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Nolan stepped away from her, his body coiled but controlled. He didn’t even raise a hand to touch the red stain she’d left on his face. She envied him that reserve he could conjure at will. ‘I’m sorry if the truth stings, signorina,’ he said coldly. ‘Please excuse me. I find I’m not good company this evening. I’m going to find a nice stiff drink or two. Make free of the room. I will not be back tonight.’
He couldn’t leave! She was already regretting her actions. Didn’t she know by now violence solved nothing, it only made things worse? How quickly she’d sunk to the very depths she despised in the count. ‘You’re not dressed,’ she asserted hastily. In her anger she might have ruined everything. She couldn’t let him go with things like this. What had she been thinking to strike him? What if he sent for the count? She couldn’t go back.
Nolan’s hand stalled on the doorknob, and he gave her a wry smile. ‘For what I pay here, princess, they’d let me drink naked.’ Then he was gone, leaving her alone with a bed and a half-full decanter of brandy. It should be enough to numb the pain. Things would look brighter in the morning. They had to, because they looked impossibly dark right now.
Chapter Six (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)
Oh, the agony! Nolan groaned, but the noise of it, the effort of it, only made the pain worse. His head was splitting like Zeus about to birth Athena. With a blind hand, he groped for the bedside table and the morning remedy he left there for occasions like this. His hand came up empty—no furniture, no magic morning. Why was that?
Nolan hazarded a peep out of the slit of one cautious eye. Ow! He shut it quickly and cursed. Who the hell had left the curtains open? The morning was not off to a good start and it was only sixty seconds old. If this was how the day was going to progress, he would stay in bed. Then he remembered why he couldn’t. For starters, he wasn’t even in a bed, but a chair and a deuced uncomfortable one at that. Second, this wasn’t his room. This was Hotel Danieli’s private club, with its large bay of windows looking out on to the canal. He was here because she was there—there being his perfectly appointed room with night-dark curtains the staff knew to keep drawn until noon and his miracle remedy against all nature of hangovers on his bedside table.
Nolan shifted, his body conflicted in its priorities. Did it stay still, to dull the ache in his head, or give in to the urge to stretch and relieve the stiffness of having passed out in a club chair hours ago? His body opted to move. That was a mistake. He regretted moving instantly, then regretted having drunk so much brandy. Well, it hadn’t entirely been brandy. There’d been some wine, too. This was all her fault, every aching, throbbing body part of it. The evening in its entirety flooded back in head-splitting flashes; the card game, the gondola, the canal—oh, Lord, the canal—he still carried a faint whiff of it on his skin—and the girl who had ruined everything, even his solution to save them both from further complication.
He’d offered her freedom from the agreement. She was supposed to have taken it and left him at the pier—dry and ready to move forward with the next step of his plans. It was a nice expedient option that should have satisfied them both. Apparently she had a different option in mind—one that involved falling into the canal. Even now, he wasn’t sure if she’d done it on purpose. It had been an enormous chance to take on her part in a dress weighted down by pearls.
That wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t sure about. Was she really a virgin or had the count lied about that, too? It was rather hard to believe and yet he couldn’t rule it out as truth. Nolan groaned again, this time from the realisation of what he’d done based on accepting the count’s word at face value. What if he’d been wrong to trust her? If she had manipulated everything, it meant he’d just left a very experienced con artist alone in his room with all of his winnings. Nolan forced himself into an upright position, fighting hard to ignore the spinning room and the stab of pain. He had to get upstairs.
It was an absolute labour of Hercules to pull himself up the grand staircase in his dressing gown in front of bright-eyed tourists heading out to see the sights. It wasn’t the dressing gown that bothered him. If he’d been in better spirits, he’d have made a game out of it, bowing and nodding to the ladies as if he were fully clothed. But he was in no mood for games. His head ached, his stomach roiled on the verge of nausea and it was suitable punishment for what he’d done. Had he let her manipulate him or was she simply that good and he hadn’t seen it coming, he who prided himself on being a student of human nature?
Nolan ran through the progression of events. She’d been trying to seduce him, which had been an obvious if enjoyable ploy. He recalled with clarity the feel of her warm hand on his very responsive cock. If she’d been a different sort of woman in different circumstances, he would have taken her generous offer. But he’d been wary of her motives. When seduction had failed, she’d opted for a quarrel. In hindsight, he could see how that would work to her advantage. Perhaps she had intended to blind him with anger, knowing he’d storm out, maybe knowing, too, that a man who had bothered to drag her out of the canal, run her a hot bath and find her a nightgown wasn’t going to throw her out after all that trouble.
