of anyone in this room more qualified than I am. We’ll meet in a week or so when I’ll have had an opportunity to take a good look at everything. Mille grazie.”

Now it was Vittorio who left the room in a hurry. His brother, Gaspare, had known this meeting was going to happen and was waiting for him. With business concluded, he headed for the speedboat. His brother sat on a banquette reading. When he saw Vittorio, he stood up. The two men eyed each other before he gave him the news.

“I knew you would be chosen.”

“Then you knew something I didn’t. I’m aware you don’t want to hear me say it, Gaspare, but you should have been the one voted in to head the company.”

“It would never have been me. There’s greatness in you. Don’t forget you have your calling. I have mine.”

Yes, he did. Gaspare had known by his early teens he’d wanted the religious life. To show his approval, their father had established a perpetual fund to help support the monastery.

Still it didn’t help the wrench of separation from the family, Vittorio reflected, as he started the engine and they left for the monastery. Once they reached the jetty, he tied up the boat and they headed for the building.

Because Gaspare had taken family bereavement leave, his presence had helped all of them to begin the healing process. But Vittorio needed his ideas and counsel more than ever about the direction of the company. “How soon can I visit you, Gaspare?”

“Any time.”

“Then I’ll come soon and plan to stay overnight so we can really talk about more foreign investments.”

Vittorio also had a personal matter to discuss to do with the situation with Paola, which had grown serious. Meeting Signora Lawrence had increased his guilt and anguish because he knew he couldn’t marry Paola even if it was expected. He needed some objective advice on that subject. No one had a more level head than Gaspare.

The abbot had granted Vittorio special privileges to stay inside the clausura, the heart of the cloistered monastery where the public wasn’t allowed to enter. He followed his brother to his room.

Gaspare lowered his suitcase to the floor and smiled at him. “I always look forward to your visits and will expect to see you when you can make it. As you know, I also need someone to confide in and have done a lot of that in the last year. I’m unworthy in so many ways, but when I’m with you, I feel better.”

“I could tell you the same thing.”

At that moment one of the monks appeared in the open doorway. “Father Giovanni? A tour group has arrived to speak with you. They’re waiting in the museum. And there’s an American college teacher from California who has been here before and is also waiting in the garden, hoping to talk to you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Vittorio’s head reared. Could he possibly mean Signora Lawrence? Was it possible she’d come back from Switzerland?

He’d already made up his mind to call Dr. Manukyan and get more information on Signora Lawrence. But if she was here at the monastery for some miraculous reason, then he didn’t have to go to the trouble of contacting the other man.

His heart thundered so hard in his chest, he feared his brother could hear it. Was she the person outside?

After the other monk walked on, Gaspare smiled at Vittorio. “I’m afraid I have to get to my duties.”

“Then I’ll walk you as far as the museum.” Vittorio wouldn’t be leaving the monastery until he knew the identity of the woman. When they reached the doorway, he put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Gaspare.”

“God keep you, Vittorio.”

* * *

Ginger was excited because she’d just learned that Father Giovanni was here. She already knew that he was the most knowledgeable about Lord Byron’s life when the poet had spent time at the monastery.

Ginger wanted to pick his brains. That’s what she kept telling herself, but she also knew there was another reason. Signor Della Scalla was a friend of the monk’s. Ginger wanted to know who he really was. She couldn’t rest until she found out.

While she waited, Ginger took a walk around the colonnaded courtyard. A ledge with tubs of flowers placed between the columns enclosed the lush green garden where Byron had strolled during his studies.

Ginger didn’t care if the monk was busy for a long time. She would stay until she’d spoken with him. After a few more minutes, she sat on the garden bench. Before long someone came and sat down near her.

When she looked up, Ginger almost fainted to see a certain unforgettable black-haired Italian male. She’d never expected to see him again. This morning he was wearing a luxurious dark gray suit and tie. He turned in her direction. His left arm slid along the top of the bench.

On the third finger of his hand gleamed a gold and red signet ring that looked royal for want of a better word. He hadn’t been wearing it the night of the shipboard dinner. It isn’t a wedding ring. Those fabulous cobalt eyes stared into hers in recognition. Her pulse was racing.

“We meet again, Signora Lawrence. I thought you only had one day to be in Venice.”

She could hardly breathe. “My plans changed.”

“So did mine,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“What do you mean?”

“After the night we met, I’d intended to find you here the next day, but fate intervened.”

Before she could ask him anything else, he stood up because a monk had walked out to the garden and approached them. When she turned around, she let out a quiet gasp.

The monk bore such an amazing resemblance to Signor Della Scalla, she realized they had to be brothers. But the latter had longer, wavy hair and might have been a little younger.

Both men were tall with similar features and black hair that shouted their blood relationship. They had a solid build and presence that made them stand out from other men.

“Father Giovanni? May I introduce you to Signora Lawrence. She was with Dr. Manukyan’s group aboard the Sirena the other week and we met. I told her I knew you well.”

The monk’s eyes smiled at Ginger. “Good morning. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. There’s still another tour group ahead of you.”

Ginger was so dumbstruck, she couldn’t find words. In a daze, she slowly got to her feet. “Good morning, Father. I was told you might be here today.”

“Please forgive the difficulties. Summer is a particularly busy time.”

