The Venetian's Proposal. Lee Wilkinson

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