Nolan fumbled for the key in his dressing-robe pocket and fitted it to the lock. He held his breath. This was the moment of truth. He opened the door to his room. The front room was empty except for the abandoned tea set and his stomach dropped. He strode into the bedroom, fearing the worst—that she was gone and his money with her. He stopped in the doorway and smiled, a big, wide smile that hurt his head. Right now, he didn’t care. The pain was worth it.
Gianna Minotti lay sprawled face down on his bed, the silk nightgown bunched up high on her thighs, revealing long, slim legs and a glimpse of rounded buttock. Her hair was a glorious tangled mop over her face. Was that a small trail of drool at her mouth? One hand trailed limply over the bed. Nolan followed it down to the empty glass on the floor just beyond her fingertips.
His eyes darted to the nightstand and the nearly empty decanter. She’d had the same idea as he. Chances were, she’d get the same results. His magic morning was still at the bedside, too. He grabbed up the glass and drank, making sure to save some for her. She was going to need it. Nolan fought back the urge to laugh as he headed for the bath. It was true. Misery loved company. He was feeling better already.
* * *
There was a man singing in the bathroom and she just wanted him to stop! Gianna moaned and rolled over. It was a bad idea, but obviously just one of many, the brandy having been the first bad idea. What had possessed her to imbibe like that? Then she remembered. Him. This was all his fault. Sort of. At the moment, she couldn’t remember exactly why it was his fault. Oh, yes, he’d won her in a card game. Not her specifically, but her maidenhead. Which he hadn’t claimed, yet, proving the brandy hadn’t accomplished anything except for giving her a monstrous headache.
The door to the bathing room opened, and she cracked one eye, then two. If she had to wake up with a pounding head there were worse sights to wake up to. Nolan Gray emerged from the steam, wrapping a white towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair. His singing stopped when he saw her but he didn’t stop smiling. ‘Buongiorno,signorina. How is your head?’
The smiling, singing bastard knew exactly how her head felt—she could see the mischief in his eyes. Gianna reached for a pillow, intending to throw it at him. The effort was too much for her body. Her stomach rebelled, the world swam and spun in front of her abruptly upright head. She went hot, then cold, entirely out of control of her body. Oh, no! She couldn’t stop it. Her throat made a panicked sound. Nolan was there, kneeling beside her, a chamber pot at the ready, his hand sweeping back her hair just in time.
She retched most thoroughly not once but twice, her stomach spilling its contents into the chamber pot. It was humiliating and healing all at once. Realising that somehow made it even more mortifying because, when the wave of nausea passed, she was glad she’d done it. Casting up accounts had been exactly what she’d needed.
‘Better?’ Nolan brought a wet washcloth and helped her with her face. The cold water felt refreshing on her skin. She lay back against the bed pillows, feeling drained, but immensely improved. ‘If I could get rid of the pounding in my head, I would be at a hundred per cent.’ She managed a smile, but it was hard considering she’d just thrown up in front of a man dressed in a towel—a man who had already fished her out of the canal and tried to save her from the count’s reckless wager.
He had an answer for that, too. ‘Drink this. It will help your head.’ He passed her a half-filled glass filled with a greenish liquid.
She sniffed and wrinkled her brow. ‘What is it?’
‘My secret recipe for mornings like these.’ He chuckled at her reticence. ‘You can live with the headache or you can try it. I’ve already had mine and look at me.’ He held his arms wide. Look at him indeed. It was hard not to. He was as well made as the glimpses last night had purported. Lean muscles defined his arms and chest beneath the lingering tan of his skin. It was not a deep tan, of course, they were too far into the winter for that, but he had been tan at one point. It made her wonder what he’d been doing. Cards were usually an indoor pursuit, in her experience. It was nice to think he might be more than a gambler.
Gianna gave him a dubious look and downed the glass. She cringed at the taste and swallowed. ‘This had better work.’
‘It will work. It tastes too awful not to.’ He laughed and rummaged in the drawers of the bureau and tossed her a shirt. ‘You can put this on until we can find you something better to wear. I’ll dress in the other room. Come out when you’re decent. Breakfast will be here soon. I have it delivered every day at noon.’