“I understand and it doesn’t matter. If or when you’re free, I’d appreciate it if you had time to discuss Lord Byron’s preface to the grammar book with me.”

“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be available shortly and can give you an hour before I have to take charge of another tour. Until then, continue to enjoy the garden.”

Ginger had just walked past it. “Thank you.”

After Father Giovanni headed for the museum, she turned to his brother. Again, she felt his all-encompassing gaze study her.

“I’m afraid I’m the person who prevented you from seeing Father Giovanni the first time.”

She found his Italian accent irresistible. “Why was that?”

“Our father died in the early-morning hours on the day you were coming to Venice a week ago. I drove to the island to inform my brother and take him home, where our family was waiting for him.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said on a rush of emotion. “How terrible for all of you.”

“It’s been the most painful shock of my life so far. As I look back on the events of the night before, I realize you and I weren’t properly introduced.” A faint smile appeared, causing a fluttering sensation in her chest. “My name is Vittorio Della Scalla.”

Vittorio.

Ginger knew the Della Scalla name, but it wasn’t until she’d returned to the hotel the night of the dinner and pulled the menu out of her purse that her questions were answered. They’d been honored to eat aboard one of the Della Scalla passenger liners docked in the port.

Later in Switzerland when she’d been in her room at the farmhouse watching the news, she’d heard that the head of the company, a count of the old Della Scalla aristocracy, had died recently. Suddenly the signet ring on his finger took on significance for her. Everything fit and all the pieces fell into place.

Vittorio personified the quintessential nobleman of the modern-day Italian aristocracy.

CHAPTER THREE

GINGER COULDN’T HELP staring at him. “The likeness between you and your brother is so striking, it’s like two sides of the same coin.”

“Growing up people thought we were twins even though there’s a three-year difference in our ages. What’s your first name, signora?”

“Ginger.”

“Like the spice.”

A soft laugh escaped. “I’ve learned the Italians don’t use it much except in the southern part of your country.”

One black brow lifted. “It sounds like you’ve been here awhile.”

“Five months.”

He studied her for a moment. “Dr. Manukyan introduced you the other week as a Californian professor who’s an expert on Lord Byron.”

“Maybe one day I’ll attain that status once I’ve received my doctorate. But yes, I teach classes on the romance writers of the early nineteenth century at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa.”

“I traveled to that area years ago with friends. You come from a beautiful part of the US.”

“Considering where you come from, that’s a generous admission.”

“Not at all.” He cocked his dark, handsome head. “I can tell you that you’ve come to the right person to learn about Byron’s passion for the oppressed as well as his genius for words.” Ginger couldn’t have said it better. “How long are you going to be in Venice?”

The first time he’d asked her that question, it could have been an idle one. But not this time. Afraid to sound too interested—like a certain starry-eyed widow she knew—Ginger said, “I’m not sure. My research leads me many places.”

“Considering we’re talking about Lord Byron, it would.” Something told her Vittorio Della Scalla probably knew as much on the subject as his brilliant brother. “His journeys were legendary. Besides all the travel, Byron accomplished a massive amount of work during his short thirty-six years.”

She nodded. “Since I’ve been in Italy, I’ve decided Byron was a man with nine lives.”

His eyes smiled. “A very apt description. If you’re returning to Venice after your meeting with my brother, I’ll be happy to give you a ride. As you already know, I live there and I’m still anxious to show you around.”

The man’s charm was lethal. Ginger swallowed hard. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t know how long I’m going to be, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He got to his feet. “A presto, signora.”

It meant see you soon, and sent an adrenaline rush through her. She’d lost track of time while they’d been talking. Without waiting for his brother, who’d just emerged from the doorway, Vittorio strode down the length of the courtyard on his long powerful legs and disappeared.

Ginger knew her cheeks were flushed when Father Giovanni asked her to return to the studio with him. He made no mention of his brother.

They discussed the problem of Father Pasquale Aucher, Byron’s teacher who’d instructed him in Armenian. Aucher was offended because in the preface of the grammar book, the poet referenced the Turks, who’d kept the Armenian people under their rule. Which is why he didn’t give Byron credit for the book, and the poet took it badly. Eventually Father Aucher added Byron’s name to the grammar, but not as a sign that he’d done an expert job.

Following that conversation, they discussed the letter Byron had written to his English publisher, John Murray, in 1817 about the time he’d spent at the Armenian monastery.

Before Ginger had to leave because the next tourist group had arrived, Father Giovanni quoted the last few lines of the letter from memory, lines that had become famous. The last line Byron wrote about life in the monastery made an impact. “‘“There is another and a better” even in this life.’”

Obviously Father Giovanni, who’d come from such an aristocratic family, had found a better life here, too.

Ginger thanked him for making this visit so memorable. She’d finished her research here and left the building, not knowing if Father Giovanni’s brother was truly waiting for her. She felt jittery with anticipation as she walked past another group of tourists to reach the dock.

“Signora Lawrence?” She’d know that voice anywhere and looked to the right.

Vittorio Della Scalla was standing in a sleek-looking blue and silver ski boat. Despite his modern clothes, she could imagine him one of the fierce Venetian warriors of the fifteenth century who’d opened up the Mediterranean trade routes in defiance of the Ottomans and Spaniards.

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