From Venice With Love
Then she saw Raoul waiting for her and decided to worry about the missing Consuelo and his distorted perception of their relationship later. She gave an ironic smile. ‘Clearly much more important. Anyway, I didn’t come to dinner to talk about him.’
‘Touché.’ Across the table Raoul smiled and lifted his glass to hers in a toast. ‘To us, Gabriella. To old friends and new beginnings.’
His words stirred her soul deep. ‘To us,’ she said, taking a sip, feeling the sensual slide of fine wine down her throat. She watched him watching her over the rim of her glass, liking the way he watched her, wondering if he liked what he saw.
And she knew she was in danger of reading too much into this. She was feeling things and hearing things that couldn’t possibly be there or mean what she thought. And for all his talk of new beginnings and expressions of regret that it had been so long, he would most likely disappear from her life tonight and not even Umberto would be there to bring him back to her.
After all, this was Raoul, and her teenaged fantasies had been just that—fantasies. She put her glass down before the alcohol might convince her otherwise. ‘You visited Umberto the week before he died?’
Across the table Raoul stilled. ‘Umberto told you that?’
She shook her head and the lights in her hair danced under the lamps. She’d worn it up for the funeral, a severe knot at the back of her head, but time and the damp had worked tendrils loose, so now the ends softly framed her face. ‘No, his nurse. He died before—before I made it home from London. I was too late to see him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, praying that his visit had done nothing to hasten his old friend’s death and prevent his granddaughter one last opportunity to see him.
‘I think he knew he was dying and he didn’t want me there.’ She looked at the ceiling and pressed her lips together in a thin white line. ‘He sent me away, you know.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Phillipa was almost due to give birth. Her husband was overseas and booked to get back—there should have been plenty of time—when a coup closed all the airports. He was stuck in a war zone and she was frantic with worry; little wonder the baby came early. And I didn’t want to leave Umberto, but he told me he was fine and that I must go to help my friend. He promised me he would be fine …’
He took her hand, squeezed it in his own. ‘He was looking out for you. He was trying to spare you.’
‘By denying me the opportunity to share his final days, his final moments?’ She hauled in a breath and shook her head. ‘Why don’t I feel blessed in that case? Instead, I feel cheated. I didn’t even get a proper chance to say goodbye.’
‘Bella,’ he said, his hand stroking her cheek, his thumb wiping the moisture welling from her eyes, ‘He didn’t want you to see him like that.’
‘But why wouldn’t he want to say goodbye to me?’
‘Because maybe he wanted you to remember him as he was before, strong and happy, not confined to a bed with a battery of machines beeping out his existence while you waited for them to fall silent one by one. He loved you too much to subject you to that.’
She sniffed and rested her cheek against his hand, staring blindly at the table as if considering his words. She looked lost, a little girl in a woman’s face, a little girl who had suffered too much already in her short life; a beautiful face that was no hardship to stare at, no hardship to caress. Even with leaking eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, even with that trembling bottom lip, she was indeed a beauty. Even without her fortune in waiting, she would be a catch.
What a waste.
For she deserved only the best. She deserved happiness and love and a good man who could give her both.
She deserved so much more than a man who would marry her simply to fulfil the terms of a promise.
And that wretched knot he seemed to endlessly carry with him grew in his gut, twisting, tangling and pulling tight. Why was he even considering going through with this? Garbas would be no threat now. Garbas could not hurt her. So he should just take her home, say goodnight and walk away. He should let her go. If he had any sense at all, he would just let her go. Umberto would never know.
Except he had promised.
And he would know.
Besides, perversely perhaps, a part of him was beginning to think it would not be such an impossible feat to get her to agree to marry him. Indeed, the longer he was with her, the more certain he was that he could achieve the unthinkable. She had worshipped him as a child. She certainly didn’t hate him now, not from the way she seemed to lean into his touch, not from the way he found her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And, whatever she’d heard of his past, it didn’t seem to make her wary of him in any way. Foolish, foolish woman.