Breakfast? Decent? She was sceptical of both ideas, but Nolan merely laughed at her frown as he gathered up clothes. ‘Nothing fancy, just toast and coffee,’ he assured her. ‘It will help, too, you’ll see.’
Gianna held the shirt against her. She was sceptical of more than breakfast. They had not parted on good terms last night. He’d accused her of deliberately falling into the canal, and she had slapped him. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice?’
Nolan shrugged. ‘Does there have to be a reason? Maybe I’m feeling grateful that my hangover is behind me. It is a glorious feeling to be restored to health, don’t you agree?’ The last was added rather pointedly.
Gianna blushed, but she was not diverted. ‘Maybe it’s more than that.’
‘Maybe,’ Nolan drawled, letting his eyes roam over her. ‘I’m just glad to find you’re still here and that you haven’t robbed me blind. You knew exactly how much I’d won and where it was at.’
‘You insult me.’ She must be feeling better. Her temper stirred a little, a sure sign she was recovering her spirit. It stung that he still didn’t believe she was innocent in all this, that she’d had no part in the wager, no designs to steal from him and return to the count.
‘No,’ Nolan corrected, tossing the words over his shoulder as he exited to the other room. ‘I honour you with the truth. In cases like this, I find it’s best to know where we stand with one another.’
Ah, they were not so dissimilar. They both believed one caught more flies with sugar than vinegar. He was flattering her. Not with words, necessarily. In fact, he was purposely using his words to do the exact opposite in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice. But she’d been in the world of men too long. She knew better. He was flattering her with actions, luring her trust with nightgowns and shirts; hot baths and tea trays; miracle headache cures and timely placement of chamber pots. Do not like him, she admonished, slipping out of the nightgown and folding it carefully before placing it in a drawer.
Gianna slipped her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. The garment was too big, of course. The sleeves had to be rolled up and it fell nearly to her knees. But it was clean and soft against her skin the way only expensive linen could be. She breathed deeply. The shirt smelled good, like him, she realised. It matched the scent that had trailed out of the bathing room with him; sandalwood with the faintest hints of patchouli. She drew another deep breath and knew she had to be careful.
He was a worthy opponent at a time when she needed a more naïve one. Nolan Gray did nothing without a motive. Even this act of dressing her in his shirt was an act of intimacy designed to draw her closer, designed to create the illusion of a bond between them. He wants you to like him, came the thought. She played a question-and-answer game with herself as she fastened the shirt.
Why? Last night he’d wanted to be rid of her.
Because friends tell one another their secrets.
In his eyes, what was her secret?
Answer: he wanted to know why she didn’t want to leave when she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.
Gianna paused, hesitating before picking up the brush laid out on the dresser. He wouldn’t mind. He’d want her to use it, one more act of kindness to bind her to him. She dragged the brush through her tangles, feeling more in charge with each brushstroke, more like herself. Regardless of what anyone said, appearances mattered, even when one was only wearing a shirt, or perhaps especially when one was wearing only a shirt. It was already noon and the clock was ticking. How much time did she have before her freedom ran out?
There were voices in the other room and the clatter of dishes. Breakfast was here. She couldn’t hide in the bedroom any longer. It was time to go out and beard the proverbial lion in his den. For that she needed a strategy, or, better yet, she’d just borrow his tactics. He wanted her to like him. Was that such a bad idea? Wouldn’t she, too, be served by the concept of liking? Maybe being friends was the preferred strategy here. After all, friends did things for one another and there were things she needed doing before she could leave Venice, before she could truly be free. Who better to do them for her than her new friend, Nolan Gray?
Be careful, her conscience whispered, that you don’t do this because it’s easy. You want to like him and this gives you an excuse. This was your mother’s downfall, she liked attractive men and they all failed her in the end. Nolan Gray might have fished you out of the canal, but he also won you in a card game. How good could a man be who’d entertain such a wager? That was the problem. She didn’t know. But at the moment he was all she had. She did feel a twinge of guilt over what she meant to do. But if he was a gambler, he’d understand. A girl had to use her resources and take her chances where she found them.
The smell of coffee greeted her as she stepped into the other room, feeling conspicuous in Nolan’s shirt when he was fully attired in shirt and waistcoat, breeches and boots. In truth, the shirt covered far more of her than the nightgown had, but then, the playing field had been more equitable when they’d both been in nightwear. But Nolan rose, playing the gentleman, only his eyes betraying his appreciation of her apparel. He was good at hiding his emotions.
