From Venice With Love: Secrets of Castillo del Arco

Halfway pulling out a shirt from a wardrobe, he stopped and looked at her. ‘Do you always believe the best of people, Bella? Always? No matter what?’

It was her turn to shrug. ‘But how can it be true? The foundation does such wonderful work. I have seen the children he has helped—tiny children with no hope until his foundation funds their treatment; tiny children who have lost so much and yet are still able to smile because of what his foundation has done for them—offering them hope for some kind of future. What will happen to them?’

He growled as he shrugged the shirt on. Was she so naive that she couldn’t see that Consuelo’s purpose was to hide behind those very children he pretended to care about in order to cover his filthy tracks? ‘They will not suffer because of this.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I keep thinking someone must have made a mistake. Maybe it’s someone working for him behind the scenes who might have done this. And I can’t help feeling there must be something I can do to help.’

His fingers stabbed the last shirt-button home, his blood running cold in his veins while he watched her over his shoulder. ‘Do you love him, Bella—this man who abandoned you yesterday on a day you needed friends to stand by you? Is that why you are so desperate to help him?’

‘No.’ She made a sound like a whimper. ‘No, but does it have to be about love? He’s a friend, and he’s going to need all the friends he can to get through this.’

‘And yesterday, when you needed a friend? Where was he then, if not already running, if what the paper suggests is true? Why else would his offices be raided? Why else would he have been arrested at the airport like that article says if he was not trying to flee? Unless he had plans to travel that you knew about?’

‘No.’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘We were planning on having a quiet dinner together.’

‘Then how much help do you think you can be, without proving him to be a liar with your evidence?’

She collapsed on the un-made bed, her face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know! I just don’t know what to do.’

She looked so vulnerable and broken, so desperate and despair-ridden, that he could not help but feel guilty, even when Garbas was scum and had it coming to him. There was little triumph here. In kicking Garbas, he’d kicked her too when she was already down, even if it was to save her.

But there was no way now he would walk away and leave her here in Paris, not like this. All she knew was death and loss here, and a friend she was determined to defend. She was just as likely to go to the police and ask to speak to him. If she asked him if he had done it and Garbas said he had not, of course she would believe him. She would never be free of him, not really, not unless …

God, what a mess.

‘Bella,’ he said, sitting alongside her, pulling her into his arms. ‘I will tell you what you must do. You must pack your bags and come with me to Venice and you will forget all about what is happening here.’

She sniffed again against his chest, a fresh torrent of tears hot against his fresh shirt. ‘But you don’t want me there,’ she sobbed. ‘You said you didn’t.’

‘I’m asking you now.’

‘So why now and not last night? You didn’t want me to come last night. You sent me home.’

He sighed, stroking her hair, looking across the room at nothing in particular. ‘Last night I was reminded of things I would rather forget. Not because of you, Bella, but Umberto’s death reached me in places I did not want to go. And I was angry. Unthinking. Careless of your feelings. But I cannot leave you here like this in Paris, all alone, with Umberto gone and your friend in jail.’

She shook her head. ‘But …’

He took her chin in his hand and lifted it so he could see her eyes. ‘You have leave. Why not make the most of it? How long has it been since you had a real holiday?’

Too long, if the lost look in her eyes was any indication. ‘You said it has been years since you were in Venice,’ he said, knowing she was swayed. ‘I have an apartment on a canal, big enough that I could do my work and you could sightsee to your heart’s content. And we could sip wine in the evening on the balcony and watch the gondolas slip by. What do you say?’

Her eyes swirled with the possibilities. He saw them; he saw her hesitation and felt her temptation as she tasted the opportunity before her. And still she wavered. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘And then in a few weeks, when all this has all settled down and you are feeling stronger, come back and see what you can do for your friend then. Maybe it will have all blown over. But things will be clearer then, I know.’

She looked up at him, and he could see she was torn. ‘You really think so?’

‘I know so.’