‘So what did he say?’
He looked up to find her eyes on him, sad eyes wanting answers.
‘You talked to Umberto,’ she prompted. ‘What did he say?’
He hesitated, his hand dropping, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass, knowing what her reaction would be if he told her what Umberto really wanted from him.
‘Surely I’m entitled to know something of his last words? Can’t you tell me anything?’
‘Si.’ He nodded. ‘Of course you are entitled. Because mostly, Bella, he talked of you.’
‘Me.’ She blinked and swallowed and he followed the movement down the long, smooth column of her throat until it disappeared into her chest, a slow, sensual slide. He had to drag his eyes north again when she said, ‘What did he say about me?’
‘That he loved you,’ he said, embellishing the truth, because he knew she needed to hear it and because he knew it to be true. ‘More than anything or anyone in the world. He talked about how special you are and how much you mean to him. He talked about how afraid he was for you when he was gone, how he would miss seeing you married with children one day.’
She dragged in air and bit down on her plump bottom lip with her teeth in the way he remembered her always doing whenever she’d been upset years ago. He remembered her trying not to cry out loud at her parents’ funeral and biting down so hard on her lip those teeth had drawn blood, blood she’d later smeared on his white shirt when he’d hugged her and held her close. How her twelve-year-old’s tears had reduced him to tears too, even though he’d promised himself to be strong that day.
God, but she’d been through so much. He could well understand Umberto wanting to protect her and ensure nothing bad ever happened to her again. He wanted that too. And, the longer he was with her, the more he wanted it. But he still knew in his crusted heart that he was the last person who could make it so.
‘He told me that you see the good in everyone, that you do not judge, that you have a good heart.’
Across the table, she sniffed. ‘Thank you. It would have been nice to have heard these things first hand, but it is good to hear them at all, so thank you.’
‘Sometimes it is not possible to say these things face to face. Your grandfather was old-school. Did he ever tell you he loved you when he was alive?’
‘No, but I still knew.’
‘Yes, you knew. Some things, Bella—some things do not need to be said for us to know them to be true,’ he said, feeling only slightly guilty for the things he’d told her, the things he’d embellished and the things he’d omitted when he saw how happy she was to hear them.
And she smiled, tears once again welling in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Raoul,’ she said as she clasped his hand in hers, only letting go as their meals were served. ‘Thank you so much.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT will you do now?’ he asked while they ate. ‘Will you stay in Paris?’
She tilted her head as she toyed with a mushroom, contemplating his question and letting herself appreciate for the first time just how much she was enjoying tonight. She hadn’t expected to enjoy anything today, and there was still an Umberto-sized hole in her chest. But she felt, if not entirely happy, then almost good, she decided, although she was in no doubt that the company was a major factor in that. Just being with Raoul seemed to make her feel good, to feel warm.
‘I have my job at the American Library here in Paris. They’ve given me leave, as long as I need, although I think I really should get back to work. I’ve been off more than a month already.’
‘You don’t look like any librarian I’ve ever seen,’ he offered. ‘In fact, if librarians had looked like you when I was at school, I might have spent more time studying in the library.’
She smiled and tilted her head. ‘Why thank you, kind sir, but I think perhaps that is the wine talking.’
‘No,’ he countered. ‘That is definitely the man talking.’
She felt his words in the quake that rumbled its way down her spine and lodged deep in her belly; she had to suck in air to cool and mitigate its far-flung effects. ‘I’m the special-collections manager,’ she said, squeezing her legs together under the table to quell the buzzing between her thighs. ‘Maybe the library gods give us a bit more leeway in that department.’
And to her relief he laughed, a rich, deep sound that resonated through her bones. ‘Come to Venice with me.’
Her breath caught—or maybe it was her heart—and it was her turn to laugh, but this time nervously. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I have business in Venice. Come with me, Bella.’