‘Coffee?’ He poured her a cup and passed it to her with a smile. ‘There’s toast and butter, a pot of jam, if you like. Help yourself.’ He’d left the sofa empty for her, perhaps anticipating the difficulties of sitting in a shirt. She ended curled up on that sofa, her legs tucked under her, the shirttails tucked modestly about her, and a plate of toast balanced on her lap.
It was a cosy position and she was struck by the domestic tranquillity of their breakfast. Nearby, flames popped occasionally in the fireplace. Nolan sat easy in his chair, one booted leg crossed over the other, his own plate balanced on a knee. Beyond him the light of the grey day filtered through the windows. It was a perfect day for staying inside. If they’d been lovers, perhaps they would have. But Nolan’s attire suggested he at least had other plans.
She took a bite of toast smothered in jam, aware of him studying her. She readied herself. He was going to launch his next salvo. But when it came it wasn’t the question she’d expected.
Nolan took a swallow of coffee and said with all the casualness of someone who was asking about the weather, ‘So, what kind of man sells his daughter’s virginity? And don’t say a desperate one because I already know that.’
Chapter Seven (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)
‘What kind of man buys it?’ she countered, fixing him with her brave hazel gaze. This woman backed down from nothing. She was as confident sitting on the sofa in his borrowed shirt as she was in Venice’s finest ballrooms in a gown worth a fortune. It might be said that clothes made the man. In this case, it was confidence that made the woman. She wore it well, but Nolan was hardly about to come undone over a direct gaze and one uncomfortable question. He was far too experienced for that.
‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ Nolan set aside his plate and took the offensive. Part of him was glad to see she was willing to put up a fight. Still, she would find he was not as easily played as all that. ‘You do not get to answer a question with a question and you absolutely do not get to make me the villain in this scenario.’
‘There can be more than one villain,’ she replied coolly.
‘There may be, but they are not me. I was your best choice at that table.’
‘Were you? That’s an arrogant statement.’
‘I did not ravish you. You are still in possession of your virginity,’ Nolan pointed out, enumerating his evidence on his fingers. ‘I doubt the other men at the table would have allowed you to keep it. Secondly, and more importantly, you are still in possession of the choice regarding who to give that particular feminine jewel to. Thirdly, I offered to set you free of the wager.’ He was well aware she had artfully manoeuvred him into defending himself. This was not what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to discuss the count and whatever arrangement she had with that blackguard.
She arched a dark eyebrow over her coffee, unimpressed with his accomplishments. ‘You are a veritable saint.’
‘Does that make you the martyr in this scenario, then? We’re quite the pair, the martyr and the saint.’ In all likelihood they were both liars, hardly candidates for such religious monikers. She wasn’t forced to play the suffering victim. He’d given her the choice and heaven knew he wasn’t anywhere near a saint when it came to her. She’d been stunning in his white shirt when she’d entered the room, the tails skimming the tops of her knees, leaving her long, slim legs bare to his gaze, urging a man to run up their length until they disappeared beneath the fabric and the eye was drawn to the curve of hip visible only to the discerning eye beneath the fine linen, and above that, the slope and swell of her breasts, provocative reminders that every inch of her was naked beneath his shirt.
He had to get this conversation back on track before his mind and body decided he didn’t need to play the gentleman. He could have her, he could seduce a ‘yes’ right out of her, right now, an hour at most and they could both be enjoying that big bed in the other room. But in the long run, that wasn’t what he wanted. There would be no thrill in conning her into sex. He wasn’t sixteen any more, cajoling a lonely widow into bed just to see if he could do it. These days, the more sophisticated thrill was in the choice, in being chosen.
Nolan recrossed his legs and tried a different tack. ‘You are only protecting him with your refusal to answer. I confess to finding that a rather odd strategy to adopt on behalf of someone who sold you against your will.’ Nolan feigned nonchalance and reached for another piece of toast.
‘If I were in your position, I’d be furious. I’d want revenge.’ He looked up from buttering the bread and knew a moment of sweet victory. He had shocked her. She was trying to hide it, but it was there in the stillness of her body. It was funny how people found the truth shocking, their own truths even more so when repeated back to them. ‘Is that why you want to stay? Do you think I will help you with your revenge?’ He took a self-satisfied crunch of his toast. He’d hit the target.