Her teeth found her lip—swollen and bruised from yesterday’s stresses he realised—and he put a thumb to her lip if only to stop her injuring herself further. ‘You’ve hurt yourself. Don’t do that.’ And even as he brushed her lips apart with his finger she looked up at him with those wide cat’s eye. Even though he knew it was folly, even though he knew it could lead nowhere good, he could not resist. So he dipped his mouth to hers, tentatively, whisperingly soft, no more than a brush of skin against skin.

Yet she shuddered against him like the world had quaked beneath her feet.

My doing, he thought with a touch of satisfaction as he tasted her lips and felt the foundations of his own soul shift and stir and bring him reluctantly to awareness—where he had no intention of going.

He returned the finger to her lips, pushing himself away, reminding himself why he was doing this. He would have to kiss her, he told himself, if this was to work. It meant nothing. And then, once she was safe, he could let her go. She would be free to find someone worthy of her, someone who could offer her a future filled with life and love.

She looked up at him, all blinking eyes and breathlessness, her lips parted as if she could not draw in enough air any other way, as if waiting for him to kiss her again.

Later, he thought, knowing he shouldn’t rush her, knowing he should take his time. Because he had no choice, even though it was the wrong choice. He couldn’t leave her here.

Because, like it or not, Umberto had been right all the time.

There was no other way.

CHAPTER FOUR

VENICE enchanted her. From the moment she first caught sight of their destination as their plane came into land at Marco Polo airport, Gabriella was struck by the soft beauty of this ageing city perched upon the sea. From the air it had looked like a fantasy land, seemingly floating atop the waters of the lagoon, the tell-tale S of the grand canal slicing through its many islands.

From the vaporetto as they approached the city, it appeared even more magical. She sighed with pleasure, soaking up the soft sun on her bare arms, the breeze dancing through her hair. It felt like for ever since she’d felt the sun’s kiss on her skin or the whispering breeze in her hair and she tossed her head back, letting her hair flick and dance on the warm air.

There was something exotic and timeless about approaching the city by water. She could almost imagine herself as a mediaeval princess being ferried across the sea to meet her new husband, a wealthy Venetian merchant, mesmerised by the sight of such beautifully decorated buildings jostling shoulder to shoulder for space. Some were topped with intricate domes, others with towers pointing upwards as if in the search for space, while the water lapped at their feet. There were palaces, churches and rows of gondolas tied to candy-striped posts bobbing on the water. It was all utterly unreal. Utterly magical.

‘Happy?’ Raoul asked alongside her, his blue-black hair pulled into a short ponytail, his eyes covered with sun-glasses that only added to his dark appeal. Her eyes drank him in. Already he looked different, as if he’d lost some of the tension that had lined his features just yesterday. His shirt softly draped in the breeze, sculpting against his broad chest, while the unbuttoned collar revealed a tantalising vee of olive skin at his neck with a sprinkling of dark hair.

A sizzling heat zipped its way up Gabriella’s spine and momentarily struck her dumb. If the mediaeval princess was lucky enough to have someone like this man waiting for her, she would be one very lucky woman indeed.

But, no—this man was more likely the pirate who came to retrieve his bride from the clutches of the wealthy merchant.

He tilted his head and smiled. ‘You certainly look happy.’

Happy didn’t come close. She was arriving here in Venice, in a magical city with a man who took her breath away every time she looked at him. How had she ever imagined there was anything sinister about him when she had felt that sliver of apprehension yesterday in the cemetery? For his was a dark beauty that erred on the side of danger but erred deliciously, so that every glance was like a guilty pleasure to be sinfully enjoyed.

Would the fair princess stay with the rich Venetian merchant? she wondered. Or would she let herself be taken by the pirate?

No contest.

Exhilarated beyond measure, feeling suddenly more alive than she had in months, she laughed into the wind, letting the sound get taken away over the water. ‘I love it. I’d forgotten how beautiful Venice is. This is just like seeing it for the first time.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Years. I think I was only ten or eleven and on a school trip. I don’t remember much beyond feeding the pigeons in St Mark’s Square.’ She shook her head, smiling as she remembered the chaos she and her class mates had caused. ‘Twenty squealing girls. Those poor pigeons.’