She shook her head, once again blindsided by the events of the day. She was torn to think he was leaving already after such a short time, tempted to do something wildly un-Gabriella-like and take off with him. But she didn’t work that way. ‘I can’t just take off to Venice.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have my job.’
‘You’re on leave.’
‘But … But … ‘ She was thinking of all the reasons going to Venice with Raoul would be so wonderful: the chance to renew their acquaintance, the opportunity to feel his warming presence; logic momentarily deserted her.
‘What do you have to stay for? A change would do you good.’
When he put it like that, it had been a long time since she’d had any kind of holiday. Once she went back to work it would be months before she could ask for more time off, and the thought of going to Venice with Raoul … ‘No.’ She shook her head, much more emphatically this time, half to convince herself. ‘That’s silly. What were we talking about again?’
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. ‘So, think about it. No rush. Meanwhile, we were talking about you. Where did you go to school? I seem to remember Umberto mentioning boarding school once or twice when I visited him.’
She nodded, feeling warmed by the thought of Umberto talking to Raoul about his granddaughter and what she was doing—and Raoul actually remembering—while in the back of her mind she kept hearing his words, Come with me, Bella.
She took a sip of water, wondering if it was the wine making her feel reckless enough to want to say yes. Then she marshalled her scattered thoughts enough to answer his question properly.
‘From the day I was born, my mother had me booked into the same ladies college in the Cotswolds she’d attended as a girl. I’d always known I was going there and, while I didn’t want to leave Umberto, it felt good being there and nearer her parents, too, while they were alive. And I’d see Mum’s name on winners’ boards and amongst lists of past prefects and it made me feel good—walking those same corridors, sitting in those same classrooms that she had. Like I was closer to her, if that makes any sense.’
Suddenly she wasn’t sure what made sense and what didn’t. She gave a nervous laugh, tilted her head. ‘Did you actually mean it about coming to Venice?’ Immediately she dismissed it. ‘But, no, sorry, it’s a crazy idea. I’m probably not making any sense.’
‘You make perfect sense,’ he said, raising his glass to her. ‘And it’s not such a crazy idea.’
Oh, but it was. If she went to Venice she might get used to the warm, wonderful way he made her feel—as if she had one hundred per cent of his attention all the time, as if she were the only person, the only woman, in the world.
And that would be crazy.
‘Anyway,’ she pressed on, determined to get back to her story and not dwell on things that could not be, ‘That’s where I met Phillipa.’
‘Your friend I met today?’
She nodded, remembering the first day they’d met, the two girls who’d teamed up in desperation because they’d known nobody else in the entire school and yet had stayed friends ever since. ‘She was my very best friend from day one, even through the couple of years when her family shifted to New York. She came back to study librarianship at uni as well, and we ended up living together during terms. We’d each go our separate ways in the holidays, her to New York, me to Paris, or we’d take turns at visiting each other’s homes.’ She smiled. ‘Phillipa’s the most brilliant friend. Better than a sister—not that I’ve ever had one.’
She stopped, and looked at him, leaning back and smiling patiently at her. ‘Oh God, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’
‘No, I could listen to you all night. I wish I had been there more for you, Bella.’ Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have ended up so lost himself … ‘I should have done more.’
She shrugged. ‘Come on, Raoul, how could you? The last thing you needed was to be bothered with a girl barely in her teens. And I was fine. I actually liked boarding school. It was hard at first, but in a way it took my mind off things. Besides, what could you have done? You were busy with your own life.’
Busy? That was one way to put it. And, realistically, what could he have done? He’d spent the two years after his parents’ death either drunk or aiming for it, playing every casino he could find, throwing money at every game and every horse it was possible to lose on and finding himself a new family into the deal. A family that loved someone who could splash money around and not care, a family who had adopted him for one of their own, if only to suck him dry.