‘It’s not revenge, exactly. I just want what is mine.’ Sweet Heavens, the man was a mind reader. If she’d been a target, he’d have hit the bullseye and she didn’t like it one bit. He would be so much harder to manipulate if he knew what she was up to. She knew now that she’d been naïve last night when she’d thought her luck might be changing. But, no, she’d managed to be won by the only mind-reading card player in Venice, a man who could see right through her, linen shirt and all. And he was looking. He had been since she’d entered the room. He might not have ravished her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. A smart woman would use that to her advantage. He might be a mind reader, but he was still a man.
‘I couldn’t possibly consider leaving Venice without that which is mine.’ She dropped her eyes at the last moment, a gesture that was demure and well practised from hours in front of the mirror, designed for precisely this sort of situation. She didn’t want this disclosure to be a challenge, she wanted it to be...compelling. She counted silently in her head. One, two, three, four...come on, bite.
‘Why would you leave Venice?’ Nolan said at last.
That was the wrong bite. She wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he be curious the way a normal man was curious? Anyone else would have asked what the count had that was hers, which was precisely the question she wanted him to ask. Only in retrospect did she see how she’d overplayed her hand. She should have said nothing about leaving Venice. It gave away too much, it invited too many questions, questions Nolan Gray was well on his way to asking and she didn’t want to answer.
She speared him with a disdainful look that said the answer was obvious. ‘I can’t possibly stay in a city where everyone knows my guardian wagered me in a card game.’
‘Where will you go? Do you have plans?’ he asked, calmly unfazed by her attempt cut him down to size. He was trying to test her truth and her resolve, wondering how much of this was made up. He folded his hands over the flat of his stomach with long slender fingers that gave his gestures a touch of elegance. Those hands had undressed her last night, those fingers had worked the buttons of her gown. They’d been competent and swift, reminders that he knew his way around a woman.
She infused her tone with a touch of hidden despair. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go. I can hardly think of such things before I have my resources to hand.’ She tried again to lure him into asking the question she wanted. She wanted him to offer, wanted his assistance to be his idea. Men worked better that way and she had no intentions of owing any man anything ever again. She wasn’t going to beg him to help her—then she would owe him. There would be a debt between them.
‘I could loan you the funds, gift them to you, if that would help,’ Nolan offered. He was so very eager to get rid of her. That was interesting in itself. She needed to remember that. Last night he’d offered her freedom and now he was offering her money. Therein lay her leverage. She could bargain with her absence. She would leave as soon as she had what she needed. He would quickly see that his help would expedite that.
Outwardly, she opted for genteel chagrin. ‘I am not asking you for money!’ She flung an arm towards the bedroom. ‘I have enough pearls on that ruined gown in there to see me on my way and then some.’ And that pride went before her fall. She could almost hear proverbial fabric ripping as she metaphorically tripped. Nolan wasted no time calling her out.
‘Yes, you most certainly do, not to mention the necklace and earbobs. A resourceful woman could turn those into a comfortable living if she were frugal.’ A wide smile took his face, mischief lit his silver eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite satisfied with himself. ‘It seems we’ve established you could indeed leave Venice tonight, despite your earlier claim to the contrary. Now, why don’t you tell me what your father has that you so desperately need?’
‘He is not my father.’ If she had to give up some truth, it might as well be this one. ‘He’s my stepfather and not a very good one. That’s the sort of man who would sell his daughter’s virginity to cover a bet.’ The same sort of man who would propose to his stepdaughter and then threaten her when she refused such an unholy alliance. But she was not about to tell Nolan Gray that. She didn’t have to. No doubt he already surmised there was more to it than the count’s random whim to wager her. Cataclysmic events didn’t happen in isolation. They occurred as end results of a sequence of events that led up to them.
An honest shadow of sadness passed through his eyes. ‘I am sorry.’ For a moment, they were no longer embattled opponents; she trying to hold on to her secrets, he trying to pry them loose. They were allies of a sort and in that moment. She sensed his compassion transcending their agendas, as if he knew what it had meant to live with the count. The compassion was there, just as it had been when he’d dragged her out of the canal, helped her out of her gown, saw to her bath, asking nothing for himself in exchange, not even that to which he was entitled on the base of the wager.
Those three words, I am sorry, were more compelling than any argument he could have made, and, oh, how they tempted her to spill every last secret. Which of course was what he wanted. Logic waved its red flag. That’s what he wanted you to believe last night, just as he wants that now. He is using it to sneak past your defences. Trust like love was a very dangerous thing to give.