He looked at her. ‘I remember now. You told us that first night we were in the mountains while we sat around the fireplace. Everyone was laughing. I had forgotten …’

It was no wonder he had forgotten, she thought, quietly reflective for a moment. That time in the mountains had been their last holiday together. She could remember little of those first few days, either. All that stuck in her mind was the helicopter ride over the glaciers she’d been so looking forward to, and the night of illness that had put paid to any chances of her going. It was Raoul who had generously offered to stay back and look after her so their parents could go together and not miss out. Gabriella had spent the day dozing and sipping lemonade, listening to Raoul read her story after story. And they had thought nothing of it when the day had begun to darken and the night closed in. Not until the police had come calling …

‘You’re biting your lip again, Bella,’ he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. We are here together now and I promise to save you from any pigeons with long-term memories.’

She laughed and turned towards him, turning away from the buildings, the water and the ladylike beauty of the city to his intensely masculine face. She was grateful that he had turned the mood around, grateful just to be here with him in this beautiful city. ‘Thank you so much for allowing me to come,’ she said, and reached up on tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. She sighed as she relished the warm, clean scent of man, the brush of his blue-black whiskers against her lips and the feel of her body pressed length-to-length with his.

He took her arms, easing them away from his neck. She wondered if once again she had overstepped some unseen line, but he surprised her by turning her around in front of him and linking his hands at her waist where they sat, snug and disturbingly comfortable.

‘We are nearly there, Bella. Look,’ he said as the water taxi turned off into a smaller canal and then into another set, like a canyon amidst the tall buildings. Flowers spilled from flowerpots under arched windows; quaint bridges appeared from a wall and forded the canal, disappearing into the buildings on the other side like secret tunnels.

With Raoul’s warm body at her back, his arms around her waist, she never wanted this journey to end. She was acutely aware of the constriction of his arms every time she drew breath; she was achingly aware of the proximity of them to her breasts. And then there were his hands, crossed and perched so low across her belly; she knew if he just stretched out the fingers of one hand he could touch her there …

It was so deliciously close it was almost impossible to breathe.

All too soon they arrived at the water door of a large palazzo. With a lightness that belied his size, Raoul released her and jumped to the private landing, offering his hand to help her. She looked up at the exterior of the building, drinking in the detail of walls the colour of sunset, soft blue accents around the windows and archways on the lower floor. The next boasted high-arched windows, with even a balcony complete with arched doors and marble columns. Strange; when Raoul had mentioned having an apartment in Venice, this gothic masterpiece was not what she had envisioned.

‘Welcome, Raoul,’ a voice said, and she looked around as an ornate arched grille swung open, revealing a man younger than Raoul by some years. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

‘Thank you, Marco,’ he said, passing him their luggage. ‘This is Gabriella D’Arenberg who will be my guest for a while. Gabriella, Marco and Natania comprise my staff. I’m sure Natania will soon be along.’ As he spoke, Gabriella saw a woman skip down the stairs, her layered mini skirt fluttering around her thighs. A wide smile directed at Raoul lit up her face as she appeared, her expression turning more wary when she took in their visitor. With one vertical sweep of her beautiful eyes, she gave Gabriella an inexplicable stab of jealousy. Natania was lush, gypsy-beautiful and she got to live with Raoul on a permanent basis. How on earth could he resist anything so gorgeous?

‘Ah, here is Natania. Anything you need, simply ask.’

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Gabriella,’ the younger man said, smiling. Gabriella could see that, while he shared Raoul’s olive skin and Mediterranean colouring, that was where the similarity ended. His long, dark lashes and lush lips softened his face; even the hint of mischief in his eyes gave him a boyish charm.

‘I should have warned you, we don’t stand on ceremony here,’ Raoul explained. ‘Unless you prefer a title—miss? Mademoiselle?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. Thank you, Marco, it’s lovely to meet you too.’

