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‘I rather hope it won’t.’
‘You should be so lucky!’ Sandy said with a grin. ‘So how will you travel? Fly, as usual?’
‘I’m tired of flying, seeing nothing but airports…’ With a sudden determination to lay her own ghosts, Nicola decided, ‘I think I’ll drive down…’
Jeff, who had been the elder by six months or so, had passed his own driving test and taught her to drive in a small family saloon when she was just seventeen. But since his death she hadn’t driven.
‘In early June the weather should be good, so I think I’ll plan a scenic route and take a leisurely trip, stopping three or four nights on the way. I’d love to see Innsbruck.’
Hiding her surprise, Sandy observed, ‘While not wishing to spoil your fun, I must point out that you don’t have a car.’
‘I can always hire one.’
‘And I’ve heard the price of parking in Venice is astronomical. But I don’t suppose you need to worry about it now. By the way, now you’ve money to burn I expect you’ll want to live somewhere a bit more up-market?’
Before Nicola could answer, she added, ‘Don’t think I’m trying to push you off, but Brent is itching to move in. I’ve kept the poor lamb waiting because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about having an extra flatmate, and a man to boot.’
‘So you’ve decided to live together?’
‘For a trial period. If it works out we may get married. Brent would like to.’
‘Well, let me know if you want to spend your honeymoon in a palazzo…’
Without envy, Sandy said cheerfully, ‘I do like having rich friends.’
Signor Mancini, when notified of Nicola’s intentions, had proved almost embarrassingly eager to be of assistance. Though she had assured him that it wasn’t necessary, he had advised her where to stay, and gallantly insisted on making all the hotel bookings.
For some reason, and without ever hearing his voice, Sandy had taken a dislike to the man. She now called him ‘the slimy git’. But, unwilling to hurt his feelings, Nicola had thanked him and, abandoning her busman’s holiday, accepted his well-meant help.
The only thing she had vetoed was that he should meet her on her arrival in Venice and personally conduct her to the hotel.
There was really no need to take up his valuable time, she had insisted politely, and it would tie her to being there at a certain hour.
Her last planned stop before Venice was Innsbruck, and she arrived in the picturesque Austrian city in the early afternoon.
Signor Mancini had arranged for her to stay at the Bregenzerwald, a nice-looking modern hotel just off the impressive Maria-Theresien-Strasse.
Nicola parked her hired car in the underground car park and, leaving her main suitcase in the boot, collected her small overnight bag and took the lift up to the elegant foyer.
It was deserted at that time of the day, except for the desk-clerk and a thick-necked, bullet-headed man sitting by the window, who glanced up at her approach.
Having studied her for a moment, he retired once more behind his newspaper while she completed the formalities and was handed her room key.
It was her first visit to the capital of the Tyrol and, liking Innsbruck on sight, she decided to see as much as she possibly could in the relatively short time at her disposal.
As soon as she had showered and changed into a cream linen dress and jacket she made her way down to the foyer again, to find the same man was still sitting there, intent on his newspaper.
Having collected a street map from the desk, she turned to go.
The bullet-headed man had abandoned his paper and, his gaze fixed on her, was talking into a mobile phone. Their eyes met briefly, and perhaps embarrassed to be caught staring—even absently—he instantly looked away.
Map in hand, Nicola made her way into the sunny street, and after getting her bearings set off to explore.
There were plenty of horse-drawn carriages offering sightseeing tours, but, needing to stretch her legs following the day’s drive, she decided to walk.
The sky was cloudless, the sun warm enough to make her push up the sleeves of her jacket, but traces of snow were still visible on the surrounding Alps.
After a look at the milky-green, fast-flowing Inn river, she made her way to the old part of town. The Altstadt, with its famous golden-roofed balcony and bulbous-domed Stadtturm tower, was colourful and bustling with tourists.
Strolling through the narrow, cobbled lanes, she was stepping back to admire one of the painted buildings when the thin heel of her court shoe slipped into a crack between the smooth stones and wedged tightly.
As she struggled to free it she heard the clatter of approaching hooves bearing down on her.
A second later she was swept up by a pair of strong arms and whisked to safety, while the horse-drawn carriage rattled harmlessly past.
For a moment or two, shaken, she lay with her head supported by a muscular shoulder, vaguely aware of the feel of silk beneath her cheek and the fresh masculine scent of cologne.
Then, pulling herself together, she raised her head and said a trifle unsteadily, ‘Thank you. Believe me, I’m very grateful.’
‘It was, perhaps, unnecessarily dramatic…’ His voice was attractive, well-educated, his English perfect with only the faintest trace of an accent. ‘But I’m glad I was on hand.’
Her rescuer was darkly handsome, without being swarthy, and just looking into his face took what was left of her breath away.
Apart from the colour of his eyes, he was a lot like her husband. Jeff’s eyes had been a warm, cloudy blue, whereas this man’s were a cool, clear grey. His hair was thick and raven-black—cut just short enough to restrain its desire to curl—his face lean and hard-boned, with a straight nose and a firm, chiselled mouth.