And then, emerging out of the bleakness of that time, he’d found Katia—or she had found him. Playboy of the year, bachelor of the year; he’d been awarded so many of those meaningless titles he couldn’t remember them all. But she had wanted him above all others and they had been so absorbed in their own special world that nothing else had mattered. Or so he had thought. Not until much later when the foundations of his world had once again been torn apart …
He shook his head, wondering at the insanity that had driven his actions then, knowing he should know better now. For it had to be a form of insanity to be contemplating what he was doing, to be undertaking what he was doing.
Even now he’d primed Gabriella perfectly; she was still thinking about Venice even though he’d said nothing to encourage her after that first exchange. Even now she was still thinking it through, working out the angles, making it possible in her own mind, making it her own decision.
Even now it could still happen—and he could get her to Venice and clear of Paris before the news of Consuelo’s inevitable arrest broke. For Consuelo would be arrested, nothing was surer.
But right now, looking into Gabriella’s eyes flickering brandy-gold in the lamplight, he wasn’t so sure of anything else. The way she looked at him …
She wasn’t the girl she had once been. She was a woman now, and his body was reacting the way a man’s body did to a woman he desired.
He shook his head, trying to dispel those images. ‘You were no doubt better off without me.’ As you would be now.
She reached over, took his hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry. How about we make a deal? How about we don’t think about the past? Maybe it’s time we let it go. You yourself toasted to a new beginning, so can’t we just leave it at that? Can we let the past go and start again?’
If only it were that easy!
His past was him. It was his past that had made him, shaped him and moulded him, even broken him along the way. It had made him who he was now.
How could he let that go without losing himself, without losing who he was now?
He didn’t know how.
He wouldn’t know where to begin.
And, promise or no promise, suddenly he couldn’t do this—not to himself and definitely not to her. It was suddenly too hot, the air like poison as the walls of the bistro closed in on him. He knew he had to get outside into the fresh air, into a world where he could disappear and be alone and where she would be safe from him.
‘Are you finished?’ he asked, already standing, his voice like gravel as he threw some notes onto the table.
She blinked up at him in surprise, grabbing her coat as he moved like a dark cloud past her out of the restaurant and into the night.
It was raining, the lamps along the Seine throwing jagged zigzags of colour sliding along the wet pavement and across the dark water. ‘Raoul,’ she said, as she skipped to keep up with his long stride. ‘What’s wrong? What did I say?’
‘It is nothing you have said, nothing you have done.’
‘Then, what?’
‘It is me, Gabriella.’ It stung like a slap to her face that he had dropped the use of Bella, dropped the endearment. ‘You are better off without me.’
‘No, Raoul, how can you say that?’
‘Because I know! You were right to decide not to come with me.’
He hailed a taxi and bundled her and she thought he would follow until he rattled off her address and made to close the door. She threw out her hand against the door to stop him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sending you home. Good bye, Gabriella.’
She shoved open the door and stood up to him, face to face, the door—and a world, it seemed—between them. ‘No. Not until I know when I will see you again.’
‘You do not want to see me again.’
‘Don’t tell me what I want!’ There was a spark in her eyes he hadn’t seen before, a hint of rebellion about that sharp chin he hadn’t seen since she was a child. Not that it would do her any good.
The driver uttered a few impatient words and she turned and let go with a torrent of French of her own before she turned back. ‘I don’t want to wait another twelve years to see you again, and I damn well won’t.’
‘Who can say how long it will be?’
‘So, what time do you leave? We could still meet for lunch if it’s late enough.’
‘No.’
‘Then maybe breakfast at your hotel?’
‘That is not possible. I leave mid-morning.’
‘Can’t you change it?’
‘I told you, I have business to attend to.’
‘And it cannot wait?’
‘No.’
Infuriating! He was like a mountain made out of a single piece of solid granite, She could pound her fists against his chest except she knew he would not feel a thing. ‘Then maybe I was too hasty before. Maybe I could come with you after all, even just for a day or two. Like you say, the library will not expect me back immediately.’
‘I’m sorry, Gabriella, but I was too hasty with my invitation. I should have realised it would not work.’
‘But you asked me. Why would you do that? Why would you ask and then change your mind?’
