Her First-Date Honeymoon. Katrina Cudmore

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