LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE SOUND OF more than one person shouting got steadily louder as Nico Moretti turned into the narrow Venetian alleyway that would get him to his destination a little faster.

      He tried to ignore the sound. He was in a hurry and it wasn’t as if the sound of shouting was anything unusual for a large Italian city but he could feel his frown deepening. It was a disturbing echo of what was already occupying too much of his head.

      The noise was loud enough to have people stopping in the street now. Turning their heads and asking each other what they thought it might be about. The slowing pace and knots of people forming made it harder to move forward and Nico heard a growl of frustration escape his own throat.

      He could tell them what it was about if he had either the time or the inclination. It was about people who wanted different things. People who were passionate about what they believed in. People who weren’t prepared to even try and understand each other and left broken lives in their wakes. But he didn’t have the inclination. Not when he felt so out of place in this city of his birth and with the sound of his childhood language surrounding him and reinforcing that exclusion. And he certainly didn’t have the time. Not when the real reason for his return to Venice was due to start in less than thirty minutes.

      At least he had the advantage of his height. And plenty of practice in cutting through obstructions to get to the heart of an emergency. All he needed to do was take on the mantle of an expert consultant en route to an urgent call in an emergency department or at an accident scene.

      ‘Scusi.’ The word was a command, not a request, and, as always, it had the desired effect. A path appeared through the gathering crowd. Those closest to him actually stopped talking to stare at him but that only made the sound of whatever was happening ahead clearer.

      Whatever it was about, it wasn’t simply a misunderstanding or disagreement. There was a language barrier as well. He could hear English being spoken by a forceful, female voice.

      ‘Stand back. Don’t move him yet. Call an ambulance. Ambulanza.’

      More shouting. In Italian. Had someone called an ambulance? Where was it? Why wasn’t it here yet? They were right beside the Grand Canal, for heaven’s sake. Practically a highway in Venice. Where were the police? Where was a doctor when you needed one?’

      ‘Sì.’ The English woman had understood something in the furore. ‘Dottoressa. I’m a doctor. Let me get close. I have to find out if he’s breathing.’

      ‘He’s not,’ someone close to Nico muttered. ‘He’s dead. He has to be, falling off the roof like that. He must have broken his sorry neck. Who does that English woman think she is? An angel who can work some kind of miracle?’

      ‘It’s almost Christmas,’ a black-clad Italian grandmother said sagely. ‘A good time for a miracle to happen.’

      ‘Scusi.’ Nico schooled himself not to show any personal frustration as he recognised the inevitability of what he had to do. He raised his voice and spoke in Italian. ‘I’m a doctor. Let me through. What’s going on?’

      Charlotte Highton heard the commanding male voice that overrode the almost hysterical barrage of Italian around her. She could also hear the faint sound of a siren. Please, God, she breathed. Let that be an ambulance.

      Getting caught up in an accident scene had been the last thing she’d needed after getting lost in the back alleys of Venice, trying to take a shortcut to her destination near St Mark’s Square, but what could she have done? She’d seen the man fall from the scaffolding. More than that. She’d been caught by the way he had been doubled over and clutching at his chest seconds before he’d fallen. There was no chance of him surviving any injuries the fall might have caused if he’d already been in cardiac arrest before it had happened.

      But they wouldn’t let her near and precious seconds were being lost. One of the man’s workmates was probably the first-aid officer for the building company and he’d decided that the fall had caused a spinal injury. He was holding the victim’s head still and shouting at anybody who so much as bumped the unconscious body.

      Now he was shouting in response to a query from the newcomer, who Charlotte couldn’t see because other people were also trying to tell him the story and some were gesticulating madly—pointing to the roof of the house and circling their arms in the air to represent the fall. For a crazy moment Charlotte almost smiled.

      Here she was in this beautiful, ancient city with the water of a canal lapping almost at her feet. Surrounded by the sounds of a language she loved but had never had the time to learn. Caught by the passionate involvement of people who were, for the most part, probably complete strangers to the unfortunate man who had fallen. This would never happen in England. It was so Italian.

      Then a single, curt word from the newcomer and everybody fell silent. And shifted enough to make an opening. The man who stepped in to fill the gap was as Italian as everything else. Tall and dark. Strong featured and exuding a masculinity that was supremely confident. Such a stereotype that, for another crazy moment, Charlotte was sure she’d met him before.

      Or maybe she just recognised that kind of confidence. It didn’t come from any awareness of his effect

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