Natania edged closer; big hoops pierced her ears. ‘It will be lovely to have another woman around for a change,’ the newcomer said, holding out her slim hand, gold bangles jangling at her wrists. She moved like a colt, loose-limbed and lithe, her scooped tank top and skirt fitting smoothly, accentuating her perfect figure, the perfect complement to her wild, gypsy eyes. ‘I get so bored being surrounded with just men.’

Marco jerked his head up at this, a wry grin on his lips, something heated skating over his eyes as their eyes met. Gabriella reined in that unfamiliar streak of jealousy. So Marco and Natania were a couple? That was comforting news. As was the knowledge the palazzo didn’t see a passing parade of women.

Unjustifiable, perhaps, because what Raoul did or did not do was no real concern of hers; it wasn’t as if she had any kind of stake in him. But, still, it was there and the knowledge warmed her in places still humming from his touch.

‘Thank you, Natania,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I know I’m going to enjoy it here.’

Raoul led the way to the piano nobile, the noble floor, where his suite sat high above the water’s edge, with views over the canal and no fear of flooding. Downstairs were the minor and service rooms, he pointed out as they climbed, while Marco and Natania shared a smaller suite of rooms on the floor above.

‘You need all this space just for you?’ she asked as he led her to his suite of rooms.

‘Maybe not, but I won it in a card game many years ago. I was not about to quibble with the size.’

‘And you kept it for an investment?’

‘No. I was merely lucky enough not to lose it on the next game. Or the one after that.’

She laughed, because she could not imagine gambling with a property so clearly valuable. ‘You are kidding? Surely you would not risk making the same mistake someone else had?’

‘Why not? It was no risk for me because it meant nothing to me. Maybe that’s why I was lucky enough to keep it. Anyway,’ he said without bothering to explain as he pushed open the door to the apartment, ‘Come inside.’

It wasn’t a living room or even a lobby the suite opened on to, it was a library, lining four walls of the long, narrow room, bookshelves stacked high, even over doorways to the impossibly high ceilings. Gabriella did a double take, blinking with disbelief as she took in the titles, some of them recognisable treasures.

‘You have a library?’ she said, suddenly spinning around, a smile lighting up her face, illuminating her features with a child-like delight that twisted his gut.

So much enthusiasm.

So much life.

Such a waste.

And then she stopped spinning and stood there, almost incandescent with wonderment as she inhaled deeply, as if she could breathe in the collective wisdom contained in a room filled with old books. ‘It’s wonderful.’

He could not bear it. First her excitement at the vaporetto as they’d approached the water-borne city, an excitement that had made it impossible not to want to wrap her in his arms and feel that excitement first hand.

And now here. But this time he resisted the urge to collect her into his arms and feel first-hand the excitement in the shape of her feminine curves.

Did she always see the joy in everything?

Did she not realise it couldn’t last?

‘This way,’ he said gruffly, almost rigid with control as he pulled open a set of double doors, unable or unwilling to stay in the room a moment longer with her. ‘The living room.’

She’d done something wrong. One moment, Raoul had been warm and welcoming—even, she thought, remembering the warmth of his touch pressing against her back and the iron-like feel of his arms around her waist, more like a lover than a friend. His touch had been filled with both tenderness and desire.

Had she been the only one to feel that desire?

But now, it seemed as she watched him both physically and mentally retreat from her, there was nothing warm about him. His back was ramrod straight, the air about him frosty. Yet all she’d done was express her delight at the unexpected discovery of his library.

Had she been too easily impressed? Too gauche? Raoul was more than a decade older than her. She must seem so young and unsophisticated compared to the women he was probably used to, even if they weren’t permitted here. But there would have to be women …

With a heavy heart, she followed him through the doors and into a long, richly decorated room with two long blood-red velvet sofas lining the richly frescoed walls. Four arched doors opposite led to the balcony she had seen from the sea-door landing, she assumed. But it was the chandelier that hung from the decorated ceiling that was the pièce de résistance. It was so exquisite that she stopped following Raoul for a moment to simply absorb its beauty. From its base swept long white plumes tipped with red, all swaying and curving, like the necks of peacocks dancing and craning their heads this way and that. The artist had captured the motion so well, it could almost have been alive.