‘I won’t send you back,’ he said in even tones that matched the firm set of his jaw. There was a steel in him that had not been there before and it did things to her stomach she couldn’t blame on the brandy. ‘But perhaps I won’t have to. Perhaps he will come looking for you?’ He asked it casually, but she was not fooled. There was a feral tension uncoiling in him. ‘Tell me, Gianna, is the count dangerous?’
She thought of Nolan’s knife. He would be better able to protect her, maybe even more willing to assist her if she told him the truth about this as well. She gave him her second truth. ‘Yes.’
Nolan grinned. ‘Well, so am I.’
In more ways than one. Her mind-reading, knife-wielding, card-gambling, virgin-winning Englishman might protect her from the count, but who would protect her from him? She wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d offered out of altruism. He would expect to get paid.
Gianna wet her lips in a quick motion and untucked her legs, hoping to guide his response with the movements of her body. ‘What do you want in return?’ Her voice was low and throaty, a temptress’s tone.
‘What I’ve wanted all along, Princess.’ He let the words hang in the air long enough to make her pulse race, to steer her thoughts down a dark, seductive path, only to yank them ruthlessly back to reality. ‘I want you to leave.’ He rose and strode towards the door. ‘I have plans of my own and you do not figure into them. But since you won’t take my money or my offer of freedom, perhaps you will take my help.’
He opened the door as if he’d heard a silent knock. On cue, a porter stood there with two women and their trunks, their arms draped with the frills and lace that denoted feminine garments. ‘Thank you, Antonio. Ladies, do come in. You are just in time.’ In time for what? Gianna wondered. Nolan turned to her. ‘You’ll need clothes if we’re to do this. You can’t wear my shirt for ever.’ He fished a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Signora, here is a list of the things we’ll need, perhaps you will also have some ready-made items to leave today.’
The dressmaker smiled knowingly. Gianna knew what the woman was thinking: here was a rich Englishman outfitting his Italian mistress, and she bristled at the implication. It was hard to hold on to one’s dignity dressed in a man’s shirt, no matter how good it smelled. ‘Signor, I know exactly what to do,’ she assured Nolan.
‘I know you do.’ He swept her a bow and then made one to Gianna. ‘I leave you in Signora Montefiori’s capable hands. If I have left anything off the list, please order it. I will see you tonight for supper.’
It took Gianna a moment to register what was happening. He was leaving her here, in this room, to be fitted for clothes while he went off and did who knew what with who knew whom. She was in no position to protest. What woman turned down new clothes? Certainly not the woman who literally hadn’t a thing to wear.
Besides, she had no claim on him. She could not make him stay nor, in reality, would she want him to stay. Right? On a practical level, being fitted for clothing was a rather intimate experience. Did she want him to be present while she stood in nothing but undergarments—assuming the dressmaker had brought some temporary ones—to be measured and draped, those grey eyes fixed on her for hours?
The thought made her hot. She was a wicked girl not rejecting the notion out of hand. But she needn’t worry about that particular event coming to pass. Nolan was gone, the door shutting behind him and his promises to return for dinner.
‘Signorina, if you will stand here?’ Signora Montefiori brought forward a small dais. ‘Allora! We will get started. We have a lot to accomplish this afternoon. We have a man to please, no?’ She clapped her hands, and her two assistants sprang into action; taking out measuring tapes and notepads from their baskets, opening the trunks and pulling out bolts of cloth. In a matter of minutes, the room could have passed for a dressmaker’s shop.
Signora Montefiori walked the perimeter of the dais, a finger tapping against her lips, murmuring indistinct sounds every so often. ‘Mmm-hmm, mmm... Ah, sì.’ Then, she stepped back and went to work, issuing commands to Gianna this time. ‘Raise your arms, straighten your shoulders...’
Gianna followed the instructions automatically, her mind disengaging from the process. Her mind was more interested in contemplating what had just happened with Nolan than it was in pins and fabric. Apparently, an accord had been reached: his help in exchange for her promise to leave so they could both get on with their lives. It was precisely what she wanted, except for one small catch. She wondered how he would feel once he discovered there wasn’t just one thing she needed to retrieve from the count, there were three.
She would have felt guilty about not fully disclosing that titbit if not for the fact that he’d done a little misleading of his own in an attempt to bilk information from her. He’d made his mind up to help her before they’d sat down to breakfast, before he’d been asking questions about the count. She’d not needed to persuade him. He’d already decided, yet he’d opted to play with her, to see what she would give up, what she would be willing to bargain with in order to get what he’d already decided to give.