‘Because it is pointless! Because I cannot do this—please do not try to make me.’
‘For God’s sake, Raoul, you blast into my life after a twelve-year absence and then you disappear before we’ve had a chance to get to know each other again. Can’t you at least offer me something?
‘But I am, Bella—I am offering you your freedom. Treasure it.’
And he turned and strode off into the wet, dark Paris night.
She watched him go, wishing she could run after him, knowing it would be a mistake. But what had he meant about offering her her freedom? Why should she treasure it?
Why couldn’t he at least have explained what he meant?
He dreamed of Katia that night, Katia emerging from the mist with all her grace and long, lithe limbs, her dancer’s eyes and beckoning smile. He dreamed of parties floating on a champagne cloud; he dreamed of laughter, dancing and sex that went long into the night and the following day, and then doing it all again the next. Until the mist turned dark and putrid and a mocking smile became a call for help, became a scream, and he tried to make his feet move, tried to run …
He woke to a pounding heart, covered in sweat and tangled in sheets. It took seconds to realise the pounding was coming from the door and not only from his chest. Thank God! He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, snatching up his watch and throwing it back when he saw the time and realised it had taken him so long to get to sleep last night that he’d slept later than he’d intended. It was room service, no doubt, with his breakfast order, although why they had to make such a God-awful noise …
He called out that he was coming and lashed a towel around his hips, pulling open the door in the same movement. But it was Gabriella who fell into his arms, tear-streaked and brandishing a newspaper in one hand, and it took him a moment to remember, to work out how she’d found him. ‘Raoul, I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, clinging to him. ‘I’m so sorry. I know you’ll be angry with me, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.’
He put a tentative hand to her head, trying not to think too much about the push of her breasts again his chest or the fact his early-morning body had reversed its decision to relax. Hating himself that it had. ‘What is it, Gabriella?’ he asked gruffly, shifting slightly and still feeling a building sizzle of satisfaction in his veins, already half-knowing what the news must be.
‘It’s all over the papers,’ she sniffed, thrusting it into his hand. ‘It’s Consuelo. He’s been accused of using the foundation as a front for money laundering. He’s been arrested for fraud.’
Already? he thought as his eyes flicked over the article, taking in the pertinent details. So it was done and she was safe. Surely Umberto would not quibble about the exact letter of his promise not being carried out? He’d done her a favour, after all, and if all went to plan Garbas would be locked up for a very long time and Gabriella could find and marry someone decent. ‘But what brings you here? What do you think I can do?’
‘We have to help him. It can’t be true. We have to—’
‘We?’
‘Surely you would help me?’
‘But if it is true, what they accuse him of?’
She blinked watery eyes up at him and exhilaration almost gave way to regret for causing her more tears after she had shed what seemed like an ocean of them. ‘What?’
‘If the police are right? That he has been using the foundation as a front?’
She buried her head against his chest again, as if to block out the truth. ‘But that would make him some kind of criminal.’
‘Then maybe, just maybe, you should brace yourself for that eventuality.’
She stilled in his arms. ‘You think there is a possibility?’
He shrugged, unable to prevent himself from stroking her back through her coat, trying to show indifference when all he wanted to do was tell her that he knew it to be true and that she had had a lucky escape. Could she not tell from the gravity of the reports that this was no frame-up? Then battling to care about Garbas and whether he was guilty or innocent when she was in his arms this way, and so very beautiful, so very desirable …
With a groan, he hauled his libido and his thoughts back to where they should be.
‘The police must have evidence. They do not go around arresting people on such charges lightly, Bella.’
The use of her pet name sliced through her tears and through the dense fog that had occupied her mind ever since he had abandoned her last night, leaving her sleepless and unable to cope with this morning’s revelations.
And suddenly she was aware of so many other things—of the spring of chest hair under her fingers; of the broad width of naked chest that lay heated under her cheek and pressed against her breasts; of the rough towel that was the only barrier separating them.