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But then the appreciation flicked to exasperation. ‘I don’t have all night.’
Toughen up. That was her mission in life now. She had to remember that. She clenched her fists and tossed her head back, ready for battle. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here but, despite what you obviously think, I have not been involved in anything untoward. Signora Vieri offered me a place to stay. I accepted her offer in good faith.’
He loomed over her, tension bouncing off his huge, formidable body. ‘Tell me what she looked like...or is this just a convenient story? Perhaps you’ll be more co-operative for the carabinieri.’
Alarm shot down through her and exited at her toes, leaving a numb, tingling sensation behind. She began to babble. ‘She’s in her early fifties...animated, kind, concerned...full of energy. Brown bobbed hair. She has the cutest little dog called Elmo.’
He exhaled another loud breath and walked away.
She spun around to find him standing before the bedroom’s marble fireplace. The huge gilt mirror on the mantel reflected his powerful tense shoulders, the glossy thickness of his brown hair.
‘My grandmother.’
‘Your grandmother! She mentioned that her grandson sometimes stays here...I was picturing a toddler. Not a grown man.’
For a few long seconds he stopped and glared at her, leaving her in no doubt that she had said something wrong. What, she had no idea, but the temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees.
‘Nonnina is sixty-seven. And she has a soft spot for waifs and strays. Although this is the first time she has actually brought home a human one.’
‘I’m not a waif or a stray!’
‘Then what are you doing in my bed?’
Memories of his hand burning through the material of her nightdress, of the shaming stream of pleasure that had flowed through her dreams until she had woken fully taunted her, causing her confusion to intensify.
‘Who did you think was in your bed when you climbed in beside me?’
Her question earned her a tight-lipped scowl. ‘A friend.’
Unease swept over her at the prospect of that huge, frankly scary-looking lion’s head brass knocker on the front door sounding at any moment, and having to explain her presence to another person tonight.
‘Are you still expecting her?’
His eyes swept over her lazily. ‘No.’
Every inch of her skin tingled. For a moment she gazed longingly towards her suitcase, propped open beside an ornately carved walnut dressing table. She hadn’t had the energy to unpack earlier, but had fallen into bed after a much needed shower instead.
She moved towards the suitcase, aware he was following her every move. She grabbed the first jumper from the messy jumble spilling from it and pulled on the thick-knit polo neck. A shiver of comfort and relief ran down her spine; she no longer felt so susceptible to his dangerous gaze.
He moved back across the room towards the door. ‘I need to speak to my grandmother.’
‘She isn’t here.’
He pulled up short. ‘What do you mean, she isn’t here?’
‘She said she had to return home to Puglia. That there was an emergency.’
He shook his head in disgust and twisted away. He rolled his shoulders and then his spine in a quick, impatient movement, the fine wool of his suit jacket rippling in a fluid motion. He moved with the ease of the super-rich. Even his hair—a perfect one-inch length, tapering down in a perfect straight line to hug the tanned strength of his neck—looked as though it had been cut with diamond-encrusted scissors by a barber to the nobility of Europe.
This room—this palazzo, this stunning city La Serenissima—all so grand and overwhelming, proud and mysterious, suited him. Whereas she felt like an alien amongst the wealth and elegance.
Wealth. Elegance. A grandmother with the surname of Vieri...
Her brain buzzed with the white noise of astonishment while her heart jumped to a thumpety-thumpety-thump beat. No wonder he looked familiar.
‘You’re Matteo Vieri, aren’t you?’
The owner of one of the world’s largest luxury goods conglomerates.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and popped a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘So you know who I am?’ His casual stance belied the sharp tone of his response.
Did he think she had engineered her stay here because of who he was? Engineered being in his bed for his arrival? Did he think she had designs on him romantically? That possibility, if it hadn’t been so tragic, would have been laughable.
‘I used to work at St Paul’s Fashion College in London. One of your companies—VMV—sponsors its graduation show.’
‘Used to work?’
‘I left last week to move to Sydney.’
Well, that had been the plan anyway. Until it had all fallen apart. When was life going to start co-operating with her, instead of throwing her endless grenades of disastrous calamity?
Yet more uncomfortable heat threaded along her veins. She had slept in Matteo Vieri’s bed. He was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. She needed to clarify how all this had happened.
