One Christmas Night in Venice. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
retrieved it. “I have it here,” he said, reaching for the wooden staff propped outside the door. He carried it into the room and presented it to Diane with a bow. “For the Contessa.”
The Contessa.
Diane’s lower lip trembled. And just like that she was the Contessa again.
Impossible. Improbable. The dead did not come to life. Tragedies did not reverse themselves. Nightmares do not have happy-ever-afters.
Hand shaking, she reached for the staff. “Thank you, Signor d’Franco.” Her voice came out low, hoarse.
“You remembered!” the butler exclaimed.
“I remember everything,” she said thickly, and the tears she’d been fighting returned. And when the tears wouldn’t be held off she covered her face rather than have either man see her cry.
CHAPTER THREE
DOMENICO knew Diane was crying, and he wanted to go to her, comfort her, but he had no words of comfort to give. Couldn’t even imagine what would soothe her given the circumstances.
His mother had lied.
It’d been his mother who’d done this to them. Lied to both of them. Incredible to think that she’d tell both of them the other had died.
Diane’s gone, Domenico. You have to face the facts, understand her injuries were too serious. She won’t be coming back.
Only his mother hadn’t understood that her news had shattered him. He would have rather died a hundred times over than hurt a hair on Diane’s head.
He hadn’t wanted to live without her.
And it was his mistake that had killed her. His carelessness, his lack of control.
He’d internalized that lesson all too well. Control was everything. Life and death. Black and white. Even the briefest loss of control could be fatal.
Now his mother’s despicable actions compounded his own.
“I am sorry,” he said harshly, not so much angry with her as he was with his mother and himself. They’d hurt Diane terribly. And her pain wasn’t over yet. She still didn’t know the whole truth.
Didn’t know her baby wasn’t dead.
Didn’t know her baby had survived and been raised by him and members of his family these past five years.
Domenico drew a deep breath, and then another as he imagined breaking the stunning news. Because it would floor her. Crush her. She’d missed the first five years of her son’s life, and if she hadn’t shown up tonight she might have missed the rest of his life.
Diane should hate him.
He already hated himself.
And helplessly he watched her cry, her small shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His fingers bunched into fists and his stomach rolled. To have her back only to cause her more pain. How was it fair? How could he ever be forgiven?
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I’ve no excuse. And my mother isn’t even here to be held accountable for her actions. She died two years ago from cancer.”
“How convenient,” Diane choked, lifting her head to stare up at him. “And cruel.”
But his mother hadn’t just been cruel. She’d been diabolical. She’d known she was dying and yet she’d taken her secret to the grave with her. That made her sins even worse. She’d never liked Diane, never approved of her as his wife—not when there were aristocratic Italian women far more suitable—but to tear them apart when they were the most vulnerable.
Unthinkable.
Unforgivable.
“We need to talk,” he said, battling with the black emotions filling him, darkening his mind. “Allow me to send for your things so we can change out of these ridiculous costumes.”
“I don’t need to change,” she answered dully. “I just want to go. If Signor d’Franco could call a water taxi for me?”
“You can’t leave.”
“I won’t stay.” Her chin jerked up and her eyes, liquid with tears, blazed up at him. “I’m on a morning flight back to the United States and I need to be on the plane. I will be on that plane.”
She’d never been more beautiful, he thought, than now. Her high, prominent cheekbones. The heart-shaped face. Those eyes … “We’re not finished here, Diane. There’s more I have to tell you—”
“Well, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard enough. You’ve clearly moved on. I wish you and Valeria—I think that is her name—a long, happy marriage since it was denied us.” Determinedly she pushed herself to her feet with the aid of the staff and headed for the door.
Domenico intercepted her before she’d traveled halfway across the room, blocking her path with his powerful body. “It’s not that simple, my love. You can’t just walk in and walk out and expect everything to be the same. Nothing’s the same. You are here. And you are alive. And you are my wife.”
“Was your wife,” she answered fiercely, head tipped back to look at him. “Was, as in past tense. Because if you recall there was a funeral. According to Valeria, my ashes are somewhere in your chapel. I’m dead to you and I’d prefer to remain that way.”
“I can’t let you.”
“Why?” she practically shouted. “You’ve done just fine without me. You’re in love and engaged and ready to make another woman your wife—”
His hands clamped down on her shoulders as he dragged her up against him. “You’re wrong,” he retorted, his deep voice thundering in her head. “I didn’t do fine without you. I couldn’t live without you.” The words were torn from him, and they weren’t gentle. They were rough, tortured, like glass scratching metal, because his heart was made of metal. His heart was worth nothing at all. “And maybe I’m not who I was, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you walk out that door.”
Her eyes, still that arresting blue-green, shimmered with liquid. She’d always had the most beautiful eyes. The most beautiful heart. Tender. Loyal. Loving. “You don’t have a choice,” she whispered, the first tear falling. “Now, let me go.”
He stared into her beautiful face, studying the new faint lines at her mesmerizing eyes, the set of her full mouth, wanting to take her in, memorize every detail. He’d never known anyone like Diane when they’d met at the university in Florence. She’d been pursuing an advanced degree in Italian Renaissance Art. He’d been touring the recently restored university library—a restoration made possible through the generosity of the Coducci family, his family.
She’d been one of the two docents conducting the tour, and he’d been enchanted by her eyes, the shape of her face, her accent, her passion for Renaissance art. She’d been so real, so fresh, so expressive. He’d never enjoyed a tour quite as much as that one, and had watched her as she’d talked rather than look at the friezes, the arches, the canvases covering the enormous walls. He’d grown up in a palace, surrounded by relics and ruins, and his tastes ran to the modern. New. Bold. Controversial.
Like his apartment in Rome.
Like his choice of her for his bride.
The Coduccis were a rich, ancient, noble line, and Domenico was to have selected a wife from a suitably rich, ancient, noble line. But instead he’d chosen Diane. Diane from Chicago. Diane from a working-class family.
He’d always suspected that his mother would have overlooked Diane’s lack of ancestry if she’d been rich. But Diane’s sin had been that she was poor.
And thus he’d been cast off, isolated from his family. But Dom hadn’t cared. It was his life. His choice.