The dressmaker was proof of it. He’d known down to the minute when she’d be outside his door, evidence that he’d arranged for her in advance; some time between getting drunk last night and getting dressed this morning. She’d got what she wanted. She should be ecstatic.
Gianna turned on the dais and held out her arms for another measurement. But the victory was hollow. He’d decided to help her and yet he’d still left, turning her over to strangers; proof that the help he offered was offered begrudgingly. His departure this afternoon made it clear assisting her wasn’t a priority, merely a means to an end. When that end was achieved, he’d wash his hands of her. Unless...unless she could entice him to keep her longer. He would have to want her more than he wanted his plans, whatever those might be.
That should be for the good. She didn’t want a lingering attachment any more than he did. When she had her things, she would pack up her new clothes, her pearls, and she would move on to a new life just as he would move on with his. It was what had been decided. By him. Maybe that was what galled her. She’d got what she wanted, because he’d decided to give it to her. Somehow, in spite of her best efforts to maintain control of the situation, the decision hadn’t been hers.
Chapter Eight (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)
He’d made the decision to help her when he’d seen the little puddle of drool drying on her cheek that morning. It was the best conclusion Nolan could come up with as he lingered over coffee in Piazza San Marco, reviewing the last fourteen hours and his rather surprising capitulation this morning. It was slightly past four o’clock and the piazza was busy with late-afternoon strollers taking in the day before winter darkness fell.
In Venice, this had become his favourite time of day. He’d made a habit of sitting in the piazza, bundled up in his greatcoat and muffler, watching people, guessing their stories. He’d helped one young man a few weeks ago find the right words to mend a quarrel with his sweetheart. Words were simple enough things when you knew which ones you needed. Unfortunately, most people didn’t.
Usually, he had company; one of the many friends he’d made in Venice—novelists and artists, people like himself who made a living from understanding others, or the Austrian Countess Louisa von Haas, who was wintering here for Carnevale. She was an elegant, worldly woman who understood the physical pleasures available in such a setting. Nolan had availed himself of those pleasures on occasion. He was by no means the only man in Venice who had. But today, he sat alone—no artists, no writers, no temporary mistresses—and preferably so. Today, he wasn’t watching people as much as listening to his own thoughts.
Common sense dictated that if he’d truly wanted to be rid of her, he should have taken Gianna back to the count, returned her immediately to the security of her home. Only, there was no security to return to, something her reaction to his knife in the bathing room had confirmed long before she more explicitly confirmed it over breakfast. Of course, he hadn’t needed such confirmation. He’d known from the start. A man who wagered his stepdaughter was no protector at all.
Such a situation had found purchase with him. There’d been no security in his own home life growing up. Once he’d decided to leave his family, he’d had no desire to be returned there either. He certainly wasn’t going to inflict on her a fate he would not have wished for himself. He knew what it was like to be alone in the world, entirely reliant on one’s own resources. Frankly, it was scary, but the thought of going back was even more frightening.
He took comfort in knowing there was a basic explanation behind his motives for helping Gianna: his decision had merely been influenced by the experiences of his own past. Those experiences had been helped along by emotions such as the elation he’d felt when he’d realised she hadn’t stolen from him. The drool had been the pièce de résistance. She’d looked vulnerable and young asleep on his bed, hardly a femme fatale to be feared and thrown out into the world to fend for herself, but a person in need of some luck.
He’d decided he could be her luck as long as that luck didn’t extend beyond giving her a place to stay for a few days, buying her some clothes and offering her some money. Those items wouldn’t interrupt his plans and at present he had the funds to spare. Venice at Carnevale had proven very lucrative. That was as far as he was willing to go and that was the plan he’d had in place before breakfast. Anything more would have to be refused. But that’s not what had happened.
At breakfast, everything had changed. She’d refused his initial position, turned down his money, and then had the audacity to renegotiate with him. Somewhere between his third and fourth piece of toast, he’d found himself straying from his original offer to an offer of actual physical assistance. In return, she would leave after he helped her retrieve something from the count. Goodness knew what that might be and what it might involve. Certainly, it would involve covert action and that meant it would involve risk. He would be ready for it. To that end, he had two more stops to make before dinner. The sooner they could expedite their association the better.