As she stared at him as though mesmerised, he said, ‘Now I’d better retrieve your footwear.’
Setting her down carefully, so she could lean against the plastered wall of a building, he stepped out into the roadway.
He was tall and broad-shouldered and moved with an easy, masculine grace. Well, but casually dressed, in stone-coloured trousers and an open-necked shirt, he could have been simply a holidaymaker.
But there was something indefinable about him—a kind of sureness? An air of authority?—that convinced her he wasn’t.
Having eased the shoe free, he carried it back. ‘The heel’s a little scuffed, but apart from that it’s undamaged.’
Settling on his haunches, he slipped the court shoe on to her slender foot, before straightening to his full height—some six feet plus.
Looking down at her heart-shaped face, with its pure bone structure and flawless skin, he commented, ‘You still look shaken…’
She was. But not for the reason he imagined.
‘What you need is that panacea for all ills, a nice cup of tea.’
His hand beneath her elbow, he led her round a corner to the Stadsbiesl, a tiny restaurant with overhanging eaves and white stucco walls. Its tiled roof sloping every which way, the old building leaned, supported like an amiable drunk between its neighbours.
A tunnelled archway gave access to a small sunny courtyard with three or four unoccupied tables covered with red-checked tablecloths.
‘But perhaps, as you’re fair-skinned, you’d prefer to be indoors?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I love the sun and, so long as I don’t do anything foolish, I tan quite easily.’
‘Then al fresco it is.’
He helped her off with her linen jacket and hung it over the back of her chair.
The moment they were seated a white-coated waiter appeared with a pitcher of iced water and two glasses.
‘Just tea?’ Nicola’s companion enquired. ‘Or would you like to try a plate of the delectable cakes they serve here?’
‘I had a late lunch, so just hot tea with lemon, thank you.’
He gave the order in fluent German, though she felt sure it wasn’t his native tongue.
As the waiter moved away she remarked, ‘You seem to know the Stadsbiesl well?’
‘Yes. I eat here from time to time.’ Studying her, he added, ‘Your colour’s coming back. Feeling better?’
‘Much better.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this your first time in Innsbruck?’
‘Yes.’ Reluctantly, she added, ‘Though I’m only staying for one night. I’m on my way to Venice.’
‘From England?’
‘Yes. I’m driving down. Taking the scenic route.’
‘It’s a magnificent run over the Brenner Pass.’
‘I’m sure it must be. I’m looking forward to it.’
But not so much as she had been.
Their pot of tea arrived, strings and tags dangling from beneath the lid. It was accompanied by a silver bowl of sugar cubes and another of thinly sliced lemon. On each bowl there was a pair of silver tongs shaped like twin dragons joined at the tail.
Indicating the pot, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’ll pour?’
‘Of course. Lemon and sugar?’
‘Just lemon, please.’
She filled both cups, and passed him one. Then, made unusually clumsy by the knowledge that he was studying her, she dropped a piece of lemon into her own, so that it splashed tea down the bodice of her dress.
Getting to his feet, he felt in his pocket and produced an immaculate handkerchief. He dipped the corner into the pitcher of water and leaned over her to rub gently at the orange-brown stains.
Though his touch was light and impersonal, every nerve-ending in her body responded, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.
He moved back and, his head tipped a little to one side, studied the results of his ministrations. ‘There are still one or two faint marks but nothing too obvious.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘It was my pleasure entirely,’ he responded, straight-faced.
Uncertain whether or not he was laughing at her, she gathered herself, and, needing a topic of conversation, asked a shade breathlessly, ‘Do you live in Innsbruck?’
‘No, I’m here on business.’ His eyes on her face, he went on, ‘I live in Venice.’
‘Oh…’ For no reason at all, her heart lifted.
Still watching her, as though he was half expecting some reaction, he added deliberately, ‘My name’s Loredan… Dominic Irving Loredan.’
‘Are you Italian?’ was all she could think of to say.
‘Half. My father was from the States, but my mother was Italian.’
So that accounted for the faint and fascinating accent she had noticed, and also for the eloquent way he used his long well-shaped hands when he was speaking.
‘You’re English, I take it?’
‘Yes. I’m Nicola Whitney.’
He glanced at her wedding ring. ‘Mrs Whitney, I see.’
‘Yes… No… Well, yes…’
Raising a dark winged brow, he commented, ‘You seem a little uncertain.’
‘I—I’m a widow,’ she stammered.
Perhaps afraid of pitying exclamations, or maybe because to say it aloud made it all too real, this was only the second time she had voluntarily admitted her widowhood.
‘You’re very young to be a widow,’ he remarked evenly.
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘When did your husband die?’
‘Three years ago.’
‘And you’re still wearing your ring?’
She still felt married.
When she said nothing, he pursued, ‘Was his death some kind of accident?’