‘Your grandmother told me I was welcome to use any room I wanted. I didn’t realise this room was yours.’ She paused and gestured around the room to the walnut four-poster bed, the pale green silk sofa—all so beautiful, but without a trace of him. ‘None of your belongings are on display, no clothes...I had no idea it might be someone’s bedroom.’
‘When this palazzo was built in the fifteenth century not much thought was given to adjoining dressing rooms...my clothes are further down the hallway.’ He spoke like a bored tour guide, tired of the same inane tourist questions.
‘But your bathroom is full of...’ She trailed off, not sure how to say it. It was full of delicious but most definitely girly shampoos and conditioners, bath and shower gels, lavish body lotions...
He gave her a don’t push it frown. ‘I do own those companies.’ His lips moved for a nanosecond upwards into the smile of a man remembering good times. ‘Those products are there for my dates to use.’
She tugged at the collar of her jumper, feeling way too hot. The image of a naked Matteo Vieri applying one of those shower gels was sending her pulse into the stratosphere.
She went to her suitcase and squashed the lid down, fighting the giddiness rampaging through her limbs, praying it would zip up without its usual fight.
‘I’ll move to another room.’
He stood over her, casting a dark shadow over her where she crouched. ‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’ll have to leave.’
She sprang up, her struggle with the suitcase forgotten. ‘But I have nowhere to go! I spent all of today searching for a hotel, but with it being Carnival time there are no rooms available. I’ve tried everywhere within my budget. Meeting your grandmother...her kind offer of a room was like a miracle.’
‘I bet it was—an invitation to stay in a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice!’
Did he have to sound so cynical? ‘I appreciate this situation is far from ideal, but I have nowhere else to go. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.’
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit jacket with a stiff, annoyed movement. His cufflinks flashed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. ‘I apologise for my grandmother’s behaviour. She shouldn’t have given you a room without my authorisation. I have a busy week ahead, with clients from China coming to Venice for Carnival. It does not suit me to have a house guest.’
‘Are they staying here?’
‘No, but—’
‘Honestly—I’ve tried every hotel in Venice.’
He glared at her, and for a moment she was transported back to her pointe classes as an eleven-year-old, when she used to shake with fear about getting on the wrong side of the volatile ballet master.
‘Why are you in Venice, Signorina...?’ His voice trailed off and he waited for her to speak.
‘Fox. Emma Fox. I’m here because...’ A lump the size of the top tier of her wedding cake formed in her throat. She gritted her teeth against the tears blurring her vision. ‘I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon.’
* * *
His stomach did a nosedive. Dio! She was about to cry.
Something about the way she was fighting her tears reminded him of his childhood, watching his mother battle her tears. Unable to do anything to stop them. To make life okay for her. Not sure why she was crying in the first place when he was a small boy other than having a vague understanding that she was waiting for his father to come back. The father he’d never known.
And then in later years, when she had accepted that his father was never going to return, her tears had been shed over yet another failed relationship. But he hadn’t even tried to comfort her in those years. His own pain had been too great—pain for all the men who had walked out of his life without a fight, father figures, many of whom he had hero-worshipped.
People let you down. It was a lesson he had learned early in life. Along with coming to the realisation that he could only ever rely on himself. Not trust in the empty promises of others.
A loud sniffle brought him back to his present problem. To her lowered head he said, ‘On your honeymoon?’
She emitted a cry and bolted for his bathroom.
This time his grandmother had gone too far. To the extent that he was tempted to follow her down to Puglia and give her a piece of his mind, this time not falling for her apologies and pledges to behave. Nor, for that matter, being diverted by plates of her legendary purcedduzzi—fried gnocchi with honey.
He understood her compulsion to help the poor and homeless—but to invite a stranger into his home!
He knocked at the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes...sorry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Her voice went from alto to soprano, and several notes in between. A muffled sob followed. He winced and rubbed at his face with both hands.
He leaned in against the door. ‘We both need a drink. Join me downstairs in the lounge when you’re ready.’
He hurried down the stairs. Memories chased him. Those nights when he was seven...eight years old, when he would crawl into his mother’s bed, hoping he could stop her tears.
In the lounge, he threw open the doors onto the terrace. Venice was blanketed in a light misty fog. Sounds were muffled. He saw the intermittent lights of a launch moving on the water, its engine barely audible. Technically it was spring, but tonight winter still shrouded the city, and the cold, damp air intensified its mysterious beauty.