‘This is the dining room,’ she heard him say. And then he must have turned, looking for her. ‘It’s Murano glass—an original.’

‘It’s exquisite,’ she said, cautious, conscious of not gushing over every last thing in case she further aggravated him.

‘Have you been there? To the island, I mean, to see the glass factories?’

‘Yes, my class did a tour, but I don’t remember seeing anything this beautiful then.’ Probably because they’d all been too fascinated with the tiny animals, the dolphins, fish and the millefiore—the tiny coloured flowers and hearts set in the glass—to take note of any of the more spectacular work.

‘I will take you again, in that case.’

‘You will?’ Then she remembered not to look so excited and schooled her face into something she hoped looked far more sophisticated and calm. ‘Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely.’

Something scudded across his eyes, and just as quickly disappeared. ‘I will organise it.’ Once again, he pointed to the room off one side of the living room. ‘The kitchen is behind the dining room. Natania cooks most nights. And this,’ he said, crossing to the other side of the living room and opening another door, ‘is your room.’

She followed him into another long room, as large as the living room they had just left, with more large sofas and an amazing red Persian rug splashing colour and depth into the furnishings. But it was the king-sized bed to which her eyes were drawn. It was set into an arched alcove at the end of the room, columns at its entrance, the walls decorated with a mediaeval mural featuring nymphs and satyrs along with gods and goddesses engaged in various acts of love. It was an orgy of colour, passion and sex—the perfect lover’s retreat. And he expected her to sleep there? Surrounded by that?

‘Surely this is the master suite?’ she said, trying not to blush and knowing she was failing miserably. She was no prude, and the art was sublime, but the images were not exactly easy to look at, not if the last thing you needed to think about was sex.

‘You are my guest. And this is the most comfortable room.’

Comfortable, maybe. Confronting, definitely.

‘There is a bathroom through here,’ he said, his arm reaching for a door handle past the buttocks of a god engaged in an activity that was clearly giving him and the recipient great pleasure.

‘You’re blushing,’ he said. ‘Are you shocked by what you see?’

It wasn’t that. It wasn’t the sight of the images that shocked her, exactly. It was that she didn’t want such thoughts put in her head when she was with Raoul. She didn’t need them. It was like her every night-time dream had been captured by a mediaeval artist five-hundred years ago and had been splattered across these bedroom walls. Raoul’s bedroom walls.

‘I wasn’t expecting such unique decor, it’s true. But it’s a beautiful room. In fact …’ she said, fleeing for the safety of the bathroom, before realising there was no sanctuary in a place where she could just as easily imagine Raoul naked and soaping himself in the wide marble shower. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out those images too—but how did you blot out the image of a perfect male specimen, naked under the cascading water, droplets beading on the ends of his hair, rivulets sluicing down his long, hard body?

She swallowed hard and slapped on a too-bright smile as she turned. ‘It’s a fabulous apartment. How old is it?’ As an attempt to find something safer to talk about, even if maybe it was groan-worthy, it was the best she could come up with. The fact she hadn’t used the word ‘naked’ was something to be proud of.

‘At least seven hundred years,’ he said as he showed her through the rest of the apartment: the second bathroom, a small room given over to an office and a still-generous but much more modest and unassuming second bedroom. With no lovers’ alcove, she noted wryly, and with which she would have been perfectly happy. ‘Originally it was built on a Byzantine design, and then redesigned during the fourteenth century to what you see today.’

‘It’s magnificent, Raoul,’ she said, no stranger to luxury herself. But there was something special about this place. It spoke of a time of both massive wealth and an unprecedented interest in the arts and all things beautiful. The palazzo was a temple to the beautiful, the fine, the rich and sensual.