From Venice With Love: Secrets of Castillo del Arco - Alison Roberts

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other woman’s eyes lit up. ‘You would? Bene. Anyway, I told Marco he was wrong. A woman as beautiful as you, you would know men. You would be no unpicked flower who would become unsettled by a little nudity. Am I right?’

      Gabriella looked around the alcove and wondered at the other woman’s definition of ‘a little nudity’, but she wasn’t about to debate that now. For, while it was nobody’s business but her own, she got the impression this was no time to act coy. She was no shy, retiring flower after all, even if she lacked the raw sensuality of this gypsy princess. ‘I’m no virgin, if that’s what you mean.’ Even if she could count the number of times she’d had sex on the fingers of one hand.

      The other woman’s eyes opened wide, her lush mouth in a broad self-congratulatory smile as she planted her hands on her hips and nodded. ‘You see? I knew that. A woman senses these things.’ She gestured to the walls around them. ‘Then you will understand this art. You will appreciate it for its true beauty.’ She glanced at her watch and then back at the suitcase. ‘And now I must start dinner, but …’

      ‘It’s okay,’ Gabriella said. ‘There’s not much to do. I’ll finish the unpacking.’

      ‘Grazie! And I promise you tonight I will make a feast fit for a king—and his queen, for that matter.’ She gave an abrupt nod, as if she’d just made up her mind about something. ‘Yes, it is good to see Raoul with a woman at last.’

      ‘Natania, please don’t think … It’s not like that. We’re old friends, that’s all.’

      ‘Si. Maybe for now.’ And with a toss of her beautiful head she spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen, the bangles on her hand jangling in time to the sway of her hips.

      What was that supposed to mean? Was Natania a fortune teller as well as a cook? But, with her spine still tingling from the gypsy’s unsettling prediction, there was no way Gabriella was going to ask.

      Not when she half-wished it could be true.

      Raoul stormed across the square behind the palazzo, sending pigeons scattering while he cursed the black tide inside him that threatened to rise up, bitter and turgid, from his gut like the thick, black sludge that stuck to the piles below the water. A black tide that would not let him out of its clutches, that clogged his veins and would not let him think or act like a normal man.

      He had never wanted this. He was in no position to keep anyone safe, not when he lurched from one dark mood to the next—not when he had been unable to save his own wife.

      But he hated the way Gabriella had flinched back there in the library, as if he had physically lashed out and struck her—all because he was incapable of dealing with someone who saw light when he saw dark, who saw hope where there was none.

      And afterwards she had withdrawn into herself, quelling her natural spirit until she had become a stilted and stunted facsimile of who she really was, and he hated himself for doing that to her even more.

      If he could not repress that side of himself, he would surely frighten her away and she would never agree to marry him.

      And he had promised to.

      Damn himself to hell and back for it, but he had promised. What happened when you broke a promise to the dead? Did they rise up and come after you? Did they toss and turn in their graves and haunt your dreams and turn your days to nights?

      He didn’t want to find out. He already had enough ghosts to last a lifetime.

      So he would have to woo her, court her and let her zest for life wash over him. And then afterwards, when Garbas was safely locked away behind bars and could not touch her, he would let her go.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      MAYBE it was Natania’s cooking and the superb platter of frittura, the fried fish and calamari she had prepared, or maybe it was the rich risotto al nero di seppa made with squid ink, which Gabriella found surprisingly delicate, that served to soothe Raoul’s dark mood. Or maybe it was just that his appointment had gone well. But, whatever the reason, Raoul was back to his charming best when he returned to the apartment. When he suggested an evening walking-tour of Venice after dinner, she could not resist the chance to explore the city. The air was heavier tonight, full of humidity as a cooler change worked through, but for now it was still warm. Raoul reacquainted her with the big tourist sites, with the highly ornate Basilica di San Marco and the grand Palazzo Ducale in St Mark’s Square where once long ago she’d fed and raced after pigeons with her friends. He pointed out the domed bell-tower of San Giorgio Maggiore standing on its own island across the dark slapping waters. He took her to the Rialto Bridge, the stone wonder spanning the broad Grand Canal, its central portico lit up so it looked like a grand lady dressed up for a night out. Then he showed her places that were off the main trails, wending his way through the darkening city, showing her architectural treasures and little-known pictures carved into stone walls and known only to those who knew Venice beyond the tourist routes.

      He could do this, he decided as he led her to a tiny trattoria overlooking the lagoon for coffee. He could force back that black tide inside him and be civil—pleasant, even. He could be interested and attentive. And he could do this not just because he had to but because he honestly wanted to know more about her, more about those lost years when he had missed out on knowing her.

      ‘What made you decide to become a librarian?’ he asked, watching the ends of her hair play on the soft breeze as she sat down. She’d tied her hair back in a loose knot behind her head before they’d come out, but tendrils had worked their way loose and now danced around her face. He envied them their playfulness. His fingertips itched to brush them away, to linger on her soft skin …

      Their coffee arrived; she thanked the waiter and looked back at him, her eyes bright and clear, smoothing the hair from her brow and tucking it behind her ears. ‘I don’t think there was ever a time I didn’t want to do something to do with books. I actually think my profession chose me.’

      He realised he liked listening to her too. He liked the sound of her accent, the blend of half-French, half-English, the best of both, Cognac over cream.

      ‘Tell me what you love about it,’ he urged.

      ‘It’s just working with books, all of them, every one of them an entire world between the covers. Every new one is a discovery and until you dip into them you just never know what’s inside: new worlds; new discoveries; new characters who leap off the page. It’s all there, just waiting for you to open the cover and turn the page.’

      She was so bright, so passionate, and even while he felt the darkness rise, even as his gut churned and rebelled, still it was impossible not to feel that light shine out from her and warm him in places where light had not touched for so long.

      ‘The books in my library,’ he bit out, coming up with an idea that might hold her, something to keep her interest while she stayed. ‘I don’t even know what’s there.’

      He watched her brow pucker as she sensed the almost-crime. ‘Maybe while I’m here—if you didn’t mind, that is—maybe I could look at them and catalogue them for you.’

      ‘You would do that for me?’

      ‘I would love to.’

      She was so excited, he believed she would.

      ‘What about you?’ she asked as he finished his coffee, so suddenly that he was taken by surprise.

      ‘What about me?’

      ‘What have you been doing all these years?’

      Standing still.

      Trying to forget.

      ‘Nothing half as interesting as you.’

      She tilted her head. ‘I was sorry to hear that your wife died. You were married

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