He spent most of his year travelling between his headquarters in Milan and his offices in New York, London and Paris. Always moving. Never belonging. The nomadic lifestyle of his childhood had followed him into adulthood. He had hated it as a child. Now it suited him. It meant that he could keep a distance from others. Even acquaintances and those he considered friends would never have the opportunity to hurt him, to walk away. He was the one in control instead. It was he who could choose to walk away now.
Venice was his one true escape. It was why he had no regular staff here in Ca’ Divina. He liked the calm, the peace of the building, without sound, without people awaiting his instructions. Here was the one place he could be alone, away from the intensity of his normal routine. Away from the constant expectations and responsibilities of his businesses, his family.
But tonight the calm serenity of both Venice and Ca’ Divina were doing little to calm his boiling irritation. The maverick, eccentric, brilliant chief designer for his fashion house Ettore had thrown a hissy fit—no doubt fuelled by alcohol—whilst being interviewed by a Chinese news team last night. He had not only insulted the reporter but also implied that the exclusive department store chain that sold his designs in China was not worthy of doing so.
The exclusive department store chain Matteo was delicately negotiating with over contracts for the extensive expansion of product placement for all his brands.
The company quite rightly had not taken kindly to the designer’s words, and had seen it as a huge public insult to their honour. This loss of face—known as mianzi in China—might have damaged their relationship beyond repair.
The chain’s president and his team were arriving in Venice tomorrow evening. He had a lot of apologising to do and reassurances to make to ensure they understood how much he valued and respected them as a partner. It was vital the trip went well. Or else several of his lines would be in serious financial trouble.
He twisted around to the sound of footsteps on the terrazzo flooring. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with a stranger’s problems.
She reminded him of a Federico Zandomeneghi portrait in Ca’ Pesaro, the International Gallery of Modern Art located further along the banks of the Grand Canal. Delicate, elegant features, a cupid’s bow mouth, a perfect nose, porcelain skin, long thick brown curls almost to her waist, tucked behind her ears.
Below the cream polo-neck jumper she was now wearing a pair of skinny jeans and tan ankle boots. She’d tugged the neck of the jumper up until it reached her ears. The tears were gone, but despite the resolute set of her mouth she looked worn out.
Almost as worn out as he felt.
‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘A whisky, please.’
He poured her whisky and a brandy for himself into tumblers, trying to ignore how physically aware he was of her. Of her refined accent, her words clipped but softly spoken. Of her long limbs. Of the outline of the tantalising body her nightdress had done little to conceal earlier. Of her utter beauty.
He brought their drinks over to the sofas at the centre of the room and placed one on either side of the coffee table in between them. He sat with his back to the canal.
She perched on the side of the sofa and stared out through the terrace windows with an unseeing gaze, the hands on her lap curled like weapons ready to strike out. Eventually her eyes landed on his, and the sudden flare of vulnerability in them delivered a sucker punch to his gut.
Despite every fibre of his being telling him not to—she might start crying again—he found himself asking, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She took a sip of her whisky. Depositing the glass back on the table, she reached down to her left ankle and gave it a quick squeeze. Sitting up, she inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling. A flash of heat coloured her cheeks. The result of the whisky or something else?
‘Not particularly.’ Her clipped tone was accompanied by a haughty rise of her chin.
‘In that case I’ll go and make some phone calls to arrange a hotel room for you.’
He was at the door before she spoke.
‘My fiancé...I mean my ex-fiancé...was arrested early yesterday morning—at four o’clock, to be precise—for embezzlement.’
She tugged at the neck of her jumper. He returned to his seat and she darted a quick glance in his direction. Pride in battle with pain.
‘He stole funds from the company he worked for; and also persuaded his family and friends to invest in a property scheme with him. There was no scheme. Instead he used the money to play the stock exchange. He lost it all.’
‘And you knew nothing about it?’
She stared at him aghast. ‘No!’ Then she winced, and the heat in her cheeks noticeably paled. ‘Although the police wouldn’t believe me at first...’ She glanced away. ‘I was arrested.’
‘Arrested?’
She reached for her glass but stopped halfway and instead edged further back into the sofa. ‘Yes, arrested. On what was supposed to be my wedding day.’ She gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘I was let go eventually, when they realised I was his victim rather than his partner in crime.’
Her eyes challenged his; she must be seeing the doubt in his expression.
‘By all means call Camden Police Station in London, if you don’t believe me; they will verify my story. I have the number of the investigating officer.’
His instinct told him she was telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to admit that. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’
