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thought so,’ she answered stiffly, judging it to be the safest reply.

      ‘Do you have photographs of your parents you can show me?’

      Jenny shook her head, answering with Bella’s own words explaining why she had none of the usual mementoes of her family. ‘The old homestead on the station burnt down when I was eighteen and in my last year at boarding school. My parents were away at the cattle sales. Nothing was saved.’

      ‘Another loss for you,’ Marco murmured sympathetically.

      ‘And you.’ Her eyes flashed understanding of his desire to see a pictorial record of the son who had lived out his life on the other side of the world.

      ‘Yes. But I chose to bring my loss upon myself. You didn’t.’

      It was fair comment and she nodded her appreciation of it. She was beginning to like Marco Rossini. He didn’t come over as a cruel tyrant, ruthlessly wielding his wealth and power to punish or reward, more a man in the winter of his life, regretting mistakes he could not re-write.

      She picked up the drink Dante had poured for her and sipped the fruit-juice, grateful for the cool moisture sliding down her throat. It tasted of pineapple and oranges. She needed the refreshment for the next round of questions.

      A glance at Dante showed him watching her with an air of curious respect, as though she’d met more than his expectation in her performance so far. Which was a huge relief, since she’d been winging it with a mish-mash of her own feelings and what she’d imagined Bella’s would be.

      ‘Since you chose to live at the Venetian Forum, I thought Antonio must have told you some of his family history,’ Marco put to her. ‘Yet you said you knew nothing of us.’

      ‘He never spoke of you,’ she answered, though she had no idea of whether that was true or not. The question of why Bella had bought an apartment at the Venetian Forum had been tormenting her ever since Dante had brought it up. She had to produce a logical reason for it.

      ‘We had an Italian name. I asked my father where it had come from. He told me it was an old Venetian name. His family had lived there but when he’d lost them he’d emigrated to Australia, and Venice was a place in the past for him. He said I should only think about being an Australian.’ She lifted her chin proudly. ‘Which is what I am.’

      The old man nodded. ‘It’s a fine country. I spent some time in Sydney, purchasing suitable property for our hotel and the forum. It’s a beautiful city.’

      ‘Yes. I love it,’ Jenny said strongly, wanting him to know she had no desire to leave her life for anything he could offer. Bella might have made that change but Jenny Kent couldn’t.

      ‘A big change for you from life in The Outback,’ he remarked, possibly thinking if she could adapt to that, she could adapt to moving to another country.

      ‘I had no heart for trying to run the cattle station after my parents died. There was a large mortgage on it because of the drought and …’

      ‘Too difficult for you in every respect,’ Marco murmured sympathetically.

      ‘Yes.’ She sighed over the immediate difficulty of trying to relive Bella’s life. ‘After everything was settled up, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so I went on what you might call a journey of discovery, travelling around until I found a place that appealed to me. When I came to Sydney, I found the Venetian Forum and …’

      ‘And you remembered your father was originally from Venice,’ Marco supplied helpfully.

      ‘It felt right. Like a sense of belonging. I loved the artiness of it, the colours of the apartments, the markets around the canal. I’ve always loved drawing and I thought about signing up for an art course but I had to wait until the beginning of the new year to do that. I made a good friend who was also into art and asked her to share my apartment so I wasn’t alone. She didn’t have any family, either. We were like sisters.’

      Jenny desperately hoped that covered everything. ‘But then I lost her, too,’ she finished off, her voice losing traction under the dampening weight of sorrow that Bella’s death always evoked in her.

      She closed her eyes and ducked her head, fighting another rush of tears. Bella should be here, not her. Jenny Kent had no one to care if she was dead or not. And Bella had been so kind to her, so generous in her sharing, so good to be with. She had deserved more from life, and maybe she had secretly yearned for this reunion with the Rossini family.

      Jenny wept for her in her mind …. I can’t do this for you. I’m not you. Yet to survive she had to take Bella’s place for Marco Rossini. Dante would not let her go until the performance was no longer needed for his grandfather.

      ‘You have us now, Bella,’ the old man assured her quietly.

      She shook her head and lifted a bleak gaze to the man she had to satisfy. ‘You don’t feel real to me, Mr Rossini. None of this feels real. I’m apart from it.’ That was the truth.

      ‘Give it time, my dear. I know about the accident that killed your friend. You’ve suffered one tragedy after another and it’s taken a good part of this year for you to recover from your own injuries, delaying the career plan you’d decided upon. Let this visit to Capri be a healing time for you, in many respects. We’ll get to know each other …’

      Panic churned through her again at the thought of keeping up this deception every day for months. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t … ‘But you’re going to die, too,’ she blurted out, wildly hoping he would understand she couldn’t bear it. ‘Dante wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I came to see you, but …’

      There was an instant hiss of indrawn breath from Dante, a tense leaning forward.

      Jenny was too scared to look at him, too scared to utter another word. Her eyes frantically pleaded with his grandfather to let her off the hook.

      The old man raised a commanding hand to his grandson. ‘There’s no need to be protective of me, Dante. Why should Bella risk growing fond of a man she knows is dying?’

      ‘You’re her grandfather,’ he answered vehemently.

      Jenny trembled at the sound of his displeasure.

      ‘Who has never played any part in her life, never done anything for her,’ Marco replied reasonably. With an air of sympathetic understanding, he turned to Jenny, addressing her kindly. ‘My dear, I have no doubt Dante did everything in his power to steam-roll you into this visit. I’m sure he would have played upon your natural urge to see where your father came from.’

      She flushed, ashamed of the lie.

      ‘Antonio was my son for eighteen years,’ he went on in a tone of sad yearning. ‘He was a boy of great promise. One thing I can do is fill in those years for you, if you’ll allow me.’

      Her heart sank. Bella would have wanted that. Any daughter who’d loved her father would. She could feel Dante fiercely willing her to agree, hanging the threat of prison over her head if she didn’t. There was no way out.

      ‘I have very little time left, Bella,’ Marco added softly. ‘Will you help me to spend it well, correcting a wrong that weighs heavily on my heart? Think of me, if you will, as a treasure chest of memories you can open now, but will be forever closed once I’m gone.’

      It was too persuasive an appeal to deny. ‘All right. I’ll try it,’ she conceded, surrendering to the inevitable once again. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown your … your failing health in your face. It just seems that …’

      ‘Death keeps cutting through your life?’

      She nodded, feeling too uncomfortable to say anything more.

      ‘It’s different with me, Bella. My journey is simply drawing to a close. Only this business with you remains undone.’ He smiled encouragement at her. ‘Let’s finish it together.’

      She

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